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empress-ruby · 5 days ago

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the one who knows.

phainon was no fool. he’d seen the way mydei looks at you, and—being the good, charitable, loyal friend he is—he was determined to help mydei win you over. alternatively, five times phainon tried to ease mydei’s heart, and one time he didn’t have to.

— pairing: mydei x fem!reader — contains: fluff, 5+1 things, friends to lovers!au, phainon in his matchmaking era—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! — word count: 4.6k | art credit: ma_mori74 on x

V. MARMOREAL MARKET.

It had taken Phainon ten minutes to convince Mydei to join him for a walk. Ten minutes that, if Mydei had had his way, he could’ve spent sparring with some of the Okheman soldiers instead. But Aglaea had thought it was a wonderful idea and that the Chrysos Heirs could all do with a bit of a break, and so, Phainon had hauled Mydei by the arm and dragged him out of his chambers.

“No one—not even the prince of Castrum Kremnos—can refuse an order given by Lady Aglaea,” Phainon reasoned. “Don’t look so glum, my friend! We’ll head to the bakery first, and buy a basket full of those golden honeycakes you like so much.”

“I don’t like them that much,” Mydei muttered, his brows furrowed low as they walked through the sun-warmed square, passing beneath a colonnade dusted in peach blossoms. His cape, lined with embroidered laurels, swayed with the rigid force of his stride. He marched even when he was on a break.

Phainon only smiled. “Forgive me, Your Stoicism. I must’ve mistaken the way you inhale three of them in one go for something resembling pleasure.”

He caught the faint twitch of Mydei’s mouth, but didn’t comment. The sun crept higher as they wound through the marble streets of Okhema. Vendors called out in sing-song voices, peddling pomegranates, olive oil, and silk dyed the colour of dusk. The marketplace smelled of fig jam and roasted almonds, with the faint scent of incense wafting from a nearby shrine. Children laughed somewhere behind them, chasing each other in between the columns.

It was a wonderful day to spend outside—but none of that mattered to the warrior from Aedes Elysiae.

No, Phainon had only one goal today. A mission, as sacred as any undertaken by the Chrysos Heirs: to help Mydei get over himself and talk to the person he so obviously liked.

Despite his scowl, Mydei’s pace slowed when they neared the familiar bend in the road where pale stone gave way to ochre tiles and the air always smelled faintly like cardamom and burnt sugar. Phainon didn’t miss it. He turned his head, grinning in the way of a conspirator up to no good.

“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “The sanctuary of your soul. The oven-borne paradise of your most secret cravings.”

Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. His scrutiny had already slipped towards the storefront. Phainon followed his gaze and spotted you through the open arch of the bakery’s awning, standing behind the counter with your sleeves rolled up and and your cheeks dusted in flour.

You were frowning over a tray of pastries, fussing over their arrangement. When a breeze swept through the open market street, a lock of hair fell loose from the knot at your neck, and you pushed it back absently with the back of your wrist.

Phainon had eyes, too. But more importantly, he had sense—and he’d seen the way Mydei looked at you when he thought no one was looking. He looked at you with a stubborn sort of reverence, like someone studying a scripture and attempting to understand the words.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

“Look at that.” Phainon slowed and clapped a hand to Mydei’s back. “The bakery’s survived another day without you looming over it like a stormcloud.”

“We’re here for pastries,” said Mydei.

“You’re here for pastries,” Phainon corrected. “I think I’ll go admire the fruit stand across the square. Alone. Without my imposing, sword-wielding companion towering beside me.”

“Phainon—”

But Phainon was already backing away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling some song that Mydei was sure was some great, romantic ballad. Mydei let out a slow breath. He adjusted the drape of his cape, then approached the stall.

You looked up when his shadow crossed the counter.

“Oh,” you said, straightening. “You’re here.”

His gaze dropped quickly. “Phainon wanted pastries.”

Your smile came a second later, soft and uncertain. “Well, lucky him,” you said. “They’re fresh. I just pulled them out of the oven.”

He nodded. Then, realising you were waiting for him to say something else, cleared his throat and tried again. “They smell good.”

“Thank you.”

There was silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mydei shifted from one foot to the other. He thought about what Phainon would say in this situation. Probably something clever. Something witty. Something that would fluster both you and him if it were to slip past his lips. You reached for a basket and began lining it with a square of waxed linen.

“How many would you like today?” you asked. “Six? Or—”

Mydei hesitated. “Seven.”

“Seven?” you repeated, looking up at him.

“Just…” He nodded again, firm now. “In case Phainon drops one.”

You laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, like you hadn’t meant for it to escape. You looked away quickly, but he caught the way your smile lingered at the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll pack eight,” you said under your breath.

Mydei blinked. “That’s—”

“In case you drop one,” you added, looking up again, a little more confident. “Or in case you decide you like them more than you’re letting on.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then—quietly—he said, “I already do.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, hands stilling over the basket. A faint flush crept into your cheeks. Instead of answering, you focused on arranging the honeycakes, carefully and methodically placing them in neat rows.

