hminnj

[hminnj]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[hminnj]

im biased and also drunk on a wednesday so excuse me but like u can just tell by the bnha artbook scan that todoroki shouto has thee biggest dick in the mha universe

[hminnj]

I think theres something so perfect about seeing characters with any form of supernatural power/ability actually apply it in their day to day life to make things easier for them and i feel a lot of authors (esp manga authors) miss that opportunity

Like hell yeah i would superheat my dinner with my hand if i could or float the tv remote to me for convenience

Its something i particularly wish i could see more in movies, i remember seeing it once in i forgot which but probably mcu and idk it just made me happy

[hminnj]

I need to bed ratio

[hminnj]

I’m pegging his ass .

[hminnj]

Hnnnnngngjdjd thoughts about grocery shopping with veritas late at night

Making nabs at him while hes too sleepy to retort (reading off the list and saying whole milk and he gives you a weird look cause he's lactose and he knows you know that)

sleepy ratio just follows you around silently while you do all the actual shopping, every once in a while making an addition to the pile

glasses glasses glasses

noticing his glasses are dirty and gently taking them off him to wipe them with your shirt while he's patiently waiting

I 100% think veritas communicates nonverbally (some sort of sign or just nudging) when he's too tired to, probably gently pokes you every once in a while for different things

sleepy veritas is the only time he's becomes a passenger princess, in any other situation he insists on driving

very misc and messy but i think you see the vision

[hminnj]

my secret to art happiness is it's not about how many notes what you draw is likely to get. t's about how many times you're going to go back to it, to your own art, and think "this FUCKS actually and caters to me entirely, specifically, fully. i love this artist (me) (me who i drew this) (myself)"

[hminnj]

reblogging this cause wowow 700+ notes dayum

very thankful that i was able to write something that a lot of people read and liked it

but uh i dont think i will ever write a part two, unfortunately this is the epitome of my writing (my writing isnt very good) and a part two will only ruin it for me + this is how i originally wanted to leave this fic. So, sorry to anyone who was asking for a part two

As for the mc's actual fate, i do have a canon one in mind, but i want to leave it up to interpretation :)

Maybe In A Different Age

Senku/fem reader

cw: angst no comfort (i tried) ik this fandom kinda dead lowkey but I wanted to write this cause its so senku coded. Senku's an idiot (unsuprisingly). Not very good writing.

wc: uhh i wrote this in my notes, around 1k probably

-

Byakuya brings two strangers into their house on a random thursday.

"Senku, this is a close friend and her daughter, I'm sure you guys will get along splendidly."

"Ok."

Five year old Senku is harshly blunt when he meets you for the first time, staring at him silently as if you've never seen a human before. He doesn't have anything to say and it seems neither do you, so he walks off, deciding he has better things to do. Promptly ignoring the sigh and apology the older man lets out.

.

"So I got this new idea and I'm going through the basic logistics and research right now, might need your help later."

"I'll go get us some snacks and something to do while you work on it then."

Six year old Senku watches you dissappear from his doorway, absentmindedly humming while you head to the very familiar kitchen. Your family has been apparently busy as of late so he forcibly sees your face more often. You usually just eat his food, do your work, and ask him (dumb) questions. You're a friend now, he supposes.

.

"Hey dum dum, Byakuya got me new equipment, so I have some new ideas. So listen up."

"Course Senku!"

Seven year old Senku grins, you're always willing to help him out for whatever reason you have (something weird probably, in his opinion). In return, he always tells you what he's working on and his labor demands. So per usual, he excitedly gets into the details of the next project that he plans on working you and Taiju to the bone for.

.

"Hey Senku?"

"What?"

"I think I love you."

"Huh? You better not be catching feelings dum dum." He gives you a confused squint after hearing your words.

"Whatever you say." You hum

Eight year old Senku hears you say those three words for the first time, you don't say why and he doesn't know either. He thinks its rather idiotic, but he shrugs it off after you silently go back to reading. You've been picking up books more often as of late, not that he cares much.

.

"You're late for the test runs, Taiju and Yuzuriha already left."

"Sorry sorry! My teacher held me up a little later at practice today."

"Hm." His disappointed stare returns.

"Im sorry..? Love you?" You're sheepish with your response.

