#elysia smut

[strwbmei]

Matchup Event

Matchup for: @woman-simp

Matchups: Elysia, Lisa, Kokomi

Contains: maybe ooc, fluff, nsfw, alcohol consumption (lisa), mommy kink (lisa), impact play (lisa), whipping (lisa), tentacles (kokomi), guided masturbation (elysia), phone sex (elysia), underwater date (kokomi), possessive sex (kokomi), cunningilus (kokomi), marking (kokomi), dacryphilia (kokomi)

A/N: So, so sorry for taking so long! I think this is the longest thing I've written. I hope you like it!

Elysia

╰┈➤ SFW ;

: ̗̀➛ You two are so different, yet so similar at the same time! You complete each other's flaws in all of the best ways, and neither of you can imagine a life without the other.

: ̗̀➛ As much as Elysia wants to wrap herself around you and cling to you at any chance, she's very understanding with your boundaries when it comes to that sort of stuff. Besides, it'll only make your shows of affection that much more meaningful�� or so, Elysia says.

: ̗̀➛ She'll definitely be holding your hand 24/7, though! Elysia would either drag you to every interesting thing she sees (mostly boutiques and small food stalls on the street) or squeeze your hand tightly if you're getting overwhelmed by crowds or loud noises.

: ̗̀➛ Elysia doesn't mind when you act "mean" to her. She can easily see through what you're doing, and in fact, she thinks it's cute! She'll act all dramatically hurt, but that's really only one of her many ways to "trick" you into giving her a kiss to make up for what you did.

: ̗̀➛ Whenever you're talking about your interests, Elysia is torn. She just can't decide if she should learn about them to match your enthusiasm or stay uninformed because you are extremely attractive in her eyes whenever you're explaining something you're passionate about.

Dates with Elysia are... spontaneous, to say the least. Most of the time, neither of you are prepared nor do you have anything planned. You and Elysia are just walking aimlessly, stopping across anything that piques your interest.

: ̗̀➛ You don't need to worry about cuddles— Elysia will gladly provide as much of them as you want, and more! She was a bit shy about it when you two first started dating, but now, you've accepted your fate as her personal pillow to hug, lay on, and hold as much as she wishes.

Even on your first date, you were only spending time together as usual before the elf suddenly asked you out. You had no time to prepare, but you would never refuse her. "Ooh, look! I didn't know they had such a cozy cafe in this part of the city!" Elysia suddenly exclaimed, hurriedly speed-walking to what seemed to be a small, homey coffee bar with your hand in hers. Before she can even reach the cafe, she's already talking about going there for your next date until she spots a small stall on the side of the road offering tarot card readings. And then someone selling animal balloons. And then a cute cat. It doesn't take much time until you're getting dragged from place to place. Elysia is like a small kid walking into a store with all of the toys they could only ever dream of, and you have to admit, seeing her all excited has your heart racing and blood rushing to your cheeks.

It's like she's seeing the world for the first time. And it is when she's with you— your presence somehow makes the world that much more of a positive and colorful place in her eyes. Normally, you'd be tired out of your mind from running around so much— and frankly, this is probably the most you've walked in a single day— but Elysia somehow manages to make even the most draining and mundane things enjoyable. You can't imagine wanting to spend your life with anyone else.

╰┈➤ NSFW ;

: ̗̀➛ Elysia is surprisingly more on the vanilla side. Sex for her is more about being vulnerable and open and showing your love for each other. Still, that doesn't mean she doesn't have any kinks.

: ̗̀➛ She's mostly into overstimulating and/or edging, whether she's the one receiving or giving. Being able to give and take away her partner's pleasure as she wishes gives her such a power trip. You're just so cute, all teary-eyed as you beg her to make you cum like you know she can easily do.

: ̗̀➛ Elysia isn't cruel at all, though! Sure, being edged for hours on end might burn, but she somehow makes the orgasm you'll feel by the end of it make all of it worth it.

: ̗̀➛ On that note, Elysia isn't much of a fan of rough sex. She wants to feel loved and safe during it, and she wants the same for you as well. The last thing she'd want is to hurt her precious sweetheart. Light choking and slapping are definitely on the table, though.

: ̗̀➛ Oh, and if you happen to mention that you'd let her use you any way she wants? Good luck because there's no way Elysia would have any need to masturbate when she has such a pretty girl willing to service her on those nights when she wants you most.

: ̗̀➛ Expect endless praise while you're having sex. You're just so beautiful and pretty and gorgeous in her eyes, and Elysia just can't shut up about it! It's not even a conscious decision— she's merely saying whatever comes to her mind.

For the first time in your relationship, Elysia is away. Far, far away.

Her job had an emergency and required her to travel for a week. It took many "fights" (aka Elysia refusing to leave your side, even going as far as to offer to somehow fit you inside of her suitcase), but you finally managed to convince her that what she wanted just wasn't possible.

It's only a week, after all. You've survived a decade or two being single; one week away from your lover isn't going to kill you. Or so, that was what you thought. As much as you didn't want to admit it, you had gotten used to her beaming smile greeting you first thing in the morning. Your days don't seem complete without her by your side. You were missing her. Badly. Hearing her voice only made you miss her touch even more, and the elf was quick to pick up on that. What you had intended to be an innocent phone call quickly turned into Elysia telling you with her voice smooth as honey how to finger yourself. "That's it, pretty girl... You're doing so well for me, aren't you?" You nod, even though you're aware that Elysia can't see with the camera's position. As your fingers start speeding up, she can tell you're close to orgasm. "Turn the phone up, hm? Let me see your face as you cum." As your facial expression contorted with pleasure, Elysia wouldn't want anything more than to come home right this second and give you orgasm after orgasm. Being able to make you cum without even touching you might just be her proudest achievement. "I miss you so bad, baby... I'll make it up to you ten- no, a hundredfold when I get home." She sighs. With most people, you'd think this would be an exaggeration, but Elysia isn't just "most people." She's completely serious, and you know that she's more than capable of fulfilling that promise. Just a few more days. A few more days, and you'll be able to spend as much time together as you want. After all, you missed her too.

Lisa

╰┈➤ SFW ;

: ̗̀➛ This librarian thinks you're the cutest little thing in the world, and she doesn't hide it in the least. Your walk? Lovely. Your sneeze? Adorable. Your eyes? Absolutely delightful.

: ̗̀➛ Lisa isn't crazy for cuddles, but whenever the two of you sleep in the same bed, she's the type to pull you back in for them as soon as you try to get up. If you're a morning person, that's too bad because you don't have any choice but to stay huddled up with her until she eventually decides to wake up.

: ̗̀➛ She calls you a bunch of terms of endearment, mostly using "cutie," "sweetheart," or "darling." At first, this was only Lisa's way of showing her love, but after seeing your flustered reactions, she practically abuses these just to see you blush. She knows the effect she has on you and she takes full advantage of it.

: ̗̀➛ Whatever you're interested in, Lisa is knowledgeable about. She'll easily match how fast you're talking, as she's also just as excited as you are. Conversations where she can talk about these niche topics are rare, and it can't get much better than having them with her favorite person.

: ̗̀➛ Afternoon tea is Lisa's way of rewarding herself with a few minutes of leisure, and she always has them alone. Her inviting you to join her is basically her telling you that just you being there is enough to put her at ease. She'll often play with your hair, running her fingers through your scalp while reading a book.

: ̗̀➛ Lisa prefers to keep her desk mostly clean other than a some books and a tea set, but over time it's gotten filled with all the little gifts and trinkets you've given her. Now there are flowers that she takes very good care of and a framed picture of you two that she can't help but smile at.

Being the more quiet and introverted type, Mondstadt's library seemed to be the perfect place to relax. There are little to no people, and occasionally, you could hear who you assumed to be the librarian humming almost inaudibly from the restricted section.

Whether you're into reading or not, there was nothing quite like listening to the soft voice of this mystery woman. It was hauntingly beautiful, as was her appearance itself.

Lisa was attracted to you, and she made that obvious with every chance she got. It didn't take long before she just decided to outright ask you out to dinner.

