cerialcodes

[cerialcodes]

hello?? this was such a good read?? 😭💓

Five Dates is Enough (To Be Yours) SJ x Reader Word count: 21.5K I might have gone a bit wild. Reccomended to read only if you're bored and ready to bear with my grammar errors because i am not a peak writer I fear

Or in which, Sung Jinwoo realizes he had a secret admirer all along with the help of a certain mirror. He wants to pay you back and the agreed deal is....Go on five dates together.

"Excuse me," timid hands carefully brought up mana crystals each the size of a finger. "How much can I pawn these mana crystals for?" He lays it down on a provided tray gently, as if afraid the meager crystal would break under the smallest of pressure. It glows dimly, it's light flickering, threatening to die out.

The cashier hums, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she stares at the dying crystals. She pauses, and he could feel her gaze sweeping over his dirty form. Though he no longer had the injuries that brought him near death marring his skin, the dirt and grime clung to his clothes even after the healing-evidence of his near death experience in one of the dungeons. Jinwoo clutches the sleeves of his hoodie, wondering if he made the worker uncomfortable with their presence. He was aware of how he looked. His appearance, when compared to the clean and elegant feel of the office, made him seem to be a beggar-and perhaps that's not far off what he really is.

He had picked up crumbs of the crystals the rest of the team didn't bother getting, hoping it would be at least worth something. Any amount would do, he'd be satisfied with chump change. This was his first dungeon run, and he couldn't afford to come back empty handed. He had a sister to feed, a mother at the hospital, and a house due for payment-he had to come back with at least something if he wanted to give Jinah a good life whilst both parents were out of the picture.

The worker walks away, taking the tray to be appraised. In the meantime, he stands by the reception, afraid of staining the provided seats with the filth that clung to him like second skin. Meanwhile, he plays with his fingers, lips curved into a frown. He awaits the appraisal with bated breath, praying for something-at least enough to buy his sister dinner. After all, she was still young, she needed food in order to grow up well.

His eyes water, but no tears leave his eyes. Instead his lips quiver, fingers desperately clenching around the other. Would he be able to make it through this week?

The receptionist soon returned with the crystals carried still on a tray. She places it on the desk, and Jinwoo swallows the saliva that gathers round his throat.

"So, how much?"

The receptionist curls her lips into a smile, the form slipping into a frown every now and then despite her attempts to keep it civil. Jinwoo's heart sinks at the sight, mistaking it to be disgust-he couldn't blame them, after all, he was dirty. "The mana crystals you've obtained can be exchanged for 73,000 won." The receptionist stammers, sounding almost unsure with her words.

Jinwoo doesn't pay it any mind, only focusing on the amount. He grins-it's not nearly close to what his other party members got, but it was something. Snd something was enough to make him happy. "Great." He smiles, relieved. "That's really great."

It's not big, not toothy, but it's there. It's a quiet smile, eyes crinkling just slightly, and the exhaustion that made his shoulders stiff loosens a bit.

"Would you like that in cash?"

Jinwoo nods, failing to notice the small tremble in your voice. The receptionist keeps its smile, and Jinwoo is returning it, albeit, more enthusiastically.

Jinwoo hears them clearing their throat and takes out an envelope. She slides it to him, crisp, clean, and fresh-he eagerly accepts it.

"The receipt and bills are inside. Please check if the amount is correct."

He opens the envelope, carefully counting each bill, ensuring the amount. When he finds that it's all correct, his smile grows wider, as if grounded by the fact that he really got this. He got it, this was his.

"I have enough to feed us now." He murmurs.

Turning to face the worker, he gives a bow a bit too low, still wearing the same smile. "Thank you very much."

The worker replies after a bit, hesitant in their tone. "We look forward to seeing you again, dear hunter."

"Hyung!"

Jinwoo hums, looking around the cave structured dungeon. "What?"

Jinho clutches the pickaxe in his hand. Though Jinwoo assured him he didn't need to do it, he stubbornly insisted, wanting to do something whilst Jinwoo did all the fighting-and his shadows did all the mining. "Well, we've already scavenged the gate for everything we can. Should we turn back now?"

Jinwoo quirks a brow. Looking around, he finds that, sure enough, Jinho's words rang true and the shadow soldiers had already mined every mana stone, as well as handled the carcasses of the monsters that littered around the dungeon.

All of the loots were lined up neatly. One side had grouped every mana crystal together, the other cores, the others fur-and more. Aesthetically and efficiently sorted, courtesy of Beru.

"Sure. Let's go back."

For a moment, his gaze lingers on the mana crystals. Not to gloat, but to remember where he came from. A stumbling, bumbling mess who picked up the leftover loot of the teams he joined. He could almost laugh at the irony-here he is now, getting a whole cart and more of them when he struggles to get even one proper ore back then.

"Hyung?"

"Let's go back." He pockets his hand, telling the shadows to stop and take the gathered loot out. "How many gates do we still have to go through?"

"Only two left. This one's an A rank-everyone's been avoiding this one because the last parties got wiped out. But the other's a C rank so we can rest easy there."

Jinwoo furrows his brows, interest piqued. "It's dangerously close to dungeon breaking." Jinho continues, recounting the information he's gathered about the gate. "Then we have to deal with it fast. Let's go."

"Yes, Hyung!"

You sighed, stretching your back languidly. Hours of facing the computer didn't do well for your posture-gosh you looked like a shriveled up shrimp by now.

"You look horrible." Your friend snickers, taking a peek through your cubicle.

"Thanks for stating the obvious, captain obvious." Disregarding her comment with a roll of your eyes, a small laugh escapes you despite your playful display of annoyance.

"So, how's being promoted to division lead of hunter support services feel like?"

"Horrible."

Rubbing your hand over your temple, you cringe at the thought of piled up paperworks and emails labelled as urgent you couldn't get around to answering just yet. "Gosh, I feel like I've aged thirty years already and It's only just been two months." You bang your head against your desk, already feeling your sanity slip away the longer you stay in this line of work.

Your friend hums, barely holding in a snicker. She takes a sip of her coffee, using it as a horrible cover up for her amusement at your suffering. "Well, fighting. You can do it! Just one more day before you finally get a day off!"

You look at your friend with narrowed eyes, nearing a glare as you scrutinize her form. She pays you no mind, only leisurely sips her coffee and even dares to wiggle her brows all the while keeping eye contact. You roll your eyes at her antics, but a small smile that twitches up your lips betrays your fondness for the eccentric woman.

As the conversation eases into quiet company, you busy yourself once more with your duties. She turns around, stands behind you with a hand on her hip as she finishes the last of her coffee.

"Still so hard at work, poor Cinderella. She saw the light and thought she'd find her happy ever after-only to learn the light wasn't salvation but the monitor screen shining during the ungodly hours at 1 am." She raises her plastic cup like it's a wine glass. "Who would've thought? It was actually foreshadowing the mountain of work you'd have-a warning if you will. Poor Cinderella didn't realize it at the time."

You stopped typing and glared up at her. "Are you here just to annoy me or what?"

She coughs and straightens up. "Ah, don't be so hostile! I came here to ask if you want to go eat dinner with me."

You quirked a brow. "Your treat?"

"My treat."

Another raise-higher than the last. "That's suspicious."

"What do you mean it's suspicious?"

"You and treat you in the same sentence? Sounds possessed."

"Hey!" Your friend huffs, playfully glaring at you. You giggle, eyes glinting with amusement. "You're saying that as if I'm super stingy with money."

"Oh? And you're not?"

She pouts, feeling half the urge to drill her knuckle on your head. "I'm not like that! Why are you mischaracterizing me."

You roll your eyes and give a half smug half smirk grin. "Oh really? Who are we convincing?"

She clenches her jaw and forcefully ignores your jab. "Are you going to come or not?"

You giggle, but shake your head no. With a resigned sigh, you look at your monitor like it was the reason for everything wrong in your life. "Unfortunately I can't go, I still have so much work to do. I think I'll have to do it overtime tonight."

"That so?" She hums, barely hiding her disappointment. "What exactly are you doing that takes so long? You've been overtiming for days already."

Heaving out a sigh, you grit your teeth and let out a humorless laugh. "Oh nothing, really. Just the paperwork backlog of a nation's worth of dungeon raids, appraisals, insurance reports, compensation claims, and a dozen angry calls from hunters who think the world owes them something because they didn't die this time."

"Oof. Sounds rough."

You groan. "Tell me about it." You slumped forward dramatically, cheek pressing against the cool desk surface with a heavy thud. "Do you think if I die here, they'll list it as a workplace casualty and give my family a pension?"

Your friend scoffed. "Please, you'd be reanimated by sheer guilt and unfinished paperwork."

Again, another groan mixed with a huff. "I was stupid. Blinded by greed. Now I see that the paycheck was an apology for all the nights I've lost dealing with irate hunters. Cruel business, luring in hope filled newbies with promises of promotion only to be thrown in a cage and forced to work like a show monkey without rest."

Your friend whistles. "Bit exaggerated, don't you think?"

You give her a glare. She raises both hands in mock surrender, a wry smile playing on her lips. One look is enough to convince her of your suffering, it seems. She pats you on the shoulders, encouraging you to brave through your battles.

"Fight on, soldier! You can do it. Want me to buy you coffee?"

You sigh through your nose. "Please do."

"Aye aye! Just be careful, too much caffeine is bad for your health."

"You're one to speak, coffee junkie."

She purses her lips. "Fair."

She hums, leaning down and taking a peek at your monitor, curious about what work you were currently busying yourself with. "What're you working on right now?"

"Nothing much, just checking and approving gate activities."

Your friend hums, a hand resting on your shoulder, the other on the desk. "Hunter guild, knights guild, white tiger guild-all big names, wow."

"What's so impressive about it? I'm just approving their requests to clear the dungeon, nothing more."

Your friend squints at the screen. You can feel the shift in her energy even before she says anything.

"Mmhmm. Sure. Nothing more."

You freeze.

She leans closer, the silence dripping with meaning. Then-"Oh. Would you look at that." Her voice is feather-light. Mockingly casual.

You don't want to look. You know what she's looking at.

"Ah... here we go again. The Ahjin Guild. That newly-formed, small independent guild with exactly the bare minimum amount of hunters. And would you look at that-mhm great-his application is stamped, signed, and processed before the White Tiger Guild's. Even though they submitted theirs first by one day."

You close your eyes, already feeling your soul wither at having been caught playing favorites. "Please go away."

"Nope. Not a chance. We're talking about this." She spins your chair around, hands on the armrests to keep you in place like a warden interrogating a very guilty criminal. "You bumped him up the list again, didn't you?"

You sigh, looking away and quickly reasoning yourself, "There was a timing issue, and it's an A-rank gate near break and Jinwoo's fast and efficient and better than-"

"Don't you dare act like this is about public safety." She points an accusing finger, you flinch a smidge. "You did this last week too. You act like you're just doing your job but you're literally giving VIP treatment to a guy who probably doesn't even remember your name. Unethical work ethics. You are the very embodiment of corruption."

"Rude." You grumble, the tips of your ears burning in both shame and embarrassment. "There's no particular ground breaking motive here. I'm just doing my job and considering who works fastest. For the safety of the citizens. And it's not all the time-just a few dungeons here and there."

You turn your chair around to face your monitor-your one true companion through your overtime.

"...right. and I'm the president of the hunters association." Her eyes narrow to form a glare.

"Just shut up and look the other way. You're not helping." You focus your attention on your work instead, trying to mute her out, knowing her choice of words was about to get lengthy. "I just want to help a poor soul out."

"And that poor soul is now one of the-if not the strongest S-rank hunter in korea. With a guild. And good looks-heavy on that by the way. I doubt he needs your help anymore."

"Well yes but-"

"But but-but what? He might need more?"

"Yes."

"His co-founder's a nepo baby, [name]. A nepo baby. He has enough help." Your fingers smash against the keyboard in frustration. She doesn't stop-only continues to grill you for your display of bias. "Do you like him or what?"

A pause. You flinch. Your friend's quick to notice your sudden freeze, and pieces things together.

"No way, you really do?" She gasps, hand on her mouth and all the dramatics. Your face burns, but you power through it and keep your attention on the screen.

"So what if I do? Just leave me alone." You murmur, voice trembling as you fight the urge to run away-you knew this crush was stupid. It's been years, and you still haven't gotten over that silly fondness you felt for the man, even after he's risen through the charts and became stronger.

"...oh my." She blinks, not having expected such forward admittance. "I..."

"I don't know what's worse, you liking that guy back when he was nothing more than a stick posing as a human-"

"That's rude. He was nice and tenacious. He was also hard working and selfless, always smiling and all."

"Uhuh sure sure." She ignores you, and you huff in annoyance. "Or the fact that you like him enough to make your life harder when he doesn't even know you."

"He does know me." You grumble under your breath.

"And that's only as that one nice miss receptionist who always handles his appraises! He doesn't even know you docked money from your own pay to make his own things worth at least something!"

"I don't expect anything from him!" You huff, raising your voice just a tad before sighing. You settle on a quieter tone, mindful of your current place. "I'm just happy to see he's doing well."

"Oh he's doing more than well alright. Have you heard of the rumors? Cha Hae-in and that same Sung Jinwoo might be getting a little too chummy with each other lately."

You pause. Your lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. You blink a few times, fast and uneven, like your brain is buffering. The words hit harder than you expect even when you knew it was coming, lodging somewhere in your throat. You try to laugh it off-something dry and short-but it catches halfway, turns into a small, deep inhale.

"I mean, it's just rumors," your friend adds quickly, her tone suddenly shifting when she catches the look on your face, doing a whole 180 from her teasing demeanor. "They always say stuff about Hunters, right? People ship anyone who-"

"Yeah," you whisper, and your voice trembles just enough to make her stop mid-sentence. You try to type again, but your vision grows blurry. Lucky for you, you already memorized the entire layout of the keyboard enough to be confident that you were typing the right thing even if you didn't see it. Perks of working too much.

"Of course. That makes sense. She's... She's amazing. Strong. Pretty. Actually relevant to his life. Unlike me. I just sit in my office doing boring stuff no one bothers to pay attention to."

"Wait-no, hey, you know I didn't mean-" she reaches for your shoulder, voice laced with panic as she feels her impending, feeling like an irredeemable villain for making her friend cry. "Gosh, are you crying? Oh no. No, no, no. Please don't cry. Not here-I didn't mean it like that, I swear!"

"I'm not crying," you croak, blinking rapidly as your lashes stick together. "I just-it's fine. I knew. I always knew. I was never-he was never-" Your words stumble and collapse even as you try to stay strong.

Your friend scrambles, digging through her bag. "Do I have tissues? I don't. Great. Wait-why don't I have tissues? I always have tissues. I swear this bag eats them right when I need them." She pauses looking around. "Here, here-take my sleeve. No, wait, that's gross. Sorry, I don't want to go about my day with snot on my sleeves-no offense."

She looks around again. "Here, use my scarf. Wait, that's expensive. No-actually just-just cry on me, it's fine. Just don't look like that, you're making me feel like the villain in a drama-"

You blink, watching her panic and stumble out words. He lets out a laugh, watery and small, and she exhales like she just avoided a total meltdown.

"Gosh, you really do like him," she mutters, voice gentler now as she puts a comforting hand on your back. "You idiot. You sweet, quietly heroic idiot."

You sniffle, wiping your tears aggressively. "Shut up. I know I'm hopeless."

Your friend huffs, shaking her head. "That so? I do hope your luck turns around and you find a nice guy out there."

"Thanks. You too."

The new A rank dungeon was a wonder. Admittedly, Jinwoo was fascinated by its workings. It worked differently from the rest, instead of only requiring brute force, it included testing your mental fortitude.

"I don't like this dungeon, it's gloomy and eerie." Jinho muttered, sticking close to Jinwoo so as to not get lost.

The dungeon was unforgiving, comrades were lost if one got too far apart, the most blocking your perception. Right when you're at your most vulnerable does it strike-taking the shape of the one you hold dear in your heart and with their face do they strike as you lower your guard.

Though he himself admitted to falling for it once as it took the shape of Jinho, the dungeon's gimmicks soon became obvious when he found his younger sister inside the dungeon when she shouldn't be, followed by the discovery of the very distinct mana signature the monsters specifically gave off.

The boss was even more curious. It was simply a large mirror with a faceless mask trapped inside the shards.

As they reached the end of the palace structure dungeon-the throne room, they expected a powerful foe. Maybe something like Igris, or a king and a queen-not a human sized mirror-not dozens of mirrors pointed to him, each peeking through his past and picking apart what they could use.

"Hyung! I'm gonna die! Please don't let go of me!" Jinwoo flinches, feeling Jinho cling to him tightly. "Calm down you won't die-there are shadows assigned to you, they'll protect you if things go wrong." He says chidingly.

"You can't be sure of that! Please let me cling to you just this once, Hyung!"

Jinwoo sighs, but pats his head nonetheless in wordless assurance. "Do what you like."

And so the battle began. The tricks were clever, it certainly would've worked on anyone other than Jinwoo.

As shards broke open and out came mangled monsters daring to mold their faces into perfect copies of the people he encountered, screeching as a neverending stream of black tears ran down their cheeks, his shadow soldiers began to work.

Beru and Igris made quick work of the mirrors that would duplicate like a cell doing mitosis-but they eventually managed to pierce through the very body-the very mirror that initiated such spells after, honestly? not long.

With a decisive strike of Igris' sword slashing down on the main body, the illusions quickly fell apart in one fell swoop. They crumbled like sand and merged with the ground, the mirrors fading away into mists before usurping back into the main body, now cracking and in tatters.

"I've...lost." the mask beneath the mirror murmurs, but its lips do not move.

Igris raises his longsword, preparing to deal the final blow. Jinwoo raised a hand to stop Igris.

The knight paused mid-swing, frozen in obedience.

The mirror pulsed, weakly now, its light flickering. From within, the faceless mask shifted ever so slightly, the faintest ripple crossing the surface of the shattered glass. The voice came again, not spoken aloud, but echoing inside Jinwoo's mind.

"Ask."

His brows furrowed. "Ask what?"

The mirror shimmered, threads of mana spinning like veins across the fractured glass. "Ask me anything. I will answer. It is your reward for clearing this dungeon... Brave warrior."

There was a beat of silence as the air stilled, Jinho behind him too shocked to breathe. Both mouth and eyes wide in surprise, he urges Jinwoo to come closer with a push. Jinwoo allows himself to be whisked along with a frown. The dungeon was strange from the start, and now this? How odd, truly odd. But curiosity stirred in his chest-dangerous, but irresistible.

"...Who made you?" he asked first, testing its truth, its willingness to share.

"I was born of collective yearning-a desire to know what cannot be known. A mirror not of flesh, but of the soul."

Cryptic, but...fascinating.

He tried again. "Why were you set here?"

"To protect the answers. To test who is worthy of asking."

"Then let's test this," he muttered, stepping closer to the crumbling mirror. He looks at the mask through cracked shards and asks. "Do you hear voices that tell you to kill humans??"

A moment, the shards flicker with light and build together. "We-[REDACTED]" the shards tremble, as if unable to bear the weight of the truth, and then split apart in several little pieces.

Jinwoo watches on with unease, disappointed to learn that the mirror was no different than the others despite claiming to answer his questions with nothing but the truth. Then again, it most likely isn't their fault, something was purposefully censoring key details, preventing him from learning the full truth.

He sighs, but he doesn't let it get him down in the mud. He pauses for a moment to consider another question, then again, what does he want to learn? Everything he wants to learn is kept hidden away from him, and there's nothing else that comes to mind.

He stares at the fractured mirror as its glow dimmed, faint pulses of mana still flickering weakly through the cracks, clearly reaching its end. This thing knew things-it showed things. Not necessarily everything, clearly, but enough to dig under his skin. Enough to make him feel eerie.

It had shown him faces. People he already knew loved him-family, Jinho. Obvious answers. Emulated their appearance down to the smallest details, copied their voices to their very own speaking quirks-it was clear that this boss was no usual monster. It utilized human connection, using their own bonds in order to make unsuspecting victims fall to their trap.

And so now he wondered—just how deep did its knowledge run?

Maybe it was the strangeness of the dungeon. Maybe it was the lingering quiet that came with not having to fight for once, with not needing to survive, just to ask.

Maybe he just wanted to test the mirror's limits.

He sends Jinho off to gather the materials.

Jinho, ever the obedient one quickly listens, reserving his own questions for later as he hesitantly walks away with a pickaxe in hand.

Jinwoo waits after he's a few feet away, and when he feels Jinho's presence is no longer as obvious, he finally asks. After a long pause, he murmured-not quite serious, not quite joking-

"Who loves me the most?"

A moment, and then the shards flicker in acknowledgement of his words. A beat, and the floating shards merge with one another to present him a clear picture of his family.

Painted in vivid image, was his family-simply going about their day-reflected in the mirror. A smile on their face, a laugh as it morphs to shift the scene into a present event.

Jinwoo's eyes widened, then softened. A small smile emerges from his usually straight lined lips. His family was fitting-and even if he knew it already, it still warmed his heart nonetheless.

Then he moves onto another, willing the reflection to fade and the mirror to go back to its own original shape.

He thinks for a moment, pondering what to ask next. Then, disarmingly, he asks a question he doesn't expect an answer to. Just for curiosity's sake and nothing more.

"Who loves me the most? Romantically."

The mirror whirrs, flickers, then the light fades. He expected that to be the end of it. However, after a second more, the shard stores once more and slowly connects with one another.

Light refracts, blinding him for a split second before a picture is formed and a face is known.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't Hae-in who appeared-a woman he didn't know much of outside of his brief encounters with her-a woman who also admitted interest when she expressed her desire to join his guild-but another face took shape.

It was familiar enough to make Jinwoo's eyes light up with recognition, but also stranger enough to make Jinwoo doubt the authenticity of the answer.

Your image showed in the mirror, typing away at your cubicle. Unassuming, just doing your work, unaware that you were being peered at by a boss monster, unaware that he's watching you through it.

You?

He remembers you as a kind soul. A face he's come to know during his days as an E-tanker. You were nice, if not the very epitome of professionalism. You took him in even when he came at closing time to have his goods be appraised.

He remembers buying you a drink from a vending machine once whilst you were out-just a small thank you from him to you for always accepting him at your desk when others were reluctant.

But that was the extent of your direct contact outside of work. Any other time only included appraisals and applications to join certain dungeon raiding teams.

He never truly knew you outside of work.

And that made you showing up all the more surprising.

"Is this a mistake?" Jinwoo asks-not offensively, but moreso surprised.

After all, you were always professional, quick to the point. Sure, maybe you offered him a few encouraging words once, but you never pushed further.

You liked him?

The mirror doesn't stop its projection. Jinwoo stares at it, outwardly expressing no emotion.

He didn't know what to make of it, he had asked that question on a whim and now that he's gotten an answer he didn't account for, he's unsure how to tread now.

Come to think of it, he hasn't seen you much recently. You were no longer in the reception acting as a receptionist, and he hasn't been visiting the official office, preferring to pawn his loot somewhere else he could get much more worth from.

And yet to think it still showed your face...

He couldn't quite erase the thought of you on his mind now.

The last dungeon was an easy clear.