"How is that supposed to make up for anything? Now come help me carry this stuff"

"As you wish, princess Senku."

Nine year old Senku doesn't understand why you and Byakuya tell him that so often (or that stupid nickname sourced from his "feebleness"), but he moves on quickly to detail the results of the test and the numerous next steps. Much to his pleasure.

.

"Wake up stupid. You fell asleep." Senku (roughly) shakes you awake from your shoulders, poking at your face a few times.

"Huh? Oh sorry Senku, I guess I'm just tired."

"Well you're not gonna wanna miss this." He grins while looking up, expectant.

"Hm. Hey the moons pretty tonight yeah?"

"It looks the same as it always does. Is that poetry getting to you and making you sappy?"

You wait before responding, "Maybe."

Eleven year old Senku keeps you up on certain nights for his projects or for nights like these where there's a meteor shower. He thinks you should stop reading so much of those books that make you sound like Byakuya. You should also get more rest, he adds.

.

"Happy Valentines Day Senku!! Got you a gift, heh."

"Must I tell you again?" Senku turns to a usual sight, you waving a gift in front of his face as if he were a dog.

"I'm good I just wanted to remind you."

"Right."

Twelve year old Senku doesn't see the point in meaningless feelings or holidays for said feelings. Nevertheless, he takes the homemade chocolate from you, skimming through the card which contents include exactly what he expected (a confession of sorts, again), and placing it to the side. Ignoring it in favor of the much more sensible chemicals in front of him. Like every year though, Senku keeps it. He doesn't know why.

.

"Taiju and Yuzuriha definitely have something going on don't you think?"

"And you're bringing this up why?"

You pause, you know why, but you know he wouldn't understand. "It's cute... wish I could have something like that you know?"

"...For the last time-"

"I know I know Senku, don't worry I'll try to bother you less."

Thirteen year old Senku doesn't see you as much anymore, mostly because of your practice that your mom wants you to perfect. You come over less nowadays, a shame (for his projects obviously), but your presence isn't any smaller of an intrusion at school. So much for bothering him less.

.

Around 21:00 is when he hears the familiar ringing of his doorbell. "It's late, why are you here?"

"Got out of training not too long ago and wanted to see you before I headed in."

"Your house isn't even remotely close to mine" A raised eyebrow is all you get in response to your grin.

"What does it matter when I'm already here, but gotta go before I get scolded. Goodnight Senku, Love you!"

"You know it's never gonna happen, as you know-"

"Yeah yeah, 10 billion percent illogical, I know, but I can't let my favorite person forget can I?" You flash another smile.

"As if I'd ever with how often you say it, now goodnight."

Fourteen year old Senku closes the door after you've cheerfully said your bye and faded from his sight enough. The lack of noise is strange, now that Byakuya has "ascended like an angel" (his words not Senkus) it's much quieter. The usual noise of a certain two people is absent more often than not. He let's the silence of the house sit in.

.

"Hey, can you get me something from the storage real quick? Need it soon but that bonehead forgot when he came up here babbling about confessing to Yuzuriha"

"Of course. I'd do anything for you. Always here. You know that Sen."

Fifteen year old Senku glances at your fleeting figure. The nickname is new, for sure. And he can't say he dislikes it, but the lack of a certain three words with your departure is strange. He brushes it off to your usual forgetfulness and peers out the window at Taiju and Yuzuriha. Thoughts preoccupied until a bright green light overtakes his vision and he can't do anything but think into the void.

So he counts.

And maybe every once in a while you pop into his head like you always do.

.

Three-thousand and something year old Senku wakes up to a world where theres a lack of civilization, a lack of his decency, and most importantly, a lack of you.

You would be useful right now, he supposes.

.

Three-thousand and something year old Senku spends his free time trying to find you and the rest of the "gang" (as you would say).

He finds Taiju, he finds Yuzuriha, he also finds a lion-punching maniac, but there's no sign of you.

He's ten billion percent sure you survived.

Right?

The concerned stare Yuzuriha gives him as they part is ignored.

.

(Physically) Sixteen year old Senku celebrates this birthday gazing into the sky from his new observatory. It reminds him of a lot of things, but he can't help but notice how empty it is, it's eerily quiet.