You were curious where she'd take you as there aren't many options in Mondstadt, but you didn't expect her to invite you to her house. Most of all, you didn't expect her to take you there as soon as you said yes, but hey, it's not like you have anything better to do anyway. At least, nothing better than having dinner with such a gorgeous woman. Her house is almost as elegant as she is with the classy, yet also cozy furniture along with the relaxing ambient lighting. It's not very organized, but she keeps it clean. The whole place, down to the smell (which was very good, by the way) just screamed Lisa. She'd do mostly everything by herself like lighting the candles and setting up the table, but she'd gladly accept help for the more complicated and time-consuming tasks like cooking. The food is great, and the atmosphere is romantic. You're honestly surprised since Lisa doesn't seem to be the type to put this much effort into dates. Or anything, for that matter. Even her table manners are perfect down to the smallest details. "The night is long. Allow me to use this time to get to know you better, sweetheart." Lisa smiles, pouring you a glass of finely aged wine. As you see your own reflection in the glass, you get the feeling that tonight is going to change the direction of your life.

╰┈➤ NSFW ;

: ̗̀➛ Oh, she's freaky freaky. Instead of asking what she's into, it'd be better to ask what she isn't. She's dominant both during sex and outside of it.

: ̗̀➛ Lisa can be gentle, especially if it's your first time, but if she knows that you can take it then you will take it. Expect to wake up with your body littered with whip marks and hickeys. She generally tries to avoid spots that often show, though.

: ̗̀➛ She'll combine the dirtiest words with the sweetest voice, teasing you for being so filthy and desperate while calling you her sweet angel. She loves seeing your mind turn into mush from the mixture of praise and degradation.

: ̗̀➛ Has a huge mommy kink. Calling Lisa that is a surefire way to get her to bring you to the bedroom and fuck you. Or any surface and location works, really. She's not picky.

: ̗̀➛ Doesn't use strap-ons much. Lisa thinks they're a hassle to put on. She's more than capable of making you squirt with a few careful movements of her tongue and fingers anyway. If anything, she'd much rather use a double-ended dildo or make a strap using her electro vision.

: ̗̀➛ She's an absolute god at aftercare. Massages, refreshments, a fresh bath... anything you can think of, Lisa is prepared to provide, especially after a particularly rough session. You somehow end up feeling lighter and more energized than you did before having sex.

"Already so wet for me, and we haven't even gotten started yet." Lisa chuckles darkly, whipping your ass. The pain makes you yelp and arch your back even more.

As much as you want to grip the sheets, your hands are bound together tightly behind your back. All you can do is squirm and whine helplessly in Lisa's grasp, and you love it. She knows that you do.

"Yeah? You enjoy being a filthy whore for Mommy?" Soft hands gently rub over the spot she had just whipped almost apologetically, until she harshly slaps the same area.

Her free hand grabs onto your hips, and you hear electricity crackling behind you. You don't have to look to know what she's going to do next.

"Do you want it inside of you?" Lisa asks, her tone almost mocking. It's more of an order rather than a question, really. She already knows what your answer is going to be, she just wants to make you beg for it.

"Please, Mommy... I swear I'll be your good girl, so plea- mmpf...!" Your words turn into a moan as you feel the tip rub against your clit, electricity coursing throughout your whole body.

"So cute when you beg all nice for me..." Lisa coos. Her strap is warm and big, the electro making it feel as if it were vibrating as it bullies itself inside of you.

"You know that Mommy can't resist cute little bunnies like you."

Kokomi

╰┈➤ SFW ;

: ̗̀➛ You two are the type of couple to generally just enjoy each other's company, no matter what you're doing. There's no need for words, just your mere presence is enough to provide her with respite.

: ̗̀➛ That said, Kokomi shoulders a lot of responsibility as both the Divine Priestess and supreme leader of Watatsumi Island, often leading to her spending an ungodly amount of hours working. She's very apologetic about not being able to spend much time with you, and she appreciates it a lot whenever you visit her in her office. You often end up massaging her shoulders as she takes a much-needed break.

: ̗̀➛ If Kokomi has the time, she'd much rather take a stroll through Watatsumi Island with you. Taking in the beautiful scenery and clearing her mind with you by her side is no doubt her favorite way to relax after a hard day's work.

: ̗̀➛ Like you, she's not big on PDA in public— just for different reasons. Kokomi is aware that she may have enemies lurking in the shadows even after the Shogun's Vision Hunt Decree, and she doesn't want her beloved to get hurt because of her selfishness.

: ̗̀➛ If you're feeling down or tired, Kokomi would make little water replicas of your favorite animals and sea creatures. Sometimes, she'll even make them do little tricks to cheer you up. It's hard to control her vision so precisely, but it's all worth it once she sees your eyes light up again.

: ̗̀➛ The biggest reason why Kokomi fell in love with you was because you don't put her on a pedestal like everybody else. They always expect her to be able to do mostly anything when in reality, she's just a normal girl. Her hands also shake whenever she's about to give a speech, and she also sometimes feels like giving up whenever she sees the pile of work on her desk. It's only with you that she can be vulnerable because only you see her for who she truly is.

"Lian," Kokomi called out to you, rubbing a pattern of soothing circles onto the back of your hand. "Don't worry. Everything will be alright." Her voice gives you the courage to open your eyes once more, and you're met by the sight of all of the sea creatures you thought you'd only be able to dream of seeing this close. The whole experience was like something from a fairy tale with how magical it was.

Kokomi loves listening to you talk about the things you're passionate about! She's always eagerly paying attention and taking note of everything you say, already thinking of date and gift ideas. Hence why she had this idea for your first date. As Kokomi stepped into the water, it separated and diverged as if to make way for her. "Shall we?" She turned to face you, offering her hand. You don't know what you were expecting when she asked to meet by the shore, but it wasn't this. Still, you believed in Kokomi. You always have and you always will. The smile she wore at this moment was different from all the forced ones during those business meetings you know she loathed. It was a smile that, without any words, told you only one thing: "Trust me." You take her hand. The water formed a bubble around the two of you as she led you further into the sea. It didn't take long until the two of you were completely underwater.

You take a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut. Honestly, you were scared, but as long as you had Kokomi by your side, you knew that you'd be safe. She wouldn't let you come to harm.

Bioluminescent jellyfish lit up the waters. Sunlight shone through the surface of the sea, its light dispersing to make everything look that much more beautiful. Resplendent corals decorate the sea floor beneath you. Soon after, a school of the most colorful fish you've seen started swimming circles around you two. The bubble you were in felt like it was in a different world, and with how you felt like this moment was the only thing that mattered, it may as well have been. Kokomi takes out a pearl necklace and speaks, her voice filled with utmost devotion and love, "Will you give me a chance to make you happy, my dearest?"

╰┈➤ NSFW ;

: ̗̀➛ Dominant switch, mostly tops. Sex with her is always about intimacy and/or claiming each other rather than just for pleasure, though that's also a big part of it. She's the definition of the phrase "treat her like a princess, fuck her like a whore."

: ̗̀➛ Lots of kissing and hand holding during it. It doesn't exactly give the two of you more pleasure per se, but she finds her hands seeking out yours to intertwine fingers. Both of you are much better at communicating through actions than words, anyway.

: ̗̀➛ If you make her jealous, you better start praying to Orobashi that you'll keep your ability to walk. Kokomi knows very well what the limits of humans are, and she's more than capable of bringing you to its very edge. This woman might look cute, but she is not to be underestimated.

: ̗̀➛ Tentacles. For everything. Restraints? Yes. Gags? Sure. Penetration? As long as you're up to it. She's particularly into tying you up with them: tight enough so you can't get away, but loose enough so she can still watch you struggle helplessly.

: ̗̀➛ She's probably the most sadistic out of everyone on this list. Kokomi doesn't want to hurt you physically, but whether she's topping or not, she'll edge or overstimulate you to the point you're crying for mercy. Seeing tears run down that pretty face of yours just does something to her.

Slimy, translucent tentacles wrap themselves around your arms and legs, effectively immobilizing you. For some reason, the grip they have on you feels... rougher than usual.

Kokomi walks towards you with a smile, but it's neither warm nor inviting. If anything, it was similar to a predator looking down upon its prey. Sensing something was off, you were about to ask when a tentacle covers your mouth.

"Shh... I'm sorry, my love, but I need this." Your legs are spread involuntarily, and she brings herself face to face with your weeping cunt. A messy mixture of kisses and bites are left along your thighs before she dives her tongue head first into your folds, lapping you up like a starved man.