It was almost laughable how easily he defeated the boss and its lackeys. If the him of the past saw him now he'd surely be spell wondered.

As everyone began their rightful work with Jinwoo doing absolutely nothing for the most part, he walked around the dungeon with such laxness like it was his birth right to do so.

His hands are kept in the pockets of his coat, observing everyone as they diligently take everything of worth, careful to not damage any goods.

Jinwoo's gaze lands on the shadow soldiers picking the mana crystals.

For a moment, he pauses and just watches. And remembers the first time he went on a dungeon run.

He nearly died then. By the time the raid was finished be obtained nothing of worth.

He remembers picking up the little chunks left after everyone mined every crystal in the vicinity then, hoping he would get something from these sharp pieces of faded crystals.

He did get one in the end, didn't he? A silver lining after nearly dying, he had managed to exchange it enough for dinner and a little bit of something.

But...

Jinwoo walks towards the busy shadow soldiers. Everyone in the vicinity halts their actions and salutes their own monarch.

He pays them little mind, urging them to go back to clearing the dungeon before the gate closes and the cave falls apart.

He looks at the crystal vein, mostly cleared of everything except a few stray chunks here and there that were worth little to nothing. Jinwoo narrows his eyes, smiling a bit at the memory. This view was familiar, but he no longer needed to pick up the little pieces that fell off larger chunks to make money anymore.

Yet still he picks it up. Kneeling down to one knee, he picks up a small chunk-barely the size of his ring finger and lifts it up.

It dimmed faintly, the mana almost gone from the crystal. Strikingly similar to the same one he gave to be appraised, and, funnily enough, the very same person who worked on it was also you.

"Jinho"

"Huh? Yes?" Jinho stands up, his attention to Jinwoo.

"How much is this crystal worth?" He points his gaze to the one in his hand.

"Mana crystals? Well, with how much we got they're at least worth a couple million."

"Not that," Jinwoo cuts off. "This." He extends the crystal to Jinho. "How much is this worth?"

"Huh, that?" Jinho blinks, confusion gracing his features. He leans closer, observing the crystal.

"I don't think it's worth anything, the glow's dim and it's small too." He hums, brows furrowed. "But I guess it's just pocket change like ten thousand?"

Jinwoo blinks. "I see. So it's only worth that much, huh."

He stares at the fading crystal.

And smiles fondly.

The first time you met Jinwoo he was, to be blunt, pathetic.

His hair's akin to a bird nest, and that's not an exaggeration. Hoodie torn and filthy, you could tell from the start he was a struggling hunter. He entered late into the night, when no other hunters lingered and the time was nearing for the building to close.

He was an oddball, but then again, you've already encountered one too many oddballs during your time working here as a receptionist, so that was nothing new.

Still, unlike most hunters that reeked of arrogance, this one was meek, hesitant yet nonetheless determined. He held something close to his chest, both hands wrapped around a handkerchief that held something small-powder? Food? Money? You didn't know.

"Seriously? Who comes here during closing time!" Your coworker huffs, drained after a long day of dealing with irate hunters who thought they were better than they actually were and thus should be worshipped.

"Technically it's still not closing time." You reply, watching the meek hunter look around before settling on the receptionist desk.

"That's true too but still," they sigh, laying their head against the desk. "They should know that this window time is rest time before cleaning up time."

You roll your eyes at her theatrics, but laugh nevertheless. "Okay drama queen, I'll deal with it."

"Hurray! You're the best." She mutters, closing her eyes and grinning as she revels in peace. "The hard working award goes to you, definitely." You brush her off with a wave, heading back to your station to take the hunter's request.

With practiced motions, you greet the feeble looking hunter. With a customer service smile, offering him a tray in order to fulfill the purpose of his service.

He handed in broken chunks of mana crystals. Barely worth anything, you could tell at a first glance. As he parts with the very thing he kept close to his chest, you observe the dimming light of the crystals, heart panging with pity.

His hand trembles as he places it, and you take it back after he puts every last pebble on the tray. Your gaze flickered to the crystals then to the man-wide grey eyes looking down as his arms embraced himself.

Your eyes softened ever so slightly, and the image of the struggling hunter made your lips curl into a pitiful frown.

It started as a simple pity.

That was all it was.

When you learned all it got him was chump change, you cast another glance on the poor soul who waited with his back crouched and his hands clasped together in a prayer. One more look at the price, and you decided to add more.

"Sorry, can you add sixty thousand there? I'll pay for it."

The appraiser quirks a brow. "You sure that's alright, lady?"

"Mhm," another glance, and your reservations all but disappear. "The guy looks like he needs it."

He follows your gaze, and sure enough, the boy was in tatters. Unfortunate looking and just,,, sad. He shrugs then adds the value, and you pay him quick with cash.

"The mana crystals you've obtained can be exchanged for 73,000 won." You say, stuttering for a moment as you lied about the total.

You watched him gasp, then grin widely, a frown threatening to make itself known. You forced it down, keeping a professional persona as he rejoiced for something so little. Compared to his group that most likely obtained millions, what he got was too little in comparison.

And yet, despite the difference he still smiled at the amount. Sympathy hit you like a ten ton truck and made your heart clench for the man in front of you.

You pause, mulling over your words before eventually settling on a simple: "We look forward to seeing you again, dear hunter."

"M'finally off work at last." You groan, rubbing your shoulders to free it of its stiffness.

"[Name]!" Heels clacked along the marble tiles of the building.

You hum, fluttering your eyes open as you quirk up a brow. A girl, young-still unaffected by the gravity of the working world-bright and fresh approached you with a troubled look. She's also been a friend you made-that one moment you helped her deal with a prissy client really stuck and since then she's been following you around and talking with you when she had the time. You welcomed her of course, you weren't one to deny good intentioned people.

"What is it?"

"Uhm, there's someone in the reception asking for you specifically to handle their workings."

You blink. "But I don't work as a receptionist." Not anymore.

She bites her lip, fiddling with her fingers. "Yes but, they really insisted on having you do it."

Another long, drawn out blink. "Then turn them down. Get them out of the desk-tell them I'm no longer in the building or something."

She flinches, and averts her gaze. "Well, about that..." She looks around, looking for what words to use. "We can't exactly do that..."

"Can't? Why not?"

"Well it's..." She pauses, then sighs. "It's the new S rank-Sung Jinwoo requesting for you."

Silence. Cuckoo.

"Sorry can you repeat that for me? I think I misheard something."

"Sung Jinwoo is requesting for you."

You part your mouth, raise a finger, and tilt your head. "You're joking."

"I wouldn't joke about something like this!" She huffs, "I was shocked myself! He came here and suddenly asked for you!"

"Did he push for me?"

"No he said it was fine if you weren't around-but how could I reject a pretty face like that?!" You deadpan. "And I'm doing you a favor by helping you get in touch with him-you might end up together you know? You might end up together you know?!"

"Woah there, pause." You put a hand on her shoulder, "we are not getting together. He doesn't even know me!"

"But he asked for you."

"We don't know why."

"It's because he's interested in you."

"No it's not."

"What other reason is there?"

You shrug. "Anything but the one you're suggesting."

She frowns. "You don't know that for sure."

"And we also don't know for sure if he's interested in me."

"But he might!"

"And that's a big fat might." You pat her on the shoulder, squeezing it softly. "Now let's go, alright? We can't keep a man of his status waiting."

She opens her mouth to argue, but you keep it shut by putting a hand over her jaw. Turning her around, you drag her by the shoulder and guide her towards the reception desk.

"Off we go. Let's get it over with quickly so I can finally go home." You drawl, not expecting much from his visit.

As you reach the desk, the view finally becomes clearer and clearer.

And there did you see Sung Jinwoo for the first time since he ranked up. Tall, lean-with sharper features that made him look like an entirely different person. Innocence now faded from his eyes and was instead replaced with something colder, unreadable. There was a weight to him now-like standing too close to a cliffside and realizing the wind had teeth. You stopped, not out of awe or fear, but sheer instinct. Like your body knew before your mind did: this was someone to tread carefully around.

This was the Sung Jinwoo of now. No longer a withered stick with a bright smile, but a terrifyingly powerful man with the strength of a thousand men.

Your breath hitched. Finally seeing the man you've been helping behind closed doors in person admittedly made you feel a bit nervous, but it was nothing you could hide.

With a step as your friend skidded to the side, you took in a deep inhale and prepared to accommodate him.

It's been a few days since Sung Jinwoo discovered the truth through the answers the mirror had shown. To his dismay, he was unable to extract the monster and furthermore was left to deal with the answers alone. Mulling over it again and again, more than he admitted he did.

It wasn't that he was interested as well per se, but he felt a bit of confusion and maybe even a smidge of appreciation for your constant support.

And so, after a few more days spent thinking of you and your supposed interest, he finally made his move. If not to confess, then to put an end to this as respectfully as he could. Express his appreciation for everything you've done and pay back the favor, because if anything else, Jinwoo doesn't like keeping favors unreturned.

"Excuse me," Jinwoo approached the desk where you once stood, however, instead of your face, another graces him instead.

"Yes, how can I help you?"

He hesitates, wondering if he should push further. "Is anyone named [name] here?"

The receptionist blinked, then glanced down at the system. "Ah...[Name]? She doesn't usually work at the front anymore."

"I know," Jinwoo said, his tone quiet but firm. "But I'd like to speak with her, if possible."

She hesitated, clearly caught off guard. "Um-may I ask who's requesting?"

"Sung Jinwoo."

The name dropped like a stone into still water. Her spine straightened a little too fast. "Oh! O-Of course, please wait here-just a moment!"

She practically bolted into the back, heels tapping a frantic rhythm across the tile, leaving Jinwoo standing there with his hands folded behind his back.

He waits for a few moments before she eventually comes back, a familiar face in tow. Jinwoo's back straightened once he took in your presence, fixing his posture as you approached the desk with the trademark professionalism he eventually came to associate with you.

"Sir Sung Jinwoo." You nodded, uniform still somehow crisp despite just getting off work. "How can I help you?"

You were always perfection personified, speech not too fast nor too slow, a disarming smile, and the efficiency of an entire workforce. He smiles ever so slightly at that, ever so prim and proper despite everything. He doubted if you truly liked him based on your demeanor alone, all professionalism despite the quiet tire that you carry through your mannerisms.

"Sorry to have bothered you," he begins, facing the desk fully now. "Can you appraise this for me?"

He hands over a chip of mana crystal, barely worth anything, strikingly similar to the one he brought the first time he came. To the very crystal you kept in your home since the appraisers insisted on not needing such junk.

You look at the crystal on his hand, then back at him. His face doesn't give anything away, only infuriating nonchalance as he hands over the little crystal.

"Pardon?" You look at him, partly confused. A beat of silence, and you sighed and accepted the crystal. "Very well, I'll have it appraised."

Placing it on a tray, you hum and take it to the machine to have it appraised. People working here have it easy now-they have machines to appraise it now instead of waiting for a real appraiser to grade the goods. You barely managed to reach this time, having switched your line of work a few months after this new invention was created and used by the front desk.

The machine beeps after a few minutes, coming back with the saddening worth of 15,000 won. You look at the amount, then at Jinwoo who seemed to have a knowing glint in his eyes.

What is this man planning?

Despite suspicion crawling in your skin, you pay it no mind and offer it back to him. Showing no signs of your inner feelings. "The crystal can be pawned for 15,000 won. Would you like to pawn it?"

You tell him the price, no longer fabricating it now that you were sure he had enough money. He didn't need you increasing the amount anymore, didn't need your help anymore.

"Fifteen thousand?" You tense as he begins, confused on where he was leading this. "That's odd, I was sure it would be worth at least seventy thousand. Like before."

You stiffen at the mention, eyes betraying you and growing wide for a few seconds. You pause, unsure how to go about his words. A flicker of hesitation, and Jinwoo quickly grabs it and refuses to let go.

"I've been wondering for a while," Jinwoo said smoothly, gaze unwavering, "now that I have plenty of greater mana crystals I know what qualifies as good or bad. Enough to recognize that the ones I brought were more often than not unusable."

You stared. "It wasn't entirely unusable, the people and the machine recognized that."

Jinwoo ignores your words. "And yet still I managed to get enough to sustain myself as well my sister-barely."

You furrow your brows, heart picking up its pace as he slowly built up to the scenario you feared the most. "That's great then, Hunter Sung."

"I may not have the best memory but I know that what I've given was worth less than what I received.

You kept your face calm, neutral, with the clinical poise of someone who's talked down violent clients and survived six-hour meetings. But inside, your organs were having a full-on boardroom meltdown. Your brain tried to file through excuses like it was racing to clean the living room before guests arrived.

"I see," you trailed, carefully. Playing dumb to the best of your capacity. "So. You've come to accuse me of charity?"

Jinwoo's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something just barely amused. "You're not denying it."

"Only because denial would imply guilt," you shot back, lifting your chin, feigning confidence-something you did great. "And all I really did was slightly increase the amount to reflect the hypothetical value if it were perhaps... shinier."

"By several thousand won."

"Consider it an inflation forecast." You quickly retorted, barely bothering to think before speaking.

He laughed softly at that-nothing too drastic, just a smaller buckle under his breath brought by sheer disbelief. And so now you were really sweating internally. Though your face didn't budge-refused to budge-but the composure was barely hanging on by a thread and three paperclips.

"I wanted to thank you," he said, voice lower now, calmer, brushing off your earlier words. "for your help back then. I didn't realize what you were doing until later. You didn't owe me anything, but you still helped. Even without my knowledge."

You averted your eyes for a second. This was not how this entire was supposed to go. He was supposed to be clueless. Left unaware of your own deeds-ignorant and in bliss while you cheer him on at the sidelines.

"I see." You said after swallowing thickly. "Is that all?"

"No, it's not." He steps forward, leaning against the desk as he meets your gaze with his own grey ones. "I wanted to ask how I can return the favor. I refuse to leave any favors-even ones I don't know -to be left unpaid."

You blinked. Then, without thinking, blurted out: "Then let's have coffee before we delve into this."

"Are you a regular here?"

You nod, blinking once before facing him. The place you chose was quiet-tucked away in a corner of this lively city. Blanketed by the warm atmosphere and low hum of chatter from the other tables, you chose it a perfect spot to continue this conversation-it wasn't far too, just a few steps away which was an added bonus.

You sipped your coffee quietly, silence overtaking you and Jinwoo as you sat in front of the other.

Jinwoo's eyes flick over to you. Your posture straight, albeit, more relaxed than when you were on duty. Your lashes fluttered as you enjoyed the taste, savoring the good cup with a small smile.

He listens to the small hum of delightment you make as you relish the taste, and he finds his lips twitching to form a smile as well. He quickly restrains it, brushing off the urge as nothing more than a passing will.

He takes the time to observe you. Now you sat in front of him, free from the shackles of work, talking outside of your profession-outside of the roles the desk had set for the two of you.

Days had worn on you, exhaustion evident, yet you remain radiant all the same. You don't hold yourself with the perfection you've strived for in the name of great service, choosing to relax as if you were with a friend instead.

"First thing's first," you say as the cup meets the saucer-still half full-after deciding the silence stretched on for long enough. "I'll get this out of the way—I like you."

Jinwoo nearly chokes on his drink, taken aback by the suddeness of your announcement. He coughs softly, unaware of how to take your blunt admittance.

"I see." He mumbles, nearly stuttering at his own words despite how few there were. He knew you liked him, the mirror told him-but it was still different to hear it from the person nonetheless.

He breathes out a shaky exhale, not quite expecting you to be this blunt about the subject matter.

"I like you." You repeated, making sure he got the point, and consequentially making the tips of his ears red as he's rendered unsure how to tread this situation. "So I don't expect you to do anything for me. Really. Please don't feel indebted.,

"I'm sorry, I don't feel the same." He states, making that one matter clear, before moving onto the next topic. "But still, I want to repay you for your favor."

"It's not a favor." You murmur.

"Then your grace."

You still, look at him, then sigh. Heavily. Like you were already regretting this despite not signing up for it.

Jinwoo didn't like that.

"State your price—I'll give you anything. Anything that's within reason, at least."

"Anything?"

"Anything." He parrots with certainty.

You lean back on your chair. "That's a dangerous word you're just tossing around."

He doesn't answer, only keeps his gaze fixated on you with that same, rigid and serious expression he often wore.

Your nails tap lightly against the ceramic of your cup, eyes narrowing-not in malice or anger-in hesitant amusement.

"Then, entertain me." You take another sip of your coffee, made just how you liked it-and place it down. "Five dates."

"Pardon?"

"Dates. I want five dates with you. Not one, not two-but five."

He blinks, then furrows his brows in suspicion. "Dates? Just that?"

You reply with a nod, he leans back for a moment, surprised. "Even if I told you I don't feel the same?"

A shrug, and consider Jinwoo speechless. "You don't have to feel the same-just entertain this whim of mine." You rest your chin on your palm, carrying yourself with the same ease-acting as if you hadn't just blatantly asked him out. "But it's also fine if you don't want to. You can leave and still you won't owe me anything-no strings attached."

He's surprised by the calm you retain, but then notices the rhythmic tapping of your finger against your cheek, growing faster every second that passed with your request left unanswered.

"That's it?"

"That's it. You just have to bring yourself—I'll plan for everything. You don't have to like me back, but don't run away either."

He doesn't know if he should be honored or impressed by your insistence-no one's ever shown him this level of interest before. Well, perhaps one(Hae-in) but even she wasn't as bold as you-seizing chances whilst wearing the face of nonchalance.

"Deal. Five dates then."

A beat, and you allow yourself a smile. Small, mildly bashful yet not quite shy. Your lashes flutter, and warmth envelopes your cheeks. Head tilting to the side, you look at him like a smug cat.

"Great, I'll be looking forward to those, then."

And for a moment, he swears his heart pitter patters.

You must have gone insane.

That's the only conclusion you come up with as you arrive at your home, having mulled over the conversation a hundred times on your way home. There's no mistaking it-you really were insane.

You reach your bed, hugging one of the available pillows as your eyes remain wide and blank.

You're insane.

Hugging the pillow close to your chest, you wait for a few moments to load the fact that you're now in a safe place before finally-finally losing your mind.

You scream and bury your face against your pillow, rolling around to get rid of the nerves.

Scream. Then followed by a particularly harsh kick against your bed as you roll over to the other side. Another scream-followed by your hands letting go of the pillow and grabbing your head instead.

"I must be out of my mind. What was I thinking?!" You whined, face a grimace-a whole 180 from the nonchalance you showed to Jinwoo just a few hours ago. "Why would I-"

A sharp inhale, and then a silent scream. "Why would I say that?!?!"

"Five dates." You mimic yourself from hours prior, over exaggerated and overtly stuff as you cross your arms and put one leg over the other. "Go out with me for five dates or else....."

"Aaagh!" You groan, body heating up at the thought of it alone. "Stupid stupid stupid stupid! Why would you ask that?! Why would you even do that?! Are you stupid????"

You nearly cry from sheer embarrassment alone. There's an inexplicable urge to dig a 10 foot hole and bury yourself alive, hoping for the best(dying) and letting this matter go. "I should just die. Yes, that's right. I'll die. Mhm. I should die."

You sit up, trying to rationalize yourself, before falling back on your bed with a tumble. "You stupid idiot! Do you ever just stop embarrassing yourself?"

You toss on one side. "He probably thinks I'm some die hard fan now. A down bad creepy stalker who plans to make him feel indebted to do weird things to him-"

You screech, both a cry and and angered yell. A cry for help if you will. "No" you cry. "I'm not a weirdo-please trust me in this Jinwoo."

Burying your face against your pillow once more, you continue to lament for your dignity that crumbled like sandcastles thrown apart by strong winds.

"I'm not desperate either...."

You sniffle, already imagining your funeral-planning who would attend and who you'd blacklist.

After much regretting and sobbing and hoping Jinwoo isn't put off and wishing you died and stopping yourself from jumping off the rooftop, you finally dial for help.

Said help included your friend from work.

Calling her number, you wait for her to pick up with a kick of your feet. You haven't even changed yet-you're too busy going berserk to bother doing so.

She picks up after 5 rings(5 rings too long. What was she going to do if it was a life threatening situation?)

"Hello?"

You take a sharp inhale, and somberly croak out: "I'm going to die."

"Woah that turned up to 100 a real quick. What happened?"

You sigh like a victorian woman distressed. "I happened. Why was I even born? To be endless entertainment for the gods above?"

Your friend laughs, and you could practically hear her roll her eyes from the call. "Stop being dramatic, just tell me what happened drama queen."

You practically wail. You tell her your story-inputting your very important complaints about this version of you that just passed and continue to share it amidst random questions of what color your coffin should be.

By the time you finish, she's speechless.

"Woah." She gasps.

You sob harder into your pillow.

"Wait wait wait-" she exhales, a breathless chuckle echoing in your phone. "You asked someone out-"

"Yes."

"And not just anyone-but it's Sung Jinwoo. The Sung Jinwoo. The S-rank hunter Sung Jinwoo."

"Yes!" You weep, dramatically posing like a sick victorian child. Heavens bless you, you were most fitting to live in that time period considering how many poses you've striked in a similar manner as well.

She laughs. Laughs. This peasant dares laugh at your own misfortune-and not even the polite kind, she's full of breathless laughter. Loud laughter. Incorrigible laughter.

"Not just that you-" she takes a deep inhale, trying to hold back her cackle. "You asked-demanded he go on not one, not two-but five. Five dates with you with such calmness it unnerved him?"

She's howling with laughter at this point, clutching her stomach because laughing hurts a little too much now. Tears in her eyes from the sheer scandalous nature you possessed.

"Oh my gosh-"she giggles. "Okay okay-I was not familiar with your game. Didn't know you were smooth like that."

You groan, face hot enough to be in the running to be the next sun of the earth.

"Oh come on... I don't know what I was on when I said that."

"Girl that's what I'd like to know too-where'd you get the confidence?"

You huff, hand on your head as you contemplate your own worth. "I don't know I want to kill myself this is so embarrassing I can't face anyone like this anymore."

She cackles, entertained by your own suffering-how dare she?

"Now now, stop whining. You've already asked him-he agreed. Just view things positively."

"What's positive about this?! He probably thinks I'm a desperate fool-a despicable woman who forces things to go her way!"

"That's overexaggerating..." She retorts with ease, already familiar with your antics. "You managed to score five dates with the strongest man in Korea right now. That's not a fear anyone can achieve."

"I threatened him into it!"

"You asked him-he accepted."

"It was a bribe."

"He accepted your gratitude."

"Exactly! If that's not manipulative I don't know what is!"

"Oh stop drama queen-it's not like you expected him to suddenly get a massive glow up a few years later after you liked him and asked to return the favor."

"Still..."

"Stop whining, there's nothing you can do about it now." You sighed. Long, loud, full of shame.

"For now, let's just make the best of the five dates you have, okay?"

"Can't I just chat him and tell him I changed my mind? How about I tell him I want a cute coffin with cute designs and have him pay for it instead?"

"Don't do that you maniac. Just accept the fact that he accepted going on dates with you and use it as a chance."

"A chance?" You sniffle.

"That's right-a chance to make him fall in love with you!"