Mydei shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he had.

Phainon’s voice saved him.

“Have the Titans blessed this day with the sweet scent of ambrosia and gaucheness?” he declared. He draped himself over the edge of the counter, eyes dancing. “Tell me, Y/N—have you discovered a way to bake silence into your pastries? Because my dear friend here seems to have swallowed his vocabulary.”

You covered your laugh with your hand. “Don’t tease him.”

“Would I ever?” Phainon said, looking as innocent as a fox in a henhouse. “I’m simply here to collect our spoils and drag this poor, tongue-tied soldier off to see the rest of Okhema before sunset.”

You handed him the basket with a faint smile, then turned back to Mydei.

“Come by again,” you said quietly. “If you want.”

“I will,” Mydei said stiffly.

You smiled in farewell as they turned to go. Mydei didn’t look back—but his fingers brushed the edge of the basket where you’d tied the ribbon, and he didn’t let go until Phainon took it from him.

“Well?” Phainon said as they walked. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“...She added extra.”

Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “And you managed to remain calm! Incredible. At this rate, you might even ask her to dinner by the next century.”

“Don’t push it,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“Oh, I plan to.”

IV. GARDEN OF LIFE.

Phainon hadn’t meant to stumble into the Garden of Life with Mydei again—but when they cut through the southern colonnade, they saw a few members from the Council of Elders crowding the forum steps, arguing over something trivial with Aglaea and Tribbie. It was a situation neither he nor Mydei wanted to deal with, and so, they took the longer route and let the scent of citrus and blooming oleander guide their way.

He didn’t mind. It was a pretty place. Calm, and peaceful, with a few straggler Chimeras who were slacking off work hiding behind the laurels.

What he did mind, however, was the way Mydei froze beside him, his entire frame tensing like a drawn bow.

Phainon followed his gaze, and—ah. Of course.

You were there, kneeling by the pond at the garden’s centre, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with soil. You were tucking sprigs of rosemary into the earth next to the lilies, lips parted in concentration, a woven basket of herbs placed beside you. The sun caught the edge of your profile, golden and soft, and a smear of green streaked across your forearm.

Phainon blinked.

“Well,” he said, half-grinning, “fate certainly enjoys its comedy.”

Mydei didn’t reply. His jaw clenched once, twice, like he was recalibrating the entire concept of movement.

“I didn’t know she gardened,” said Phainon, crossing his arms over his chest. “How wonderfully poetic of her. Maybe she recites odes to every sprout. Maybe—”

“Deliverer,” Mydei said in warning. “Don’t start.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Phainon said, already walking ahead. “But since we’re both here, and you look like you might sprint in the opposite direction if left unsupervised, I’ll do the civil thing and say hello.”

Mydei grumbled something that sounded like traitor under his breath, but followed.

You looked up when their footsteps approached, blinking once before your expression lifted in slow, pleasant surprise.

“Hello,” you said. “You two again.”

Phainon pressed a hand to his heart. “You sound so thrilled.”

“We saw each other just three days ago,” you said, lips curving upwards. “I didn’t expect company.”

“Neither did we,” Phainon said, nudging Mydei forward a step. “We were merely passing through, but it felt as though Mnestia herself was summoning us.”

You looked at Mydei then—properly—and his shoulders visibly pulled tighter. “You’re not usually in this part of the city,” you said.

“I’m not,” he agreed.

Phainon supplied, “He didn’t know you’d be here.”

“But if he had?” you asked, raising a brow.

Mydei’s mouth opened. Closed.

“He might’ve worn nicer boots,” Phainon answered for him.

You laughed. Just once, but it was enough to make Mydei glance down, as though he was actually checking his boots, then quickly back up like he’d been caught.

“Do you help tend to the garden often?” he asked, surprisingly steadily.

“When I can,” you said. “My uncle oversees some of the Chimeras here. I bring him pastries sometimes.”

Mydei cleared his throat. “You have… dirt on your cheek.”

Your hand flew up and you swiped blindly.

“Other side,” he amended gently.

You blinked, then tried again, slower this time. He nodded. You smiled. “Thanks.”

The pause after was short but warm, filled with birdsong and the murmur of water in the stone channels. Phainon knew there was something—something blooming, something tentative. He rocked back on his heels and made a show of stretching.

“Okay, then,” he said, already backing away, “I think I’ll go find something blasphemous to do near the reflecting pools. You two—talk about dirt. Or gardening. Or destiny. I don’t care.”

“Phainon,” warned Mydei.

“Gone already,” he called, disappearing behind a laurel hedge. He found himself looking down at a pastel pink-coloured Chimera. It blinked up at him with wide eyes. He bent low and patted its head.

He could now hear the murmur of your voices, indistinct but undeniably warm. Your laughter came again, softer now, almost shy, and Mydei—Kephale help him—responded in kind.