He doesn't like it.

Senku wishes you were here.

His first real birthday wish.

.

(Still) Sixteen year old Senku breaks when he hears his father's voice again for the first time in ages. It's not his voice that gets to Senku. He's heard it plenty enough in his lifetime. It's the mention of you.

"Just kidding! I know it's you on the other side of this Senku! And ____'s there with you right? Please tell me you're dating already or even better married so I can have grandchildren. Please please please Senku! Although you can't really tell me that but-"

Senku stops himself from showing vulnerability in front of the village, and he also stops himself from pausing the record right there and then. Opting to sigh and curse his dad out as a cover up, his fist lightly punching the table.

"Damn you old man."

The questions from the villagers about who you could be are forgotten in favor of an angelic voice. Senku's quick to tune it out. It reminds him of you.

.

(Mentally) Sixteen year old Senku sits by himself that night. It's been a long day. The constant repeat of a certain melody in the background, more work for the science kingdom, and a few questions about who you were. They stopped after a few radio silences from him, feelings are hard for the scientist after all.

It's cold.

He wishes you were here.

It's dark.

He wishes you were here.

It's lonely.

He wishes you were here.

The day he can always guarantee you're there has long passed. You should be here, is what his mind tells him. You owe him for the past 3000 years of missed birthdays after all.

It's funny, in his opinion. That you were probably most-definitely always there. And the one (multiple actually, 10 billion in his mind) time he looks for you, you're not there.

He doesn't think its funny.

"I'd do anything for you huh..."

Anything but keep your word.

He scoffs, but it's directed at himself. He would never blame you for this, or anything for that matter, he can't.

So he sits. And he stays. Like you would've wanted him too. He looks at the clear sky like you usually do. And he notes how the moon is pretty tonight. Just like you.

"I love you too."

He's 10 billion percent sure he does.

-

Thanks for reading, if you did :). Sorry for any errors not fully proofread. Senku is so right person wrong time coded when it comes to romance that i had to write this even if its lowkey bad

[hminnj]

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚: love seems to be found everywhere but with you. in order to survive your best friends' wedding, you somehow get tied up with dating your insufferable coworker. the plan is simple: look convincing enough to ward off your ex, finally make your mom proud, all while working together on a high-stakes project at the office. but can everything really go so smoothly when real feelings get thrown into the mix?

contents: veritas ratio x fem!reader, modern AU, unfortunate Sampo slander, very much idiots to lovers vibes, fake dating, super slow burn and self denial with this one, main characters are all in their mid-late 20s, eventual smut but will be tagged accordingly and also skippable !! total word count: 71.8k (ongoing!!) // cross-posted on ao3 a/n: i never knew how deep i would get into veritas ratio but here i am writing a potential 50k+ romcom fic series starring him and a lead that's incredibly self-indulgent // 11May2025 update: okay we are gonna be at least 100k for this

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

001: XO, WITH LOVE / 002: DIRTY LITTLE SECRET / 003: TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING / 004: MOTION SICKNESS / 005: GET YOUR WISH / 006: CHECK YES, JULIET / tbd ⟡⟡⟡

© 2024 DOOBEA. do not copy any of my writing and translate/repost.

[hminnj]

this image has been killing me so bad LMFAO

[hminnj]

— 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 :^)

[hminnj]

SOMETHING IN THE WATER | 7 | SHOUTO x READER

SUMMARY: As a future marine biologist, you’ve scored big on your final internship: a summer in the tropics, researching the waters off the coast of a lush, sunny island. But what you thought would be all beach days and piña coladas turns out to be the revelation of a lifetime when you haul in a handsome merprince, and discover not everything in these waters is quite as it seems. TAGS/WARNINGS: mermaid au, interspecies relationships, mating rituals/courting behavior, (sort of) case fic, aged up characters, eventual smut, fem pronouns/afab reader LENGTH: 4.2k of est. 31k, 7th of 8 chapters NOTES: For @honehonn3honey, for reminding me how much I love this AU and inspiring me to hurry up and finish this chapter.

Shouto’s mouth was warm and soft, and he tasted like salt.

He was many other things too—many lovely, wonderful, absolutely delicious other things—but you hardly had the brain power to think them, too focused on the way his lips moved over yours, the way his tongue teased along yours.