"Impossible." You huff, hugging a pillow. "He already told me he doesn't feel the same I just forced this on him because I was stubborn."

"He doesn't like you because he doesn't know you well yet. If we take these dates as a chance, who knows? You might be getting yourself a boyfriend right about a few months in the future."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Then you gasped, scandalized. "H-Hae-in! Aren't Jinwoo and Hae-in dating?!"

"Relax relax we don't have anything official...yet."

"Oh gosh-what if I-"

"Calm down! Jinwoo wouldn't agree to your terms and conditions if he was truly dating her. I think."

"But still! What if he felt obligated to?"

"Does he look like the kind of guy?"

"...maybe?"

"If we're not sure then don't jump to conclusions."

You let out a breath, thanking your friend mentally for grounding you whenever your thoughts wandered too much.

"Alright let's focus on the dates okay?"

"Okay... Help me plan the dates-I've no clue about love things." You plead, yawning.

"Eh? You know what? Fine." She shakes her head, half amused half exasperated. "Jeez, you're hopeless."

A moment, then she grins conspiratorially.

"Let's blow the socks off him."

The first date was at an aquarium. Easy, a safe choice for dates. The goal here wasn't to charm him -not yet. No, the goal was to get to know him, ease him into your presence before going with more dates. First impressions were important, and this would be the first time he'd know you outside work-you couldn't risk icking him out from the start.

You stand near the ticket booth, the perfect picture of calm. Cool. Chic. Your lips in a thin line, giving away none of your inner turmoil.

And oh you had a lot of inner turmoil to hide.

You're praying for a meteor to come and strike you, kill you so you don't have to be here and with Jinwoo on a date you forced him to attend. You have half the mind to run away and fake an incurable illness to get away from here as your organs all made some dissonant harmony from inside.

You check the time once every few minutes, movements smooth and easy. Definitely not the actions of someone losing their marbles every second that passed.

He's three minutes late. Only three minutes and yet you're already overthinking everything. Were you screwed? Definitely. What if he stood you up? What if he decides not to go and all your effort would be for nothing? What if-

"Sorry, did you wait long?" Your breath stills.

You turn your head, allowing your lips to curve into a small, measured smile. Not too formal but not too comfortable either.

"No, I just got here." You smoothly reply.

You sweep over his outfit. Nothing mind blowing, a simple outfit consisting of a black turtleneck and a coat, coupled with a dark grey trousers. It was simple-but when paired with his looks, it made him deadly. Made everyone else feel underdressed compared to him.

"You look nice." The words leave you before you even think, going on autopilot and refusing to let your worries make you too stiff.

Nice was an understatement. He looked good-too good you swear you could die. Oh good heavens I was not prepared for this level of attractiveness-is this really the timid boy I helped out before? Somebody catch me.

He sweeps his gaze over you. "Thanks, you too." He waits until you nod and offer him a smile before he starts again..

"You're early."

You hum, and chuckle softly. "Of course, you think I'd let someone I like wait for me?"

Jinwoo blinks in surprise, taken aback. He chuckles, small, quiet, but still there's a quirk up his lips. "Point taken."

Your grin stretches, but your hands betray your nerves as it trembles ever so slightly. Was that too forward?

"Let's get going. Do you have any vendettas against marine life?"

"None as far as I know." Jinwoo answers.

"Good. I was worried I'd have to throw myself to the shark tank to make things more interesting for you."

He pauses, stills for a moment and looks at you. He hesitates, half amused half concerned. "Is that a joke?"

You smile coyly. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He flinches, thrown off right off the bat. "Please don't."

"Oh? Is that concern I hear?"

"No, I just don't want to jump in after you to get you out."

"Ah," you click your tongue. "Chivalry and shark wrestling? Charming. I fear you'll ruin other men for me."

You bite your tongue discreetly, attempting to shut your running mouth that's flirting too easily for your own sanity.

He smiles, amused, exasperated, annoyed-you don't know. But you do hope it's positive.

You walk around the aquarium, exploring different tanks with him and exchanging light conversations here and there.

"You're bold." He comments, expression calm if not lighthearted.

You keep your gaze fixated on the fishes in front of you. "Of course, I plan to make you fall inlove with me after all."

Jinwoo nearly chokes on his own spit, and you feel yourself shriveling to dusk as your mouth keeps saying the most diabolical things one after the other.

You stare at the aquarium wistfully, tempted to dive in there and drown and let the fishes eat your remains. That seems like a nice way to go.

"Like I said, bold."

You laugh-and cold sweat drips down your back as you try to feign nonchalance(you were succeeding, but you don't feel it)

"I apologize." You say in between laughter. "We only have five dates, I can't waste the first one hiding behind fishes. I have plans to woo after all."

He sighs through his nose, his lips quirking up in a smile. You've noticed it stayed there more often than it didn't, that had to mean something, right? This embarrassment you were feeling had to be worth something, right?

"Or" you turn to look at him rather than relying on the reflection of the glass. "Do you prefer modest girls more?"

He blinks, acting as if he never considered the thought. He thinks for a while, but ultimately shrugs. "Not necessarily, it's just that I never expected this from you."

"That so? Do you hate it, then?"

Another pause. His eyes narrow, and his mouth closes shut as he ponders over your words.

"I'm...not sure. I've never been confessed to before-not this boldly, at least."

"Ah," your eyes narrow as your grin stretches again into that mischievous smile. "Then you'd do well to prepare if you're weak of heart."

He doesn't say anything at first, only looks at you in sheer disbelief, eyes slightly wide but warm and soft. "What if you fail at achievingyour goal?" He asks, tone softer, unsure if it was inappropriate to ask.

"Then I'll admit defeat." You put your hands on your back, leaning closer to him. You get close to his face, only a few inches apart. You see his adam's apple bob and then flick up to meet his gaze. "But for now, I'm giving it all that I have."

You pull away shortly after that, already walking off to the next display while he's left in the last one. His gaze burns on your back, and his hands twitch ever so slightly as one of them reaches to where his heart rests.

There's a warmth left in your wake that leaves his heart pacing. He's unsure if it's apprehension or exhilaration.

You walk a few paces away, blocking his view of your flustered look with your back, refusing to let it show.

Urgh... What's gotten into me?

A sentiment echoed by two people only a few distances apart.

The second date was at an art museum.

Another safe choice. As your friend told you: set the first two dates to be calm-the third chaotic, the fourth fun, and the fifth unforgettable. Enough to leave him craving for more.

Frankly? You didn't believe a single word of her idea. You weren't sold on her five act get him to fall in love with you plan-but it was all you had so you just took it without complaints.

If it didn't work then that's sad, but if it did-on the off chance it did, you would end up with him. That was a possibility you couldn't pass up on as someone with an S-tier crush towards him.

The museum, tucked away in the heart of the city, was your next destination. You kept yourself presentable, elegant and sophisticated looking with the help of your friend who had to deal with your mini tantrums as you prepared for yet another meeting with the man of your dreams.

And gosh did he look handsome. So handsome he could be in a magazine. Too goodlooking you've no doubts he would be in the running for the most attractive man internationally and nationally.

The museum date itself wasn't anything interesting-just an exchange of opinion as you pretended to understand the complexities of the art placed here.

"This one here, is my favorite piece." You say as you present the painting to him with a small flare.

It was a messy splash of black lines and squiggles here and there strewn about on the canvas.

He arches a brow in mock interest. "Interesting. It looks like a migraine."

"Exactly. It embodies what I feel on a daily basis."

"Does that include today?"

Your gaze fixes on him, before turning to the painting once more. "No, you're a soothing balm. Being around you purifies my bad mood."

Jinwoo coughs, recovering from your sudden flirt. "Ah, there it is."

You huff, grinning at his reaction. "Let's move onto the next art piece-it should be the last one."

You twist on your heel, its sole clacking softly against the wooden floor of the museum. Unfortunately, your new heels—heels that you haven't broken in yet-failed you and did you a disservice by breaking on its first day at work.

A step, and a sound followed:

Snap

Following the snap was a sharp pain to your ankle as you lose balance. Your foot twisted, heel crumpling beneath you and suddenly you find yourself being a little too close to the floor.

Jinwoo catches you before you can fall rather disgracefully and cause a commotion.

His hand slithers around your waist, securing your halt—but also brought you unbelievably closer to him.

You think you died when you got closer than six inches to him. Six. That was enough to smell him, enough to count every lash on his eyes—enough to really break apart his eye color—enough to send you into cardiac arrest and die a happy woman.

"...hi?"

"Are you okay?"

His eyes fluttered down to meet your gaze, hand still wrapped around your waist and his face impossibly close.

In a fairytale world that was far from this one, you'd say yes—wrap your arms around him and say no. You were not okay and he'd carry you bridal carry to the nearest bench take care of you and you'd fall in love.

In reality however, you had an image to keep and you couldn't afford looking crazed for him. You had to keep things calm, cool, smooth, that's the way to go after all.

So you swallowed the pain and smiled. Pretended your heart wasn't this close to just ripping itself out on your ribcage and force Jinwoo to make room for it.

"I'm fine. My heel just snapped."

"I saw that."

"Of course you did."

A pause, and you remain in this slightly uncomfortable—very romantic position, keeping your gaze locked with his.

"Are—" you stuttered. Disgusting. "Are you going to let go now or are you planning to be a display too?"

His gaze flickered to your eyes, to that squirmy smile and then to the slight curve of your brows. And a smile of his own quirks up on his lips.

He pulls away, only barely. His arms detach from your waist, lingering instead around your shoulder.

"Can you stand?"

You felt a sharp pain spike through your right foot—specifically your ankle right then and there. You winced, but you only allow it a split second before you fall into your pre-established nonchalant appearance.

"Of course."

"You sure?"

"Definitely."

You take a step—and hiss at the pain. It takes everything you have to just not fall to the ground and, I don't know, cry maybe.

"That looks painful."

"That's normal when you're wearing heels. Beauty is pain—haven't you heard of that saying, Mr. Sung?"

Jinwoo deadpans. Looks at you taking small steps comparable to that of an ant and sighs.

He doesn't let you detach yourself from him, instead wrapping his arms around your waist and another tucked behind your knees.

"Excuse me," he mutters before lifting you off your feet and carrying you in his arms.

You gasp, scandalized. "What are you doing?"

"Carrying you to the nearest bench because clearly you're not fine."

Your hands clutch his shoulders—very tightly you might've thought he proposed marriage. He didn't—but this is closer than you expected to get to him since the first time you liked him.

"I can walk."

"You were limping."

"That's a new fashion trend." He gives you a look. One that practically said what words couldn't. He might be oblivious about a lot of things but even he's not foolish enough to believe that.

"I was adjusting. If you just gave me a few minutes I'd be able to walk normally again."

He hums, your words going in one ear and out on the other. "You're human—don't joke." He adjusts his grip on you, squeezing your waist and you feel your soul practically fly away as you held in the urge to ask for his hand in marriage and take responsibility for making your heart do flips.

You sputter for words, but nothing leaves your mouth despite desperate attempts to fill the silence with something. Your cheeks flushed with warmth, heat creeping into your skin—you worried he felt it, but he didn't say anything if he did.

You sigh with your whole chest, burying your face beneath your hands.

"This isn't how I planned today to go." You say, practically whimpering out of shame.

He pauses his steps, taking a moment to look at your hand covered face. This would be the first time he's seen you act out of your element. Far from the professionalism you showed when at work, far from the cool you that you showed during the first date, just flustered and more genuine this time. 

You don't even register it—you're just complaining, plans ruined and all because of this one mishap. And Jinwoo would be lying if he said he didn't find this even partly amusing.

"This is ridiculous." You huff, Jinwoo walks again with you still in his arms.

"What is?"

"This." Another sigh. Heavy. Full of weight and the hope you inhaled as you began this date exhaled in one single breath. "I had a fullproof plan. I was supposed to woo you. Act sophisticated, mysterious, charming, sly—"

"That's a lot of acting you're planning to do."

"Yes—and I had it all planned. I'd talk, you talk—I look at you lovingly and when you look at me you'll see it and I don't look away and maybe if I'm lucky we have a casual brush of hands I subtly seduce you and raise your affection for a considerable amount and—"

Jinwoo clears his throat, an awkward smile playing as the apple of his cheeks changes its tint just slightly. Very slightly. Mostly because he's really not used to bold proclamations of love.

"—Only for these stupid heels to butcher it up and ruin everything for me." You weep, lamenting your butchered plan.

"Subtly seduce?" He quirks a brow, half amused.

You pause, deciding how you should kill yourself for saying something like that—but forcefully bring yourself back to reality. You've already said a lot of things around Jinwoo, what was another going to do?

"Yes. Subtle. Smooth. You'd never see it coming but you're already lingering in the spaces I occupied. Slow burn and all that."

He chokes back a laugh, your lack of filter amusing him. It was a breath of fresh air from all the convoluted conversation exchanged between people of power. This was casual, normal, blunt. Like he was a normal guy.

"You have a curious mind." You bite your lip and bury your face deeper beneath your hands. He sees it, and his lips twitches.

"If it makes you feel any better, I prefer this version better."

He sets you down on a bench just outside the museum, placing you gently with care.

You set your arms aside, resting in either side of you as your eyes follow him. "I'm babbling and complaining like a spoiled brat."

He hums, kneeling down in front of you. You blink, baffled when he raises your leg and takes off your heels. He massages your feet deftly, carefully ensuring he didn't press too much to your sprained ankle.

"You're being honest and real."

"I'm always honest with you." You furrow your brows. "I've been flirting with you since the first date."

He closes his eyes, his hold trembling slightly at the mention. "Not that." He says with a small laugh.

"The you who gets flustered." He lifts your leg higher, you hesitate, but ultimately let him do his thing. "This whole time I've always had this certain pedestal put on you."

"You were always professional, mature, calm. I found it hard to picture you as anything but that." He presses against your ankle, you hiss in pain but don't pull away. "Even in the first date you were just like that. This version of you seems more fitting. Easier to talk with."

"You're being awfully soft with me right now." Your head tilts down to watch him ease the pain in your foot. "Even massaging me."

"I'd hate to assume, but are you perhaps falling to my charms?"

He goes rigid again, hands stopping its soothing motions. He peers up at you, you meet him with a small smile while dying inside.

"It's too early for that." He says, flicking your forehead lightly.

You stumble back with a wince, nose scrunched up. "Ow, that was uncalled for."

"I don't want to give you any false hopes." He says after a beat passes where your complaint remains unanswered.

"Don't worry. I doubt any hope you give me could do me any worse than the copium I'm currently running on."

He doesn't choke this time—only sigh in exasperation, as if slowly getting used to whatever leaves your mouth without thinking.

"Is that so?"

"It is so."

Later that night, you made plans to kill yourself.

"I'm so embarrassing." You groan, crying over the phone as your friend listens to your real time crash outs once more.

"It's fine it's fine—you're doing great!" She cheers with a loud laugh, as if jeering.

"Are you falling to my charms?" You scream, punching the poor pillow to let out your shame.

"It's fine—charming! You're cute!"

She cackles while you break down.

The third date—the alleged, supposed, chaotic one, was in an escape room. Not just any escape room—but a haunted escape room.

People often say that love and fear are interconnected. One can easily mistake fear to be love and vice versa—two sides of the same coin.

You were relying on this very popular theory to charm him into falling in love.

There's only one thing you and your friend failed to account for: the man you were trying to woo was Sung Jinwoo. An E-rank hunter who definitely saw scarier things than just humans wearing cosmetics to look even remotely as scary as the monsters in the dungeons.

He was not affected by the jumpscares at all.

Meanwhile, you were clutching your chest and stopping yourself from bawling your eyes like a baby because you can't get out of the room when all you wanted to do was bolt out and run away and pretend none of this ever happened.

You were stupid. Why did you let your friend convince you into going to an escape room with him? Now both your and his safety is compromised because of the fear levels you feel spiking up in you making you act even more unhinged.

You took a step forward, the wall beside you split open and revealed a haunted figure. You screeched—then quickly cut yourself off and clung to yourself.

Ha. Easy peasy.

You were crazy scared. You could feel your soul jumping out of your body every three seconds or so—especially because of that wretched humming played by a hidden speaker.

The heebie-jeebies was at its worst.

You shrieked when something fell—it was a book. Just a book. But it shook your soul to the core nevertheless. Your eyes widened comically, and you

You were terrified to your core. Like seriously? Actual, stomach-turning, nerve-fraying, skin-prickling kind of scared. The kind of fear that made your brain scream, "Cling to him! Cling to Jinwoo! Grab his arm and never let go!"

But you didn't.

Because you had class. You were a woman of principle. And also crippling overthinking—but we don't talk about that. You don't dare grab ahold of his arm and latch yourself at him like a leech mid exorcism—because you were respectful.

What if he didn’t like being touched? What if he thought you were using the escape room as an excuse to be handsy? What if he thought you were weak? You couldn't risk losing what little affection you had garnered for yourself because of thoughtless actions.

No. Instead, you ought to be brave and face your fears and act the same. Cool, casual, smooth—not sobbing, crying, scared to the point of peeing yourself.

But dang was it hard. Every step you took you could feel yourself wither away and become one of the props in the escape room. A ghost. You were so close to being one you could feel it.

You hugged yourself through your fears, arms wrapped tightly around your torso as if you're your own boyfriend and squishy toy. Your shoulders were hunched, wary of everything inside the room as your lips turned into that twisted smile. I'm fine. I'm fine—peachy—totally safe.

A disembodied voice echoed as a speaker from who knows where suddenly played the audio, mumbling some riddle to solve and hints to make sure the players don't get stuck in the room with that breathy, demonic sounding voice. You gasped and flinched so hard you nearly fell on your butt and crashed onto the skeleton prop just behind you.

Jinwoo glances over your pathetic form—barely holding yourself together. "You okay?"

You nod—perhaps a bit too quickly. "Mhm. Fine. Cool—so cool." The way your voice goes a pitch too high  to be your normal one betrays you. "I'm bored actually. So bored I could fall asleep standing."

"You're trembling."

"That's from excitement. Know the difference."

Jinwoo gave you a look. One, very obviously disbelieving look, and waited for you to retract your statement.

You didn't.

So he pushed and prodded. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I'm fearless. Very fearless. I could even do this with my eyes closed."

"And those eyes aren't closed because you're scared?"

You gasp, offended and take a step forward—only to step on some mechanism and cause a hand to suddenly spring up from the floor.

You scream, barely muffled and kept audible by your own pride.

He gives you an unimpressed look. You wither on the inside but puff up your chest in mock confidence.

"I was acting. I have a hidden talent in acting—I just wanted to show it to you. To make you fall in love more."

Somehow he doubts that.

"Alright, you go first then. You invited me—I want to see more of your 'fearless' side."

You freeze at his request, and stiffly look at him as if he's just betrayed you and did the worst crime to ever be done. His eyes narrow in amusement, but he doesn't outwardly laugh.

"I—"

"Go on."

You stare at him, mouth agape, planning to say something before shutting up. "I—fine!"

You huff, taking a step forward. The wooden floor creaks beneath your feet with everystep you take. You brace yourself for something, and when a whisper slithers through the air and to your skin, you scream out of pure terror.

Your hands clutch each other tightly as you flinch backwards. Your frantic steps back is blocked by a sturdy build. You freeze, dread for your life, and turn your head despite the fear ground you.

Much to your relief, it's only Jinwoo. You exhale a sigh—but freeze all again when he puts both hands on your shoulders and whispers—his face criminally close to your ear.

"I like strong women." Your breath hitched. His voice is low, steady, and sincere.

"But I like women who can admit to their faults too." He pauses, giving you a second to digest it before continuing with a more teasing tone. "Like being scared of anything haunted."

Your eyes widened, shivers running down your spine—and it's not because of the haunted room. You feel your face burn even as he pulls away and fixes himself to stand beside you.

"I'll go take the front. Stay close behind me."

You hum, though your sanity is barely there. Being flirted on while you were at a constant state of fight or flight wasn't doing good for your own health. You nod, breath shaky as you take deep inhales of air.

He doesn't pay any mind to your pathetic act at staying strong, working on solving puzzles instead while you linger behind him, fingers trembling and begging to cling to him.

"I-I'm scared." You finally mutter, eyes narrowed as you glare at the book that fell down the bookshelf earlier.

He hums, you take it as a sign to continue. "Really scared. I thought watching 10 horror movies in one day would help me prepare for this moment—but now I see it was stupid."

Jinwoo blinks, surprised by the sudden confession. Well, he didn't expect that. He coughs, but smiles as his hands fiddled with the lock at the door.

"That so?"

"Mhm. It only made me more paranoid. That was stupid."

He hums again, gaze flickering with satisfaction when the door opens. As you move onto another room, you follow closely behind him, counting every second you were stuck in this room with him.

You breathed out a shaky exhale, eyes darting around while Jinwoo solved a riddle involving books and other mumbo jumbos when suddenly—

"I'm watching you....."

You shriek, feet leaving the ground in a fearful jump as something breathed down your back. Your hands clench one another before finally latching onto Jinwoo with a cry.

Jinwoo flinches—only mildly. You don't register it, too wrapped up in your own terror to notice it.

Jinwoo blinks, looks down at you—crouched and five seconds away from crying, clinging to his arm with a death grip. His hand twitches, and he adjusts himself to allow you more grip to him.

"You alright?"

"S-someone was here—they breathed down my neck! Their voice was gargled!" You ramble, lips quivering as your eyes water.

He bites his lips to cover his laughter. It wasn't loud, but he assumes you wouldn't appreciate laughter so he keeps it restrained.

"Is that so?" You nod eagerly, he smiles—part amused part exasperated. "Then stay close, something might creep up again if you stay away."

"Are you inviting me to cling to you?" You sniffle. "Careful, I might enjoy that privilege a bit too much."

Jinwoo stiffens, looks at you like you're odd—and you are. You're scared witless and yet you still have the strength to flirt?

Your priorities sure haven't strayed despite everything. Atleast he knows you're loyal. He coughs to cover a laugh.

"I'm not sure what you mean but sure. If it helps you get through this without going into cardiac arrest."

You sigh, wrapping your arms around Jinwoo's arm, preparing for another batch of jumpscares.

"Then please don't mind if I accidentally rip apart your limb from pulling too hard."

"Eh?"

The fourth date—as your friend said—the fourth should be fun. Charming—a chance to let out your inhibitions.

Fun. Light hearted. Sweet—preferably all while you look cute and swoonable. And what better place would suit the description other than an amusement park?

Bright lights, loud music, the smell of fried sugar and delirium, highschool teens doing pda left and right and rides that goes against safety regulations—there was no other place to go than an amusement park.

You made sure to look presentable and ready to dazzle. Cute, comfortable, and easy to move in clothes while still looking decent.

But something changed this time. And you weren't just imagining it—you know that.

Jinwoo had arrived first this time, dressed in casual clothes that made him look boyfriend material. Gosh you want to wife him up one day.

"You're early this time."

He nods, tilting his head just slightly—making you absolutely lose your mind.

"I didn't want to keep you waiting."

You squeeze your eyes shut, count to five, and try to stop the urge to tell him I like you even if he already knew that.

"Is that so?" You position yourself to stand beside him, a bright grin on your lips. "Shall we get going then? We have a lot of attractions to go through today."

