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rustygem · 25 days ago

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﹙❤︎﹚ 𝓝𝐎𝐓 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝓓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝓝𝐎𝐓 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝓜𝐈𝐍𝐄.

characters : cipher, mydei & aglaea [ separate ]

links : masterlist. rules. ao3 version. part 2.

they speak in stardust and glances, all golden silence and too-long stares. something ancient stirs beneath your skin. what are you to them—mortal or myth?

ⓘ 3.1k wc 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 no gender specified, mutual pining, semi-character studies, high school! au, mydei ft. phainon, subtle/non-existent spoilers, anxious!reader in cipher’s ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

all works are a property of ꒰ @kurogira ꒱ do not copy, translate, redistribute or feed my works into ai. this is an original work.

Did you find yourself entranced by Aglaea, the student council president? The one appearing bathed in gold, with a beauty that could rival even the divine themselves . . . you wouldn’t be the first. Aglaea was a prized jewel among her peers, always composed and in command—the kind of leader only spoken of in fairy tales. But behind that golden grace was someone who watched the world with quiet longing—someone who glanced your way a little too often, who lingered by the window just a little too long. Perhaps the goddess on the pedestal was more human than she let on. And perhaps she was waiting for someone to see that.

Those who adored her only ever sought her approval, through rose-tinted glasses and overly enthusiastic compliments. She waved them off with practiced poise, drowning in admiration, in gifts and applause wherever she went. Today was no different—Aglaea was, as always, a sight for sore eyes. But you didn’t bring her flowers. You didn’t stumble over your words, or ask for her attention like a wish. You just saw her—and in that rare moment, Aglaea didn’t feel like a goddess adored. She felt like a girl, standing under the weight of gold she never asked for.

(The weight that often felt too much for her to bear, the slender fingers of those who expected the best performance crawling up her spine—shoving her forward.)

She was built like a monument—polished, proud, and impossibly untouchable. People expected her to have every answer, to solve every conflict—to be a prize-worthy role model for those who could only dream of being as successful as she is. Aglaea was pushed into perfection before she even knew who she wanted to be. As a ballerina, she was expected to hide every cramp with a smile—to twirl as if it were the last move she’d ever make. As an athlete, she was expected to make it to every practice regardless of the obstacle. Sickness was an indicator of weakness, an excuse to retreat into the shadows of her bedroom—an escape her parents loathed deeply.

As an actress, she was expected to carry the weight of perfection on her bare shoulders—bruised and broken. A fractured bone, one she was meant to hold with pride.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” you questioned one morning, catching her completely off-guard. If someone were to compare you to her, you were the soil and she the gardener who raised the watering can—showering you in divine springs to help raise you. To guide the sunlight to your roots, expanding your potential to become something even greater.

You disagreed, heavily. You were never soil—never something waiting to be shaped. You had your own roots. You were tired of being someone else’s bloom.

“Tired? Of what?” she asked quietly. The drop in her gaze told you your question had struck something real.

“Perfection.” That was all you said—yet the word itself was Aglaea’s entire world, summarized in a single line. She felt a piece of it crumble beneath her feet.

“Perfection, you say? What gave you the impression that I’m tired of such a thing?” she inquired, the lift of her eyebrows betraying the humanity others believed she never possessed. If anything, she was more machine than human. More doll than girl—something crafted, not grown. Something beautiful, but empty of permission to feel.

“Your eyes.” you muttered, scoffing before turning your head in the other direction. Blue-green eyes that held such guilt, so much uncertainty swirling in their depths—it had been so long since anyone had really looked. “I expect you to act like a regular teenager, not a statue for everyone to polish and praise.”

“So that’s your impression of me.” she placed a hand under her chin, her lips twitching into a small smile. What was it that had changed? Her expression was unlike one you’ve ever seen before. Was it the taste of respite from the world she’d been suffocated in? Was it relief?

“It could’ve been worse, Miss Golden Girl.”

She hummed, arms crossing as she shifted her posture—less perfect now, more casual.

A dramatic gasp escaped your lips. “So you do know how to relax.”

“You’re quite the character, aren’t you?” she sighed, shaking her head with a trace of amusement.

“Enlighten me then. What is it you want from me?”

“For you to relax a little.”

“And what does that mean?”

You let out a mischievous giggle before pulling out a pen and a notepad from your bag, she tilted her head slightly out of curiosity for what you were doing. When you finished scribbling, you tore out the page you had written in and handed it to her. “It means I want to take you somewhere. And by you, I mean the Aglaea this school doesn’t know about. Sound fair?”