You heard yourself let out a muffled noise of pleasure, shifting nearer. His chest was so warm and firm under your hand, and you felt clawed fingers gently tangle in your hair. Shouto carefully cupped the back of your head to pull you closer, and you could feel the restrained strength in the movement. It made you shiver and curl into him tighter.

Shouto groaned into your mouth, and then his hands were on your waist, tugging you insistently over him until you were perched in his lap. His scales brushed against the inside of your thigh, strangely smooth and shockingly warm. It made your brain fog to feel him against you like this, the firmness and heat of him.

There was also the utter strangeness of him, too. You had never kissed someone with such sharp teeth, or claws, or a strength you were beginning to suspect was terribly beyond human. But Shouto was gentle, attentive. His thumb smoothed along your jaw, carefully angling his claws away, his other hand pressing you down onto him.

He made every one of your thoughts slur and slide together, and you were so distracted you barely heard the series of taps on your door.

A cold spike of panic stabbed through you when the noise resolved itself into the sound of someone knocking. You shot up, nearly bashing Shouto in the mouth, and scrambled off of him.

“Uh—! Coming!” you yelled to your visitor, hurriedly yanking the comforter out of its nearly tucked corners, and rucking it up over as much of Shouto as you could. Shouto looked a little dazed, his mouth flushed from your kisses. It took him a minute to realize what you were doing, pulling it on over his tail. He looked equal parts mystified, ruffled, and concerned, and it was actually so cute you could have kissed him again—but now was not the time.

You gestured at him to stay in bed and stay quiet, then hurried to the door.

Yu stood on the other side of it, raising a pert blonde brow when you only cracked it a tiny bit to peer out.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, trying to look past you. You wedged yourself more bodily into the opening, trying to block her view.

“What—uh. What would you be interrupting?” you said quickly. “Did you, um, need something?”

Yu looked at you for a long minute, her hair ruffling softly in the sea breeze. “I came to see if you were feeling any better. And Death Arms says we’re leaving at eight thirty for Sunfish.”

Your brain was so muddled from the combination of Shouto’s kisses and your sheer panic that it took you a long moment to remember what Sunfish even was.

“Oh!” you said stupidly, nodding quickly. “Yeah, Sunfish. I will be ready then. And I’m definitely feeling better, thank you for checking on me.”

Yu’s eyes again darted past you into your room. A sly smile pulled at her mouth. “I bet you are.”

You stood up ramrod straight in your panic. There was no way she could know.

You garbled out a strangled-sounding goodbye, waving her off and ushering her quickly off your porch. You lingered in the doorway, not daring to move an inch until she disappeared into her own bungalow, then turned back to Shouto.

He looked so handsome spread out in your sheets, mouth swollen from your kisses, but you knew you were running too much of a risk to climb back over him and make good on the promises that had underlaid his kiss. Not now that Yu had come calling.

You sighed, scrubbing a hand along your face. “I’ve got to get you back down to the beach before she remembers something else. And we’ll need to talk about what…this just was more after Sunfish.” You valiantly fought down the flush that threatened to rise to your cheeks.

Shouto’s beautiful mouth turned down, but he nodded, blinking long and slow. “I will answer anything you wish to ask.”

You thought you’d probably need a little more time and space to come up with a coherent list of questions, your head swimming with the memory of his lips on yours. You vaguely remembered something about mating rituals, and you did not have the brainpower to think through all that right now.

“I’ll come meet you tomorrow?” you asked instead.

Shouto nodded, eyes pinned on you intently. You resisted the impulse to lean back down to him.

You grabbed a handle of the wheelbarrow instead and pushed it closer to the bed for him to climb back into, studiously ignoring the sinuous flex of his muscles as he slithered back in. You shoved the tarp back over him too, then poked your head out the door to make sure Yu wasn’t skulking about again before wheeling Shouto carefully back out the front door.

Shouto was unusually quiet on the journey back to the beach, and you couldn’t think of anything to say either that wouldn’t reveal just how much you wanted to turn around and wheel him back into your bungalow.

You slowly guided him down to the water instead, pushing him in until the waves gently lapped at your thighs, sloshing up over the sides of the wheelbarrow.