It was rare, hearing that from him. So rare that Phainon stood there a moment longer than necessary, not to spy, but to witness. Something tender was taking root. A thread had been pulled taut between you, and it was holding.

He smiled to himself. Victory, he thought, is sweet and golden.

If he listened a little longer—just long enough to hear you say Mydei’s name again, and for Mydei to say yours in return—well. That was no crime.

III. OVERFLOWING BATH, MARMOREAL PALACE.

“Did you know, Mydei,” Phainon began, “that there is an ancient saying in Okhema that says: ‘You can lead a Dromas to water, but you can’t make him drink’? I think it applies to you.”

The bath chamber shimmered with steam, its marble walls veined with gold and silver, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns suspended from the domed ceiling. Water lapped gently against the edges of the vast pool, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the ornate fountains shaped like sea nymphs.

Phainon lounged in the water, submerged up to his chest, the heat loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tilted his head back, letting the steam envelop him, and then turned to regard Mydei, who sat rigidly on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall.

Mydei frowned. “I’m not a Dromas.”

“True,” Phainon conceded, “but the metaphor still stands. Here you are, in a bath designed for relaxation, yet you sit there as tense as a bowstring.”

“I find these indulgences… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? My dear prince, even the most stoic warrior needs respite. Or are you planning to wage war against relaxation itself?”

“I prefer to keep my guard up,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“In a bathhouse?” Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Unless you suspect the loofahs of treachery, I think you’re safe.”

Mydei did not reply, so Phainon leaned back, letting the water buoy him, and said, “You know, she was asking about you.”

“Who?” Mydei’s gaze snapped to him.

“The pretty baker,” he answered. “You remember. The one with honey on her hands and sunlight in her hair. I visited Marmoreal Market again this morning. She makes exquisite milk pies, did you know?”

“Yes,” Mydei breathed out, and looked away, the tips of his ears reddening. “What did she say?”

“She wondered if the famously stoic prince ever smiles when he’s with others,” Phainon said, watching him closely. “I told her I’d seen it once, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.”

Mydei didn’t speak for a long time. The steam gathered on his eyelashes. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched, then relaxed.

“She shouldn’t ask things like that,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“It implies something.”

“Yes,” Phainon said, amused. “It implies that she’s curious. About you.”

“That’s the problem,” Mydei replied. “She shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to invite it.”

“You think attraction waits for an invitation? Mydei, please. You’re not a fortress. You can’t control who looks at you, or why.”

“I am heir to a kingdom where sentiment is seen as weakness,” the prince said. “I was raised to command, not to… to stay in gardens and smile at girls who bake bread.”

Phainon leaned forward, the water sloshing gently as he moved. “Yet, you stayed, and yet, you smiled.”

“It’s dangerous,” Mydei said, looking away. He looked troubled. “I wish I could tell her that. I may be immortal, but I won’t be here all the time, not if—not if fate has its way with me.”

“She isn’t asking for divinity, my friend,” said Phainon gently. “She’s only asking if you smile.”

Mydei’s gaze dropped to the water again. He didn’t answer, but his expression softened—imperceptibly, except to someone who’d known him long enough to notice.

After a while, Phainon leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Just something to think about, Mydei. No pressure. But if you do decide to bring her a flower sometime, may I suggest anything other than hemlock?”

Mydei scowled again and glared at the white-haired warrior. Phainon reached for a fig from the platter placed behind him and shrugged, eyes dancing with mirth. “Hks,” Mydei muttered, but his posture had eased—shoulders no longer braced like shields, hands no longer tense on his thighs. The prince looked away, but his expression had gone distant in a different sort of manner.

As if, perhaps, he was thinking about someone.

II. KEPHALE PLAZA.

Kephale Plaza was a marvel of architecture, its wide expanse paved with sun-kissed limestone that glowed warmly under the afternoon sun. The plaza was framed by colonnades of ivory marble, each column entwined with flowering vines that added bursts of colour to the pristine white.

Phainon wished he could say that he’d come here to marvel at the scenery. Unfortunately, Aglaea had received a report about a thief who was on the loose, filching bracelets and coin purses alike. Castorice was busy, and Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon were otherwise occupied. That left Phainon, who, in truth, didn’t mind the assignment.

What he did mind, though, was the way he’d caught sight of you and Mydeimos walking together beneath the arch of blooming bougainvillaea and promptly forgotten what, exactly, he was meant to be watching for.

He loitered near one of the shaded stalls, pretending to inspect a display of carved wooden figurines, though he only caught every third word of the merchant’s well-practiced sales pitch. His attention was fixed on the way Mydei leaned towards you slightly, his usually unreadable expression tinged with something that might’ve been—Kephale help him—softness.

You were speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand as you walked, and Mydei nodded along, occasionally offering clipped replies. Even from a distance, Phainon could see that Mydei wasn’t just listening; he was listening—brows faintly drawn, head tilted in that particular way he reserved for things he wanted to understand but couldn’t quite name.

Phainon narrowed his eyes. This wouldn’t do.