She froze. Fingers twitching—almost yearning. As if some hidden part of her ached to reach out.

You were offering freedom. Just like that.

When she’d been taught it had to be earned—through sacrifice, perfection, pain.

(Is it really this easy? No, it shouldn’t be.)

“What’s the catch?”

Her fist clenched tight against the black fabric of her skirt, hiding how cold her hands had become—how they trembled under pressure. Her palms were damp.

“There isn’t one. Go out with me, it’ll be fun.” You gently took her hand, unfurling her fingers and slipping the note into her palm. “Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t mean it that way.”

She pressed her lips together, eyes lingering on the folded paper. Then she looked up—just in time to catch you walking away with a grin that was far too proud to be casual.

She lifted the paper you had given her, finding a string of numbers that resembled a phone number.

“How troublesome..”

You never told them you were watching. That those stolen glances from the bleachers weren’t just passing observations—they were habits. You weren’t sure how it started. Maybe it was the way his shadow stretched longer than it should in the golden hour, or the way he never looked back. But Mydei had rooted himself into your daily routine like something quiet and inevitable.

The bleachers had become your favorite study place. As for how, you couldn’t quite say—constantly looking down at your notebook full of algebraic equations couldn’t possibly be good for your back. You made peace with that fact, somehow. And the view wasn’t half-bad either.

The sky, you mean.

Right?

It definitely didn’t have to do with the track star who entered the school building with sweat dripping down his face. The thought seemed almost offensive.

He ran not to win, but to forget—each footfall an echo of something he could never name, something that felt older than him, older than time. You didn’t understand how he did it, all of that running seemed pointless in your eyes. But you found yourself thinking about it more often. Thinking about him more often. You preferred fresh air and the scent of wet grass to the overly floral perfume sprayed by preppy girls who lived lives that never touched your own.

The only person you ever saw Mydei linger around was Phainon. And while Phainon wasn’t on the track team, the two of them were in more competitions with each other than Olympic champions. Their banter became your source of noise and entertainment, background music to long equations and longer glances.

“Mydei, ready for our next race?” Phainon asked, theatrical as always. You found it quite endearing though, comparing him to Mydei would end in a cycle of differences with minimal similarities—at least at first glance.

Mydei crossed his arms and furrowed his brows, staring right into Phainon’s fiery gaze. “Are you prepared to lose once again?”

“Lose? I won that last one, actually.” Phainon huffed, rolling his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Only you knew the truth. Because your eyes followed Mydei wherever he went—with intrigue that softened your gaze whenever he was near. Mydei had won that race. Barely. And if you ever brought it up, you weren’t sure either of them would ever agree on a conclusion that would satisfy them both. You giggled at the thought.

Then one afternoon, he stopped. Right there on the track.

“Mydei!” Phainon tossed him a water bottle. “What would you do without me?”

“Hydrate less,” Mydei muttered—but he wasn’t looking at Phainon.

He was looking at you.

Just for a moment. Just long enough.

“Bleachers today,” he said. His voice was low—quiet like something meant for only you. “What’s the occasion?”

You blinked, heart thudding once, sharply. “Sky’s nice.”

He tilted his head. “It usually is.”

Then he was gone, jogged back to the starting line like nothing happened. You let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding in.

(How embarrassing.)

You sighed before grabbing your pen once again.

But your pen didn’t touch paper again for the rest of the hour. Not once.

Something ancient stirred beneath your skin—familiar, electric, inexplicable. And you weren’t sure if it came from the stars above you . . . or the boy running circles just below.

The boys developed a habit of coming to you after every early morning race, ignoring your yawns and instead choosing to argue about who won. It ended in ties, or both of them barely outrunning each other on the field.

“Mydei won this time,” you spoke mid-yawn, placing your hand on your chin. “And no, I’m not picking favorites—Phainon.”

“There’s no way he won, my dear friend . . . won’t you speak the truth you hold so close to your chest?” Phainon pleaded, tossing his hands in dramatic despair. “You wound me. Deeply.”

“I call it how I see it,” you replied, eyeing his exaggerated performance with amusement.

Mydei stood off to the side, towel around his neck, chest rising and falling with the ease of someone used to the weight of the world on his lungs. He said nothing, but the barest smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

“Oh, he’s smirking. Great. The silent victory,” Phainon muttered, shooting his friend a glare before nudging you with his elbow. “Next time you’re the judge, try blinking. I think you missed when I passed him at the turn.”