It was then that Shouto turned back to you, surprising you as he reached out a clawed hand. His fingers brushed ever so gently over your mouth, igniting another hot wave of something under your skin.

“Good night,” he murmured, his voice strangely deep. His eyes seemed glued to your mouth, and you could feel even the tips of your ears getting hot.

You nodded, cringing when your own “goodnight” came out far too breathy.

But that seemed to satisfy Shouto, the corner of his mouth flicking up. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip once more, with a little bit more intention than before. Your skin tingled, and you held yourself very still under his touch, willing your knees not to give out on you.

Slowly, Shouto drew his hand back to himself, and nodded, looking gratified. “I will see you tomorrow,” he promised, in his soft tone.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

And with that, Shouto slid out of the wheelbarrow into the water and disappeared into the dark sea.

Morning found you on the step to Yu’s bungalow, the early morning wind raising goose bumps along your skin. Fat clouds drifted lazily across the sky, and the palms rustled sleepily in the breeze.

When Yu poked her head out, you could tell she was not at all pleased to see you, blinking sleepily with her hair still mussed on one side.

“I’m sorry—did I wake you?” you asked. The crew was set to leave at eight thirty for Sunfish, as she’d informed you the night before, and you’d thought she’d be up already, getting ready.

She waved a hand at you to gesture you in, yawning. “I was up, just regretting my choice of career over a cup of coffee.”

You laughed nervously, following her into the room and shutting the door behind you. Her room looked like a tropical hurricane had torn through it, an explosion of clothes draped over every surface and her luggage laying open, as if ransacked, in convenient tripping locations.

“I had something I needed to show you, before we go to Sunfish,” you said, trying to not let your eyes linger too long on the mess.

Yu grunted, grabbing a brush off the bedside table and yanking it through her blonde mess of hair. She was still in sleep shorts and a pink button-up pajama top. There was no way she’d actually been up before you knocked.

“What is it, kid?” she asked absently, moving over to one of the open suitcases.

Your hand slipped into the pocket of your windbreaker, closing in on the vial you’d filled with the samples of coral from the lagoon.

“It’s—I’ve found something. While exploring the island,” you started slowly, watching her dig through her things with her foot while she finished off her hair with her hands.

She gave a sidelong glance as if gesturing for you to continue.

“There’s this lagoon, towards the northern side of the island,” you said.

Yu’s brows scrunched. “I don’t remember setting up at any lagoon.”

You shook your head. “It’s not accessible by boat. There is—or, was, a small underwater channel to get inside, under one of the cliffs. But it’s been dammed off.”

Yu finally stopped looking through her things, turning to you to give you her full attention. “Dammed off?”

You nodded. “A huge strip of metal plating. It looks recent and it’s definitely intentional—it’s drilled right into the rock. And um, the lagoon is not doing too well.” You pulled your hand from your pocket, laying out the samples of coral on her sitting table.

“The coral there is entirely bleached, and I’ve found traces of industrial processing chemicals after testing in the lab, most concerningly what looks like formalin. There’s a pipeline that looks new as well, dumping everything out into the lagoon. I didn’t trace it back as it’s too small to climb into, and it disappears underground a little ways away from the lagoon. But I think it’s most definitely Sunfish.”

Yu’s eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline. “Well well. You’ve been a busy girl.”

Your stomach churned. You couldn’t tell if she was pleased you’d taken the initiative, or annoyed you were only now looping her in.

“I’m sorry for not telling you first,” you said.

Yu watched you for a long moment, before a devious sort of smile touched her mouth. “Your beach boy help you find it?”

Your stomach lurched then, a motion like it was trying to throw itself right through the wall of your skin. “My—what?” you gasped, catching her sitting chair for balance.

There was no way she’d seen Shouto in your room last night, despite her obvious suspicions. You’d made sure you’d blocked up the entire doorway.

Yu looked smug. “Next time you answer the door after rolling around with someone, you might wanna take a look at your mouth and hair first.”

Your face flamed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Yu just gave you a knowing look. “Red and white hair? Biceps like a Greek god? That ring any bells for you? If I hadn’t seen you out in the water with him the other night I would have almost believed you. But you were so obvious last night too.”