With a slow inhale, he pushed off the marble column and approached. His footsteps were light, but he made no move to hide his arrival.

“Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he announced cheerfully, slipping into step beside you easily.

Mydei faltered, immediately shifting half a step away from you. “Phainon.”

You blinked up at him, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”

Phainon shrugged. “Technically, yes. I’m in pursuit of a nefarious criminal. But more importantly, I’m here to rescue you from the silence this one—” he nodded at Mydei— “can’t seem to escape. He’s the definition of a man of few words.”

“We weren’t silent,” Mydei groused.

“No, no—I’m sure it was romantic!” Phainon acquiesced. “If Y/N here is into hulking, brooding men.”

You laughed which was, frankly, unacceptable, because you were supposed to laugh at Mydei’s jokes, not his. Mydei look exasperated, but his cheeks were dusted red, which Phainon considered a personal victory.

“Actually,” you said, smiling at Mydei, “he was telling me about the coastal patrols in Okhema. They’ve been—”

“—more diligent than usual,” Mydei interrupted quickly. “Nothing worth reporting.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Not even to your dear friend who has spent the past hour avoiding elderly vendors who insist I’d make a fine husband for their granddaughters?”

You looked like you were about to say something sympathetic, but he pressed on. “What I am interested in,” he said lightly, “is how long you’ve both been here, because if you saw anything suspicious—like, say, a person darting between stalls with more rings on their fingers than they started with—I could finally do something productive.”

“We just got her not long ago,” you said, shaking your head. “I haven’t seen anything strange.”

Mydei only said, “No.”

“Of course not,” Phainon sighed. “Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose I’ll deputise the both of you. Consider this your invitation to join me in chasing shadows across the sunniest place in Okhema.”

“Are we being drafted into service?” you asked, smiling.

“Yes,” he said promptly. “It’s terribly official.”

Mydei looked like he might object, but you nudged him gently with your elbow. “Come on,” you murmured, and just like that, the faint stubborn line in his brow faded.

Phainon didn’t miss it.

As you began walking again—now with Phainon very deliberately between the two of you—he leaned closer to Mydei and said under his breath, “You know, if you plan to pine in silence for much longer, I’ll be forced to intervene.”

“I’m not pining,” Mydei muttered.

“Oh?” he said. “So you weren’t giving her a lecture about border patrols as a thinly veiled excuse to spend time with her?”

Mydeimos said nothing, which said everything.

“You’re terrible at this.” Phainon grinned. “Just so you know.”

“Good,” the prince said shortly. “Then you won’t give me advice.”

“On the contrary. I’ll give you too much of it.” He glanced over at you. You had paused ahead to admire a display of ornamental silks. “You don’t want to wait too long, Mydei,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t always give you second chances.”

With that, he strode ahead, catching up with you and saying loudly, “Now, if I were a thief hiding in plain sight, I’d disguise myself as a merchant selling outrageously overpriced scarves. Shall we investigate?”

You rolled your eyes but let him lead you away with a grin. Behind you, Mydei stood still for a moment, his expression hard beneath the bright sun—then slowly, he moved to follow.

I. HALL OF RESPITE, MARMOREAL PALACE.

The Hall of Respite was aptly named—a haven tucked away in the southern wing of Marmoreal Palace, where golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows and dust motes danced lazily in the air like sleepy fireflies. Columns of white stone held up the ceiling, each one wrapped in trailing ivy and blooms enchanted to stay in perpetual spring. A small fountain burbled in the centre. Plush divans and velvet-cushioned lounges lined the walls, draped in silks the colour of champagne and cloud.

Phainon was draped across one such divan, a chilled goblet of pomegranate nectar balanced in one hand, the other idly stroking the embroidery of a nearby cushion. He looked every inch the picture of languid nobility—except that he was not—save for the fact that his gaze was locked on the entrance, waiting.

When Mydei finally entered, Phainon perked up immediately.

“I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in the training grounds,” he said by way of greeting.

“I was training,” Mydei replied, as if the comment had any need of clarification. He was still in his tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, his hair slightly damp. Even his gait carried the stiffness of someone who had just disarmed three men in a row.

“Of course you were.” Phainon gestured to the chaise opposite him. “Sit down. Hydrate. Pretend, for a moment, that you’re not forged from granite.”

Mydei did not smile, but he complied, lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise.

Phainon said, “I ran into Y/N earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She was near the reflecting pools,” he went on. “Feeding crumbs to that flock of silver-throated sparrows. You know the ones. She was humming, too, a sweet little tune—something old, sounded Kremnoan.”

Mydei’s eyes flickered. “Her mother used to sing to her in Kremnoan. She told me that, once.”

“Did she now?” Phainon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.

“She said she doesn’t remember the words, only the melody. And how warm her mother’s voice was. Like a hearth fire.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“She also said that she was thinking of asking me to accompany her to the festival next week,” Phainon said, attempting to recover. “Something about needing a partner for the moonlight procession.”