You want so badly to close your legs, but you can't. You can't even moan her name. You can't do anything. All you can do is let out muffled moans and cry as you're helplessly brought to orgasm after orgasm.

Really, she feels bad for this. Kokomi trusts you, but she just needs to convince herself that you're hers. That only she can make you squirt until you genuinely feel like you're going to pass out if you cum one more time.

That doesn't mean she doesn't enjoy it, though.

[thekaykery]

[12:03 AM]

pairing(s): simon "ghost" riley x afab!reader x könig

category: smut

word count: 584

rating: 18+

warning(s): no use of y/n, threesome, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), anal, spanking, praise, hair pulling, small use of degradation, creampie, video recording, sexting.

Simon doesn't like sharing.

If it's with the enemy? Absolutely not. But he's only in this predicament because his sweet baby girl asked. Hell, she begged.

The end result? His girl sandwiched between him and König, an operator from Kortac.

And Simon shouldn't like this as much as he does.

Simon gazes over her shoulder, watching the bounce of her ass with each of König’s thrusts, his cock delving deep into her ass. His hands clutch her hips, his eyes glued to where they connect, his torso shining with sweat. Meanwhile, Simon pistons up into her pussy, the squelch echoing through the bedroom, adding to the filthy orchestra of her moans and skin slapping.

Simon brushes hair out of her face, checking on her. He breathlessly chuckles at her expression: Rolled eyes, flushed cheeks, open mouth with a trail of drool that pools on his chest.

Her brain is a pile of mush.

“Doin’ such a good job, luvie,” Simon rasps, kissing her forehead through his mask, hoping to bring her back. “Takin’ us both so well.”

“Fantastic ass,” König groans, swatting a cheek, and she mewls in response. “Filthy fucking girl.”

König tangles his hand in her hair and pulls, arching her back. She moans, her hands landing on either side of Simon’s head, and this motion exposed those tits Simon adores. He lifts his mask enough to expose his mouth, capturing one of her rosy buds, suckling and swirling his tongue around it.

“‘M-M cumming again!” she wails, her fingers curling into the sheets.

“Cum, schatz,” König hisses, tightening his grip, spanking her again. “Make a mess all over our dicks.”

Simon licks a long stripe all the way up to her lips, kissing her, swallowing all her pretty noises, sucking on her tongue. He releases a low groan as he feels her convulse around his cock, her sounds growing louder and higher in pitch.

“C-Cumming!” she squeals.

Simon and König moan when she cums, her holes gripping their cocks like a vice. Her pussy creates a ring of white around Simon's dick, and by the way König whines and his hips stutter, his load is filling her ass.

Simon bucks up into her a few more times before reaching his end himself. He hisses, his balls clenching as he cums in her cunt. She collapses on Simon’s chest, whimpering in bliss. The three of them stay there for a long moment; Simon kissing her forehead, König burying his face into her shoulder.

König stirs first. “Want a video of our…?”

“Yes,” Simon answers.

König withdraws, his dick softening, and when he's pointing his phone at her ass, Simon slowly pulls her off. A few seconds later, he feels his cum dripping out of her pussy, no doubt mixing with König’s as it pools out of her gaping ass.

“Look at that,” König murmurs, squeezing her asscheek.

“Good little slut,” Simon whispers, gently grasping her jaw and sweetly kissing her. “Did so good.”

“Sent it to ya,” König says.

“Thanks, mate.”

Tenderly, Simon rolls them over and pulls his mask down, leaving her on the bed while he grabs and wets a washcloth. König’s tugging on his pants as Simon wipes her clean, draping a blanket on top of her before cleaning his dick. He grabs a pair of sweatpants.

“So…”

Simon glances at König, who gazes at her. He meets Simon’s eyes. “Will we be doing this again?”

Simon peeks at her, warmth settling in his chest. “Yeah… I think so.”

thekaykery © 2025

[pitchouna]

helloo, I will leave a request over here ♡ What about a Jealous Goku? Ty.

Jealous Goku x Reader!!

The jealous part will take a long time to appear! OKAYY SO HEY I'M SORRY FOR THE OTHER REQUESTS THAT ARE WAITING BUT I'M JUST SUPER DUPER BUSY💔💔 BUT I'M WORKING ON THEM NO WORRIES I'LL FINISH THEM SOON!! ENJOY< 33 Warnings: cursing Words: 3197

Goku is irritated. And when I say irritated, I mean very irritated. Earlier, while training, he decided he'll surprise you with an unexpected visit he actually wanted to cuddle with you so bad, but when he was home, he did not see you. And he looked everywhere. Checking if you were cooking, were having a bath, or just napping. He even checked in the toilets!! Not finding you made him grumpy. As he ran onto his son, Goten. "Oh! Dad! Aren't you training?" Goten asked him with his usually high-pitched voice. Goku just shook his head as he immediately wanted to ask him where you were. "Hey Goten, where's your mom? I don't see her anywhere!!" Goku spoke in an annoyed tone. "Oh mom? She went shopping with Bulma and C-18!" Goten answered earning a pat from his dad. "Thank you Goten. I owe you one! See ya!" Goku waved as he teleported living a confused Goten. "Why did he wanted to see mom?... Have I done something wrong?" Poor Goten started worrying hoping he won't get yelled at later. Even if he didn't do anything, we never know with you.

"KYAAAAAA!! WHAT THE FUCK !!??" You've screamed earning the attention of Bulma and C-18. They ran towards you and opened the curtain hiding you changing. And they see you, and Goku in a weird and tight position making both of the women yell. "What the fuck?? Care To explain Goku?!" Bulma yelled. Making Goku chuckle. "Yo ! Wanted to see Y/n for a moment!!"Goku explained. Not noticing you being choked in his chest due to the lack of space. "We don't care just release her look she's not breathing" C-18 said. "O-oops. Sorry Y/n hehe..." Goku chuckled getting out of the changing room which made other people seeing you half naked. You immediately closed the curtains, grateful only Women where in this shop. "Can't you warn when you'll join!!?" You've yelled behind the curtains, embatssed that Goku spawned while you were changing. And that some girls you don't know saw your body. "Hehe... Sorry Y/n... But I wanted to see you right now!! I just could not wait anymore!!" Goku explained to you making you sigh in irritation as you open the curtains now fullyclothed. "Well as you can see right now I'm not free to spend time with you. It has been a long time since I saw Bulma and C-18 because of me taking care of your ass." You spoke bluntly making some of the women laugh since they can hear your conversation. "Anyways you should go, this is a shop only allowed to Women. If you don't go away I'll call the security!" You've said wanting him to go as soon as possible. "This isn't kind Y/n!! It makes me feel you don't love me anymore.." He pouted, making his cute sad puppy eyes, that he used when he desperately wanted something. It always works.

"O-ouch that hurts Y/n!!" Goku whine as you drag his ear to the exit of the shop, and throw him outside. "See you this evening." You've said as you walk away, not giving him a chance to say anything. Goku just sighed, disappointed he didn't get to spend time with you right now. "her problem.. I won't allow her leaving the bed tonight.." Goku pouted irritated flying back home. "Hey Y/n... Wasn't that a little too harsh?" C-18 asked you, making both you and Bulma shocked. "What the hell? You're even worse than me and Y/n reunited when it come to Krillin!!" Bulma explained, making C-18 annoyed. "Me and Krillin is another story. Plus I didn't asked you." C-18 said making Bulma irritated as she was about to explode before you interrupted them. "Oh my god shut the fuck up girls!! Look how cute this top is!!" You've said as sparkles appear in your eyes, as you show them this crismon red Henley top, making them gasp. "Oh my god Y/n !!! Are there other colors??! I need it in purple!!" C-18 said in awe "I want it in blue too!!" Bulma exclaimed. "Yup, there are some right there!" You've pointed towards a cute special stand where there was a lot of cute tops and jeans, and Bulma and C-18 both saw the one they've searched for. "Wahhhh!! I'm in love with them! You have such a good eye when it comes to fashion Y/n!!" Bulma said making you Huff in pride. "Hehe now let's go try them on girls!!" C-18 said like a little child, making you both happy and giggling like teenage girls.