Your heart rate picked up, launching into a sprint. She’d seen Shouto! And she’d seen what he’d done to you!

You were simultaneously horrified and gratified—at least he wasn’t an insanely handsome figment of your overactive imagination. But you thought you’d been so careful! Had she seen any more than she should have?

Yu waved you off, laughing at the look of horror you knew was dawning on your face. “Relax, it’s not illegal to get friendly with the locals.”

You swallowed down a lump in your throat. “It’s not—I wasn’t—”

She padded over her sitting table, picking up the vial of coral samples. “You mind if I check this and log it before we head out?”

You fumbled, unnerved by the sudden change in conversational direction. “I—of course.”

Yu tossed her hair over her shoulder, then went back to her suitcase, digging through it with greater purpose. “If what you’re saying is true, we’ll want a paper trail showing we had this sample before setting foot on Sunfish property. Then we can get one there and see if it matches. That will be enough for local government to issue a search warrant and we can see if your pipeline really does link back.”

A shocked little thrill went through you. If that was true, you were close to closing this case out. The thought of leaving Shouto behind made you feel a little sick, but you quickly pushed it down.

You would talk to him later, once Sunfish was dealt with. And it wasn’t like you could delay. Sunfish was a danger to the local environment, and that included Shouto as well.

You’d rather have him alive and alone than sick and saddled with you.

“Take these to the lab and set everything up for me. I’ll be there when I’m done getting dressed,” Yu told you, flapping her hand at your coral samples again.

You nodded, grabbing them off the table. “Should I tell the rest of the team too?”

“Mmm,” she grunted. “They don’t know we know, but it will be good to have Death Arms cover for us in case we need to sample something they might not like. Make sure he, Kamui, and Masaki are up to speed.”

You dutifully went to the door, wrenching it open to step back out into the tropical sun.

Yu’s voice stopped you on the threshold, sounding warmer than she had before. “And kid?” she asked.

You looked back at her curiously. “Yeah?”

She smiled up at you from where she was still bent over her suitcase. “Good work. The team is gonna be proud of you.”

You felt your face flame again, building on the flush that her observations on Shouto had already left. Your first big job out of school, and your supervisor actually thought you were doing good. You tried not to feel too pleased with yourself, and with the way your relationship with Shouto had seemed to have brought you nothing but good things.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. Then you ducked out of the doorway, and darted into the sun, feeling ridiculous and shy.

Sunfish was a dominating presence on the northern edge of the island, clearly visible along the northern access road.

You’d seen it along the coast as you boated around, setting up the testing stations, but it looked even more comedically villainous up close—a corroding grey warehouse above which multiple vents and smoke stacks rose like castle turrets.

Izuku steered the jeep into the small parking lot, and you watched in the rearview as his normally kind face pinched. You hadn’t had a chance yet to catch him alone and ask exactly how long had he been hiding the fact that he knew fucking merpeople and what the hell was up with their mating rituals. And you wouldn’t dare to now, surrounded as you were by your science crew.

But you thought you caught a curious flash of those emerald eyes as you piled out behind your coworkers.

Death Arms thanked him for the ride, setting up a time for pickup, and then shepherded the rest of you towards the cannery. You wrinkled your nose as you approached, the smell of fish and low tide assaulting your nostrils.

There was a man in a suit waiting for you at the entrance, long-limbed and dark haired, with small, watery eyes. He introduced himself as Ikeda, the cannery manager, and walked you through the list of stops he planned to bring your group on your tour. He held a clipboard at his side, a pen clipped fastidiously to his jacket pocket, and his entire demeanor suggested he was eager to get you in and out as fast as possible, despite the welcoming smile he bestowed on you.

Death Arms nodded along as Ikeda spoke, then pointedly asked in an overly-friendly tone, “Sounds good. So, how long have you been the manager here?”

Ikeda blinked. “About seven years now.”

You couldn’t tell if it was your instant dislike of him, but you thought his tone was rather oily. The cannery manager for seven years—that meant there was no way this guy didn’t know what was going on in this plant. There was no way he’d missed out on a pipeline being installed for waste water disposal. No way he was missing what you were sure were thousands of gallons of waste material being pumped out and away from the facility.