He glanced sideways, hoping to catch a glimpse of jealousy.

But Mydei only tilted his head, thoughtful. “She would enjoy that.”

“...Would she?”

“Yes,” said Mydei, softly. “She likes the sound of drums, and the lanterns—she called them tiny captive stars. She’d probably spend half the night asking about the legends behind the constellations.”

“You know her very well.”

“She listens when you speak,” the prince said, as though that answered everything. “Not because she’s curious—though she is—but because she values what you have to say. That’s rare, and so I try to do the same for her.”

A breath of silence passed between them. Phainon blinked.

“She also makes that face when she’s trying not to laugh,” Mydei added suddenly, and there was a hint of fondness in his voice. “One side of her mouth curls first.”

“Wow,” said Phainon, trying to disguise the dryness in his throat with a sip of his drink, “aren’t you just the veritable poet.”

Mydei said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile he so rarely offered.

Phainon sat back with a sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. “Remind me never to try and make you jealous again. It’s bad for my pride.”

“You tried to make me jealous?” asked Mydei, sounding genuinely surprised.

The warrior groaned. “Forget it.”

“I do think she’d prefer your company to mine at the festival,” Mydei said, standing to leave. “You could always offer her a poem, too. She might keep it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, and with a nod, Mydei strode out of the Hall, leaving Phainon staring at his back, utterly defeated.

The fountain continued to burble. Somewhere in the gardens beyond, a sparrow sang.

O. PATH OF PARTING.

The Path of Parting curved like a river of stone through the eastern gardens, its flagstones pale and smooth from centuries of reverent steps. It was said that this was where lovers, friends, and comrades once walked when farewells had to be made—with flowers blooming along either side, as if to soften the grief. Today, the air was still and fragrant, golden with sunlight, and the blossoms were at their brightest: starblush vines spilling from trellises, yellow cypress roses nodding in the breeze.

Phainon hadn’t meant to take this route. He’d been wandering—well, brooding, if he were honest with himself—thinking vaguely about nothing and everything.

He rounded a bend and stopped dead.

There, further up the path, you and Mydei walked side-by-side.

You moved in that unconsciously mirrored way people did when they’d grown too close not to. Your shoulders tilted towards his just slightly. His hand hovered near yours by instinct. Your voice—he could hear it, low and laughing—drew out the kind of smile from Mydei that Phainon had never seen once with the Chrysos Heirs or the sparring ring.

He watched as you leaned in to whisper something. Mydei’s reply was inaudible, but whatever he said made you laugh softly, eyes shining.

Mydei reached up, unthinking, to pull a stray petal from your hair, his fingertips brushing over your temple with the kind of tenderness that could only come from a hundred small moments before this one.

Phainon stood rooted. “Oh,” he said aloud.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but the realisation bloomed sharp and fast, like a candlewick catching light.

Oh.

This wasn’t something that had just begun. It was something that had always been—quiet and steady, like the tide, like the stars shifting across the sky one inch at a time.

Phainon felt something between awe and exasperation fizz inside his chest.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I’m an idiot.”

He’d spent all this time trying to provoke a reaction from Mydei—jealousy, flustered affection, anything—when Mydei had already won the war without even playing the game.

And you? You hadn’t been some wistful maybe, some distant crush. You’d chosen him. You loved him.

Phainon drew a breath, long and slow, and stepped backwards, letting the ivy shadows swallow him. He didn’t interrupt. Not this time. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak, and started back towards the palace with a huff and a half-laugh.

“Five times I tried,” he murmured to himself. “Five. And not once did it occur to me that they were already—” He waved a hand in the air, at no one. “Of course they were.”

He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting the Titans to be laughing, too.

“I hope he writes you sonnets,” he said aloud, mostly to the wind. “I hope you make him eat too many honeycakes and teach him how to dance.”

Phainon was smiling now, rueful but fond.

“Stars above,” he sighed. “You were never going to pick me, were you?”

He walked on, leaving behind the sweet scent of the flowers and the sun warming his back.

a/n: the names of the various places are actual locations taken from the okhema map, though their descriptions have been changed to fit the story. thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading and making the gorgeous header for this fic! thank you for reading!

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empress-ruby · 17 days ago

Note

hi girlie im here with a request but it might be a little weird… its up to you if you want to do it obvi but just hear me out!!!

just a few seconds ago i leaned from a tiktoks comments that was asking what other brides wore under their wedding dress and some said they wore absolutely nothing not even panties and someone was saying that she needed to alert her husband so he doesn't freak out and flash her when doing the garter toss.

i think it would be so funny to see their reaction to the reader saying “just so yk theres NOTHING underneath there.” or something like that djdjfosnciISKFUSONCLSKS i feel a lil crazy.

if you do it it would be nice to see it with isagi, kaiser, sae, shidou and anyone you want thats up to you

“𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟”

a/n: i'd be too scared to do this at my wedding

title comes from dress by taylor swift and it's my favorite song from her EVER

suggestive content inside!

ft. isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, aiku oliver

isagi yoichi

you whisper it so gently, like you’re sharing a vow. “yoichi… just so you’re prepared… i’m not wearing anything under the dress.”

his smile falters. “you’re not wearing– like– nothing??? like zero???” he looks down at the skirt like it just betrayed him.

bro is sweating so hard he’s fogging up the camera lenses.