“I didn’t blink,” you said. “But you definitely did. Right when he crossed the line.”

Phainon gasped.

“You’re both hopeless,” you sighed, flipping a page in your notebook you hadn’t written anything on. “If I had a coin, I’d start flipping it just to settle your arguments.”

“That would be fate,” Mydei said, voice low, like he rarely used it.

“Exactly. It’d be out of your hands.” You raised a brow at them both. “Which, frankly, sounds like the only way either of you will ever take a loss.”

Phainon groaned.

Mydei just looked at you. Eyes steady, unreadable. As if you’d said something more profound than you realized.

It lingered—the silence between the three of you, golden and stretched. The sky was just beginning to shift from pale dawn to warm amber, and the field smelled of dew and late spring.

You glanced at him again. Mydei. You wondered what else he’d let the world decide for him, and what he still tried to outrun.

The next morning, Mydei came to the field alone—but he didn’t charge straight toward the track as he usually did. Instead, he came to you—leaning a bit too close for comfort.

“You dropped this yesterday,” he said, holding out a worn purple notebook. His fingers brushed yours as you took it.

You blinked, surprised. “Oh, really? So that’s where I left it. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

You glanced toward the track. “Not gonna run today?”

He sat beside you instead, one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting on his knees. “No . . . not today.”

Silence settled between you like morning fog, heavy but not unwelcome.

You tried not to stare, but he wasn’t looking at you—he was watching the sky, as if the clouds might spell something out for him.

“No Phainon today either?” you asked, flipping through your notebook absentmindedly, even though you weren’t reading the pages.

(You weren’t sure why you were worried, Mydei usually had everything under control—didn’t he?)

“No,” he said. “He talks too much in the morning.”

You laughed under your breath. “He talks too much in the afternoon too.”

That earned you a rare smile, small and fleeting.

You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat with it. Mydei never rushed his words.

Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak. “Why do you come to the bleachers anyway?”

Whether the question was out of curiosity or concern, you answered with a small grin. “It gets too overwhelming inside of the school building, do you know how many people roam those halls in the morning?”

“Too many?”

“Too many.”

“I don’t understand how seeing me run across the field before classes start is any better, though.” he mumbled quietly, causing your smile to widen just a little more.

“You’re not overwhelming to be around.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re not.” you reassured him, rummaging through your bag for a handkerchief before gently dabbing the fabric onto his forehead. “You sweat a lot, by the way.”

He scoffed, “Do I now?”

“You do, but that’s okay too. Just sit still for a second.”

“Sure thing.”

Cipher always made it seem like fun. Like skipping class was the beginning of some great adventure, and not a panic attack waiting to happen. “No one’s gonna notice,” she’d whisper as you tiptoed down the hall behind her, heart pounding like a drum. “They’re all too busy pretending to care.”

And you’d want to believe her—because she said it like a promise, not a lie.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Cipher glanced back, her eyes softer than they ever looked in the daylight. “You okay?”

“I—yeah. I just…”

“Too much?”

“A little.”

She hummed thoughtfully, chewing her bottom lip before taking your hand. Her fingers were warm. Steady. “Then we’ll just go somewhere quiet. I know a place.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Mhm. Been hiding there since I was, like, twelve. It has snacks.” She said it like that was the main draw—but the way she adjusted her pace for you, let your hand go when she felt it tremble, glanced your way every few steps just to make sure you were still breathing right . . . it was more than snacks.

Cipher was sneaky, sure. But never with you. With you, she was honest in the ways that mattered most.

A smooth-talker, she was. The one with every solution in the book hidden inside of her mind, the one who chooses to carry the responsibility of your fragility on her shoulders—it didn’t make it any better that you reminded her of her old self. The stray cat who would hide in corners, scavenging for a speckle of glimmer within the pile of dull. “Stay calm, won’t you? You’ll be fine as long as you’re with me, remember? Plus, you’re more anxious in the classroom than out of it.”

You couldn’t disagree there, the stress that came with the environment was something you never got used to. You weren’t sure if you ever would. That weight of expectations casted upon you like a pile of dumbbells on your back—you felt sick just imagining it.

Cipher was your complete opposite, that you were certain of. She faced the world with a mischievous smirk and a scheme in the midst. She never faltered either, and she was the kind of person most feared due to her seemingly lax personality.

You’d once asked her if she was ever scared. It slipped out one afternoon, hidden between breaths as you ducked beneath the stairwell she called “home base.” Cipher just laughed, that low, amused kind of sound that felt like it echoed in your bones.