At the same time, a bored Saiyan was rolling over your shared King sized bed, whining non-stop about how he's bored. "How could Y/n do this to meee??.... For once I want to spend time with her and she doesn't want to!! Then I'll bet she'll complain when I'll just focus on training again!" Goku's making a fuss to himself like a big ass baby. "What do I do now?... Y/n will probably finish in some hours... But training do not excite me anymore right now..." Goku whines as he get off of the bed, going downstairs, making his way towards the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he sighs as he sees it's dead empty, and there's just one tomato left in there. "Pff...there's nothing else to eat too... I think I'll just nap right now..." Goku gave up searching something to do. Until an idea popped on his head. "Wooh! I bet Y/n won't be able to refuse my deal!! But I need to get money to do this... And Bulma will probably say no..." Goku started to think for the first time in his whole life. And he thought too much his head started burning, making smoke. "Oh!! Right! I still have some left over Zenis I've gained when I worked as a farmer!!" Goku exclaimed proud of his amazing idea, getting ready.

As Goku prepared to put his plan into action, he couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building inside of him. For once, he would be the one in control in their relationship. He quickly got dressed and slipped on his casual clothes for once because he knows it makes you weak, feeling more confident than ever. As he stepped outside, he couldn't help but imagine the look of surprise and excitement that would undoubtedly appear on your face when you saw him. Now, it was his turn to make you feel happy. With a determined smile on his face, he teleported towards you, eager to start making his plan come to life. "Yo!" Goku said behind you which startled you. "Wahhhh!! Goku I've told you to warn me before appearing!! You scare me every damn time.." You've scolded him once again as he chuckled playfully. But something was off. You looked at him up and down and after 5 minutes of thinking you've realized he was in casual clothes. Which was very rare of him to drop his iconic orange gi.

"Oh? Is today a special day Goku? Why are you dressed like this??" You've asked curious which made Goku smile mischievously. "Since you didn't want to spend time with me earlier, I'm kidnapping you with me on a date!!" Goku said this with pride, which was very cute to see. "So... You're the one paying?" You've asked him smirking. And he nodded. "Alright !! I'll get ready!!" You've exclaimed excited to show him the new dress you bought with your girls earlier. "When do we go? And where do we join?" You've asked Goku which made him frown. "Huh? Why would you want to know that? We're going together right?" Goku said as confusion ran into his non-existant brain. "I want you to see me at the very last moment!! I'll be so gorgeous you'll fall in love with me once more." You've said confidently. "But I'm calling in love with you more everyday already?" Goku said so innocently that almost made you giggle and kicking your feet. But you were not a teenager any more, so you've controlled yourself and only blushed. "W-well it won't stop you to fall in love again." You've said not looking in his onyx eyes. Worried to show your teenager girl side that desperately wants to manifest itself. "Hehe. Fine! But you better be breath-taking!!" Goku smirked challenging you. "Oh yeah?! Challenge accepted!!" And with that, Goku gave you the hour and the place you both will meet up.

When the sun disappeared and the moon appeared, you were surprised to see what Goku has planned was a cute little picnic near a clear lake filled with petals of roses. There he was standing in what seemed a suit, he really wanted to impress you on this one. And it did. The sight was so breath-taking. The way his hair flowed through the wind, the sweet aroma of the roses mixed with the fresh scent of nature, and just the way the candles perfectly lit up the place was perfect. Goku sensed your presence and turned towards you "You're finally here Y/n! I was waiting for-" Goku just stopped talking. You looked ethereal. The way your hair was tied up in a side bun, with a rose to perfectly match your crismon red semi-long dress that flowed through the wind. The last time you saw Goku looking at you this way was the day of your wedding. "Woah.. Y/n.. You look so.. Gorgeous.." Goku struggled to find the perfect words to describe you as he walked towards you, helping you sit down the picnic mat. "So... Did I succeed making you fall in love with me once-more?" You've asked your husband who just responded you by cupping your cheek with a sweet and loving kiss, then saying "Is it possible to marry someone once more time?" he asked innocently making you laugh. "I wish it was. But it's not." You've answered making him pout. "Let's just start eating I'm hungry anyways.." He said. "What did you bring?" You've asked him, curious "I've brought sweets!! But we can always go somewhere else if you want to go-" You've just shushed him with your fingers, enjoying the moment you're both sharing.

On the way home, you've decided to walk around the city a little before just flying back home so the moment will last a little longer. But you both did not expected that this would ruin this perfect date. "Excuse me miss!! May I have a picture with you? You're just so beautiful!!" A child made it's way towards you and politely asked making you melt as you accepted. Goku feeling the warmth of your hand gone, as you had to stop holding his hand to take the picture, made him pout... But that was just the beginning. Immediately when you came back, you were interrupted again. "Hello!! May I ask where you bought your dress? It's beautiful!!" A woman younger than you asked so nicely that you forgot to take Goku's hand. "Of course!! Here I've bought it at "_____" The woman thanked you and made her way towards the shop as you waved her. You've turned towards Goku and spoke. "So what were we talking about-" This time, it was a little girl who interrupted you. She just poked your side shyly and it made you melt once more. "H-here.. Take this rose... It's as beautiful as you..." The little girl shyly said making you blush... "Thank you little one!! That's very cute of you!!" You've thanked her taking the rose in your hands enjoying the nice scent of it. Her mother took her and apologized for her interruption and you've just brushed it off saying it was alright. But it wasn't, for the Saiyan that is starting to get irritated. Pouting and tapping his feet as he's waiting for you to get finished. Just as you were about to come back, other people gave you flowers, coupons for free food at restaurants, (which Goku did not really mind tbh) some asked you how are you so beautiful, and some asked you to join a model agency!

Goku watched as you received flowers, coupons, and compliments left and right. He couldn't help but pout and tap his feet impatiently as he waited for you to finish talking to the people around you. But as soon as he heard you say, "I accept," his heart sank. He knew you had always wanted to be a model, but the thought of you being approached by other men with ulterior motives bothered him. Goku couldn't help but feel a sense of jealousy and possessiveness wash over him. He wanted to keep you all to himself and protect you from any potential threats. "Okay now that's enough.." Goku growled but you didn't hear it. You've finally walked back towards Goku, carrying the flowers and coupons in hand. But before you could say anything, Goku spoke up, his voice filled with irritation. "I can't believe you just accepted to become a model! Did you even think about me? I don't want those men to just ogle at your beautiful body all day!" Goku exclaimed. You tried to reassure him that it was just a one-time opportunity, but Goku just couldn't help but get even more jealous. "I don't care if it's just for one day!" Goku snapped back at you. "I don't want to risk it. I don't want those men looking at your body." Goku started grumbling, crossing his arms. You've sighed, trying to calm him down. "Goku, please understand. This is a one-time opportunity. It's not like I'm going to be a model permanently. And besides, I'd be paid well and we could use the extra money!" You've tried to reason with him, but to no avail. Goku just couldn't shake off his feelings of jealousy. Goku continued grumbling, clearly not happy with the situation. "But what if those men try to make a move on you? What if they try to take advantage of you? I don't want anyone else touching you but me." Goku couldn't help but voice out his insecurities and fears.

You've finally had enough of his possessiveness and jealous behavior. "Goku, enough!! I can take care of myself! Do you really have so little faith in me? Don't you trust me to handle myself in this situation?" You've confronted him, your patience running thin. Goku was taken aback by your reaction. He did trust you, but his jealousy was getting the better of him. "I do trust you, Y/n. But I can't help but feel protective of you. I don't want anyone else touching your body but me." Goku admitted, his possessiveness creeping in again. You've let out a frustrated sigh, feeling overwhelmed by his possessive behavior. "Goku, this is really getting too much. I'm a grown woman and I can handle myself. You need to stop being so possessive and jealous. It's not healthy for our relationship." You've tried to reason with him, hoping he would understand and control his emotions. Despite your attempts to reason with Goku, he refused to listen to reason. His possessive behavior and jealousy continued to take over, making it impossible for him to see things from your perspective. You felt more frustrated and hopeless with every attempt to make him understand, and it seemed like there was no way out of this cycle of jealousy and possessiveness. "Ugh!! I'm done!" You've said walking away making Goku worried "Hey! Where are you going?" Goku asked curiously. "I'll sleep at Bulma's this night. You've pissed me." You've said until you took a Taxi, leaving an irritated Saiyan all alone. He just decided to leave you be, thinking that you're the stubborn one here. He just kept mumbling on his way home that this night was near perfect until strangers ruined it.