“you can’t just drop that bomb and expect me to keep it together. do you know who’s in the crowd?! my elementary school teacher is here.”

he’s pacing. “what if i flash someone? what if i knock your dad out with the garter? what if i look at you wrong and my mom disowns me???”

he goes under the dress like he’s defusing a bomb. hands trembling. breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

you giggle.

he freezes.

“… don’t do that. don’t make noises. you’re gonna get me excommunicated.”

pulls it off like it’s cursed, holds it with two fingers like it’s toxic, and flings it over his shoulder with the energy of a man trying to toss a live grenade.

immediately looks around and salutes to your dad in pure panic.

later he whispers, “i love you but you almost got me on a watchlist.”

kaiser michael

you whisper it and he bites his knuckle. “you’re joking.”

“nope.”

“so you’re telling me,” he leans in, eyes sparkling with sin, “that this dress? the one that’s got three layers of expensive lace and sparkly shit on it? has nothing underneath it? not even those ugly little bridal spanx?”

“yep.”

“god is real.”

he stands there like a villain being handed a secret weapon. “i could cancel the garter toss. we could skip straight to dessert. if you know what i mean–”

you slap his arm.

“okay okay. i’ll behave. until the second i get under that skirt.”

when it’s time, he slow-mo struts to you. adjusts his tie. winks at your grandma. drops to one knee like he’s proposing again.

and then vanishes. like, completely.

your bridesmaids start asking if he got lost under there.

you feel a kiss on your thigh. then another one.

“michael.”

“can’t hear you, schatz, i’m in heaven.”

he emerges with the garter in his teeth, hair ruffled, smirking like the devil just blessed your wedding.

“i caught feelings and something else under there.”

he sits down beside you with his arm around your waist and whispers, “there better be a lock on that hotel door tonight.”

itoshi sae

“hey, amor. just wanted you to know there’s… nothing under the dress.”

he blinks. once. twice.

“what do you mean ‘nothing’? like nothing-nothing? like air and prayers??”

he’s not yelling, but the volume in his eyes is deafening.

“yes.”

“why. why would you do this. why would you ruin me like this.”

he looks so stressed it’s like someone gave him your tax returns to solve. “you realize i have to go under there in front of children, right? and the press. my image. my contract.”

he takes a shot of champagne. another. one more. muttering: “should’ve eloped. should’ve married you in secret like i wanted.”

he crouches down like he’s walking into a haunted house. “don’t laugh. if you laugh i’m going to combust.”

your knee twitches. he chokes.

you: “are you okay?”

him, emerging red-faced: “i saw god. and her name is you.”

shidou ryusei

you whisper it and he literally SCREAMS. “NO PANTIES?!”

you slap your hand over his mouth. he’s vibrating like a microwave.

“babe. i was gonna behave. i really was. but this? this is a gift from the horny gods.”

grabs the mic from the DJ again. “EVERYONE CLAP FOR THE BRAVEST WOMAN ALIVE.”

“ryu, please–”

“NOT A SINGLE PIECE OF FABRIC. RAW DOGGING THE RECEPTION.”

goes under the dress and doesn’t come back for two full minutes.

when he emerges, his tie is undone, his eyes are dilated, and his hair looks like he stuck his head in a wind tunnel.

“if i get a nosebleed, it’s your fault.”

throws the garter straight into someone’s drink. drinks it anyway.

afterparty? he disappears with you in under 30 seconds.

“hotel suite. now. no stops. no detours. i’m breaking that dress and the sound barrier.”

itoshi rin

you whisper it and his jaw clicks. “you what.”

“no underwear.”

“why.”

“felt like it.”

“you felt like giving me a heart attack on my wedding day?”

he’s glitching. breathing weird. muttering equations.

“okay. okay. you know what? fine. it’s fine. i’m calm.”

he is not calm.

he’s staring at his shoes like they hold the answers.

“i swear to the heavens, if my brother even makes eye contact with me while i’m under there–”

he kneels, but it’s less sexy and more medic entering a battlefield. “breathe. focus. don’t touch anything you shouldn’t. god is watching.”

he pulls out the garter like it’s radioactive. tosses it blindly into the void and walks away in a straight line like an NPC.

ten minutes later, he grabs your hand and says, “you’re never wearing that dress again. not even for fun. not even for me. it’s going in a vault. with guards.”

nagi seishiro

you whisper it as he's mid-bite into a piece of cake. “sei. just so you know, i’m not wearing anything under the dress.”

he freezes. slowly lowers the fork. “… huh?”

his eyes narrow like he’s trying to decide if you’re joking or if he’s suddenly dreaming with his eyes open.