Your mind flashed back to Shouto again, a surge of anger overcoming you. This guy had helped dam off a place of cultural significance to Shouto’s people, and Shouto had had to drag himself over easily a kilometer of forested land, only to then submerge himself into literal poisoned water to get you your coral.

If given enough time, more of Shouto’s people would probably have to undertake the same ritual, endangering more and more of his pod.

Your hand flew up to your neck, pressing over the coral chips that sat just underneath the collar of your shirt. You tried to suppress the wave of virulent dislike that overcame you, and hid yourself behind Yu to cover as much of your expression as you could as Ikeda gestured for your group to follow him.

You trailed along after your teammates as Ikeda led you into the building. The interior was freezing cold, a maze of industrial metals and cold fluorescence. It was a shock to your senses after the lush, humid tropicality outside, and the shiver that overtook you slid into the marrow of your bones, mixing with your sick dislike.

Ikeda led you to the processing lines first, a complex series of conveyor belts and machinery, dotted by workers in hairnets, gloves, and bright yellow aprons. He explained how the fish was sorted according to their type, then cleaned and prepared. He led you to each station as he spoke, walking you through how the fish was then packed into cans and vacuum-sealed, then heat treated to sterilize them, or treated with other preservatives if not canned.

He occasionally paused to let Masaki take samples, a strange stillness overcoming his face as Masaki did so. It made you even more sure of your dislike of him, and you couldn’t help but bring yourself to ask probing questions as Ikeda explained some of the chemicals used to preserve shelf life—salt, citric acid, potassium sorbate. All normal preservatives, and all chemicals you’d found in your samples of the coral from the lagoon—but not the most damning.

“Is that a comprehensive list, or does Sunfish use any other preservatives?” you asked, willing your voice to sound casual. Yu gave you a carefully neutral glance over her shoulder.

Ikeda paused, his eyes seeming to grow even smaller as he looked at you. You didn’t like the sharpness that lurked there, even as he smiled pleasantly. “Sunfish uses a variety of preservative ingredients, as I mentioned. The three I’ve mentioned are just a small subset.”

The statement was so carefully crafted, technically answering while saying absolutely nothing at all.

You realized you would not get an answer out of him unless you asked very directly—and doing so might alert Ikeda to the fact that you had more than just suspicions. You nodded vaguely instead, grateful when Death Arms asked another question, pulling Ikeda’s attention off of you.

Yu’s fingers delicately touched your wrist, and she leaned in, speaking quietly. “The samples Masaki got should match most of the chemical blends you found, and taking pictures of the lagoon will be enough for a warrant,” she said, then paused, lowering her lashes and cutting her magenta eyes to yours. “Although if we can confirm the formalin you mentioned, we can get production shut down immediately.”

You nodded.

Formalin—a solution containing varying amounts of formaldehyde—was a controversial method of preserving fish. Two commercially available formalin products were generally accepted by most food and health administrations, but its usage and storage was highly regulated. If the concentration of formaldehyde was high enough, drainage disposal would not be a legal option. Releasing it into a lagoon, where it would be subject to sunlight and high temperatures and was most definitely dangerous enough to get the entire operation cancelled.

Masaki politely insisted on getting a sample of all of the preservative solutions, and you helped him collect them, frowning over the neatly labeled name of each when you came across them—citric acid, potassium sorbate, sodium benzoate—but no formalin solution.

Yu’s frown was more pronounced as you were led into the administrative offices to meet some of the other executives, and to conduct what Ikeda pronounced a “quality sampling!”, smiling.

You could tell she was getting mildly annoyed, terrible at hiding her emotions, but she took a deep breath before grabbing your wrist.

“Ikeda-san, I’m afraid our newbie is feeling a little queasy after seeing everything. Become a marine biologist because she’s a sweet little animal lover. Could you point us towards the ladies’ room? I’ll take care of her.”

Ikeda blinked, turning his gaze to her, before his eyes darted to you. You had no idea what Yu was trying to do here, but you knew better than to disagree. You quickly hunched in on yourself a little, trying your best to look pale and peaky and pathetic.

“I—of course,” Ikeda said, pointing back out into the hall towards the main production line. “If you turn left out of here and follow the hallway further, they should be around the corner on your right.”