The same night, he just couldn't sleep at all. The bed felt empty without your presence. Usually it doesn't mind him when it happens, when he goes training for a long time or just when you go to sleepovers with your friends, but this time? It was... Not the same. It felt cold empty and he hated it. He hated how bitter this night became. So without a second thought, he sensed your Ki, and teleported at Bulma's, in the room she gave you to sleep in. He looked at you, sleeping calmly, as if nothing happened. And as of you do not miss Goku's presence while he did missed yours. "Gosh... How can she acts as if nothing ha happened?.." Goku complained joining you into the bed and taking you in his arms and nuzzled in your neck. With you in his arms, he fell asleeo with ease and looked like a big fat ass baby. He also kept mumbling in his sleep things like" You're mine" "There's no way I'm meeting you go there." "No photoshoots we'll stay together today." He's the cutest. But won't hesitate to take advantage of his strength to lock you in his arms so you won't leave him.

Bitch sorry for randomly disappearing I just forgot this account existed tbh but anyways I'm back!! I have a lot of requests too but I'm super busy sorry y'all will have to wait.. Anyways I love u guys Take care!! <33

[elysiasasuya]

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rules ➜ ᎒ masterlist ➜ ᎒ intro

Article 1 ꐑꐑ !

Sec 1. ˗ˏ✎ *ೃ ᜁᜎ᜔ᜌ᜔᜔ᜐᜒᜀ ↳ HUMSS student in the ☀︎ writer at ࣪ ִֶָ☾. Semi hiatus ˚ ͙۪۪̥◌ 18 yo • s!her ↷ ao3 ⋯ LADS ᯓᡣ𐭩 JJK. Manhwas ⋆.𐙚 ̊ literature .⃗ ༉‧₊ ENTJ ‧₊˚ tiktok ↱ chat with me! ｡⁠･ 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

Article 2 ꐑꐑ !

Section 1. I write oneshots, headcanons and series. It usually contains fluff or angst. I do not write much smut but I will do so occasionally.

Section 2. Please check the content tags in each of my stories. This is so that you are aware of what the elements are in the story. If you aren't comfortable with it, it's alright to keep it unread.

Section 3. Requests are closed for now. If it does open, send one to the little box named " talk time! " . I will try to write the requests given but if I come into hiatus, it will take a long time. And if it contains certain topics that are sensitive and offensive, I will not write it. Every request will come to an approval first. Thank you!

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© @elysiasasuya 2025 ( written works) © purgatorygrl (edits)

© kodasworld (dividers)

LAST UPDATED : 6/7/25

[strwbmei1]

feel like elysia would love overstimming you before you go to work esp if you tell her to hurry up because you don’t wanna be late then it becomes a challenge but there’s just something so exciting to her about fucking you dumb before you’re off to work

Definitely. She says she'll be quick— but how is she supposed to hold herself back from fucking you stupid when you moan her name so desperately?

"Just one more."

You don't know how many times Elysia has said that. You tried to resist a bit at first; telling her that it was really the last time and that you have to leave for work, but it just feels so good.

If she's feeling bold, she'll have you call your boss and haphazardly make up excuses of why you'll be late— if you can still form coherent sentences, that is.

[obsessedwhyyes]

A Tale of Fools and Tricksters - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Astarion x Female OC Summary: The Festival of Fools - a carnival of magic and illusions which shall set your heart ablaze and bring your dreams to life. Legends say that the Festival of Fools will grant one wish to those pure of heart and soul - for a price. Seeking a cure for the Curse of Stone which plagues her people, Elysia Thorne seeks the aid of the festival's enigmatic ringmaster, Astarion Ancunin, whose charm is as dangerous as it is irresistible. But as their fates intertwine, it becomes clear that all is not as it seems... Rating: M (some chapters will be explicit) Content: Alternative Universe (Circus), Ringmaster Astarion, eventual smut, dark fairy tale, magic and curses, mild gothic horror elements (but nothing extreme!), Astarion needs a hug.

Chapter Index

Chapter 1: Whispers of Hope (5479 words) Tumblr / AO3 Chapter 2: Looking Glass (5134 words) Tumblr / AO3 Chapter 3: Bird of Paradise Coming soon... Anticipated 20 chapters.

Moodboards

Elysia Thorne (Part 1 / Part 2) Ringmaster Astarion (Part 1)

Art

Ringmaster Astarion by @/murchellie.

Elysia Thorne by @/yorixa.

Cin & Friends group project, featuring Ringmastarion and Elysia, by @/deannamb.

A/N: Here we have my first ever longfic! There's something so much scarier about uploading these chapters compared to my usual one-shots - something much more personal! Reblogs, likes, and comments are always so, so appreciated! They let me know if I'm doing something right (or, as is often the case, if I'm doing something wrong). Likewise, my inbox is always open.

AO3 ~ MAIN MASTERLIST ~ TAGLIST

[moondustlings]

open to: all muse: elysia calderón plot: our muses have some sort of history/know each other and this is the first time your muse has seen mine in revealing clothes (which are also a bit out of elysia comfort zone, but she wanted to try something new) and they can't keep their thoughts (or even hands?) to themselves connection: friends, former classmates, acquaintances, family member/t.aboo connection

her fingertips tug at the edge of the fabric, hips shimmying from side to side in a vain attempt to pull it just an inch down. when she had her grand idea to just a little differently, she had had all the confidence in the world. now, as she looked at her reflection and the way her dress hugged all her curves, she was starting to maybe rethink some things. when the door to her room opened and they walked in, she straightened up. "what do you think?" she asked as she turned, giving a full 360 view. "is it too much?"

[koukouture]

Suggestive HaurcElysia adventures pt 1?

[gojover]

ABOVE THE TIME.

before he is a soldier, before you are the princess, and in between the titles that separate you, you think phainon might simply be yours.

pairing: soldier!phainon x princess!fem!reader tags & warnings: romance, angst, light smut (unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn. childhood friends to lovers!au, royalty!au, secret romance!au. coming of age, first love, love confessions, mutual pining, etc. profanity, class differences, misogyny. word count: 23.5k song rec: above the time by iu.

i). When you are young, they assume you know nothing.

There is a boy inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow, and eyes the colour of the sea just before a storm: blue and wild, darting around the room like a thief caught in the act. There is a wooden sword strapped to his belt, too long for his waist and carved with clumsy symbols he must’ve etched himself. He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy peering out the arched window behind your bed, standing on his toes, breath fogging up the glass.

You sit up, clutching your silk coverlet to your chest. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

He jumps. Spinning around, he stumbles over the corner of the rug and nearly crashes into the gilded leg of your writing desk.

“Oh stars, don’t scream,” he says, voice a frantic whisper. “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t know it was your room, I swear.”

You blink at him. He looks about your age—nine, maybe ten—but he’s dressed in the dark training leathers of the palace guards-in-training, the sleeves rolled up unevenly, like he’d tugged them up in a rush. His hair sticks out in damp curls, and there is a smear of dirt on his cheek.

“You’re the soldier boy,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “The one who knocked over the archery targets last week.”

His cheeks turn bright red. “That was an accident.”

“You lit one on fire.”

He clears his throat. “Also an accident.”

Silence stretches between you. It’s early in the morning—early enough that the sun hasn’t begun its ascent yet, and the moonlight filters through your gauzy curtains, casting silver stripes across the rug where he stands frozen, as though your room was a stage and he’s forgotten his lines.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“I’m Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” he says, straightening a little. “I’m going to be the captain of the royal guard one day.”

“That’s a big dream,” you say, lifting your chin.

“Well, I already made it into the palace, didn’t I?” Phainon says, grinning.

You try to glare at him. You’ve never had someone your age sneak into your room before. You’re always surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and stiff-backed tutors, and the only boys you ever see are princes visiting from other kingdoms, always polished and dull.

Phainon looks like he tumbled in from the wild.

You scoot over and pat the empty space beside you on the bed. “If you’re hiding, you might as well sit down. Mistress Calypso wakes early. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes.”

His eyes widen. “You’re not going to tell?”

“Not unless you snore.”

Phainon beams. He kicks off his boots and climbs onto the bed without hesitation, flopping beside you with a sigh loud enough to echo. “I hate sword drills. Master Gnaeus makes us practice stances before breakfast.”

“That sounds dreadful,” you say, wrinkling your nose in sympathy.