(You loved the sound of her laughter, it reminded you that regardless of what happened—that she would never allow you to collapse into the hole of fear and dread.)

“Scared?” she repeated, like the word was foreign. Then she leaned in, eyes sharp and unreadable. “I don’t have time to be scared. Someone’s gotta steer the ship when everyone else is frozen at the wheel.”

She made survival sound effortless. But even then, you caught it—the way her fingers twitched when she thought you weren’t looking. The way she always kept the exit in sight. She was fully prepared to leave like an alert cat readying its paws to charge out of the scene.

Cipher didn’t flinch when trouble came. She smiled at it, twirled it around her finger, and dared it to try her. And maybe that’s what made her so easy to follow—because with Cipher, you weren’t running away. You were running with her. Side by side, hand in hand—with a pounding heart and quickened breath—you followed her wherever she went and tried not to regret it.

“You remind me of how I used to be,” she said one day, flicking a pebble into a puddle with the grace of someone pretending not to care. “Scared. Small. Always asking for permission.”

You opened your mouth to apologize—though you weren’t sure for what.

“But look at you now.” She tilted her head, and for once, her smirk gave way to something gentler. “Still scared. But you’re out here anyway. That’s brave as hell.”

“I like you, you’re pretty cool~!”

You felt your heart skip a beat at the sound of her alluring tone, the way she sung your praises even if just barely—it made your chest ache a little.

“I don’t think so, doing this is still terrifying to me. I’m still really anxious about it all.”

“Then why are you here?”

(Why were you here? Did the sound of her voice lure you in too deep? Were you blindly putting your faith in a known troublemaker? A girl hiding behind several masks, known to lie, known to be deceitful?)

(Were you simply aching for a bit of solace in a place where you knew nothing about? A gamble that you took knowing the possible consequences?)

“I don’t . . . want to be like this forever. I want to be more like you, Cifera!”

That detail surprised her a bit. Why would you ever want to turn into someone like her? A topic of gossip for the teenagers roaming the halls to spread word about? At first glance, perhaps she would’ve thought of you as foolish and naive. But she knew the aching need to escape, to throw all responsibilities out of the window—to take a risk in exchange for your head to be out of water.

“Like me, huh? If that’s what you want . . . you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“Huh?” you blinked, noticing your phone had suddenly disappeared into thin air. Your lips formed a pout before you reached out towards her. “Give it back, Cifera!”

“Nuh uh, catch me if you can—dear student~!”

taglist [ 🔔 ] : @chlosology @seelestia @saeun @aellesira @spr9ng @florinoir @riniaras @milk-violet @kazuinvocation @tragedy-of-commons @fxngtasy

#imani’s favs :3 #cipher being considerate because of the reader #she’s softened :3 #MYDEI LOOKING AT US LIKE WE’RE THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS #AGLAEA LEARNING HOW TO RELAX BECAUSE OF THE READER #what beautiful character studies #first and last fic i read from this user #you did good OP.

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rustygem · 1 month ago

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۫ ꣑ৎ . HIS ULTRAVIOLENT PROSE. mydei

summary, even with half-bitten pomegranates between tongue, teeth and heart, the prince of Kremnos tries to make amends with you.

mydei x gn!reader. mildly lovers to enemies. tension and arguments. hurt with comfort. mentions of arranged marriage and eloping (love this trope with him) soft and gentle mydei, might be ooc. lore-inclined city-state ceremonies. [2.0k wc]

It’s merely an alliance ceremony.

And yet here you were, being dressed in foreign silks and heavy accessories. Compared to your usual attires the fabrics are lightweight, enough for a cold rush to scrape your skin despite the torch lit by the corner of your room.

Your face must’ve betrayed you, for the maidens that attended to you murmured about it being part of Kremnoan traditions and that you had to endure it, only with such a solid statement do you deflate, settling stiffly and defeatedly on the chair, allowing them to continue their decorations on you, to peel you bare of your sea-state city garments and pool Castrum Kremnos‘ silk clothes, sandals and cape over you.

At this very moment, you looked like a raw and beguiling warrior, a far cry of what you truly were, an ignorant coward.

“You look beautiful.” A more elderly woman speaks from behind, you stare at her through the vanity.

“…I look like a fighter.”

“Are you not?”

You hesitate to answer her, biting your lip to prevent yourself from speaking something you might regret.

Are you still labeled a fighter after losing your city to Castrum Kremnos?