Another bob of his head, followed by a "sure" cams from him.

And thus the fifth date began.

Your gaze sweeps across the amusement park, and then lands on a small shop selling headpieces and accessories.

"Let's go there first." You point to the store, a relaxed smile—contrary to the one you forced during the escape room experience. "We ought to gear ourself up before we embark on a grand adventure."

You tug his sleeve—careful to only tug the sleeve of his hoodie and nothing more and drag him towards the desired destination with it.

Jinwoo paused, but allowed you to drag him without complaints.

His eyes land on where you held him. On the sleeve—tugging on it like wrapping your arms around his wrist would burn you.

There's a small tug at his heart at the sight. And then, snoothly—almost naturally, he detaches your hand from his sleeve and wraps it around his hand instead.

He does this in one quick motion you don't even register until you feel his warmth around the pads of your hand.

Your steps stall to a halt, shoulders turning stiff when you feel it.

"Why did you stop?"

You look at your now linked hands, then back at him and asked—almost shyly. "Are you, uhm, are you alright with this?"

"With what?"

"With—" you gesture to your linked hands. "With this. Holding hands."

His mouth makes an o shape as he processes your question.

"Do you hate it?"

You stiffen, and then shake your head—quite vehemently too.

"I didn't say that—" you squeeze his hand, then flinch and loosen it quickly, afraid of pushing boundaries. "I'm saying I like it too much I don't want to creep you out."

"You clung to me like you were trying to become one with me just one date ago. You're now bashful about hand holding?"

Your face burned at the mention. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was perfectly calm. The picture perfect epitome of calm."

"Is that so?"

"It is so."

He stares, you don't. You keep your gaze fixated on the shop while he keeps looking unimpressed. Five heartbeats later, he sighs(something he's been doing quite often around you) and relents.

"Let's go, we don't have all day."

And so you walked with his hand in yours, heart matching the pace of the upbeat music playing in the background.

You found your eyes fixated on one thing and one thing only. A bunny ear headband with the fuzzy fur and cute white and pink color scheme.

It would look so good on Jinwoo.

You feel it from the very depths of your core—Sung Jinwoo would look fantastic in a rabbit ears headband.

But the real question was—you bit your lip. Would he entertain your whims and wear it?

You look over to him, he's leaned over at a keychain stand, hand on chin as he ponders over something—expression unreadable.

He tilts his head up when he feels your gaze on him—almost as if he has a third sense. You flinch, eyes wide when he meets your gaze with his own unreadable one.

Nothing shows—but then his eyes shimmer with just a hint of something that makes your heart skip a beat. It crinkles at the edges as his head tilts slightly, expression morphing into a softer—that's criminal—a smile gracing his otherwise bland expression.

"What is it?"

You blank out for a moment, wondering if that softness really was for you or just your delusion making things romantic.

"Ah I—"

"I was wondering if you would—hypothetically speaking" you look at the headband section, fingers fiddling with each other. "Wear one of them if I asked."

Jinwoo follows your gaze to the row of fuzzy animal headbands. His eyes trail up from the baby-pink bunny ears, to the comically large cat ears, to the sparkly devil horns, then, back to you.

"Which one?" he asks, straight-faced.

You falter for half a second, then reach out—hand trembling just slightly like you're about to commit a crime against fashion and masculinity—and point to the softest, floppiest bunny ears on the shelf. "This one."

Jinwoo stares at it for a long moment. Long enough for you to reconsider your entire life.

Then, without a word, he takes the headband and slides it on.

Just like that.

You freeze. He meets your gaze. Your eyes are wide—both in disbelief and cuteness aggression.

"Oh my gosh."

He doesn't even blink, wears it on as if it was just a normal headband. His pride doesn't even seem wounded, he doesn't show a sign of embarrassment either—just compliance.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes." You take a deep breath. "You're adorable."

"Adorable?" You nod. Clutching your chest, you grit your teeth as you restrain the urge to squeeze his cheeks and call him cute.

You force your attention on the headbands once more. Slightly trembling hands(trembling because you're holding back a big urge to baby talk to a grown man just because he's wearing bunny ears.)

Grabbing another headband—this time, a wolf eared headband with slick grey fur and perked up pointy ears and tugged it on.

"It's settled then." Your eyes darts towards the mirror in front of you—showcasing both you and Jinwoo. One rabbit and one wolf. "You're the prey—I'm the predator."

He quirks a brow and looks at you through the mirror. "My defenseless little prey—"

You shrivel and eat up your words when you see his amusement hidden very badly on his face. Brows arched, lips parted slightly and head cocked. He looks amused in the way one would look at someone who just dug themselves their own hole—and that might not be far off from the truth.

"I'm sorry that was horrible please don't sue me for sexual harassment"

Silence.

Not even a pin drop.

And then he laughs. Not a full blown laugh—but kept constrained to not lose his aura kind of laugh.

"You're...peculiar."

Your cheeks flushed as blood rushed to paint it with its color.

"Just say I'm weird, I can take it."

He hums, amused, shoulders shaking just enough to show he's still laughing at you.

"Did that failed flirt dock points off my tally?"

He tilts his head, the floppy pink bunny ears shifting ever so slightly. "I'll allow it. Just this once."

You dramatically exhale in relief. "Thank goodness. I don't want to end up in jail with wolf ears on."

He chuckles again, and then—almost casually—reaches out to adjust your headband, his fingers brushing your hair just briefly. "They suit you."

You blink, heart skipping a beat. Was he flirting? This is considered flirting, right? Ah, you might be dying—oh you might be dying. You might really be dying.

"Come on, predator." He turns around, already paying for the headbands without letting you have a say in it. "Let's see what other sorts of trouble you can get yourself into."

Then he smirks—oh my gosh he smirked. You had to physically take a step back to recover because that one sided grin could end nations if he wielded it right.

You walk around the amusement park with him, hand laced with his for security purposes. You might get separated after all(you have to physically bite your tongue to keep you grounded to reality.)

You land in a shooting stall—and you quickly take the chance to impress him with your skills.

The plushies hang in the back like grand prizes(they are)—small ones, big ones, and a stupid looking duck about the size of a human torso standing proud in the middle of the prize display.

You take out your wallet and slam it down on the table.

"Watch and learn, bunny boy." You huff, chest puffing out and smug as you take the gun handed over to you by the staff working on the stall.

"Oh?" Jinwoo gives nothing more but an amused raise of brow, watching as you position yourself.

You adjust your headband and crack your knuckles, bending over slightly as you focus on shooting the target. Your eyes are narrowed, dedicated to the game as your fingers circle the handle and the trigger.

He balanced his weight on one of his legs and crossed his arms, watching you expectantly.

You pull the trigger—hitting the ducks square in the head with quick motions. The way you murmur your own sound effects as you shoot down the duck targets one after the other isn't lost on him, and his hold on himself tightens for a few seconds and as he watches you shoot everything down—not a single shot wasted.

"Five shots," you say, almost too smugly. "All fired—none missed."

You turn to him expectantly, like a dog awaiting praise.

He claps. Not loud, but enough for you to hear. "That's impressive."

You fail to notice the mild sarcasm laced in his tone. "I'm aware."

The giant duck—the biggest prize the stall had to offer now laid in your arms. You paraded it around, walking to him in slow paces to further enhance the mood.

"For you."

Jinwoo's eyes flick down to the oversized duck cradled in your arms. Then back to your triumphant grin. Without missing a beat, he reaches out and takes the plush from you—his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending a tiny spark that you definitely notice.

"You really went all out."

"Of course, only the best for the guy I like."

His smile no longer wavers when you tell him you like him, as if adjusting to your blunt nature. You don't know if that's a good sign or a bad sign, but he hasn't pushed you away yet—so you hope it's good.

Without skipping a beat, Jinwoo slides the plush into his inventory. Like a magic trick done right, the very plush you had won him suddenly disappeared from his hands.

You gasp in sheer horror. "What did you do to Agent quackston?!"

"You named it?"

"But of course!" You clutch your chest as if you've been stabbed. "That was my mascot! The proof of my love! And—and you just murdered him!"

He flicks your forehead before you can go too far with your theatrics. You yelp, both hands covering the place his fingers just hit as you scrunched up your nose in disapproval.

"He's in my inventory." He pulls his hands away, face ever soft despite its sharp features. "We can't exactly go on while carrying a huge plush all the time, can we?"

"Oh."

That shut you up real quick. Your face flattens out, a cool look quickly molding over your initial horror once Jinwoo knocks some sense into you.

"That makes sense." You groan. "Overpowered menace."

His head tilts, looking from side to side before landing on a destination.

"Come, follow me." Once more, he laces his fingers through yours—too smoothly for your safety actually.

"Wh—" you're dragged away from where your feet were planted with ease as he exerts the smallest of force to get you moving. "Where are we going?"

The only response you get is a quick look and a small smirk.

You ascended to heaven.

You proceed to find yourself swallowed by a whole mountain of plushies 30 minutes later.

"Y-you're awfully good at this."

Your arms struggle to carry all the plushie he just won you at the claw machine, a strawberry shaped one blocking your vision with it's large body.

"You think so?"

A deadpan. "Not I think—but you are."

"I have talent, it seems," he says, voice light, almost teasing.

The strawberry plush is enormous, obnoxiously soft, and it’s wedged so firmly between your arms you can barely see past it. You shuffle awkwardly, trying to adjust your grip, but your vision is still completely overtaken by red fuzz and a pair of stitched cartoon eyes.

"Jinwoo," you groan. "I can't see. I'm going to die holding this fruit."

There's a brief pause coming from him—and then you feel the pressure ease. The strawberry is lifted from your arms gently, like a gift being unwrapped. And just like that, your vision returns.

You blink up at him, mouth half open in protest, but the words die on your tongue the moment you see his face.

He's holding the strawberry plush with both hands, cradling it against his chest like it’s something delicate. To make matters even worse—his expression is fond.

Not smug. Not playful.

Fond.

Eyes soft, mouth curved in the smallest, most dangerous smile you’ve ever seen on him.

"This one repays the duck," your knees buckle. "Now we're even."

You stare.

He offers it to you like a peace offering. Like a confession. Like it means something more. Did it mean something more? You hope it did.

You need something to keep your heart from breaking out of your ribs. You want to say something witty. Something charming. Something that won't give away how your brain is fully short-circuited.

But all you manage is: "Agent Quackston will be pleased."

Jinwoo chuckles, the sound sending goosebumps down your spine. "Good. I don't want to get on his bad side."

You clear your throat, clutching the strawberry tighter. "He's very territorial."

"I'll keep that in mind."

His eyes persist and remain locked on yours, refusing to waver. You try to meet it, refusing to back down. A poker face—a picture perfect poker face you honed after years of work crumbles beneath his gaze that dared to make you hope for something more.

"Give those to me—I'll keep them in my inventory for the time being."

You barely register his words beyond the rampant beating of your heart.

Unbeknownst to you, the very reason he could capture so many stuffed plushes was because he was using his ruler's authority without you noticing.

The rest of the day passes by in a flash. Failed flirts, playful banters, unraveling of character—you've tried both the rides and the overpriced foods here, a smile never quite leaving you all throughout. You found a haunted house amidst your search for exciting rides—you didn't dare try it out.

You learned your lesson from the last date. You avoided it like the plague, Jinwoo looked amused. And then the climax happened.

You sat in front of him at the ferris wheel, overlooking the entire city as you reached the highest peak of the circle shaped structure. The ferris wheel would always signify the end of the date. A quiet place where meaningful conversations could be exchanged.

"Why five dates specifically?" Jinwoo finally asks, breaking the bubble of silence that blanketed the space.

You look off into the distance, admiring the view you could only see from high up above.

"It's simple, really."

Though his eyes never leave your figure, your eyes never meet his.

"One's too fast, two's too fleeting, three's too abrupt, four might allow a spark, and five means we might be allowed a chance to go somewhere." Your hand touches the window, tone no longer as detached nor too emotional. "Six and more is too long. Even I know my limits."

Jinwoo leans back, arms crossed as the city lights flicker beneath his icy grey hues. He doesn't say anything, only linger in the answer you gave—look at you like you're a puzzle he wishes to solve.

"We're already at the fourth." Your hand twitches just slightly. "Nearing the end—time flies by so fast, doesn't it?"

He follows where your eyes lock on, watching the cityscape through the small window. "It does." He adds when the silence becomes too much.

"Only one more and you'll be free from my whims—" you take a sharp breath. "That must be a relief for you."

Jinwoo turns his gaze back to you slowly, his expression unreadable for a second too long.

Then—quiet, but firm—he says, "Leave the fifth to me."

Your body goes rigid, and then, with a speed Jinwoo worried would cause you a whiplash—turned your head to face him. Breathless.

"What?"

"The fifth date. Leave it to me."

"I—huh?" You blink, once, twice, thrice, four, five—not enough. "Why?"

"I want to make sure of something."

Butterflies flutter about inside your stomach as hope dares to make itself known to your chest.

"Make sure to dress nicely."

The fifth date, as Jinwoo insisted, was planned solely by him.

All you did was dress pretty. Cordial and decent enough to dine at fine dining restaurants—enough to pass as the daughter of a rich man.

"Isn't this too much?" You question as your trusty friend swipes lipstick across your lips like a professional. "I don't want to appear like I'm trying hard around him."

"My girl," she deadpans. "You've asked him out on five dates the first time you talked outside of work—confessed your intentions at date one, asked if he was falling inlove at date two, clung to him on date three, and called him bunnyboy at date four. You're desperate enough to do this much when he asks to let you leave the fifth date to him."

You pout at her words, she doesn't care—doesn't even bother to pretend to care.

"Listen here—make sure to remain calm okay?" She holds you by the shoulders, squeezing it gently. "This is your chance—don't you dare mess this up."

"I am calm."

You say that, but you carry yourself with the stiffness of a man going into a lion's den with steak on their hands.

"You're vibrating, stop that—I can't finish the look if you're trembling."

"Can you blame me? I'm emotionally compromised and in risk of cardiac arrest."

She doesn't answer—but she does do a deadpan. That alone told you everything about her exasperation.

After giving you one final once-over, she beams and puffs her chest smugly—proud of her work. Then came the doorbell ringing loudly for both of you to hear.

She lets you go with the face of someone sending their dearest soldier to war. You step out with the same vibes of someone going to war for the first time. Your nerves fray—nearing combustion as your palms clamp up with sweat.

As the door creaks open, allowing you exit—you're immediately met with Jinwoo standing just outside, waiting for you—all dressed to the nines with a dark suit and a bouquet.

He's unfairly handsome.

The 'polite boy with a mysterious about him that keeps you on your toes. Magazine looks and a k-drama star of a 100% rotten tomatoes rating series.' Meanwhile you looked like an overdressed fool preparing for an interview to become a court jester. The difference was astounding—you wonder why you haven't yet melted into a puddle on the floor and become fertilizer for a fresh set of life.

"You brought a bouquet?" Dumb question—clearly he did, in fact, bring one.

He wordlessly offers it to you, gaze dragging down to your form as he takes in your fit. From your coloured lips to your wide eyes full of static. You hold back the urge to shrink, gingerly accepting the small gift with clammy hands.

"This is for me?"

"No, it's for your neighbor." He retorts with a face you could only describe as serious. "Of course it's for you."

"...oh."

You clutch the bouquet like it might stabilize your heart, eyes darting to the floor in a valiant attempt to find an escape tunnel. Unfortunately for you, you find that there's none—only the sound of your pulse in your ears and the sharp, clean scent of the flowers pressed against your face.

"Right," you mumble. "Thanks. They're...nice. Really nice."

He raises an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."

"Who wouldn't be surprised? The guy I like comes and gives me a pretty bouquet—I need time to recover emotionally."

"Because of flowers?"

"Because of you bringing flowers while looking like a man who walked out of a commercial for heartbreak."

That gets him. His lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a laugh huffing through his nose.

"I'll try not to be less offensive next time," he says. "Come on."

He offers his arm, you stare at it stupidly as if it was an alien concept to wrap your own around it.

"Your hand." He gives you a deadpan. "Hold onto me."

You blink, look up, tilt your head, process his words, and then nearly shut down. "Wh—"

Jinwoo's expectant stare makes you comply without allowing yourself to mutter anything else. Latching onto him before your body starts protesting.

He leads you outside of your apartment complex, taking you to an open field.

"Where are we going?"

"Nature."

"Pardon?"

Jinwoo turns his head left and right, makes sure there's no obstructions, and calls upon Kaisel with a low mumble.

A large wyvern materializes out of his shadows, glinting blue against the moonlit night. Towering over both of you by several feet.

"Holy—"

It roars as it emerges from its sanctuary, flapping its wings as it adjusts to the chilling air of Seoul. It blinks once, glowing softly as the night highlights its phantom like structure. You're not sure what breaks your head more—was it the fact that he said nature and seemed to mean it? Or the fact that a wyvern just popped out of his shadow and ease into the ground in front of you.

"Is that a dragon?" You clutch the bouquet like it's a lifeline, shivers running down your spine as it flaps its wings once more—the pressure allowing for a gust of wind to breeze through you.

"A wyvern," he corrects, tone patient. "They're Kaisel—don't worry, they're friendly."

You swallow thickly. "Right. Sorry for the misidentification—but that doesn't make this any better, Jinwoo. That's still a mythical being we're talking about—and you birthed it from your shadow, Jinwoo."

Jinwoo doesn't respond, but his lips twitch again—twice in one evening. You're practically a miracle worker for making him show so much emotion with just a few well placed words here and there.

"Not birth—summon is a better word." Another correction, you click your tongue in response.

Kaisel lowers their head, wings folding neatly by their sides as if to say, yes, hello, I am your Uber for tonight. You blink up at Jinwoo, who's already turned toward you, holding out a gloved hand this time. "Have you ever flown before?"

"Not on a real life wyvern, no." You hiss.

He chuckles softly, his smooth baritone sending shivers that didn't have anything to do with the chilly wind down your spine. "Then today will change that, it appears."

With measured steps does he stand over Kaisel's back, gaze flicking back to you with an expectant look. "You trust me, don't you?"

The question is simple. Too simple. But it leaves you winded nonetheless.

Your eyes search his—calm, steady, waiting. And for all your drama, for all your plans and fears, your answer comes shamefully easily. "Yes, I do."

He smiles. Smiles. A full one this time. "Good. Then let's fly."

And before you can even take back your words and stay grounded on the very real, very nice pavement, he's already helping you up, lifting you as if you weighed next to nothing. Next thing you know, he has his arm wrapped around your waist as you stand by Kaisel's backbone.

"This is safe, right?"

"What happened to the trust you said you had in me?"

"Will be gone if you don't answer my question."

"Don't worry," he laughs, hand squeezing your waist almost subconsciously. "I won't let you fall."

You nearly faint right then and there. Badump, badump—you can practically smell his cologne from how close you were. He smells nice, like freshpine and something mysterious—ah you might be a bit too in danger if you keep sticking to him like this.

"Are you all settled now?" You clutch the bouquet in one hand, and his coat with the other as you nod. Slowly—very slowly—almost robotically.

Too late to back out now. With a powerful flap of their wings, Kaisel launches into the sky—and you scream. But it's short-lived, caught somewhere between terror and sheer awe as the world drops away beneath you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the air muss up your dignity Jinwoo takes you to the sky. You feel your balance shifting ever so slightly, and you quickly try to fix it by holding onto Jinwoo tighter.

"If I fall and die I'll haunt you—doesn't matter if I liked you when I was living." You threaten, voice whispery as your legs wobble, feeling the graze your skin.

He laughs, though it's covered by the loud gust of wind whispering in your ears as you soar through the skies with Jinwoo. "Open your eyes, it would be a shame to miss this."

"I might vomit!"

"You won't."

"But I might!" You huff

Jinwoo shifts behind you, his grip around your waist tightening ever so slightly—firm, secure, maddeningly calm.

"You won't," he repeats, like it's fact, a given and not a gamble. "You're too stubborn to let gravity win."

"Now I'm no scientist but I'm quite sure that's not how biology or gravity works!"

"Trust me," he murmurs, and somehow, the sound of it cuts through the wind like silk through chaos. "You're safe."

You squeeze his coat until your knuckles turn white. Risk one eye open, it swiftly forces the other to blink open as well and widen as you take in the sight beneath you.

The city is a kaleidoscope of colors all around, lights flickering as the buzz dies out into nothing but flickering murmurs until it becomes nothing at all. The cityscape glows in colors of gold, white, red, and more—fading into the distance the further the wyvern flies.

"Oh." Your breath hitches.

"See?"

You glance back at him. He's not just smiling—he's soft. The kind of softness that makes your lungs ache, like you've gone too high and forgotten to breathe. The wind wraps around you both in a cold embrace, the moonlight reflecting off your eyes as you peer up at the sky, lips parted into a frozen gasp. Kaisel glides above the clouds with ease, careful to not swivel too much for the passengers behind their back.

"This is..." You clutch the bouquet. "This is beautiful..."

He hums, eyes flicking over your admiring visage, silence encompassing you both before he eventually nods. "...It is."

Kaisel lands you somewhere in the middle of the forest with a wide clearing. As the flapping of their wings slows to a halt, their feet land back at the ground with a small thump.

Dust kicks off from the ground, and Kaisel stops moving.

Jinwoo's the first to jump back down the ground, unbothered by motion sickness as he offers a hand for you to take.

You accept it, no longer as reluctant as before. If he offered it, why refuse? There's no reason to. Absolutely none.

He helps you down the dragon, ever so careful, the very description of a gentleman. You look around, finding nothing but trees and twigs as far as the eyes could see.

Another bout of silence—nothing but Kaisel's purr as they relax and lay on the ground to interrupt it, a flame flickers from nowhere and comes to life. Not wild, not big—just a small ball of fire as it lights up a path. The balls of fire flickers one after the other, forming a passage for you to follow.

You flinch, expecting hostile creatures only for Jinwoo to take your hand through his own gloved ones and take you to follow it through.

"Where are we going?"

Jinwoo replies, "Somewhere nice."

The firelit path weaves through tall trees and crisp air, and every few steps the scent of pine, earth, and smoke sweetens—until you break past the last wall of foliage and enter a clearing.

Your jaw drops. In the center of it all—under a full moon and starlit sky—stands a table for two. A white cloth billows gently under the breeze, weighed down by elegant plates, polished silverware, and a single vase of fresh flowers in the middle. A pair of candles flicker beside it, impossibly tall and stubborn against the night wind.

"My liege—and his dearest lady." A shadow emerges from the depths of the trees. "We've been expecting you."

You flinch at the sudden voice, gasping as you take an instinctive step back.

An ant-like shadow stands before you, head lowered into a bow as its wings flick in small excited beats. "I am honored to be graced with your presence at long last." He begins, and Jinwoo already feels a headache forming. "Our king has told much of your grace, wit, and awe-inspiring intentions—it is with the greatest delight that I finally stand before you I am—"

"Beru." Jinwoo cuts off, brows furrowed, as he glowers at the pesky ant. "Stop talking."

The ant whimpers—it whimpered as Jinwoo issued the command like a kicked puppy. Its wings droop, and their eyes grow droopy at his liege's annoyance.