“You’re different from what I imagined a princess would be like,” he says, glancing at you sideways with his cheek squished against the pillow.

“You’re not what I imagined a soldier would be like, either.”

“What did you imagine, then?”

“Taller,” you say. “Quieter, maybe. Less… floppy.”

“I am not floppy,” he says, affronted, and attempts to sit up straighter—only to sink back down with a groan. “Maybe a little.”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand. It bursts out anyway, small and silver like a bell. Phainon turns to look at you properly then, eyes sharp despite the pillow flattening his cheek. Up close, he smells like grass and horsehair and smoke.

“I meant it, though,” he says. “You’re different.”

“How so?”

“You didn’t scream. Or ring that little bell by your bed. Or call for a guard. You didn’t even look scared.”

“I am scared,” you say solemnly, then lean closer and whisper, “You’ve got a sword.”

Phainon scoffs, lifting the wooden hilt an inch from his belt. “It’s not even sharp. Watch.”

He draws it with a flourish—too quickly, catching the edge of your coverlet and nearly decapitating one of the embroidery swans. You both freeze. Then you burst into laughter, rolling onto your back as Phainon fumbles the sword back into place, mortified.

“You’re not very good at using it,” you declare between gasps.

“I’m a knight-in-training,” he insists, and you’re not sure whether he’s more annoyed or embarrassed. 

“You’re going to make an excellent captain one day,” you say, and this time you mean it, not as a tease but as something quiet and true. “You’ve already snuck past five guards and a chambermaid to get in here.”

“Six guards,” he corrects proudly. “And the chambermaid was asleep. I left a biscuit on her tray so she wouldn’t be too cross.”

You smile. “That was kind of you.”

Phainon shrugs, but his cheeks are turning pink again. “Is it alright if I hide in here more often? It’s peaceful. Smells nicer than the barracks, too.”

“What do the barracks smell like?”

“Feet. And soap. And Gaius, who eats too many onions and sweats in his sleep.”

“Ugh.” You grimace.

“Exactly.” He yawns, eyes fluttering. The adrenaline is wearing off, you can tell. His limbs are getting heavy. “Your bed’s nice, too. Like a cloud. I bet princesses don’t have to wake up before dawn.”

“I do,” you sigh. “To learn embroidery and dance steps and which fork to use at state dinners.”

The boy—your friend, now, you suppose—shakes his head in solidarity. “We should run away.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. The stables. Or the forest. I’ll bring my sword, and you can bring snacks.”

You glance at him. His lashes are long. One of them has a bit of fuzz caught in it. “What if we get caught?”

“Then I’ll protect you,” he says sleepily.

You decide you quite like the sound of that. Outside, the sky is starting to lighten. The first birds begin to chirp.

You reach for the corner of the blanket and pull it over the both of you, just enough to shield him from the dawn. “Go to sleep, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. I’ll wake you before Mistress Calypso comes.”

Phainon mumbles something that sounds like a thank-you.

(You end up falling asleep, too, and only wake when Mistress Calypso shakes your shoulder with a fond—if exasperated—frown and reprimands you for sleeping in late. The mattress beside you is cold.)

“I won’t fall asleep this time, I swear it!”

You squint at him through the veil of sleep still clinging to your lashes. Phainon is back, dirtier than before, with a fresh scrape on his cheek and leaves in his hair, as though he wrestled a tree on his way in. He crouches by the edge of your bed, grinning like he didn’t vanish without a word the first time.

“You told me you’d wake me up before Mistress Calypso came!” he says. “I nearly got caught. And Master Gnaeus gave me a talking-to for sneaking out of the barracks in the night.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“I had to dive into a laundry basket,” Phainon huffs, flopping onto the carpet. “A laundry basket. Full of damp sheets.”

You try to hold in a laugh. You really do. But it escapes in a small, muffled burst, and once it’s out, you can’t stop. Your shoulders shake beneath your blanket, and Phainon turns his head to glare at you from the floor, betrayed.

“It wasn’t funny,” he says. “I smelled like lavender and mildew all day.”

“You smell like moss now,” you say in between giggles, pointing at a leaf stuck behind his ear.

He swipes at it with a scowl and misses.

Still grinning, you lean over and pluck it out for him. Your fingers brush his curls for only a second, but it’s enough to make something fizz strangely in your chest. Phainon must feel it too, because he goes very still, eyes flicking to yours.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You wait. He fidgets with the hem of his tunic. 

“And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to be your friend,” he adds, finally. “Or that I was in trouble. Or that I didn’t want to come back.”

Your fingers curl into your blanket. “I didn’t think that.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you want the pillow this time?” you ask, scooting to one side of the bed.

Phainon lights up like a lantern. “Do you want to sleep on the floor?”

You throw a cushion at him. He catches it, and then he clambers in beside you, wriggling under the corner of your blanket. You both lie on your sides, facing each other, noses a breath apart.

Outside, the wind rattles against your window panes. Inside, your shared silence is warm. 

“I really won’t fall asleep this time,” he promises, blinking slowly.

You smile at him, drowsy, and mumble, “Me too.”

(“Stars above,” comes a voice, fond and faintly amused. “Gnaeus, come look.”

You stir. Phainon groans softly and buries his face in your pillow. You open one bleary eye to see Mistress Calypso standing beside your bed, arms folded over her golden skirts, lips pressed together in an almost-smile.

A heavier tread follows, and then Master Gnaeus pokes his head into view, all sharp grey stubble and frowns. “If this is what passes for night training nowadays, I’ll eat my scabbard.”

Phainon jerks awake at that, sits bolt upright, and nearly knocks his forehead into yours. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I mean I was just—”

“Hush, little boy,” Mistress Calypso says, waving a hand with a smile so maternal, it could unmake gods. “No one is turning you into stew.”

“You should be running laps,” Master Gnaeus mutters, squinting at you both. “Instead you’re sneaking into the princess’ chambers like some scruffy raccoon.”

“He didn’t sneak,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “He was invited.”

“Oh, pardon me,” the captain of the royal guard says, mock-offended. “I didn’t realise he needed your permission, little princess.”

Mistress Calypso nudges him with her elbow. “Stop scowling, old wolf. You’re just jealous no one invites you to secret sleepovers.”

Master Gnaeus grunts but doesn’t deny it. He watches the two of you for a long moment—your hair mussed from sleep, Phainon trying to smooth his tunic into something that looks presentable—and then sighs through his nose like it pains him to find this sight charming. “I’ll expect you on the training grounds in ten minutes, mud-boy,” he says, turning away. “No excuses. Not even royal ones.”

Phainon nods fervently, already sliding off the bed.

Mistress Calypso’s gaze melts into warm affection as she adjusts the corner of your blanket. “Don’t let him make a habit of it,” she says, voice ripe with mischief, before turning and following Master Gnaeus outside your chambers.

Phainon hovers by the edge of your bed, sheepish. “I’ll come back tonight.”

“Bring fewer leaves next time,” you say.

He grins.)

Weeks pass, and then months, and years, and before you know it, you have more responsibilities thrust upon your shoulders.

Mistress Calypso teaches you about the bleeding that occurs once every moon, about the blossoming of youth. She speaks gently but frankly, brushing your hair back with fingers that have seen a dozen girls come of age before you. You try not to flinch at how grown-up it all sounds.

Your dresses get longer. Your voice becomes more measured. The halls you once ran through with muddy slippers are now places you walk with your chin held high and your hands folded neatly at your front. Even your laughter has changed—no longer loose and careless, but quiet and reserved, meant to be polite rather than real.

Phainon changes too.

You hear of it more than you see it, through whispers in the halls and idle remarks from the guards. He’s fast, they say, too fast for someone who’s only eighteen. He’s clever with a blade, and quicker with his words; reckless, often, but brilliant. Master Gnaeus’ favourite headache.

The maids speak of him more airily, with giggles and cheeks dusted pink. He’s too pretty for a boy with dirt on his cheeks and calluses on his hands, they say. He smiles as though he’s got more than enough happiness for everyone to share, and walks like the world already belongs to him. Mistress Calypso calls him a menace with more than enough charm to spare, but her eyes always twinkle when she talks about him, as though she remembers the mornings where she would find both of you tucked into your blanket together.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch glimpses of him from the tower windows: a blur of movement on the training grounds, sweat-slick hair clinging to his neck, his tunic darker from exertion. You never call out. It wouldn’t be proper. He never looks up.