You were anything but triumph, you lost your kingdom, your pride, your people—and only this alliance union can salvage whatever scraps of glory you have left, it's the only thing you could do for your folks since you disappointed them as their leader.

The elder woman’s hand lands softly on your shoulder, despite such a gentle manner you cannot help the flinch from echoing through your bones. Your nails bury into your palms.

“I assure you, young one, that shame is the last thing Castrum Kremnos would dare to offer you and your city-state.”

She pauses.

“Our prince would not dare such a thing from you.”

You wanted to laugh, to cry and scream and ruminate frustrations. But you swallow instead, “I see.”

You did not utter another word after that. The maidens have left long ago and you pondered with your own thoughts, recounting the gradual yesterdays you spent mourning over fallen friends and a broken city. You recounted tidbit memories of the remaining council that pushed you for this alliance—forcing you to succumb and kneel towards the very people that took your everything.

After all, as the last remaining royal blood, that’s the least you can do.

The Kremnos’ heavy bells finally billow, and you inhale sharply.

“It’s time for you to step into the ceremony hall, lord.”

And you stand, your heart heavy with pressure. When you followed a counselor towards your destination, the older man gave you a quick rundown of certain rules and traditions you needed to adhere to, you half-listened to the convoluted rules until the very last statement that catches your attention,

“At the end of the blessings, you are to share a cup of pomegranate juice with the one you are to join alliance with.” he starts,

“In this case, you are to drink from the same cup with the representative of our city, Kremnos’ prince Mydeimos.”

His name is an echo through the shell of your ears, leaving a bitter aftertaste between your teeth. You stopped listening after that, until you both faltered at the end of the corridor.

Your heart is pounding in your chest when the large, looming doors split open, by now, the hall is packed and standing at the very front was the ceremony priest and Mydeimos himself, awaiting your arrival. When you step beside him on the podium, your gaze dare not shift towards the prince.

You let the withered voice of the priest wander you through the prayer, he lifts an iron chalice brimming with liquid as red as blood—you watch quietly as he lifts a smaller glass of honey, letting the golden liquid pool into the red cup before blessing the drink.

The priest turns to you, with a nod he beckons you to mirror the oath spoken. With parted lips, you follow along, pledging allegiance and alliance to Castrum Kremnos, “And with the glory of Strife and blood intertwined in allegiance with Castrum Kremnos, I, the succeeding lord of my city shall share the same devotion of valorous death before glorious return.”

You tilt your chin, lips pressed against the iron. The tangy yet thickly sweet taste of pomegranate rinses through your tastebuds. When the red liquid hits the middle line, you retract, turning towards the direction of the prince.

You look at him, only to find his heavy resin eyes already on you.

Mydeimos’ blank stare traces every bare action you do, and for a split moment you try to hold his weighty stare, trying to dissect his expression—trying to see what he thinks of the whole thing, and yet you find none.

You’ve dropped your gaze then, before extending the chalice in his direction. You slightly stir when you feel his fingertips brush your knuckles, you are quick to let go when he grabs ahold of the cup—too quickly.

How audacious, you cannot help but wonder when the priest speaks the same oath to him, Mydeimos recites it but his eyes never stray from you. Truly, he’s like a prowling lion assessing its prey.

There’s a prickling sensation of self-consciousness with such a look pinned on you.

“And with the glory of Strife and blood intertwined in allegiance with Castrum Kremnos, I, Mydeimos the succeeding prince of my city shall share the same devotion of valorous death before glorious return…” he rasps, then he downs the remainder within the chalice, his golden eyes still on you.

You cannot help yourself but settle your gaze on his exposed collarbones, laddering your way up the column of his neck where you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs at the swallow of the juice, a few clumsy droplets run down his jaw before he retreats and wipes it with the back of his hand.

The bells sound once, then twice at the successful union but your mind is a flurry of thoughts, though all of them stop at one concluding statement, you desperately need to get out of the banquet hall.

So when you’re finally released from your duties, instead of lingering and talking with the folks you spin around towards the exit. Nobody seemed to bat an eyelash at your hasty departure, nor was there anyone in the hallway outside which allowed you to break into a sprint—you don’t know where you’re going, quite frankly the layout of the city is still foreign to you, but you needed to get out of there.

At the fall of your impatient footsteps, you barely hear another set chasing after you.

Only until you feel larger hands gripping your waist do you stop.