"I-I—of course! I apologize, I did not mean to intrude upon such a sacred moment—" he bows down, deeper and closer to the ground this time. "Please proceed to the table."

Jinwoo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as the ant skitters off somewhere.

"That was mean." You comment, allowing Jinwoo to walk you to the table. "I felt bad."

"You have to be mean to these kinds of shadows."

"Really?"

"Really." You raise a brow as he pulls your chair out, gesturing for you to sit. "Even the overly dramatic bug butler who just called our dinner a 'sacred moment'?"

Jinwoo exhales sharply through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "Especially him. If I don't rein him in, he'll start composing sonnets about your eyelashes."

"...Has he done that before?" He doesn't answer right away.

"He has, hasn't he?"

"He's very devoted."

You laugh at that, taking a seat where he offered one graciously. He sits across the table, taking the bouquet and resting it on the table for you.

A tall knight comes your way, covered from head to toe with armor. They lean over, their armor clanking softly as they hand out what seems to be a menu to skim through. You quirk a brow, hesitantly taking the offered folder containing the list of provided services. They walk off with a small nod, you return it, bewildered by the random sight.

"Uhm..." A clap—one, two, and then shadows morph into figures—orcs, knights, each holding an instrument of their own. In the middle stands a particularly burly knight—skin glowing as the armor shuts down the light they emit.

Another orc—this one larger than the rest stands several paces back, an orb in hand. It murmurs something under its breath, and then the sphere glows softly—a stream of petals fluttering about out of nowhere.

You stare. The music begins.

Soft strings swell into the air, underscored by the low hum of a cello being plucked with surprising precision by a shadowy knight. A flute joins in—sharp and clear—held by what looks like a an orc in a tuxedo. The tune is gentle, romantic, almost hauntingly beautiful.

The burly knight in the middle opens their mouth and sings. They hum loudly, a mix of sounds that fit just right with the atmosphere currently set—their deep baritone suiting the mood just right.

Then the petals hit. First a few. Then dozens. Then hundreds.

They swirl down like rain, catching on your shoulders, your hair, your menu, Jinwoo's sleeve, and even, somehow, his very soul if the look on his face is anything to go by.

Jinwoo's eyes twitches.

You brush off a petal that got on your head, mirth shimmering within the shine of your eyes.

"They overdid it." He murmurs, a hand carding through his hair as he leans against the table. You laugh, finding entertainment where Jinwoo finds embarrassment.

"This feels cursed." You comment, watching them as they played the instruments with surprising skill. "Like a date with death itself or something. Low lighting, shadows as staff, eating dinner at a cliffside as the moon bears witness to this event—yep, cursed."

"But also," your eyes narrow as you stare at the hard working shadows. If you squint your eyes, you could see the ant—Beru scolding the big orc for overdoing the petal shower, if going by the way the orc frowned in what seemed like shame. "This is cute—though not conventional cute."

He nods, a sigh finding its way out of his lungs.

"I didn't know they were capable of doing cute things like this."

"What's cute about this?" He grumbles, and you only giggle.

"The view here is nice." You begin, "below you can see the forest from above. If you look up you have a great view of the full moon from here." Your gaze flickers to the shadows playing music, soft, slow, romantic. "And then we have good music to bask in to really get in the mood."

You open the book with unhurried motions, lashes fluttering as you scanned through the menu. "Though I didn't know what you had in mind when you told me to leave this last date to you, I certainly have no regrets."

You hum, fingers skimming through the names listed below. "This feels fitting for our final meeting. Thank you for putting so much effort into this, Jinwoo. Even if I had only dragged you along to satiate my selfish whims."

Jinwoo stiffens.

Somehow, someway, your words hit him hard. "You seem sure of it," he comments, taking a sip of the service water offered.

"About what?"

"About this being our final meeting."

"Ah." You follow him, taking a sip as well before laughing softly—a bit deprecating. "Am I wrong?"

He opens his mouth to say something in turn—something to disprove your words, but nothing leaves him and you're already calling the waiter, gesturing for someone. Another knight—this time, far taller than the rest and akin to a general appears from Jinwoo's shadow, standing in front of you with nothing less than a respectful bow.

"Uhm—I'd like to have the steak, please. Medium rare, the seasonal vegetables on the side."

"Igris...?" The knight shifts its metal body to face Jinwoo, head still lowered. "I'll have the same." Jinwoo mumbles once he blinks away the shock.

Igris nods, taking in your order with a respectful bow.

And then... Another round of madness began.

From one corner of the clearing, a portable cooking station is dragged into view by two lesser knights. It screeches faintly against the stones. A third knight strikes a match and lights the stove with all the solemnity of a sacred ritual. The fourth knight hands over a plain white apron. Igris solemnly takes it and dramatically flips it, tying it around him with all the flare of an 8 star chef.

You make noise—a combination of surprise and amusement as he stands before you with the kitchen in full view. You blink, and then Beru appears beside Igris. "Igris shall now prepare your meal personally," Beru says with hushed reverence, like this is a Michelin-starred rite of passage

A beat—a second spent with you looking pleasantly confused and entertained, and Igris gets to work.

He slices the vegetables with flare—beating the world record for slicing onions with ease. He's quiet, only the sound of metal clanking as he moves around the kitchen—performative but efficient. Flames leap with every toss of the pan, vegetables chopped mid-air, diced, tossed in full arcs and smoothly delivered to the pan with practiced ease. A symphony of sizzling sounds fills the area as the aroma wafts over the open clearing.

You're biting your lip, trying not to lose it. Jinwoo looks about ready to disappear into the tablecloth.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he mutters, hands steepled in front of his mouth.

"What are you talking about? This is beautiful." You whisper, eyes glittering with delight. "This is peak art. I didn't know your shadows were so talented." You clutched your stomach, doing everything you can to stop the laughter that bubbles and threatens to erupt. "I don't know what I was expecting when I saw your soldiers on the news but—oh—gosh—"

You pause for air, laughing as quietly as possible, giving up on trying not to laugh because clearly that was a fail. "This is a pleasant surprise." Jinwoo lets out a defeated sigh, slumping in his chair like a man who's just lost a very serious battle—perhaps against dignity, or sanity, or both. You can't tell. You're too busy watching Igris precisely sprinkle salt from an unnecessary height, eyes glowing faintly with what can only be described as prideful culinary resolve.

Once the show is over and the food's finished simmering in his greatness, he presents them to you with pride, sliding the dishes over before bowing one last time—this one done to signify his exit.

You and Jinwoo both murmur your thanks—yours laced with awe, his with the dazed tone of someone barely surviving the secondhand embarrassment of being loved this hard by his own shadows. Igris fades away into the darkness, the apron still flapping slightly behind him like a victorious cape. A few shadows clap. One tries to throw more petals. Beru tackles them.

Silence settles again. You glance down at your plate. Perfect sear. Beautiful plating. Aromatic and savory in a way that immediately makes your stomach betray you with a low rumble.

"If this is my final date," you lift your fork with ceremony. "Then at least I'll die fulfilled. Being able to brag about eating a meal cooked by Sung Jinwoo's own shadow soldier is no achievement anyone can get."

Jinwoo huffs, shaking his head to rid himself of the secondhand embarrassment he accumulated over the course of watching his shadows make this the perfect date as Beru so insisted. "You're impossible."

And so the hour passes. The tunes, ever romantic and soft continues, humming faintly beneath the chatter you engaged with Jinwoo. Lighthearted and soft, you exchange jokes with a smile—a big step up from the first date wherein you force yourself to act nonchalant and cool.

"I was going to let this be the last one." Jinwoo begins, swirling the wine glass betwixt his fingers, watching the wine shift from one space to the other with faint interest. "I thought of it as nothing more than paying back what you were due."

Your attention is thrown to him as he begins to speak—much longer than the ones before. He begins it instead of continues, shifting the dynamics as he shares his own thoughts after keeping it hidden for the sake of entertaining you. He looks at you through the glass, vulnerability flickering beneath those usually rigid grey hues of his. "I figured it was nothing more than a passing whim. That maybe—as full of myself as it may sound, I could help you get over the heartbreak by letting you down in this manner."

"For that I'm ever grateful." You say softly—quiet instead of playful. Sincere, if not faintly sad. "I never saw myself going anywhere with you. But then I saw the chance and took it without thinking. I'm sorry for forcing you to play along with my selfish feelings."

He grits his teeth, but continues, wanting you to hear the end of it. "When I saw you in the mirror—I didn't know what to make of it at first."

"Mirror?" Ah—Jinwoo's eyes widen slightly. "It's how I learned of how you felt. Without it I would probably have never figured it out." You made an o-sound. But then furl your brows together again because he's still not quite clear. He laughs at your confusion, only briefly, but indulges you in your questions left unasked.

"It was a dungeon," Jinwoo clarifies, voice soft and distant. "One of the tougher ones. Hidden, even. I went in thinking it'd be a routine clear, but the final boss, it wasn't like the others." He sets the wine glass down, fingers curling slightly against the stem as he leans forward, eyes on you. "It was a mirror. A creature that doesn't fight with claws or spells. It dug through your very memories and used them against you—searching inside to learn what it could use against you."

You blink slowly. He continues. "At the end of the battle I was granted a chance to ask the truth. However, it gave me nothing I didn't already know." He sighs, reminiscing the memory as if it was just yesterday. "I asked it only because I expected nothing—I asked the question that led me to find out."

"Who liked you?"

He nods, tasting the wine on his tongue, lingering. "Close, but not quite."

He takes a sip, and places it down on the table with practiced motions. "Come to think of it—I never got to ask you, didn't I?"

Jinwoo raises his gaze, a playful question—but his looks betray his eagerness for an answer. "Why ddo you like me? I imagine I was quite undesirable back then. Certainly not desirable enough to deserve so much of your mercy."

You blink, face warming slightly as he asks the question—forcing you to answer because who could say no to a face like that?

You hum, playing with the rim of the glass as you try to explain it. "I don't quite get it myself."

"You were plain and scrawny and insecure and in a tight financial situation—I don't understand how it came to be as well." You huff, leaning back on your seat, scratching your head in annoyance.

Jinwoo closes his eyes, mildly amused and playfully offended by everything you listed—though he recognized it to be true so he couldn't fight back against the claims.

"But, thinking back on it now, it was probably because of the way you refused to give up." You looked down at the empty plate, smiling fondly. "Even if the world told you to give up—you refused. You'd smile when someone offered you even just a sliver of kindness and pretend like everything was fine. It made me want to cheer you on too. Even if I didn't know your story quite well—and then somewhere along the road of cheering you on it started becoming real."

You laughed bitterly, covering it up with a sip of wine to swallow down the nerves. "It scared me a bit at first. I didn't understand how I could be this attached to someone who didn't know me beyond my work, but then when you offered me a cup of canned coffee just when I got off work—I just couldn't stop myself."

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass as the memory resurfaces—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and yet... it clung. "I'd been having a hell of a day. Nothing was going right, I hadn't eaten, I was running on three hours of sleep—and then you were just there, holding out a can like it was some sort of peace offering." You smile faintly, gaze distant. "And you didn't say much. Just that 'You looked tired.' And that was it. So simple. But it ultimately made everything better for me."

Jinwoo watches you quietly, no smile on his lips this time—just quiet attentiveness. Like he's finally seeing it all clearly. The cracks. The quiet ways you fell.

"I guess you could say that I liked you because even when the world went against you and put you upon one challenge after another, you somehow still found it in you to care for other people. And it... It really stuck with me."

Jinwoo swallows hard, and for once—for once—he doesn't know what to say. The silence that stretches between you is full, but not heavy. He leans back in his seat, one hand lifting to brush through his hair as he laughs—quiet and breathless, a little disbelieving.

"I..." He begins, the words felt heavy on his tongue, but he wanted to say it still—"I don't want this to end just yet." You blink. "Pardon?"

"Five dates came to pass. Strictly speaking, everything will end after tonight." Your eyes flickered with a hint of sadness at his reminder.

"But not yet." He gulps down thickly, hands trembling just slightly as he continues. "You like me, don't you?"

"I—uh, yes?"

"Then let me be selfish." His index finger taps against the clothed table. "Five dates. I want five more dates with you. Just to confirm something."

"I—what?" Your voice reaches a pitch too high for your comfort, heart suddenly having a stroke as you try all you can to not misunderstand his words.

"The first five was your request. Now I ask the same." He leans closer, his eyes burning for the first time with a certain passion remiss throughout his life. It's subtle, but when you peer in his eyes you see it—the fire crackling beneath the depths. "You told me six and more is too long—I beg to differ."

"Entertain me, will you?"

"I—I—huh?!" He laces his fingers through yours, intertwining them and pulling it closer to him. His cheeks glow faintly of red, showing that even he is not immune to love.

You avert your gaze, pinch yourself, shake your head enough to make you dizzy—but nothing wakes you up from this. Was this truly reality? If so, then. "I'd go ten more if you'd like." You murmur, both a whisper and a scream.

He breaks out into a smile—wider than anything you've ever seen from him. "Then I'll greedily take twenty more."

[cerialcodes]

Merventurine Masterpost

a compilation of all my merman aventurine series in chronological order

Part 0: Prequel

Part 1: The merman and lighthouse keeper

Part 2: Doctor's new patient

Part 3: Bath enthusiast

Part 4: Chalk eater

Part 5: Numby the trespasser

Part 6: Outdoor experience

Part 7: Little gay merman with little gay dreams

Part 8: Gift of aventurines

Part 9: Professor Ratio

Part 10: Tail hug

Part 11: Bad dreams

Part 12: Back to the sea

Part 13: Doctor's studies

Part 14: Siren song

Part 15: Smitten idiots

Part 16: Sea witch Jade

Part 17: Stoneheart mers

Part 18: Jelena

Part 19: The ten stonehearts

Part 20: Human affection

Part 21: Greedy fool

Part 22: The fool yearns for light

Part 23: Opal

Part 24: Lovers

Part 25: Off to dawn

Part 26: Sleep well, Aventurine

Part 27: First day as human

Part 28: The same beach without him

Part 29: Gambler

man this thing is long

[cerialcodes]

epilogue

[cerialcodes]

Zz Zz

[cerialcodes]

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[cerialcodes]

My Saviour

♡ Monster Hunter!Gen Narumi x Fem!Reader, 2k Words

♡ Warnings: human sacrifice, deep talk, blood

You sit still as your mom and sisters braid ribbons and little flowers into your hair, your gaze drifting out the window, following the lazy dance of fluffy clouds in the blue sky. The dress they've laced you into is pristine white, with ruffled sleeves and delicate lace details. You look like a dream. Like a goddess. Like you'll drift away into the heavens with the clouds you're watching.

Outside, the cicadas are chirping. It’s getting warmer, and the longest day of the year is upon you. The air hums with expectation. “A big day,” your mother says brightly, adjusting a curl behind your ear. “Especially for you.” You nod, though your heart feels far away, as if it has already begun to rise like smoke.

“You look wonderful, darling.” She steps back to admire you, eyes shimmering with something soft and sad. “Just about worthy of your special day.”

You’ve always known this day would come. Since the moment you were born beneath the blood moon, marked by omen and prophecy, they have called you the Chosen One. The village's gift. Their saviour.

You are not being wed.

You are being given.

To the dragon in the mountain.

With heavy hearts, you begin the ascent.

The village walks in silence, save for the soft crunch of sandals against the moss-lined path and the distant, ever-present hum of cicadas. The sun, swollen and golden, casts long shadows behind you, reaching like fingers up the mountain.

You walk at the front, flanked by the priestesses in their crimson robes, ringing soft bells and chanting prayers. A garland of white lilies is resting on your shoulders, like a mantle of snow. The scent is sweet. Overwhelming. You try not to flinch.

The trees thin as you rise higher. The wind picks up, tugging at your sleeves like a child begging you to run. But you don’t. You can’t.

This is the way it has always been.

The altar stands at the peak, carved from stone darkened by centuries of sacrifice. Here, the dragon comes. Here, the Chosen is taken.

You pause just below the final rise, the world opening up beneath your feet—the valley, the village, your home, so small now. So distant. And somewhere in the wide sky, you swear you hear a low, thunderous growl, far away but growing closer.

Your hands tremble.

Is this truly what I want?

To die for a peace I never agreed to?

To be remembered as a name in a chant, a face in a story, a girl no one really knew? To die so no one else does?!

They called you blessed. They called you their saviour.

But standing here, staring at the altar a few feet away, where so many women have stood before, you only feel hollow. Your knees feel weak.

A question, long buried, rises to the surface of your mind like smoke:

What if I chose something else?

“Kneel, child,” the High Priestess says, her voice soft as silk and sharp as a blade.

You obey.

She moves with reverence, lifting a wooden bowl etched with ancient symbols—dragons coiled through blooms, a history of sacrifice carved in trembling hands. Within, a dark red liquid swirls, thick as blood, catching the light of the dying sun.

She brings it to your lips.

You do not resist.

The taste is metallic, bitter with earth and ritual. It coats your throat like molten velvet. Almost immediately, the world begins to shift. Edges blur. Sounds become distant echoes. The sky pulses. The wind vanishes.

And still, the mountain waits, with baited breath.

Your limbs grow heavy, wrapped in an invisible weight that sinks into your bones. The High Priestess takes your hand, fingers cold and sure, guiding you forward with the grace of someone who has done this too many times before.

Each step is thunder.

Each breath, a farewell.

You lay down on the cold stone, looking up at the sky above you. The sun has tinted it all shades of red, yellows and oranges.

“Thank you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your brow, her lips trembling. Whether with sorrow or faith, you cannot tell.

You glance back.

Your mother is weeping silently, her hands pressed to her lips, her shoulders shaking with the effort to be still. Your sisters do not speak. One looks down. Another clutches a charm around her neck. The youngest stares directly at you, eyes wide and shining, as if trying to memorize the shape of your soul.

You are the offering.

Their savior.

The lamb wrapped in white, walking toward the flame.

Soon, everything would be over, and for another decade, they wouldn't have to waste another thought to the beast that lurks in the mountains.

This is how it should be.

How it's been done for centuries.

The purpose you've been born for.

So why does it feel so wrong...?

And then, they leave.

The priestess withdraws first, robes billowing like dying embers. Your family follows, their footsteps reluctant, their faces carved from grief and duty. You are alone now—on the altar of bone-white stone, under a sky bleeding gold and crimson.

The silence that follows is thick.

It presses in on you, heavy as the fate you carry.

Then, the mountain exhales.

A gust of searing wind rolls over the peak, curling your hair, rattling the bones strung above the altar. The shadows shift. The clouds darken. And from the canyon of stone and ash, something ancient unfurls.

The dragon.

It moves like smoke given flesh—massive, glistening, wings that blot out the sun, eyes glowing with a cruel and eternal fire. Every story you’ve ever been told pales beside the truth of it. Beautiful. Terrible. Inevitable.

Your fate laid out before you.

It lands with a tremor. Stone cracks beneath its claws.

You are too stunned to scream. Too weak to run.

It opens its maw—and the end rushes toward you like a storm.

But then—

A whistle. Sharp. Piercing. Defiant.

From the edge of the cliffs, a figure leaps through the red sky. Cloak snapping. Giant sword drawn. A stranger, foreign and furious, blazing with light and wind and will.

They collide with the dragon mid-air, steel meeting scale in a shower of sparks. The beast roars, a sound that fractures the clouds and shatters the silence.

The battle is chaos. Fire and fury. Steel and scream.

You watch from your knees, hidden behind the altar, eyes wide, the world splitting open before you.

And finally—with one final cry and a blinding arc of silver light—the dragon falls.

The mountain stills.

The stranger lands atop the altar, breathing hard. They turn to you—not a savior cloaked in divine light, but a man. Bloodied, battered, and real, with messy, black and white hair and crimson eyes. His frame is muscular, clad in a grey tunic that's now soiled with the dragons blood. He puts his giant sword back into it's sheath at his back, before looking down at you with a grin.

“It’s over,” he say, his voice rough but kind. “You’re safe now.”

You blink, stunned.

Not because you’re alive—but because, for the first time, your fate is not sealed in stone.

It’s yours to choose.

"Who...are you?" You ask, staring up at him with wide eyes.

The last bits of sun glowing behind him gives him the appearance of a saint, but his cocky grin makes you question if he might actually be a demon in disguise with anterior motives for saving you.

"I'm Gen Narumi, the realms strongest monster hunter." He says proudly, and then adds with a wink. "But you can just call me your saviour."

You don’t know what to say.

The dragon’s body still steams behind you, broken and still. You wrap your arms around yourself. Everything inside you feels unearthed, as if your soul was tethered to a fate that no longer exists, and now you're floating, weightless and lost.

“What now?” you whisper, the question not meant for him, or even yourself—but for the sky, the gods, the silence.

Gen glances at you, and the grin fades from his face. His eyes, now that they’re not showy or shining, are gentler than you expected.

“First,” he says quietly, shrugging off his cloak and draping it over your shoulders, “we get you out of here.”

It smells like wind and steel. Warmth seeps into your bones.

You nod, unsure if you’re agreeing or just… moving.

He leads you down the mountain, one careful step at a time. The path is rough, but he steadies you when you stumble. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push. Just walks beside you, solid and real.

Eventually, the lights of a distant village flicker like stars fallen to earth.

An inn. A door. A room.

It’s all too soft after stone and prophecy.

You sit on the edge of the bed, his cloak still around your shoulders.

"Thank you." You stutter,your body still cold to the bones, shaking.

“Cold?” he asks, his voice quiet now.

You nod, though it’s not just the cold.

It’s the hollow that opened in your chest when the ritual didn’t end in flame. When the death you had been promised for so long was torn away.

It’s the ache of being unmade.

“I don’t… know what I’m supposed to do,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to be anything but… what they wanted.”

Gen doesn’t answer right away. But you see it, in the way his jaw tightens, his gaze darkening like a storm swelling behind his eyes as he takes in your appearance, the white dress that's now soiled and dirtied by ash and earth.

“You were a sacrifice" he says at last, not a question, but a curse.

You flinch. Looking up at him, half scared and half ashamed.

“I saw the altar,” he mutters, voice low, seething. “I saw the damn blood bowls, the flowers, the bindings—like you were some gift to a god. Like that thing deserved you.”

You glance at him, startled. His face is turned away, but his fists are clenched.

“Did they raise you for this?” he continues, bitterness cutting through each word.

You choke out a yes, fists burying into your dress.

“From the moment you were born. Groomed you to die. Barbaric, thats what that is.”

His words shouldn’t soothe. But they do.

Because someone sees it. Someone knows.

“I thought it was noble,” you confess. “Sacred. Until it wasn’t. Until I was really lying there awaitingmy fate.”

He looks at you now, and there’s a fire in his eyes—not like the dragon’s, but fiercer, and somehow cleaner.

“You deserve to live,” he says. “You deserve to choose.”

Then, in one swift motion, he rises—and before you can even breathe, his arms are around you. Strong. Steady. Warm.

You don’t resist.

You melt into him like rain into dry earth. His cloak wraps around the both of you now, and he smells like fire and leather and something wild—something free.

You don’t know him.

But right now, he’s the only warmth in a world that feels like ash.

He holds you like someone who means it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice rough and breaking at the edges.