“like... not even a little thing? not even a safety thong?”

you shake your head. his soul leaves his body for a moment.

“that’s... kinda crazy, babe.”

stares into the distance. murmurs: “you’re really out here… air-conditioned and everything.”

he spirals in the laziest way possible. starts muttering hypotheticals like, “what if i trip on the way down there and my face just – bonk – straight into your–”

“sei.”

“what if my hand slips and the whole skirt comes off? what if i pass out and the priest sees everything?” (the priest is no longer even in the room. no one knows why he brought him up.)

when it’s time, he sighs like he’s about to do a math test. “alright. send thoughts and prayers.”

crawls under like he’s getting cozy under a blanket.

you hear: “yo it’s kinda warm in here. soft too. hmm.”

you squirm. he BONKS his head on your thigh.

“ow. don’t move. you’re dangerous.”

comes out, face pink, garter in hand. “yeah i got it. i’m never going under there again. too powerful. 10/10 experience. terrifying.”

karasu tabito

“hey,” you whisper. “just so you know… i’m not wearing any underwear.”

he STOPS in place like he just got hit with a laser beam. “are you serious? like bare-bottom bridal behavior?”

you nod. he grabs the mic.

“yo, DJ? play something sinful. matter in fact, play the weeknd. my wife’s out here breaking decency laws.”

he starts clapping. alone. no one joins. doesn’t care.

when it’s time for the garter toss, he kneels like a comedian doing stand-up.

“don’t worry, folks. i’m a trained professional. i’ve been under this dress before. i know the terrain.”

goes in with sunglasses on. starts narrating like it’s a documentary: “ah yes. here we see the rare and majestic bridal thigh. unguarded. powerful. unstoppable.”

you elbow him and he emerges howling. “WORTH IT.”

throws the garter and the shoe. no one’s safe.

oliver aiku

you whisper it while he’s mid-sentence talking to his teammates. “hey babe. just so you know. there’s nothing under this dress.”

he chokes. literally just makes a broken “hrrhhgg?” noise.

“you mean like… naked?”

you nod. his soul physically leaves the building.

he places one hand over his heart. “do you want me to die. is this a murder attempt. should i write my will now.”

he keeps tugging at his tie like it’s choking him. pacing like a man on trial.

“you know i was gonna go under there like a gentleman. but now? now it’s a war zone. now i gotta fight for my life.”

when the DJ calls him up, he wipes his palms on his pants and dramatically kisses your hand. “i loved you in life. if i don’t make it out, remember me fondly.”

enters the dress like it’s the backrooms.

he stays silent for a second. then a muffled “holy sh–”

“don’t touch anything, oliver.”

“you’re telling that to the wrong guy.”

comes out looking dazed. his suit is wrinkled. tie’s missing.

holds the garter up like it’s a dragon egg. “she wasn’t wearing anything. i was right. this was the best day of my life.”

later in private: “so like... can you wear that dress again sometime? for me? maybe on tuesdays?”

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader

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empress-ruby · 17 days ago

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Ahoy ☀️

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empress-ruby · 18 days ago

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Having Robin suck on your tits would be the cutest sight ever

She'd have the softest sighs and the cutest moans as she takes your nipple in her mouth, with the wings on her head flapping ever so slightly and potentially even tickling you a little. Her tongue would swirl around, all while her hand—glove removed bc she wants to really feel you—squeezes and plays with the other boob

And through the entire time, she looks up at you with these precious eyes, and she even stops sucking on your tits for a little moment just to ask if she's doing good. She gets so overjoyed and her wings flap happily before she leans back in to suck again

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empress-ruby · 21 days ago

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chrysos heirs + final prophecies

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empress-ruby · 23 days ago

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official dante and vergil chibi dash icons from the pgr x devil may cry collab! please feel free to use. feel free to reblog/like, credit is always appreciated if using! :)

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empress-ruby · 24 days ago

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❤️ Dante and Vergil 🩵 : PUNISHING GRAY RAVEN X DEVIL MAY CRY 5 COLLABORATION

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empress-ruby · 26 days ago

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fool's hope

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empress-ruby · 26 days ago

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hello (≧▽≦), can i make a small request abt sae, rin or karasu where reader has big boobs and sometimes and they somehow ended up looking at her boobs? like, they could be talking abt a something random with reader and it just happens. ( srry if my request it’s not well written or understandable, english is not my native language ╥_╥ )

“𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫”

a/n: i remember i helped babysit a preschool for community service and my boob size is like… normal ig? and this little boy pointed at my chest and said “boobies!” LIKE WHO ARE YOUR PARENTS AND WHAT ARE THEY TEACHING YOU???

and shidou would totally own that zumiez merch with their "i ❤️ boobies" design and wear it shamelessly 😭

ft. itoshi sae, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei

itoshi sae

the two of you were casually walking through the grocery store, chatting about what to cook for dinner.