“Where do you think you’re running off to?” You don’t need to turn to know who was speaking, the plates of his half-naked front are pressed hard against your back, it acted like a furnace almost.

“Unhand me.” You try to sound casual but it ends up in a bite. “This instant, Mydeimos—“

“And what?” He challenges back. “Let you run around like a headless goose until one of the counselors finds you? Do you wish for trouble that much?”

Instead of answering, you try to pry his hands around your waist. Your attempts are obviously futile however you are wracked with frustrations, fury and confusion. Your actions only fueled the prince’s impatience.

“Quit squirming—“

“Then let me go!” You try to glare at him. “I wish to be anywhere but in your arms right now—“

That must’ve struck a nerve.

Mydeimos’ grip on you only tightened, he pulls you towards an empty corner between the heavy flaps of curtains and presses you against the wall. His hand grips your jaw—but despite such a harsh action his hold on you remains feather-light, gentle.

His face draws close to your own, until you can feel his raspy voice on your cheek. At this distance, you can smell his scent of bonfire, tender smoke and something sweet, like pomegranates, he smelled awfully fruity.

“Says the one that wishes to marry me, isn’t that what you confessed to me months before?”

The jab brings heat to your cheeks, you lift your hand with the intent to slap him but Mydeimos captures your wrist before your palm could collide with his cheek. His thumb runs up from your wrist to your palm, intertwining your fingers together and laying it on the wall beside your head, his bangs brush your forehead, face so, so close that if you tilted your head your lips would be brushing his own,

“You wanted to elope with me.” Mydei tells you. “Have you forgotten? Or do you wish for me to tell you the exact words you told me that day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, this was before my city was attacked by your warriors!”

The tension hangs gauche, the silence between the two of you almost unbearable. The man before you sighs heavily, “There are a handful of things that are at my disposal, even with the title of prince—the issues of prophecies is something I cannot control.” Mydei soothes a thumb over the pulse in your wrists.

“You of all people are aware of this fact.” he pauses. “Or maybe you weren’t, after all the sea-side states are nonbelievers, you and your people don’t revere the Titans, only the arithmetics and logarithms of the world.”

“You're right, I wasn’t.” You snap. “I did not know Castrum Kremnos was prophesied to destroy my home, Mydeimos. If I had known, I wouldn’t have uttered such preposterous words to you, I was made out to be an ignorant fool because of it.”

Mydeimos’ whole demeanor takes a polar shift, you’re unsure why those eyes had melted like butter, was it your shaky voice, the pitiful wallow in your tone? Or did he truly feel an ounce of empathy for your situation?

“You're not an ignorant fool.” He lets go of your wrist but his body remains pressed up against your own, despite the position his body heat grounded you, especially with his follow up of, “to me, you’re the wisest person I know. A leader with a heart of gold, I apologize for causing you so much agony and for being unable to aid you when you need it most.”

He takes your hand, smearing his lips against your knuckles. “I wish to make amends with you but if you hold such vengeance in your heart—” he tugs your wrist, digging your fingers to his chest just above his heart. “You can scratch my heart out and kill me, stab me in the back for as long as you want if it means your desires would be satiated, then so be it.“

“…Mydeimos.” To say you were shocked was an understatement.

He softly bumps his forehead with your own. “Do you hate me, kardia mou?”

This was the very reason why you fell for him, the prince from the city of warriors. Despite the harshness of his textures and tones, when it came to you, he was honest and open. Those universal stone-cold expressions fissure as soon as he sees a glimpse of you in the distance. He spoke in uncharacteristic gentleness and his fleeting skinships sent butterflies within your chest. You cannot be angry with him, much less hate when he acts like this.

You feel him interlace your fingers, weaving his own with yours. Then he leans down once again, pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, the intent of apology willing to spill from the nonexistent gaps between the two of you. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes turn glassy. Maybe it was due to Mydeimos’ comfort that every drowning pressure that you’ve bottled up comes cracking at the seams.

A sob spills between your lips.

“I don’t hate you, Mydei.” Your voice trembles when he tips your chin towards him, brushing his thumbs over the tear staining down your cheeks. “Truthfully, it is I that I loathe the most, not you—never you.”

“So please, never say that I find thrill in killing you.”

Mydei’s hand comes tangling through your tendrils, you weep on his collarbones, his woody scent engulfing you in comfort.

“I’m so sorry.” He repeats. “I’ll never speak of such a thing to you, so cease your cryings, my love.”

#heh…i made this get to 900 notes #THIS WAS SO PEAKKKK #imani’s favs :3

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