And something in you comes undone.

Your chest caves inward. The pain—the grief—the silence of years lived with a death sentence etched into your spine—it all surges out in a single, gasping sob. And then another. And another.

You cling to him like a child to the last light in a storm, your fingers fisting his tunic, your face buried against him as your body trembles. He doesn’t shush you. He doesn’t pull away.

He just holds you.

One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with unbearable gentleness, and the other stays firm at your back, grounding you. His heart beats beneath your ear, steady and real.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “They won’t take another piece of you. Not while I’m here.”

And for the first time in your life, the weight doesn’t feel like it’s solely yours to carry.

A/N: I know I said I'd do Gen saving a princess BUT this idea came to me and then it wouldn't leave again...so yuh, take it. I hope ya'll like it. It's very Romantasy...can you tell I've been reading a lot of that lately?

[cerialcodes]

Drawing a randomly generated Haikyuu character (almost) every day until I give up   42. Ukai Keishin

[cerialcodes]

I made an illustration for @lostlegendaerie's fic, Miasma!

It's gonna be part of their Gravitational Pull limited printing (yipee!!)

You can check out the fanfic here 👈(you'll need an AO3 account to view it)

[cerialcodes]

Merventurine Masterpost

a compilation of all my merman aventurine series in chronological order

Part 0: Prequel

Part 1: The merman and lighthouse keeper

Part 2: Doctor's new patient

Part 3: Bath enthusiast

Part 4: Chalk eater

Part 5: Numby the trespasser

Part 6: Outdoor experience

Part 7: Little gay merman with little gay dreams

Part 8: Gift of aventurines

Part 9: Professor Ratio

Part 10: Tail hug

Part 11: Bad dreams

Part 12: Back to the sea

Part 13: Doctor's studies

Part 14: Siren song

Part 15: Smitten idiots

Part 16: Sea witch Jade

Part 17: Stoneheart mers

Part 18: Jelena

Part 19: The ten stonehearts

Part 20: Human affection

Part 21: Greedy fool

Part 22: The fool yearns for light

Part 23: Opal

Part 24: Lovers

Part 25: Off to dawn

Part 26: Sleep well, Aventurine

Part 27: First day as human

Part 28: The same beach without him

Part 29: Gambler

man this thing is long

[cerialcodes]

dreamed there was this big moth with the soul of a 3 year old girl in it and when she wanted to be held she’d do this

[cerialcodes]

🧡Cute Nalu Comic🧡

Little headcanon: IF nalu got together, I'm definitely sure Lucy would ask Natsu to help with her cramps and all. He doesn't mind since he gets cuddle sessions 😉 But with a magical heating pad replacing him? While he is with her? He said, "Nah, this is stupid. I'm here for God's sake!"

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A little gruvia too hihi.

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This is inspired by those very useful heating pads that can heats itself up. Those are very much life savers for me when I'm having those bad days.

[cerialcodes]

old man yaoi, anyone

[cerialcodes]

godslayer — ft. mydeimos

your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave

❤︎ word count: 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss

❤︎ before you read: female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in once scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering

❤︎ commentary: IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly

You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos. 

On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants. 

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not. 

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves. 

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones. 

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength. 

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you. 

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady. 

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders. 

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him. 

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king. 

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic. 

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation. 

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly. 

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh. 

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room. 

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around. 

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break. 

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid. 

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. 

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot. 

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.) 

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him. 

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly. 

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds. 

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side. 

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time. 

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening. 

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.) 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. 

“Goodnight,” you huff in return. 

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos. 

At least, it is for you. 

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head. 

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly. 

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband. 

“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince. 

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown. 

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?” 

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out. 

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do. 

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days. 

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms. 

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly. 

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything. 

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy. 

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves. 

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you. 

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused. 

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them. 

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated. 

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears. 

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence. 

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly. 

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come. 

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I  have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort. 

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire. 

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go. 

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open. 

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic. 

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing. 

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles. 

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout. 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves. 

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment. 

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained. 

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream. 

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you. 

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him. 

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again. 

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos. 

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him. 

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders. 

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely. 

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose. 

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage. 

“Ready to return home?” He asks. 

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth. 

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends. 

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner. 

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest? 

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way. 

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise. 

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you. 

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming. 

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.) 

And you cave. 

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason. 

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff. 

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile. 

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect. 

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist. 

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face. 

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament. 

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects. 

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine. 

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse. 

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point. 

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate. 

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy. 

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping. 

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass. 

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.” 

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you. 

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close. 

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries. 

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive. 

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him. 

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm. 

You blink in surprise. 

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly. 

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties. 

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it. 

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically. 

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!” 

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood. 

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth. 

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles. 

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth. 

He melts for a second, on instinct alone. 

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”  

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it. 

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.” 

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you. 

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back. 

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry. 

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry. 

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first. 

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent. 

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle. 

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.” 

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips. 

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts. 

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze. 

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you. 

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei? 

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin. 

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest. 

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock. 

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.” 

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers. 

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages. 

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls. 

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock. 

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression. 

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you. 

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything. 

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take. 

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him. 

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you. 

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile. 

Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.

────────────────────────

The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day. 

You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is. 

After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.

“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments. 

“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed. 

Then, he walks. 

As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets. 

“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”

“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”

“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”

“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”

That only seems to irk you more. 

“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile. 

“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”

“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief. 

Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you. 

“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”

“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight. 

Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”

“You torture me,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink in confusion. And then—

Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.

Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)

“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.

He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”

You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”

“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”

“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”

“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.

“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”

“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”

Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft. 

“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”

“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”

“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”

“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”

“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt. 

“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows. 

Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow. 

“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”

“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”

He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim. 

And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill. 

“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”

“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”

“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”

“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)

His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—

“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”

Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly. 

“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.

“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”

He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”

You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”

———————

Mydei does, in fact, return to you. 

Except, it is not in the condition that he left. 

He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat. 

“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers. 

You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound. 

“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”

“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”

“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle. 

“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”

“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”

You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all. 

———————

It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed. 

“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.

“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”

“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”

“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise. 

And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”

One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him. 

“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?” 

He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”

“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”

“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”

“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”

You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against. 

But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.

And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage. 

“Do you not have any faith in m—”

“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”

“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”

“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks. 

“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”

“Do not scare me like this again,” you command. 

“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face. 

“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”

“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”

“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”

“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.

“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say. 

“The sun,” you murmur. 

He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”

Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt. 

“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”

“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer. 

You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”

He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”

WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.

It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.

It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.

First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.

Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.

Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.

Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.

Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.

For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.

Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily

[cerialcodes]

˖ ࣪⊹Dragon of Castrum Kremnos

I love turning my faves into dragons.. Strap up, here y'all go this big and chonky pomegranate dragon

I wanted to post some headcanons with this art but for the life of me I can't come up with something lenghty.. yknow. I just wanna stare at him tbh that's all.

Just imagining him being all careful and gentle with any kids that are close to him while he's in his dragon form and he lets them climb him and put flowers on him if they so wish. If he sheds a scale he gifts it to some kid that showed interest in it previously, and just imagine the kid turning that big ass dragon scale into a shield - because it's simply that big and durable - it came from Mydei's dragon form in the end and bro is a tank of a dragon. And imagine him being comfortable with having his s/o on/around him while he's in dragon form, he's careful with them but with how much time he's spent with his s/o he knows they won't accidentally run under him or anything like that lol

He'd be a menace in compat bro omg

Also I love the fact that his tail balances him out more, I had a rather specific vision with how he carries himself as a dragon and this just turned out so well aaaa- I'm very happy with it. I might have gone with a bit stronger colors on his neck area, but honestly I don't mind these either. They're alrigh <3

Another dragon Mydei doodle with my OC in dragon form utc

They go BOnk to show love, look at them. They're so stupid, I love them so much.

[cerialcodes]

link to rest of the series -> here

[cerialcodes]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?

Mydei x Reader - Reincarnation AU

No matter how, where or when, you'll always be his greatest love.

cw: major character deaths, descriptions of wounds and illness, spoilers for Mydei's backstory, mild allusions to sex, cussing, ten million liberties taken and written pre 3.1

//happy cny have a borderline thesis. reader has like three thousand past lives/j so i named them for my own convenience (and symbolism but who cares in this economy). n e ways. mydei really reminds me of mobe-- *im immediately knocked out and taken to the back

The inability to die is oftentimes the answer many offer when asked that ridiculous question.

It's easier to sensationalise it, to imagine the feats one could achieve without the fear of death rather than consider the suffering and agony of a feeling body. Though the flesh is willing, what occurs to the mind is far more detrimental than the sensation of pain. 

Perhaps for those with a weaker will that is so, but Mydei is not the kind to linger on the hopelessness nor the what-ifs of impossibility. He can endure the hardships those cannot, so even if he has experienced ten thousand deaths, he will keep pushing on.

Though, just like a man, and no matter how much they might spin the tales, he is still a man, within his damned beating heart springs forward a doubt at every turn of the decade. 

In countless lives, on countless battlefields, it is always you who wrests that uneasy hesitation from somewhere long forgotten. 

Soldier, healer, scholar. 

Kremnos, Okhema, Aidonia.  

He could count the lives you spent by his side, the names you have taken, the forms you have borne. Yet such trivial things did not matter, inevitably you would learn of him and you would return to his side. And somehow, perhaps through some ancestral wiles, you would coax his very soul around yours, make your very being an integral pillar to his life and cruel as you are, it is only you who could make his head bow. 

The first of your lives was advantageous to your nascent mission, the child of a Kremnoan sergeant who served as a childhood playmate. Androphonos, your mother named you. Androphonos, your father declared you. 

Fleet footed and much so of wit, he remembers those eyes that bore the flames of day, bands of gold decorating lean arms and that voice akin to the howling wind. Your smile that could assail a thousand men, your parents named you well, for even the sight of it seemed to thrust a great lance into his heart. And yet still, he will never forget the look you gave him when he bested you in combat, the joy and relief on your face when it was he who pinned you unmoving, for that was what struck that final blow of this battle they call love. 

“I’m glad it's you,” Admitted to him in the quiet of the afterglow, you had pressed a soft kiss to his palm just before, and though the years have passed, he still remembers your warm breath against him.  

He kept his own voice murmuring, carefully returning your affections with a cradle of your jaw, “You are? What kind of people have you been surrounded with that you’d prefer me?”

Your gentle touch was so foreign to him, he couldn’t understand what you saw in him. There was nothing but conflict that predated and awaited him, and if you joined him, you would only scorn this life. The extent of your affection seemed cursory, a kind of obligation rather than true desire. It had troubled him at first, but your words truly held a persuasion unlike any other.  

You had only laughed at his response, the ends of your eyes crinkling together as you bared teeth and mirth. Like a teenage boy, the scene of you bathed in warm light, draped in crimson robes and hair undone, had made him feel ever more aware of you, of himself.  

“I’ll take no one else, I’d rather die than to be deprived of you.”

Warm as the great skies and embracing as so, the eyes in which he looked upon you could no doubt be described as nothing more than reverent as you pressed kiss after kiss along muscle and sinew. You yielded to him once more, providing little protest as every breath from your lips were more like whisperings of greater divine. 

Hands that have ripped the flesh of mortals clawed and drew blood, yet what you left were not scars of shame but that of pride, proof of your conquest. No matter that they were temporary, you merely left more in their wake. He pushed and prodded until even the stars of Kephale bore themselves in your vision, wherein just the sight of your dishevelled and splayed bliss had him comprehend Nikador’s infatuation with Bepsis. 

No, though he has never laid sight upon her, he knew you were more beautiful then. 

Androphonos they called you, and were it possible, he’d lay dead at your feet for even the thought of your returned ardour was more powerful than any weapon.

Androphonos, a name he thought of within that cell. 

The jail of the palace was decrepit, damp and worn. Prisoners did not remain here long, and though he remained undying, that did not mean he did not worry for those beyond it. He has grown weak from weariness and exhaustion, now even copper could restrain him without fault. 

That man has gone mad with delusion and paranoia, it seemed he was keen on following after their god along a treacherous path. 

From afar his ears picked up on rushed steps against stone, fabric rushing along the wind before all that filled his senses were the swift fall of armour clanging against the floor. The cry of slain guards accompanied the symphony of combat and perhaps to another, this would not be a sound as comforting. But the winds favoured one, the fleet footed and the lean armed. 

It was you who appeared before him, a shield and spear  in arm with eyes blazing with fury. Breaking open the door with a simple slam of your shield, you had rushed in with little explanation and set to work. 

“There’s arrangements for you outside the walls,” Your voice was harsh, yet still you refuse to let your affections be absent. As you released him from his binds, your hands moved swiftly as you wrapped your cloak around him. “I’ll remain here to buy you time.”

To stay there would be the same as a death sentence, and though glory only awaited those who perished in battle, he did not wish for you to pass on away from him. Not in such a dishonourable place, not if he must leave you like a coward to fight his battles.

“Do you think you're invincible?!” Mydeimos retorted back, pulling down your spear as he forced you to face him. 

He had not seen sorrow so palatable on your face before. Though tears did not fall from your flaming eyes, the severe furrow of your brow and the grip of your calloused hands were all he needed. 

Your free hand, wet with the blood of faithless men, held his face. This body of his cursed to suffer a thousand deaths, his path bathed in blood and fraught with hardships, he should have foreseen your own would be drowned with it. Yet even then, you will hold him as though the most precious thing in this world. 

A smile tinged your lips, flesh pulling wide like a mockery of joy. “My love, I will not be killed so easily.”

“Your people need you, you must go.”

He doesn’t know when you dropped your weapon, but the clatter of it meant little in comparison to your touch. So gentle, you were so gentle with him no matter the strength you bore. Chapped lips pressed against his own as iron filled his taste buds, yet you would not let him have this moment any longer, pulling away before he could even convince you otherwise. 

“I’ll be with you soon, and if not, I will not join Nikador until I find you in my next life,” your last words to him were whispered against his lips, a quiet promise. 

Your laughter is the last thing he hears before you shoved him away, howling in the rushing wind as you bear your spear and shield once more.

Mydeimos would not let you have that last word, and before he escaped, he had yelled, trying desperately to reach you in your fervour, “You won’t die, don’t say as if it's so!”

You did not hear him. 

Killer of men. The historians will not write down your name nor your feats, but he will chisel your very being into his memory. 

The second of your lives tucked you away in the steppes of Cypris, a healer amidst the townsfolk fleeing from the black tide. Eleemon, the children dubbed you. Eleemon, the soldiers cried for you. 

Slender handed and poison tongued, you shielded yourself with a veil, legs akin to a hind and a temper to match. Your reputation preceded you, but nothing could have prepared him for the fire in your eyes when you first forced his gaze. It was not humour that greeted him, not even curiosity, nothing but pitiful vexation. 

“You are a fool,” Spat to him in your private tent, you had sat him down atop a makeshift bed to conduct a checkup. Even now he remembers the cool of your palm, nails dragging along his skin as you surveyed his form.

Mydei only retorted back, and in that time he had not known why he found himself unwilling to let the brash bite of his words stain his voice, “And so are you for thinking I need your help.”

He had never met a healer as audacious as you, uncaring of class nor occupation and critical of all. With the detachment only having just been born, taking in the survivors of Cypris was foolish but the sight of your shrouded form enticed the final decision. It was purely logical but not even logic could explain the familiarity in your eyes nor the weight of your speech. 

“Not so much as you,” Sneering, your acerbic spite was bared through teeth and a slight mirth. And as you regarded him with a glare that could only rival Nikador’s, he felt some part of Kremnos remained with you.

“Only the foolish think themselves unnecessary of rest.”

The days of travel grew weary on all, wearing down on morale yet you would not allow for even a minute of complaint. Your own pouch of water hung noticeably lighter than the soldiers’ when rest was needed, portions of rations smaller than the children’s, yet you denied the care of your elder and your assistant. 

In a past life, he promised to care for you as you would him, so no matter that your lips spewed poison upon each proprietary act of service, he could ignore the flush on your ears for the sake of your fragile pride. If you did truly mind after all, you would not hunch yourself so protectively over his form when the rest hours fell. 

He knew you meant it when you declared that you would find him in your next life.

Eleemon they called you, if the gods above were anything like you, perhaps Amphoreus would have no need for Chrysos Heirs like him. 

Eleemon, a name he thought of when a youth handed him a cup of wine.

The goblet was made of copper, he remembers, a knuckle’s worth of deep red wine sloshing in the vessel. Your elder had decidedly presented it as celebration when the bright light of Kephale’s gifts grew ever closer. Not even you were immune to the solemn look of the older man, perhaps you had long known he wouldn’t be able to bask beneath the warm sun once more. 

You were quiet when your assistant handed him the cup, eyes narrowed at the contents before they directed themselves to your own. 

There was that look in your eyes, spiteful and vexed, yet you said nothing, merely pursed your lips and set your drink in front of him. Instead, you busied yourself with pushing his own further and further away from his grasp, and when he shot you a look, you persisted.

“Do you want to deprive me of drink?” Mydei snorted at your almost feline display.

With a sneer, you simply hissed, “Don’t touch it.”

He followed the direction of your gaze, and when all he was greeted was with the back of your assistant, you snatched the copper goblet from the makeshift table to dump out its contents. There at the very bottom were ground up leaves, stained red and certainly not part of the wine if he considered your unusually irate expression. 

You never told him what it was, but for the rest of that meal, you spent it staring at that youth. 

Far sooner than he imagined, he was left bereft of your snarky comments and acerbic smirk, slinking away from his side with nothing but a tap of his arm. Though he supposed when the target of your withering glares disappeared in the afterglow of festivity, you would be foolish enough to give chase. 

Yes, foolish indeed. 

When he had finally managed to follow after your tail, you were already in your tent, voices raised to a pitch that even from afar he could hear your enraged roar. You who was so often described as mercurial and high-strung, whose words were already armed with barbs, was truly and utterly wrathful. Tearing into whoever was idiotic enough to incur your already short impatience without care for reason.

Yet, with how grave your expression was before you left, even though he knew you were more than capable, worry still crept up on him. The last time you ran off, far away from his sight, from his grasp, you left him. And now? Hearing the shuffle of limbs and the crash of items, something roiled in his veins. 

If anything happened while you were just within reach, he thought, he really would have failed you again. 

As he stepped closer towards the entrance of the tent, a familiar voice threw accusation after accusation at you without recourse. Muffled by the light cloth, it did nothing to hide the disgust in their tone, dripping with palatable odium. 

“Even now you defend him? What has that patricidal coward done to you?”

Though he couldn’t see your expression, he imagined you were sneering again, baring teeth and pride, “Says you! What have you to your name beyond attempting to kill the man delivering us?!”

“Just because you laid with him does not mean we are happy with this!” They hissed and as though picking up something, you rushed to hinder their path. Even then, this person pleaded, begged, “Don’t you see that it is their god that harms us?”

“Elis!”

That person barely managed to enact their rampage before being swiftly put down, knife thrown off to some distant place and arms dislocated. What happened to them, he doesn’t remember more so than the thudding in his chest, his heart attempting mutiny on his ribs as he rushed into your tent. 

He hated that you were always quiet about your grievances. You never let a peep out when you were lacking in food or drink, injured or exhausted. If something bothered you, you’d merely up and leave to sort it out yourself. 

Mydei hated it most at that very moment. 

He could care less what others did to him. Cut his stomach open, leave hemlock in his cup, curse and call him every name under skies. Nothing could possibly hurt him more knowing that you would take that same suffering in stride, that you would not even tell him. 

Even in this life, you were the one protecting him.

Hand held limply over your abdomen, you sent him a weak jibe, devoid of any actual mocking. Your anger and your regret melted away as easily as your strength. 

“It's too late, don’t bother,” Murmured through your obvious pain, you made a weak attempt at batting him away as he approached.

“You’re a fool,” He gritted through his teeth, arms desperately scooping your limp form into his embrace. The ceding heat of your limbs was too quick, the spillage of your life more so. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shaking your head, you refuted him again. “Elis wouldn’t have listened otherwise.”

“I have suffered through worse, a stab would be nothing.”

If he had not known you as well as he did, he could not have possibly discerned what emotion blinked in your glassy eyes. 

Sorrow. It was always sorrow. 

With a strength that did not belong to you, you squeezed his arm as you forced him to look at you, forced him to look away from your organs spilling out. Still so stubborn in the face of death, he still doesn’t know why you were so wilful, why you refused to even let him help. 

“Don’t let them burn my body,” your voice waned. 

“They won’t, there will be no body.”

“I wanted to see Okhema, bury me there.”

“You’ll be there to see it, just shut up and stay awake.”

“Mydei.”

That simple call of his name snapped him out of whatever delusion he had entrapped himself with. 

“I really….” A strangled laugh wheezed from your throat, your fingers loosened their grip from his arm and even then he could not find the strength to let you lie so defeatedly, holding your hand in his as he watched your eyes cloud. “..liked you.”

And as you reached out to cradle his face, sticky with your own blood, he let himself lean into the last part of you he had. You were gentle, so gentle. He didn’t deserve your gentleness, he’d rather your anger and your poison once more. Maybe then, it wouldn’t have hurt that much. 

A tear he had not even known existed fell on your mouth, your lips lifted as you used what little energy left to curse him one last time. 

“... don’t look so sad, I’ll be back to torment you before you know it.”

The merciful. Cypris is a name devoured by the black tide and the sands of time, but you will live on in the prayers of countless. 

Your most recent life placed you closer still, an Okheman scholar who found the research of Castrum Kremnos life work. Ambologera, your peers sighed. Ambologera, your neighbours laughed. 

Fair faced and soft hearted, you bore the mind rivalling Cerces, fingers littered with rings and form almost vulpine like in movement. He heard your name first before all else, the moment the detachment returned to the eternal city, the exasperated groans uttered alongside the call was all he knew of you. And from the roofs of red tiles and billowing silks was you, as though a gift from the heavens presented straight to his hands. 

“To think you all would keep me from seeing him!” The incredulity of your tone was exaggerated, offended even at the idea. How could anyone possibly think of stopping you on your endeavours when you… 

…when you could only bring blessings upon those you favoured? 

With little care for the procession of homecoming, you leaped down from your perch to squeeze your way to the front. Dancing between the tight lineup of armoured soldiers, it proved such a simple task for you to emerge in his vision, effortlessly keeping up with the pace despite one trait he had neglected to consider.

You appeared older, noticeably so. Light wrinkles decorated the ends of your eyes, grey hair peppered amongst your bound braid, and yet he could not tear away that image of you. It had brought such an odd giddiness that for a sparse minute, he believed himself poisoned. 

“My lord, it would be my honour if you would spare me some of your time!” Offering a bright smile, the excitement on your face was like pure adrenaline through his veins. A joyous lilt tinged the end of your words as you mused, “I wish to hear everything of the Castrum Kremnos, everything you know!”

Involuntarily, the corner of his lips had quirked at your antics. You were so spirited, for a resident of Okhema to not only greet the Kremnoan procession with little more than genuine enthusiasm but to approach the very leader of it as though little more than a random stranger on the street. It was still you. 