“i think we should do pasta,” you said. “with garlic bread. and salad. ooh, and those tiny mozzarella balls–”

you turned to look at him and found him staring. not at your face.

his eyes were so intensely focused on your chest you’d think there was a crossword puzzle written across your boobs.

“sae.”

nothing.

“sae.”

“hm?” he said, finally blinking like you pulled him out of a VR headset.

“what the hell are you looking at?”

“i thought i saw a stain on your shirt,” he muttered, expression flat like he wasn’t just mentally composing a sonnet to your cleavage.

“a stain?”

“yup.”

“what kind of stain?”

“existential.”

you stood there flabbergasted while he just pushed the cart and kept walking like nothing happened.

later, as you cooked, he came up behind you and whispered, “boobzilla strikes again.”

you smacked him with a spatula. he dodged it. barely.

itoshi rin

you were sitting on the floor with him in your living room, showing him a childhood photo album because you were bonding, okay?

“this is me in kindergarten,” you said, flipping the page. “and this is me in third grade. i was obsessed with dolphins.”

“huh,” he grunted, eyes scanning the photos… until they weren't.

his gaze dipped for half a second, just a flicker. a brief, tragic lapse in self-control. and you saw it.

“rin.”

he looked up so fast his neck cracked. “yeah?”

“you looked.”

“i didn’t.”

“you blinked directly at my boobs.”

“i blinked past them.”

“there’s no past them. they’re in front of me.”

rin turned into a brick wall. stopped speaking. went so still you could’ve mistaken him for a wax statue.

for the next ten minutes, he avoided looking below your chin like your boobs were medusa.

you turned to him and said, “they’re not going to bite you.”

“yet,” he whispered, completely serious.

karasu tabito

you were having a serious convo about rent prices and gentrification. serious.

“they turned that ramen shop into a vape store. a vape store, tabi. do you know what this means?”

“yes,” he said slowly, clearly not listening.

you leaned in, waiting for a deep, insightful comment. instead, his eyes drifted down like they were physically pulled by gravity.

“karasu.”

“y’know,” he said, blinking like he just woke up and ignoring how he used his last name instead. “i could fit a whole bowl of ramen on your boobs.”

“i was talking about capitalism.”

“and i’m talking about your assets, baby.”

you smacked him with a throw pillow.

“what?! don’t act like you didn’t bless me with the view. god gave you those like a cheat code.”

he winked and then dramatically fake-fainted onto the couch like he was dying of thirst.

every time you wear a low-cut top, he salutes you like you just did a public service.

isagi yoichi

you were watching a documentary together, fully invested in the plot. meanwhile, isagi was trying his best to be a respectful man of society.

you were explaining something on screen, leaning forward a little, and your top shifted just slightly.

and his brain just… froze. like, buffering.

you noticed immediately. “yoichi?”

“huh?”

“what did i just say?”

“uhhh... the environment?”

“we’re watching a documentary on japanese vending machines.”

“right. yep. vending machines are... bad for the climate?”

you narrowed your eyes, arms crossed (which only made things worse), and he panicked.

“i wasn’t–! it was–! i didn’t mean to!!”

now he’s waving his hands like he’s trying to swat guilt away.

“my eyes were just following the light source!”

“what light source?”

“you. you’re the light of my life.”

man really tried to romance his way out of being caught.

it worked. barely.

kaiser michael

you were arguing about something stupid, like which fast food fries were superior.

“waffle fries are elite,” you insisted.

“they’re pretentious,” he said. “pick a shape and commit.”

and somewhere in the middle of your passionate defense of curly fries, his eyes trailed southward like his pupils had minds of their own.

he didn’t even try to hide it.

“stop looking at my boobs.”

“i’m not,” he said, not even blinking.

“you are.”

“i’m admiring the passion in your voice,” he smirked. “it just happens to echo really well off your chest.”

“kaiser.”

“what? you’re giving boob TED talk energy right now. it’s inspiring.”

you hit him with a fry. he caught it in his mouth and winked.

“your arguments are strong,” he said. “but your boobs? stronger.”

he would definitely make up fake awards like “best visual presentation” and hand them to you while bowing dramatically.

shidou ryusei

you were showing him how to make pancakes. flour on your cheek, spatula in hand, adorable domestic energy.

he was pretending to help, mostly eating the batter and poking your sides.

“you’re not even paying attention,” you sighed.

“i am,” he said, leaning against the counter and watching you flip a pancake.

but then you leaned to grab a plate and… yeah. his brain went full caveman.

“BOOBS,” he said out loud. just. said it.

“excuse me?”

“uh– BOOP. i said boop.”

“you said boobs.”

“boop-boobs. it’s a pancake term. very official.”

you gave him a death glare.

he grinned, grabbed a strawberry, and placed it gently on your cleavage like it was a shrine.

“for the gods,” he whispered.

you whacked him with the spatula.

he licked the strawberry off.

he lives with zero shame and zero fear of death.

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