It becomes easier, in time, to pretend that’s enough.

But one day, when the afternoon sun glows warm against the stone and the air carries the scent of crushed grass and coming rain, you find yourself standing for longer than usual by the window. Down below, the soldiers run drills in neat lines, their movements sharp and practiced. Phainon is among them. You spot him immediately. His posture is looser than the others’, less rigid, as if the rules don’t apply to him in the same way. His strikes are precise, his footwork quick, and even when he missteps—just once—he recovers with a grin and a flourish that earns him a clipped bark from Master Gnaeus and a smothered laugh from the younger boys.

Your fingers curl against the sill. You turn from the window before he finishes the set, something fluttering too hard in your chest to name. When you find Mistress Calypso in the solar, you surprise even yourself with your question.

“May we walk in the grounds today?”

She blinks at you, embroidery needle paused mid-stitch. “The gardens again?”

“No,” you say, and then, quieter, “Past them.”

Her brows rise but she doesn’t press. “Very well,” she murmurs, “but wear your hood. And don’t dawdle.”

You don’t. Your footsteps are eager, your heart beating a rapid staccato against your ribs. Mistress Calypso nearly trips over the hem of her skirts trying to keep up with you, and only then do you slow your pace.

It’s strange, walking so close to the training fields—stranger still to do it on purpose. The clang of steel and barked commands fills the air, but you keep your chin high and your steps even, even when your gaze shifts.

You spot him across the yard—older, taller, with broader shoulders and a sharpness to his movements that startles you. He’s sparring with someone larger, someone stronger, but Phainon doesn’t falter. He fights with all the wildness he used to bring to your bedtime stories, all the fire you remember from summer nights long past.

And then he stumbles—on purpose, you think, because in the next breath he ducks beneath his opponent’s swing and knocks the wooden blade from their hands. He laughs and shakes his opponent’s hand good-naturedly anyway.

Your chest aches.

Phainon turns, wiping sweat from his brow—and freezes when he lays eyes upon you.

You look away first, heat blooming at the base of your throat, but Mistress Calypso only huffs a quiet breath beside you. “I should speak with Master Gnaeus about the training rota,” she says, already stepping away. “Stay on the path. Don’t let your feet wander where your thoughts do.”

You nod, but she’s already moving, skirts sweeping behind her. You glance down again. Phainon is closer now, walking towards the edge of the field with a slow, lazy gait that you think is deceptive to his swiftness.

“Princess,” Phainon calls, just loud enough for it to reach you. His voice is deeper now, roughened like sandpaper against what you remember he used to sound like. “I thought you forgot how to look at me.”

“I haven’t,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I just forgot what you looked like.”

He laughs at that, ducking under the fence railing. “Well, I’ve gotten handsomer. Taller, too.”

You tilt your head. “More arrogant.”

“That, too,” he agrees, grinning. “But I can’t be blamed. I’ve been told I’m Master Gnaeus’ worst nightmare and his finest pupil. Possibly in that order.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, folding your hands in front of you and trying to still the ache in your chest.

He studies you now, something softer threading into his expression. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

“Not all of it’s bad,” Phainon says, squinting at you. “You stand straighter now. You don’t stumble over your words when you’re angry.”

“I never did,” you murmur, lifting your chin.

“My mistake. You were always very dignified. Even when you threw a candlestick at my head.”

“That was once.”

“Twice,” he corrects, “but who’s counting?”

You laugh a little, soft, and it eases something in your chest. For a moment, he just looks at you—not in the way the courtiers do, calculating and distant, or the way the maids do, fawning and fearful. Phainon looks at you like someone who’s known you muddy-kneed and sleep-mussed and still thinks the sight of you in silks is something worth staring at.

He rubs the back of his neck. “They’re changing your guards, soon.”

“How do you know that?” you ask.

“I overheard Master Gnaeus talking to your father,” he replies.

You frown. You only ever see your father at mealtimes, because being the king and queen of a kingdom is tough work. Busy as he was, he still used to feed you peas and carrots and tickle your sides until you giggled, when you were much younger. 

The older you get, the less you see of him. Your mother passed away whilst giving birth to you; your father focuses on managing his kingdom. Mistress Calypso, your nurse since birth, is the closest maternal figure you’ve had.

“Is it for a reason?” you ask.

“They’re saying it’s precautionary. Something about tightening security.” His tone stays easy, but his expression flickers. “Gnaeus will choose them himself.”

“And what are you telling me this for?” you say, pressing your fingers together, tight.

Phainon leans in a little—not improper, not indecent, but enough that you catch the scent of leather and sweat. “Because if you asked,” he says, low, “he’d assign me.”

“To stand outside my door?”

He shrugs, mischievous again. “I wouldn’t fall asleep on duty. Other than that, it’ll be just like the old times.”

You arch a brow, schooling your features the way Mistress Calypso taught you, though something bright and treacherous stirs inside your stomach. “The old times didn’t involve you standing guard. They involved you sneaking into my bedroom through the window and pretending not to be the one who knocked over the inkwell.”

“Yes, and I was excellent at both,” Phainon says unabashedly.

“You were terrible at both,” you retort, and though your voice is steady, it lilts in a way it hasn’t in months. “You always got caught.”

“Only because you told on me.”

“Because you blamed it on the cat.”

“That cat had it coming.”

You almost smile, and turn your gaze back to the training grounds, where the other boys are starting up again. Phainon follows your glance, but his eyes are already half on you.

“I mean it,” he says, quietly.

You don’t look at him, but the wind catches your cloak and lifts it slightly. The sun warms your cheek. “Mean what?”

“That I’d take the post. If you asked.”

Your throat works around a sudden lump. “It wouldn’t be your decision.”

“No. But you’ve always had a way of… making things happen.”

You do look at him then. His smile is subdued now, and something in his eyes—not fire, but resolve—burns steadier than it did in the boy who declared he would be captain of the guard as soon as he met you. It would be selfish of you to say yes. It would be reckless to want him near, not as a guard or a shadow by your door, but simply as himself.

“It would be improper,” you say.

He nods, accepting the words. But his voice, when he speaks, is gentle. “A lot of the world is. Doesn’t mean we don’t live in it.”

You open your mouth to say something, then close it. The path is still quiet, though you see Mistress Calypso crossing the grounds to come back to you. The scent of rain is stronger now.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

Phainon steps back and bows. “Then I’ll wait.”

You watch him go until he reaches the far end of the field, and his figure blurs again into motion and shouts and sweat and steel. Mistress Calypso joins you and, guiding you by your elbow, ushers you back into the palace walls, fretting about the possibility of rain.

(You think, just maybe, you will ask Master Gnaeus.)

The next morning, the palace is quiet. Mistress Calypso has gone to oversee the linens, and your lady-in-waiting has excused herself to fetch your embroidery kit. You walk alone, steps echoing faintly through the stone corridors. You know where you’re going. You’ve rehearsed the words in your head all night.

The armoury smells of oil and dust and old leather. You spot Master Gnaeus standing beside a weapons rack, arms folded, eyes narrowed as he surveys the group of boys cleaning the rust from old spears. His presence is imposing, but you know he’s always had a soft spot for you and Phainon, after having had to wrangle the both of you away from each other. The memory brings a smile to your lips; Master Gnaeus had once called you and Phainon as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun.

He notices you before you speak.

“Your Highness,” Master Gnaeus says, his gravelled voice breaking through the clatter of metal. He straightens, folding his arms tighter, though something gentle flickers across his expression. “You’ve no business in the armoury unless you plan to spar.”

“I’ll keep my slippers away from the blades,” you say, smiling faintly.

The boys around you fumble into bows or hasty salutes before returning to their tasks, whispering to each other as you pass. Gnaeus jerks his head towards the back, where it’s quieter, away from nosy ears and adolescent posturing. You follow, skirts brushing the dusty floor. Once inside the small side chamber—a storage room that smells like iron and cedar—you turn to him.

“You always did have that look when you were about to ask me something I’d say no to,” he mutters.

You gather your words with care. “I heard you’re changing the guard outside my quarters.”

“You heard correctly. It’s overdue. Your father agrees.”

“I’d like to request someone specific,” you say.

Master Gnaeus smiles, almost knowingly. “Is that so?”

You nod, folding your hands in front of you to keep them from fidgeting. “Phainon.”