At that very moment, just before he could reach for you, a youth rushed out from the alleys to pull you away, then another and another. Despite your age, it seemed as if an entire village was required to hold you back. You would not even allow them to take you back quietly, chiding them for not respecting their elders and still desperately trying to catch the prince’s attention. 

Yet, they had such a striking resemblance to you that in that very moment, fear struck far more lethal than any possible mortal weapon. Was it possible that this time, you had finally decided to give up on him? Or had he taken too long? 

A treacherous thought surfaced then, whoever it was that married you, could they possibly be more powerful than he? 

Within a few days, you appeared before him again, furiously scrawling notes above the marketplace. The sight of him returned the levity of your mood far swifter than any arrow, far swifter than a stranger should. You forced him to join you, and without any more delay, set to questioning on this and that, who takes on the dominant role in households, what materials were most abundant, how trade operated without much farm land. He could have talked of the number of steps in the palace and you would have still made him tell you the exact floor plan of the room. 

Odd. You really were odd. But you meant it, you meant your curse. 

As if to make up for the lost time, you would find some manner of requesting his presence at all times of the day. Dragging him to here or there, yapping his ears off with talks of your research and any idle old topic, smiling and laughing at him so sweetly that every night he’d dream of you. Your nieces and nephews could have glared at him until Okhema fell to the darkness and still then he believed he would have rather been struck dead that very moment than leave your side. 

Torment was a light definition for the ache that lingered at every thought you occupied. 

Ambologera they called you, and were it possible, he’d have liked for it to be true if only to spend more of this odd life with you. 

Ambologera, a name he dreaded to hear when he returned. 

He had been set to engage in another campaign, and though he worried, no, all but agonised over the state of your health, you would not let yourself be part of his hesitation. Mydei took your energy for granted, he hadn’t thought that though the threat of external conflict was absent, there was one foe even he could not defeat with his own hands. 

Your house was quiet when he returned, devoid of your usual chaos filling the rooms, and though your nephew had greeted him with a solemn nod, it was cold comfort. He wasn’t used to it, to the silence that seemed to cling to the white walls or the tidy corners of every room he passed. Your bedroom loomed closer and closer, and though he had seen sights that would turn the stomach of even the most grizzled of soldiers, seeing you so weak, so helpless, brought a sliver of despair onto the fortress of his affections. 

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm sunlight to wash over your form. Your hands, still adorned, lacked the strength to even wave at him, all you could offer was a tip of your head and that smile of yours. Beckoning him over, he could do nothing but indulge your request, more so when you asked to see the marketplace from the roofs once more, the same roof you leapt off of, the same roof you admitted your illness to him. 

You were so light, bundled even in blankets and coats, you were so light. And when you tugged them closer to your form, he simply held you closer. Even as he trekked past curious bystanders, your silence was deafening.  

Having settled you comfortably, he watched your hand pull out a small vessel, and when you struggled to open it, he took it off your hands to pop the cork off. The smell that greeted him was acidic, cloyingly sweet and burning his senses all at once. 

Mydei scrunched his nose at the item, directing a furrowed brow and grimace at your grinning face. “Should you really be having alcohol in this state?”

“I haven’t had wine in forever, least of all my niece’s,” You just laughed, gesturing for the bottle and taking a swig from it as carefully as you could. 

A swig was an understatement, you drank from it as if it was the life-giving waters, anymore and he worried you would have tumbled down from the heights in drunken confusion. You let him snatch the copper vessel away with little protest, and suddenly the action felt so wrong. 

“You can’t have more than this.”

“I’ve got the whole amphora in my kitchen, give it to your men, they’d like it.”

He didn’t have the heart to look at you after that exchange, and were it not for the hushed breath ridden with rue, he wonders even now whether you would have known how much it pained to even see you lose your will to fight with him. 

A light poke at his arm pulled him from the momentary lament, and your eyes, your bright eyes that had still yet to lose its brilliance crinkled together in an approximation of reassurance. 

Reaching back into the depths of wherever you pulled the wine from again, you hummed, “I have something for you.”

“Is it more wine?”

It was not more wine, but rather a hefty bundle of letters, tied up in golden thread. Your handwriting littered the outside, detailing dates and times neatly at first until he got to the last few, lines shakier and less steady. The dates started the day he agreed to help you with his research, but your eyes rifled through the bunch until you pointed out a few.

“Could you read these first? You can read the rest when I’m gone.” He listened, gingerly removing them from the rest and unfurling it. 

Parting hour’s second quint, tenth month

‘I dreamt of Kremnos last night, I don’t know whether it was a part of my dream but it felt like it was. I was younger, I could run so much faster and I could do so much more. You were younger too, but you were chained up in a cell and I had to come to your rescue. Could you believe that? Me? Saving you?

You looked so angry but I couldn’t hear you. I can’t remember much but I remember crying a lot, cursing while I fought off guards? I think they were guards, you’ll have to tell me what Kremnoan guards wore when you come back. My back hurts a little bit, my body probably thinks I was actually hurt. 

Praise be to Kephale, wishing you safety upon your journey.’

Entry hour’s first quint, tenth month

‘I dreamt of you again. Maybe this is a sign of me missing you? This dream felt real, I think I’ve had it many times before but this was the only time I could recognise who was there with me. Did you know I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger? I only curse my vanity for my being a scholar now. 

You were holding me so tightly while I said things, I don’t remember but I know you kept telling me to stay awake. I wish you were here, maybe I could see how you would react to these ridiculous dreams. Would you tell me I have a hyperactive imagination? Only the gods know how many times I’ve heard that from Potnia in my youth. I have a feeling you would indulge me just a little bit though.

Praise be to Kephale, wishing you a most swift return’

Curtain-fall hour’s fourth quint, eleventh month

‘I can’t sleep and I hadn’t the energy to write this morn so I thought to do so now, funny because Skotia keeps telling me I need to do more than sleep the day away. I remembered hearing a debate between my peers arguing on the matter of the afterlife back in my schooling days. One of them said all souls join our gods but another said that souls must return to the living, otherwise our lands would grow barren of life. They argued like that for about an hour until they were forced to leave. I completely forgot about it but with so much time alone, I couldn’t help but to think about it.

I keep seeing you in my dreams, myself as a warrior or a healer, but you remain the same. I dreamt of marrying you beneath the warmth of Kremnos one night, and I dreamt of carrying a young child through the mountains with you on another. The details are consistent, and I can only surmise that perhaps my peer had been correct about reincarnation. 

When you come back, I want to know about the beaches of Cypris and the courting traditions of Kremnos. You should know, right? It's okay if you don’t remember, I just want to talk to someone for longer than an hour again.

Praise be to Kephale, I wish to see you most soon’

Gripping onto the furled scrolls, he managed to meet your eyes, gentle. Still so gentle. 

“How did you know?”

With a wistful sigh, you dropped your gaze to your hands, flexing them as your rings glinted in the light. “I recognised the architecture, it really was as beautiful as you say.”

“My third life huh… Who else can say that?”

“I want to have more time with you. Maybe fourth time’s the charm.”

“Maybe next time you won’t get a wrinkly old thing like me,” You sounded so amused, yet your voice carried that undertone of remorse. 

Next time? He never knows whether there’ll ever be a next time. 

Outrage– no. Rage was an emotion too simple for what he felt then. It was fear, desperation, regret and guilt all honed into one lethal lance to be thrust into him, and such a wound was not one that could be utilised against the wielder, for one could not tear the machinations of death.

His voice trembled, and those walls crumbled ever more in the face of your acceptance, “Don’t say that, no matter what form you take, I’ll–”

“You don’t have to lie to old me.”

“You’re not that old,” Mydei insisted, pulling you closer when a shiver wracked through your form. He wanted to bring you back to your room, how the mildest of winds could dissuade you, but even now he knew you would have fought him on this one decision. 

As though playing along with a young child, you shook your head and smiled, “Yes, yes, I’m as youthful as you and beautiful as Bepsis.”

“You are,” He insisted once more. “There is no one more beautiful than you.”

It was clear you still didn’t believe him and maybe if you’d have more time together, he would have spent more effort convincing you otherwise. He settled for the softening of your features, even after the passing of the years, you still looked as radiant as the day you fell from the skies. 

Resting your head against his shoulder, your voice grew quieter. 

“I feel like I could make you do anything now.”

“Will you find me? Next time we meet?”

“No matter where you are, I will bring you back.”

“Then, will you marry me when you do?”

“If you wish so, we can get married as soon as I find you.”

“Will you–” Usually so eloquent, your words lodged in your throat as you turned away from him. “Would you really keep loving me? Even if I change?”

He took your hands in his own, pressing a kiss to each of your palms and drank in the sight of your widened eyes and parted lips. 

“I will sooner die than ever stop.”

For all his years in your presence, that rendered you speechless. And so you resorted to merely lying against him, muttering in rambled pace as you asked him about cremation or burial, on eulogies and your will to him. When the descent hour eventually fell, and so did your last words from your lips, Mydei could only tuck you closer into his embrace. 

Delayer of old age. Your work will be tucked away in the shelves of great libraries, but it is only your most private writings that will remain immortal. 

This time, he’ll be one who searches for you. He had nothing, for all he knows, you could have been reborn in Janusopolis or some long thrown region like Cytheri. Even then, he was willing to traverse the whole of Amphoreus if it meant he would be able to see you once more. 

But Mydei finds you, far easier than he had expected, in the depths of the Marmoreal Palace just as the crimson thief star falls. That feeling that tugged at his tendons and played with his heart grew harder to ignore as he wandered sleepless amidst the ivory halls, and though he knew what it meant, he did not know where to go. 

Tucked away amongst shelves and shelves of records with the hum of flowing waters to accompany him, that rush in his veins came to a stand still all of a sudden. Hunched over a random table and multiple open scrolls, he supposes that he’ll have to keep his first impression of you drooling onto what seemed like important accounts to himself. 

It was endearing, he had to admit. Lashes fluttering as you babbled some nonsense he couldn’t quite hear, he took a few steps closer and your hands swatted at the dust around you. Anyone could have just snatched you away and you would have none the wiser. He stayed, somewhere further of course, otherwise who knows who might come to rob you naked. 

And if the sight of seeing you resting so peacefully helped his own slumber, he won’t tell. 

Child of Aidonia, follower of none, sharp witted and deathly reticent. Eye bags hanging ever present, arms constantly holding onto baskets of scrolls and ever ready to abandon your duties for a quick nap, the chief accountant is a position few envied and for good reason. 

There was only one matter that troubled him, and that was exactly the nature of your job that meant seeking you out would be out of the ordinary. For what reason could he possibly devise to approach you? You reported directly to Aglaea and the council elders, all inquiries were directed to your subordinates and unless it was a matter that was urgent and required utmost discretion, you hid yourself away within the confines of your work desk.  

He had once debated requesting your services to directly manage the accounts under his name, but when he thought of your drowsing form still writing and babbling about your work, he decided against it.  

As the entry hour welcomes the new day, Mydei thought he got his chance when he saw you scampering towards Demetria with your basket, hair half done and the scowl on your face all but indicative of the current state you were operating in. The transaction is quick, barely any words exchanged as the older woman drops two pomegranates into your basket of scrolls while you drop a sack of balance coins by a crate. 

Your scampering grows louder and louder, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been so entranced with even that sight of you since his first real, proper greeting is a hard thump into his shoulder. The contact does little but to send the contents of your basket flying, and though he has the reflexes to catch a few of your documents and the fruit, not everything is so lucky. 

Dropping to your knees, your hands flew across the ground to gather everything back as you yammered, “I am– I am so sorry. I wasn’t– I haven’t–”

And when he offers what he has on hand, you snatch them back just as quick, blanching at him before rushing off, at least not before wheezing out a pathetic, “Sorry!” 

You’re skinnier, he belatedly notices. Your face should not look so gaunt, nor should your grip be so weak. It was as if the mildest of winds could have drifted you away if you weren’t paying attention. 

The thought of how to approach you lingers in his thoughts even as the Chrysos Heirs gather to discuss the state of their mission. He can’t even properly retort when Phainon says something ridiculous, offering a weak remark about how he’s not a single good thing in that head of his rather than scathing snark. 

There isn’t much information recent nor shocking enough that he feels the need to fully push you away from his internal contemplation. Tribbie is about to say something when there’s a rhythmic thump that cuts through the air, and yet despite the interruption, no one pays you much mind when you all but slip yourself to the front, arms still filled with that basket. 

“Lady Aglaea, I apologise for my interrupting but I have the reports you required.” Your voice is soft, marred with some elements of sleep but still reaching the ears of your intended. “I will leave them by the table if that is okay.”

“It is quite alright. Now that it has come to this, I believe we can bring this meeting to an end.” 

Though everyone else trickles out of the room with varying levels of enthusiasm, he finds that he can’t tear his eyes away from you, even as an aggrieved expression crosses your face, the sight a fleeting minute but more than enough to spark a streak reserved for you. The grimace barely lasts, but it doesn’t diminish the desire to remove the source of your troubles yet still. 

As you’re looking around, shiftily, as though you’ve done something wrong, your eyes meet his in a misplaced act of carelessness. In an instant, your tendons and ligaments shrink as you visibly tense at the brief eye contact. He wants to apologise, but then the thought of scaring you even more springs up on him far more shameful than any trap and so he doesn’t. 

The goldweaver is quick to usher you away to somewhere more private, your tucked in shoulders only further highlighting the difference in your states. It was as if you were trying to make yourself smaller, trying to make yourself near unobservable to anyone else. 

An approach of familiar steps is what ultimately snaps him out of his foolish trance, humour and some hint of disquiet seeps into a man’s voice, and when he brings himself to consider another presence beyond your own, he is graced with the deliverer’s amused grin.

The young man muses to no one in particular, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, “This is the first time you’ve lingered so long after a meeting.”

“That’s none of your business.” Biting back, he averts his gaze from your now laxed form. The diversion lasts but a second, before from the corner of his perception, he catches how the resigned breath that leaves your lips as you slip back out from whence you came. 

Phainon follows after his abandoned trail with ventured interest. “Who knew that you of all people could get so googly eyed at…” Yet it is only when he gets a proper look at who exactly has captured the attention of his companion, his voice trickles off to little else but confusion, “The chief accountant?”

A huff escapes him, now that you have left, there was no point remaining here. “I’m leaving.”

Metal thumps against marble floors, for someone to slink out of his awareness so quickly, let alone you, would be impressive if not for the fact that he really still has no clue how he was going to talk to you without somehow upsetting your seemingly skittish senses. 

“Hey! Wait!” Chasing after him with the fervor of a loyal dog, the only clue of how far exactly his search for you has taken him is by Phainon’s unprepared wheeze that even he has to admit, forced an even smaller snort out of the Kremnoan prince. 

“If you really want to talk to them, I can get you just that.”

Mydei has the decency to face him, a brow cocking up in disbelief as he urgently suppresses that ugly feeling he only knew existed a few decades ago. “You? How would you even be able to do that?”

“You’d be surprised by the kinds of deals they cut,” The youth smiles, still panting as he slaps a friendly hand over his shoulder, a move that he doesn’t push off as the younger man begins his ‘master plan’. 

Phainon’s plan sucks. 

The warm light from hanging vessels of ever flame shine upon your features, bound up hair absorbing the light as you lead him through desks and shelves of sprawled books and people alike. Hands move at a pace bordering languid scrawl and eyes heavy with listlessness scan across multiple rows of work. Yet when they notice his towering form following after yours, their idle activity picks up to a peak, a notion that seems to surprise you judging by your raised brows. 

You’ve exchanged little else but pleasantries the moment you saw who had called upon you, and once more he curses that white-haired idiot in his head for not even telling you. For someone so brilliant, this was the best he could come up with? He could have sworn he was lying but when he insisted up and down, swore on his name that he was telling the truth, far more desperately than he’s ever seen now that he looks back in hindsight, he relented.

You keep a steady stride despite the way your hands pick at your nails, and though you remained silent for what seems like the entire walk, you deign to give a younger man some matter of note as you draw closer to what appeared to be your office. 

As Mydei is ushered in, the feeling of being trapped closes down onto him before anything else. The room is upsettingly small, made only more so with the looming bookshelves filled to the brim with records and books. He barely has the space to fully stretch out his limbs unless he wants to knock some important matter or two out of its place, and if he does, he has no doubt you would boycott any further interactions with him for life. 

Beyond that, this pathetic excuse you called an office only had one other chair, a poor little thing he had to shift baskets upon baskets just to sit properly on. 

You couldn’t seriously live like this, could you? 

You don’t seem to mind any of it, settling down into your own seat as you hum to yourself, “Having someone they actually respect is the only way they’ll listen nowadays, they’re certainly doing much better with you here than when Lord Phainon offers his services.”

“You make it sound as if you’re being tortured,” All he manages is a brash riposte, and for a quick moment he almost believed you would shirk from his presence again. 

Yet, you do little else than to bark out a sharp laugh, shaking your head as you murmur some incomprehensible vent. Glancing at him from beneath your lashes, your attention now fully directed to the sprawling scrolls across your desk, you tip your head to the side to urge his heed.

“Anyhow, I have food on the platter by my desk if you get peckish and an amphora of water on the shelves.”

“If you’d like, you can wander around though there isn’t much to see.”

For the next four hours, you’ve essentially shut him out from your perceptions as you pour over documents with names that did not belong to you, calculate matters as big as annual tax rates and small as the price of the ambrosia served in the palace. 

There’s little else for him to do beyond reminding you to drink water, a notion you only mildly indulge him in, and glaring at any slacking fool that comes looking to dump more work on you. The only person who he lets come in is the youth from before, a young blond who only periodically drops by to take baskets of completed work off your hands. 

The distress of your working conditions, and living conditions now that he’s been privy to many more of your little life within the marble walls, haunts him for days. It appeared that you weren’t the only one plagued with such woes, but you are certainly the one most affected by the inefficiency that infected your department. And yet, you did nothing to counter it, allowing your meagre office to grow so encroached with the faults of others all the while you smile and suck it up. 

Another issue that can’t be solved with his hands. 

When the hours grow late and the thief stars threaten to race across the bright skies once more, he finds the opportunity to ask you. The response hurts him more than he would like it to, and he wishes more than anything that he could take this suffering from you. 

“Does it not bother you? That you have to do all the work?”

You smile at his question, the corners of your eyes crinkle together as a sardonic smile tugs at your lips. The flames of light dances within them, infusing your weary features with a spirited edge. In these quiet little moments where your every expression belongs only to him, no matter what emotion you present to him, he selfishly indulges in every inch of annoyance and mile of rue. 

Vexation of the utmost resignation falls from your lips, droplets of water clinging to the soft skin. “I have little say over it, and it seems like with every new person that gets added to my team, my pay gets lower and my work gets heavier all because some old coots want their perfect little children to have the joy of a prestigious job without any of the miseries.”

“Do I look happy?” You hum.

Of course you don’t. He’s known you couldn’t possibly be happy the first time he’s laid eyes on you. But foolishly, he had hoped that you could find some sliver of joy from your work. 

You are about to return to your work when he gingerly rises from his seat, offering an open palm to you. Your face twists, but it brings your hand to a standstill. 

Mydei offers once more, “Come.”

“What?” Despite your confusion, you put down your pen and take his hand. Your palm is warm, slotting perfectly in his as he waits for you to straighten yourself out. 

“I’m going out for something other than recycled air, and you look like you need a break from your self mutilation.”

A smile, one devoid of your neverending complaint or your heavy burden, blooms across your lips. And so he spirits you away from these walls of shelves and marble, jewellery and fabric dancing behind your rushed steps as though two lovers eloping from the eyes of the world. When you are eventually unable to keep up with him, he hefts you over his shoulder with nothing more than a brief stop, returning back to your fleet-footed journey. 

The squeak that leaves your lips and the giggled mirth falling as easily as rain against him sends pleasant shivers through his bones, and he’s certain that he’ll think of those sweet sounds when you must eventually part. 

He only sets you down when you’ve reached a garden hidden away from anyone who could possibly disturb you. Surrounded by the virtue of life, basking under the grace of heavenly light, free from those confines, he thinks he’s fallen in love all over again. 

There stands you, leaning over marble railings and smiling at him, and now he’s all too aware of every movement he makes, every little twitch of your fingers and every inflection in your voice. 

“I think I would’ve fallen dead over my desk if you didn’t drag me out here,” You laugh, joy and relief flickering in your eyes as you urge him over. 

He listens. Of course he does. You could have him leap off this ledge and he would have done so if it means pleasing you. 

You talk of everything and nothing. Your work, your meals, the pleasant conversation you’ve had with Phainon, how sweet the cloying wine you sneaked one night was. You spoke as if given a deadline on your life, and he held onto each and every piece you would give him, even as you devolved into petered silence. 

That wretched star appears across the west, Mydei leans closer. “If there’s anything you want done, tell me.”

You only brush him off, as if indulging a child, “I couldn’t, you’ve done so much for me already.”

How can he tell you that he wants to be your shield and your spear? How can he tell you that beyond anything else, he wants to ensure that every waking day you spend, it is one that is filled with nothing but felicity. And if you would let him, how can he tell you that he wants nothing more than to lay by your side once more? 

“Okhema would probably collapse if you die, and I can’t have that,” He continues, and you only laugh once more. 

Perhaps not Okhema, but he would. 

That too, he keeps to himself.  

‘Got the day off and they’re doing a promo on those pancakes, you want?’

When Mydei’s teleslate lights up with your name decorating its screen, he scarcely has to even read before he’s racing off to your side. 

The face you give him when he does appear, in front of a plate of golden honeycakes and a chalice of what he knows is apple juice, could only be described as incredulous. No matter that this must be the thousandth time he’s done so, you always act as if it was the first.

“You’re here fast,” You hummed with a pleasant squeeze of your eyes. 

“You asked me out, and knowing you, you’d probably have to abandon ship to get back to work.”

He delights in the mock offence that immediately twists your features, the dramatic show of your arms, you even go so far as to hold a finger up, sipping from your cup before continuing. “Don’t curse me, I’m really looking forward to these.”

It's cute, he is certain you don’t realise that your dramatics are something he looks forward to even now. 

Picking up your fork with poorly hidden anticipation, the metal surface spreads an even amount of sweet fruit syrup over the tower of cakes, and as you cut away a small piece, your teleslate rings to life upon the table. 

A glower pulls onto his face, and what feels like the nth time, he understands in his gut how annoyed you must have been the first time this happened. His own irritation could not possibly compare to that of your own, the sheer chagrin that manifests in every limb is only masked by the sufferance you’ve honed so long ago. 

As you pick up the call, your eyes close and your fingers press against your temple. “Hel– Hey!”

Still careful to not accidentally yank too hard, he snatches the device from your hand  and checks the contact. Not Adon. Free game. 

“They’re with me, if you have anything important it can wait until tomorrow,” Hissing into the speaker, he hears the person on the other end sputter out some remark about ‘unfinished reports’ and ‘mistaken data’ before he merely snorts and hangs up. 