“Thank you,” Yu purred, then put her arm around you in an affectation of matronly concern you were sure she’d never actually felt once in her life. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You let her usher you out into the hall, turning to stare at her when the door closed behind you.

She rolled her eyes at your questioning expression, pulling you back down the hall towards the production line. “Come on, we only have a couple minutes. Formalin needs to be stored in a well ventilated area and it obviously isn’t in the main production area. We have to be quick if we’re gonna snoop—you take the left and I’ll take the right.”

You blinked. “You want to sneak around? Won’t they just say we planted evidence since we went off on our own?”

Yu’s mouth pulled up in a grin. “You got your phone on you? It’ll need to be stored labeled and with a spill kit. Hard for you to sneak an entire industrial spill kit in here, wouldn’t you agree? Just take a quick video of you sampling it and the conditions it’s stored in and that will be more than enough.”

You could feel a giddy sense of incredulity overtake you. She was serious. She wanted to go haring off without supervision, ostensibly breaking into parts of Sunfish without permission.

“Hurry up, time’s ticking,” she said, then tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall almost as enigmatically as Shouto had disappeared into the dark water last night.

The thought of Shouto brought you back to yourself, a sense of urgency snapping over you.

You only had a few minutes to find and prove Sunfish’s guilt, and Shouto was dependent on the results. The faster you shut off the flow of chemical waste water to the lagoon, the safer Shouto would be.

You all but threw yourself down the hall, following it past the women’s room you’d ostensibly been on your way to, peeking into any unlocked room or storage closet on the way. The passage seemed to span the side of the building, letting onto various rooms laden with cleaning supplies, overflow product, and marketing materials.

Time seemed to fly past at sickening speeds, every minute on the clock like a millisecond. You checked the time your phone anxiously, over and over again, urging yourself to move faster, while not wanting to move so quick that you missed what was most important.

It was only as you neared what seemed like the end of the hall, that you came across a room labeled Preservative Storage, papered with various seals of certification and governmental health requirements. Your heartbeat hammered in your chest as you tried the door, finding it open.

The room itself was unassuming, a tidy, cool space with drainage set into the floor and wide vents that spanned the ceiling. A variety of personal protective equipments hung just inside the door, some sealed tightly in plastic, laminated and color-coded charts hanging beside them. A variety of industrial refrigerators dotted the room in intervals, drums of other solutions in between them, everything looking carefully stored and well-maintained.

It was thanks to this orderliness that you had almost no trouble finding exactly what you were looking for.

You followed the line of labeled containers down the room, picking over each one with eagle-eyed focus. And there, in the far corner of the room, next to a variety of spill-cleaning equipment, lay a dark container with a white label, printed clearly with blue ink. You took your phone out with a shaking hand, snapping the picture you knew would close the trap on Sunfish once and for all.

The picture was clear, despite the shakiness of your hands, the label plainly announcing the the drum’s contents:

FORMACIDE-B.

[hminnj]

more than i even like self inserts i love the power of the second person perspective. like from a literary standpoint, the discomfort of you is so deeply appealing to me. it forces the reader to engage with a story in a way it is not required from other perspectives. i like it literature and in video games and in art. i like when a story challenges my concept of self and tells me: forget everything. this is a story about you (disambiguation)

[hminnj]

that fic was like a deathblow to my heart I'm an official mydeifucker mydeimutual mydeiglazer now . need to wife up that man and make him my househusband oh my god Ill have a breakdown

[hminnj]

secretly dating phainon and in an attempt to out the two of you cipher turns into ciphainon (spoiler alert, it works and now all the chrysos heirs know)

(it wasnt very secret in the first place anyways....)

[hminnj]

Gojo is 100% the type to tell everyone he's "on baby duty" and too busy to do whatever they're asking of him but in reality baby duty means him fully latched around you face digging into your stomach while your actual child is sleeping peacefully in another room

[hminnj]

You can call him a prick all you want.

Sukuna sometimes forgot your name, but that's only because he never uses it. Whenever you two are having a conversation, there are a few words that come out of your boyfriend's mouth more than others. "Babe," "baby," and "brat." The three B's, as you call them. Or the three words that make up your first, middle, and last name, according to Sukuna.