As if you were the one making some asinine mistakes easily fixed, you leap out of your skin, stealing your teleslate back before rushing to pack up. “I don’t even know who that was! Shit! I have to go back, I’m sorry but–” 

Mydei has to grab you by the arm before you start running off on him again, an act that has you staring at him wide-eyed and betrayed. 

“You said so yourself, you have the day off. And you’re spending it without worrying about what some freeloading idiot’s dad thinks,” He says, as clear as day and obvious as the skies. 

“If anyone has a problem with that, they can talk to me.”

It takes a little more than that to convince you to stay, in fact, it requires footing your bill and being fed more than half of your pancakes for you to not go running off without his discretion again. But, there’s a noticeable lightness to your shoulders, and watching you eat so well is more than enough for him.  

The descent hour has fallen upon this day, and your eyes keep glancing between him and the passing folk, then lower and back to the streets. You tense again, shrinking within yourself when he meets your gaze with little more than a raised brow. Acting as if you’ve been caught stealing, your ears flush hot as you rush to break the eye contact between you two. 

Mydei leans closer to you, he notices some remnants of red syrup clinging to your lip, “What?”

“Nothing! I was just…” You swallow hard. “...just thinking about what to gift my cousin for their wedding.”

Somehow, he doubts that but he’d sooner drop dead than get you to admit what goes on in that head of yours. Instead, he settles for wiping off the stain of sweet fruit from your bottom lip with his thumb, licking it off when he pulls away. That only worsens the burning beneath your skin, and for the rest of your time together, all he gets from you is wide-eyed stares and rambled sputtering.

The Kremnoan leaves you at your doorstep that day, pomegranates pushed into his hands and a very, very oddly, high pitched farewell. 

For the days following up to an annual get together, your actions have only gotten more and more odd to him. It isn’t quite the same in which you used to be, bothering him for this and that despite being able to ask anyone else, no. This course of mannerism you have chosen to go with is odd in the sense that it's confusing. 

Although Mydei still joins you in your office whenever he has the chance, your voice doesn’t fill his ears quite as much. He has grown so used to your hushed mutterings of percentages and one sided conversations that now, he absolutely hates only being able to hear your writing. Every now and then, you would glance up at him and look away, murmuring beneath your breath before you’d squeeze your non-dominant hand tight. 

He writes off your new behaviour as the effect of an overloaded workload. You’re still asking him to join you on your days off, you’re still staining your hands red with fruit to give him, you’re still welcoming his presence. He can accept that. 

Your absence from his side during said get together is the only thing that worries him most, the glimpses he gets of you from afar just barely satiates that hunger to see you, to be near you. There’s still that flush aglow beneath your skin, your eyes crinkling together as you smile and laugh along to whatever it is that blond assistant of yours said. The warm lights cast a radiance onto your features, onto the valleys of your chest and the curves of your shoulders, a sight that once belonged to only him. Your lips wet and plied with drink, your tongue swipes over them but even that sends a heat through his form. 

It's an ugly feeling, worse than anger or regret. Those had reason to exist, could be made into something bigger than petty disgust, but this… whatever this emotion is, can only be left to stew. He thinks he hates it more than anything else. 

The prince must force himself to look away from you, an agonising feat he hadn’t even thought was possible until now. He makes that treacherous mind of his listen to the conversation to be had, endures Phainon’s teasing and the curious looks, anything to shift those thoughts of you out of his head. He makes himself smirk at snide remarks and offers advice, he makes himself ignore the intrigued look on that white-haired idiot’s face when he follows after his meandering gaze. 

It doesn’t work, of course it doesn’t work. It is as if every part of him was made to search for you, and just sitting here knowing that you are but a few metres away is a torment he would not wish on anyone. He would rather you claw his heart with your own two hands than this, at least then you would be pouring your undivided emotion into him, at least then he would be the only one to have this part of you. 

You’re the last remaining by the time the gathering dies down, with Adon trying and failing to pull you out of your seat, your hands waving him away as you mumble out something. And as he approaches you, you seem to perk up at his presence, a matter that he preens at internally. 

Smiling at him, baring teeth and joy, you gesture for him to come closer with little care for your assistant’s nagging. “You’re here.”

A glance is all it takes for the blonde to throw in the towel, shrugging his shoulders before slinking out. Mydei takes this opportunity to bask under your gaze far swifter than logic should dictate, his form sidling to sit beside you and yet, you are faster, pressing yourself to his side as a strap upon your shoulder slips down. 

“And you’re sitting here like you’ve been abandoned, because?” He manages a response, shooting his eyes upwards as he tentatively pulls up your fallen strap. 

You don’t seem to notice, your arms drape around him as the weight of your body slumps, “I’m sleepy. And wine makes me say things people don’t like.”

He can feel your chest pressing into his arm, he can feel everything if he was to be honest with himself. Your gentle touch dancing on his skin, the warm breath from your lips, his every vein and bone, he’s so keenly aware of it all that he’s certain that a weaker man would have been rendered dead by your feet. 

Your wide eyes meet his, watery with slumber and fiery with something distantly related to reliance. 

“...come, I’ll take you back.”

Just like a time long before, he scoops you into his embrace and carries you through marble walls and flowing waters. Your feet dangle and kick along your mirth, and when you shiver from the wind, he simply holds you closer. This pleases you ever more, and knowing that even that could elicit such sweet sounds from you forced a flush of his own onto his cheeks. 

With you like this, he can pretend that you’ve accepted these feelings for you the moment you met. He can pretend that he’s carrying you back to your shared home where he can place you into your sleepwear and lay next to you. He can pretend that what you feel for him is more than cursory friendship. 

You wave at those sacked with the late shift all the while you babble about this and that, of your increased salary and the new flavour he must try when you get your next chance. There was no rhyme or reason to your rambling, but it is still yours, and so selfishly, he takes it. The Kremnoan man tries his best to respond, humming along to your prattle or offering an answer to your rhetorical questions, and even if your pace simply outpaces his own, he can’t help but to indulge you. 

“Y’know, my family keeps asking me when I’m going to get married. But they don't even know that the only people I see consistently are my staff, Lady Algaea and you and I can’t possibly get married to any of you!” Your voice is louder than usual, as though scared he wouldn’t listen. 

“And sure sometimes I dream of you and we’re always doing some sappy bullshit but those are dreams y’know? I’m pretty sure it's some weird past life thing but that feels worse. So there’s no way you could possibly love me when you have a face as handsome as that but every time I wake up it feels so nice so when I see you in my office I pretend you really are in love with me.”

You close your eyes, he’s not sure whether the glow on your cheeks is from the alcohol or emotion, and you giggle into your hands, “I had this dream you even took me once! No way is that happening!”

He can barely believe his ears at this moment, barely process your speech. His brain has almost likened your drunken chatter for a different tongue that he can’t even muster a response. All he manages is a choked out, “You…”

“Ahh, it's fine. I’m sure you’ll get tired of me one day, they always do.” Resting your head as casually as if uttering the weather rather than implying he could do anything other than love you, you turn those watery eyes onto him again, and like a death sentence, he feels his heart ache. “If I fall asleep, can you stay? I’d feel bad if you didn't.”

Mydei doesn’t get the chance to respond, still too struck with the weight of your words to realise you’ve fallen to slumber in his embrace. 

‘...I pretend you really are in love with me.’

Pretend. How foolish of the both of you, that two separate minds would both desire the other’s love yet be too cowardly to seek it out, to pretend that the other is in love with you. 

Then the next part fully registers in his head, and then the last. 

He opens the door to your house, closing it behind him as he settles you into your bed. The prince is half tempted to steal into the night, but when his eyes inevitably drift to your sleeping form, drool leaking onto your pillow as you mutter nonsense to yourself, he can’t bring himself to leave you. 

How could he ever grow tired of you? If anything, with every passing day he spends in your very existence, he falls deeper into the abyss called love. He can scarcely remember what your past lives looked like anymore, in his memories they all have your face and your voice, and he wonders now how much of it is because of this ache in his chest. 

Your gentle touches, your barking laughter, your sharp remarks, your rambling speeches. The way you look at him as if he is nothing more than a mortal man. 

In your befuddled slumber, his name falls from your lips, again and again until something he never thought he’d ever hear comes tumbling out, “...I love you too, Mydeimos.”

He wants nothing more than just to be a mortal man who loves you. 

That him of the past that once said torment was to be in the same room with you yet unable to be by your side could not possibly have known that there is greater affliction. 

He awoke in your house with the sunlight streaming through your window and your blanket carefully draped over him, the smell of your soap clinging to the fabric and his senses. There was a cup of water on your bedside table, left there with nothing to accompany it. He half expected to hear you shuffling back in or your faucet running from somewhere, and yet there was no one but him left alone once more. 

Every morning he passes by the fruit vendor, Demetria is bound to ask about your wellbeing and not even he can find the heart to tell her. So he affirms her theory of your rush and takes your pomegranates, leaving the exact amount needed to pay despite her protests.

Every morning he is barred entry from your office, and all he can do is leave your fruit in Adon's hands. 

You’re cruel. To have offered all your love onto a golden platter then snatched it away the moment he thought he could finally have it. He’d rather never have your love than to never see you again. 

Since becoming so keenly intertwined with your life, he waits until the thief star appears upon the eastern skies to find you. He knows there won’t be anyone, and foolishly, he hopes that means you’ll be honest with him. 

“As I’ve said, they aren’t currently taking visitors right now. Not only that, but it's literally the crack ass of curtain-fall, go back.”

But as always with you, it seems that Adon is somehow always there to be his obstacle. The youth is obstinate in his insistence that Mydei not even be allowed to leave a message, and for a man who has rarely ever wished violence on those undeserving, he’s starting to wonder how much you pay him if it means that lap dog would stop his path so earnestly and whether its worth it. 

With closed eyes and an exhausted sigh, you emerge from your office reprimanding the blond, “Adon, who the hell are you arguing with? Just because Lord Mydei hasn’t been h–”

You must have been expecting someone else to so easily hang his name by his lips, but it's clear that his appearance is not one you appreciate right now. 

The first thing he notices is the tear tracks down your face, akin to fiery magma when illuminated by the torches hanging above. They’re fresh, still dripping from your lashes as you gape at him. Your lips have been bitten entirely raw and bloody, crimson staining beneath your nails. 

Your assistant scowls and twists to shove you back in, but you catch him before he can do so, averting your eyes as you hiss, “Let him in.”

Only then does the blond relent, still sending him a nasty look before you send the youth one yourself, effectively hushing Adon. 

Your office somehow feels even smaller than it did when you first met. You seemed to have abandoned the thought of organisation as now even the floor is littered with scrolls and baskets. He, and you, have but a small patch of clear space, an arm’s length away. 

There is no pomegranate by your desk, not even the carcass of one at this late hour.

Faced with your back, with your clear sorrow and misery, the thought of spilling his most vulnerable emotions vacates. 

“You’ve been crying.”

“You’d cry too if you had to do what I’m doing.” You only retort, voice barely above a whisper as though to not betray that facade you always put up, “Is that all you came to say?”

You won’t look at him. 

Mydei calls your name and your shoulders shrink onto themselves, a repressed weep wracking through your form. He calls for you again, “Is someone bullying you? Who is it?”

You still won’t look at him. 

He wants to throw his pride off this ledge, he wants to lay his head by your feet, he just wants to bring your face into his hands and take your suffering from you. Because if Nikador has cursed him with this undying body, then let him put it into good use for you.  

Not daring to reach for you, his voice fractures at its very foundations, “Please. Tell me what is bothering you, if I have done anything to wrong you–”

“Wrong me? Mydei,” You rasp, words all too shaky as your eyes spill more of your salient despair. “It is exactly because you didn’t that I can’t stand looking at you.”

You’ve never been particularly eloquent, not with him, not now. Not as you choke on your own emotion and words, pawing at your bloodshot eyes and clawing at your scalp. “I– I can’t– I’m not– why are you—”

Your knees weaken, and before they can give out on you, he reaches forward to soften your fall. Mydei pays no mind to the brief shock of pain that comes from the sudden action, instead focusing on how much harder your chest heaves and your desperation for breath as you collapse into yourself. It only worsens when you see him by your side, when you realise what he’s done for you. 

“Breathe, you have time.” He forces you to sit up, keeping his distance despite how badly he wants to hold you.

You shake your head, trying your best to speak as clearly as possible, “I can’t– I’m not– the kind of person people like you should care about.”

“And why not? Do you think I would be so cruel to you?” He asks, like an idiot. 

“I don’t know!” You snap, because really, your patience for him should only go this far. “I can’t throw myself into glorious battle for you, or protect you. I can’t do anything for you! For all I know, the only reason you’re even here is so you can fulfill what a version of me wants.”

“But guess what? That me is dead! Every single version of me you love is dead! And all you have now is a pathetic fool who thought they could have that too!”

He stares at you, your wet eyes and wet anger, your humiliation he now understands burning at every single rational thought that could possibly cross your mind. 

Mydei has failed you. 

You’re finally looking at him but your sorrow shrouds you, you still won’t look at him.

He doesn’t know what to say, he knows that at this very moment you might not believe him but you have time, you have time together and that’s all he needs. 

Inching closer, he takes your lack of movement as a sign of acceptance. 

“I could care less about what you can or can’t do for me, I love you no matter who you are, regardless of who you were.”

They’re warm, he finds your hands and cradles them within his own and he can feel every line and scar that has marred the soft skin. The soft act rips another flinch from you, but you don’t move away, staring at him with wide eyes and quivering lips. 

He presses his lips to your non-dominant hand, littering gentle kisses along each and every bloodied mark as he murmurs, “You could tear every tendon from my body and I would still crawl back to you.”

Your dominant hand, the one that wields a weapon far more lethal than any lance, is most deserving of this. “If you think my love for you is that shallow, I am willing to spend the rest of our lives proving otherwise over and over again.”

More tears only streamed down your cheeks when he finishes, but the way you lean closer into him, it is as if you’re all he can see and all he will know. He would like that, for the world to fall away for just this moment so that he can show you how much he adores you on his knees. 

“Would you…?” You don’t finish your question. You don’t need to.  

‘You’re beautiful here, under warm lights and with wet eyes, in your too small office and your undone hair’, Mydei thinks, selfishly, ‘and in his arms’. 

He holds you against him as tight as he can, as if slackening his hold would let you slip away from him. The arms that drape themselves atop his shoulders seem to share that very same fear, and when a hand of his slings itself on your hip, a soft sob escapes your sweet mouth. Your body is still twisted in some odd angle, spine trying to compensate for the distortion before he simply shifts your legs proper himself. 

Your eyes upon him, reflection bearing only him, you’re looking at him. Before he can say anything, you lean in for a clumsy kiss. 

Teeth clack together as the taste of your blood and tears fill his senses, his lip catches on your canines at times but you’re quick to correct course, adjusting your head to avoid nipping him anymore. He responds in kind, squeezing his arms around you harder as he presses into the kiss. 

You kiss like a starved man, taking everything he gives you as if he’d take it back the next. The prince yields to you, providing little protest in a way he will only ever for you. 

Murmuring against your bloodied lips and sharp teeth, he promises to you, “...over and over again, as long as you let me.”

Adon received the title of vice-chief the day a few days after your honest confrontation. You had vouched for the young man in an effort to reward the new talent but based on the youth's horror struck face, you’re half certain that he’s been cursing you out in his head since the revelation. 

Anyhow, with Adon being able to exercise a higher degree of power and the threat of actually being sacked hanging above some staff’s heads, you happily filed a request for leave and immediately took off the moment it got approved. 

At least, that must be what your love was hoping for. 

Kneeling by the desk of your office, you gestured towards a few baskets surrounding it as your eyes darted between the documents on the table and Adon’s dying hope. “These need to be done and in Lady Aglaea’s hands before I get back, if not, we’re all going to get it.”

“Yeah, yeah, congratulations on your wedding too, don’t die I guess,” Without wasting a minute, he rolls his eyes as his hands start the first few stages of preparation. And as if you were deaf, he mutters under his breath, “What kind of world are we living in that you get married within three months?”

“A nice one that rewards people who get work done.”

The blond just sneers, “Pah, if I didn’t know better I’d ask which old bag you shacked up with to be looking like this.”

There was a kernel of truth to such an acerbic statement, truth be told ever since your feelings have been pitched down by the weight of your lover’s clarity, you’ve had the excess time to put more effort into your appearance. Well, effort is an understatement as now you’ve been receiving and wearing the many gifts as per customary of the wedding process. Golden hairpieces, necklaces with deep sapphires, rings to adorn your fingers, robes of smooth sheen draped over your shoulders, to the untrained eye, you appeared more of a nobleman’s spoiled wife than the chief accountant of the Marmoreal Palace.  

“And if you did know better you wouldn’t have said that,” Your voice comes out a hum, less interested in disturbing the boy from his work than waiting for a certain someone. 

When the sounds of chatter die and the scrawl of writing starts, you still feel lightheaded at the thought of him, at the sight of him. Striding amidst the now hard at work, a smile breaks onto your face as you urge for him to come closer. 

“My love!”

Mydei sends a triumphant glance at the now grimacing Adon as he enters the cramped room, ignoring the fake gagging and retching with an open hand offered to you. “Have you sorted everything? Or will you leave me high and dry for the palace’s ‘negative’ cash flow again?”

“That was one time!”

“Of course, as you say,” He only raises a brow and grins at your rebuttal. 

You’ll dig yourself out of any grave for him. Thanatos will have to fight you tooth and claw for you to consider ever leaving him again. How could you possibly leave him here? Even thinking about it spirits you. 

You want to spend the rest of your days with him under the bright light of day, you want to fuss and talk his ears off as he looks at you with those lovestruck eyes, you want to return to his homeland and learn all there is about him. You want to be a person who loves him more than ever. 

Taking his hand into yours, you bring it up to press a soft kiss to his palm, gentle and cherished. A small smile is all you can muster, “You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to get rid of me now.”

“As if I could ever.” 

Mydei leans closer, as though fettering himself to you for the rest of time untold. 

“Can you two get out?!”

[cerialcodes]

This is such a random question but have you ever written a story where the reader goes with jinwoo to the international guild conference(I think thats what its called)

Im not asking you to write it, you’ve already written so much. Its just that you have so many works I struggle to find a specific one

Byeeeeeee! Have a good day/sweet dreams

hey sweetheart! and no, i don’t believe i wrote a story where the reader attends a conference with jinwoo. however, i can help you find a specific jinwoo story that i have personally written to suit your needs! so i have made a summary of every single jinwoo story i have written under the cut with their links ♡ !

1. { sparkle } - first jinwoo story i have ever written told in jinwoo’s POV where he realizes he’s in love with reader

2. { 3RR0R } - where the system shows jinwoo that his soulmate is not cha hae-in

3. { pillowtalk } - reader speaks to jinwoo about her love for him while he sleeps.

4. { season’s call } - reader is constantly under protection from jinwoo’s shadow soldiers.

5. { hold me like a grudge } - investigator!jinwoo protects the reader while hiding a secret from her.

6. { surround you } - jinwoo is away on a business trip, leaving reader alone as she muses on how much she misses him.

7. { like you do } - reader is a young woman living in the real world who gets the chance to live out her dreams of being with jinwoo in his world.

8. { butterfly kisses } - reader comforts jinwoo during a bad day.

9. { love letter of flowers } - florist! reader and s-rank hunter! jinwoo fall in love 💐

10. { slow dancing in the dark } - reader sees jinwoo dancing with hae-in and feels envious.

11. { boyfriend headcanons } - general fluff headcanons

12. { arise } - reader is resurrected as one of jinwoo’s shadow soldiers due to a tragic event.

13. { rose-colored boy } - jinwoo takes care of a sick and feverish reader.

14. { sands of time } - academy arc; reader can’t stand jinwoo and lowkey hates him… or does she?

15. { light in the darkness } - antares!jinwoo basks in the reader’s softness.

16. { tiptoe } - reader is kept hostage as potential leverage, but it fails when jinwoo brutally attacks her captors to teach them a lesson.

17. { snooze } - reader loves to humble jinwoo by calling him dorky nicknames.

18. { enough is enough } - reader and jinwoo get into an argument.

19. { motherland } - jinwoo comforts reader after her failures.

20. { love me for me } - reader can’t stand being second best to her sister, hae-in.

21. { follow you } - reader becomes anxious at work due to a persistent co worker who can’t leave her alone…

22. { house of gold } - jinwoo fumbles his proposal LMAO

23. { headfirst for halos } - first yandere jinwoo fic.

24. { penpal } - academy arc; jinwoo wishes to get closer to his beloved reader.

25. { proud to be yours } - jinwoo makes a huge announcement during a press conference.

26. { the dark knight } - reader is a capable hunter who can’t stand it when jinwoo purposely prevents her from attending raids.

27. { musings for yandere jinwoo } - more yandere stuff

28. { moonlight } - jinwoo becomes captivated by reader when she calls him a strangely unique nickname.

29. { anomaly } - reader gets isekai’d into the world of solo leveling.

30. { of gifts and curses } - jinwoo muses how his strength and power are for the sake of protecting his beloved…

31. { reader inserts } - reader gets emotionally scarred after reading a painful reader insert.

32. { too sweet } - jinwoo falls in love with a reader who is the embodiment of sunshine.

33. { peaches } - a love story between jinwoo and the reader whom he has always loved.

34. { the only exception } - yandere jinwoo who falls head over heels for reader at first sight, willing to do anything to keep her by his side.

35. { selfish } - jinwoo being a jealous bby 🥰

36. { belong to you } - 100% jinwoo spice / thirst post

37. { touch starved } - jinwoo tries to woo (lmao) the reader and win her heart ♡

38. { cry for me } - another thirst post based on an ask ♡

39. { lover is a day } - comfort fic for jinwoo

40. { heartbreak feels so good } - reader is embarrassed with having a one night stand with jinwoo and wishes to forget. unfortunately for her, jinwoo wants nothing more than to remember and finally claim reader as his.

41. { marked by you } - more thirst posts for jinwoo

42. { the prince and the pauper } - historical romance / fairytale au with prince jinwoo sung and a commoner reader

43. { darling } - a yandere story with a twist. yandere jinwoo and yandere hae-in are deeply in love with the reader and would kill each other just to have you all to themselves…

44. { company } - lmaoo reader keeps friendzoning jinwoo, and he hates it.

45. { autobiography } - reader is an author that wants to write jinwoo's biography; what more can i say? 🥰

46. { perfect } - 18+ only, another thirst post for jinwoo

47. { saturn } - will jinwoo learn to love the reader’s true self hidden beneath a cheerful façade?

48. { slow it down } - boy next door jinwoo! what more can i say 🤭🥰

49. { that green gentleman (things have changed) } - single dad! jinwoo x daycare worker! reader

50. { god is a woman } - 18+ thirst post / drabble

51. { the admirer } - jinwoo loves to annoy the reader to capture her attention

52. { not a want but a need } - 18+ thirst drabble

53. { marry me } - the title says it all, really 🤭

54. { your heart belongs to me } - another 18+ thirst post

55. { the haunted one } - academy arc story where reader can see jinwoo’s shadow soldiers and becomes terrified of him.

56. { me + you } - another cute academy arc story where reader is struggling with math and jinwoo tutors her

57. { of painful auras and cute boys } - university au; reader has a migraine and needs to be saved;;; but by who ;3c