“Of course.” Gnaeus lets out an odd sound, a cross between a chuckle and a groan.

“He’s capable,” you say quickly, before he can wave you off. “You trained him yourself. He’s fast, observant, loyal—”

“—and reckless,” the commander cuts in, raising a brow. “Too familiar with you. Too stubborn.”

“But you trust him.”

“You do know what it would mean, having him stationed at your door?”

“I am not a fool,” you say. “I know what it looks like.”

“Looks aren’t the issue. It’s what it stirs up,” Master Gnaeus says. “People in this court and kingdom live for whispers. If they catch even a hint of impropriety—”

“There won’t be any,” you interrupt. “He won’t so much as look at me in the wrong way.”

Gnaeus snorts. “That’s the problem. He already does.”

“Then make him prove otherwise,” you say, holding his gaze even as your heart—that traitorous organ—races inside your rib cage.

Gnaeus studies you—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow. “That boy’s been sniffing around the assignment list all week,” he mutters finally, more to himself than you. “Didn’t say a word to me, of course.”

“He said he’d do it if I asked,” you murmur.

“Of course he would. You could ask him to walk into a fire and he’d do it without blinking,” Master Gnaeus says gruffly. He sighs deeply, as though the weight of his years and the weight of your request are the same. “Fine.”

You blink. “Fine?”

“He starts next week. Trial basis,” Gnaeus grumbles. “And gods help him if I catch him dozing off or sneaking you sweets. One wrong move, and he’s back in the kitchens peeling onions for the stew.”

A small laugh escapes you. “Understood.”

“And you,” he adds, pointing a thick finger at you like you’re ten again and have just hidden a training sword up your skirts, “are not to coddle him. Or distract him. Or lure him away from his post by any means whatsoever.”

“I would never.” You give him a solemn nod, fighting a grin. “Thank you, Master Gnaeus.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You two were as inseparable as a sunflower and the sun—”

“You remember!”

“I remember how much trouble the sun got in when the sunflower followed it into the courtyard past curfew,” Master Gnaeus says, low and thoughtful. “He’s not a little boy anymore, and neither are you a little girl. Be careful, Princess.”

(You slip past the boys and their spears, rushing to the stables where Master Gnaeus said Phainon would be. Your feet cannot take you there fast enough, but you lift your skirts up and urge yourself to move faster. You find him brushing down one of the younger horses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has hay in his hair, and he hums under his breath, soft and tuneless. 

“Phainon,” you call, breathless.

He glances over his shoulder, and when he sees you, his smile blooms so fast, it nearly knocks the wind out of you. “Princess. You’ve either come to drag me to a duel or to tell me something reckless,” he says, tossing the brush aside.

You come to a stop in front of him, cheeks flushed, not from the run but from the way Phainon looks at you: bright and open, like you’ve brought in the sun with you.

“I asked Master Gnaeus,” you say, “and he said yes.”

“You did?”

“He agreed. You’ll start next week, on a trial basis.” You bite your lip, watching his expression shift. “But he warned you not to doze off or sneak me any sweets.”

Phainon grins, wide and boyish and blinding. “Too late for that.”

Before you can say anything more, he steps forward and takes your hand—just briefly, just enough to squeeze your fingers once, quickly, like he might not be allowed to again.

“I won’t let you down,” he says, low and certain.

“I know,” you say.)

There is nothing you can do to quell the rush of excitement that jolts through your body when Phainon arrives for his first night of duty. It bubbles warm beneath your ribs, a spark fanned into flame, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.

He stands in the hall outside your chambers, a far cry from the boy who used to steal apples from the kitchens and blame it on the stablehands. Now, he’s clad in the full regalia of the royal guard: black and silver, crisp and ceremonial, the metal of his breastplate catching the flicker of fire. The insignia of your house is etched into the clasp at his shoulder, a small gilded sun. And yet, there are still remnants of him that remain unchanged—the ever-messy hair that no brush can tame, the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and the tilt of his mouth, cocky but never cruel.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice pitched in that deliberate, court-appropriate register, before giving you an exaggerated bow. “Reporting for duty.”

You arch an eyebrow and fold your arms, trying not to laugh. “You’re late.”

“I was ambushed,” he says, straightening up, “by the cook. I barely survived.” Phainon reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small parcel, wrapped in linen and still faintly warm. He holds it out with both hands. “She said you’d requested for apricot pastries yesterday.”

“That’s very kind of her,” you say, and then smile, giddy and childish. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” Phainon blinks.

You nod, suddenly shy. “A thank-you. And to celebrate your first day on duty. I’d hoped to deliver it myself, but…” You trail off, sheepish. “The kitchens were busy today.”

He looks down at the parcel in his hands as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Then, slowly, his fingers curl around the edges of the linen wrap, careful and reverent. The torchlight makes his blue eyes look brighter, and when he glances up again, something in his expression softens, his usual wit quieted into something gentler. 

“You always were the generous one,” he says.

“I wasn’t generous when you broke my reading tablet and—as always—tried to blame the cat,” you point out.

Phainon huffs a laugh, then shifts his weight, leaning just slightly closer. “In my defense, that cat hated me.”

You fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when you’re wearing a royal crest.”

“We’ll keep it between us,” he says, with a conspiratorial wink. Then, softer: “Thank you. Truly.”

You let yourself smile at that. You can hear the faint clatter of boots down the corridor, the echo of a servant’s voice, but here, in the little alcove outside your chambers, it feels like the rest of the palace has fallen away.

“You’ll be stationed here every night?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“Until the king changes the rotation,” he confirms. “But Master Gnaeus gave me the impression that won’t be happening any time soon.”

“Good,” you say, trying not to let your relief show too obviously. “I think I’ll sleep better with you outside.”

Phainon smiles at that—an unguarded thing, a little crooked, a little too fond. “I’ll keep the shadows away,” he says.

You nod, then take a slow step back towards your chamber door, fingers brushing against the iron handle. “Don’t let the candle burn out. If you’re cold, there are spare blankets in the antechamber. And if anyone bothers you—”

“I’ll glare at them until they run screaming,” he finishes, mockingly solemn. “Very professional. Very terrifying.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He holds up the pastry bundle. “Fuel for my duties.”

You open the door, pausing one last time to glance over your shoulder. He’s already stepping into position beside the frame, posture straight and expression composed—but his eyes, when they meet yours, are still bright with warmth and mirth.

“Goodnight, Phainon.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

(When you finally lie in bed, heart hammering and cheeks warm, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to sleep with him just outside.)

Three nights after, sleep evades you wholly. No matter how many times you shift, how tightly you tug the covers over your shoulders, how deeply you breathe, rest dances just out of reach. The candle on your bedside table has long since burned out, and the coals in the hearth pulse faintly. The air is neither warm nor cold, yet you feel restless.

Eventually, you give up. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and reach for your shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders and knotting it loosely at the front. Phainon will still be awake, won’t he? You smile a little.

The palace is quiet when you open your door, quieter still when you step into the corridor. The flickering torches lining the hallway cast gentle amber light, and the stained-glass windows above them scatter moonlight into fractured gems across the floor. Your bare feet make no sound as you walk.

Phainon stands just as he has every night since he took up the post: beside your chamber door, one shoulder leaned against the wall. He’s not in full regalia tonight, only his black tunic with silver edging and a loose cloak fastened at his collarbone. His hair is, as always, a wild thing—too stubborn to stay neat, despite his best efforts. He straightens at the sound of your approach, though he doesn’t seem surprised.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says softly.

“I tried,” you say, hugging your shawl tighter and crossing your arms over your chest. “The bed refused to cooperate.”

“A shame.” His gaze drifts towards the other end of the corridor, scanning it briefly, then returns to you. “Is this a formal inspection, or am I being graced with your company?”

“Depends. Do you want to be inspected?”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’ll take my chances.”

You let out a quiet laugh, and take a few slow steps closer, until you’re standing just across to him, back to the opposite wall. The stone is cool even through the layers of your shawl. His eyes follow you, not in the way of a soldier watching for danger, but something fonder. Master Gnaeus’ words echo through your head, but you squash it. It is nighttime now, and no one else is there.

You slide down the wall, careful, until you’re seated across from him on the cold stone floor. The hem of your nightgown brushes your ankles, and your shawl slips slightly from your shoulders as you settle your arms around your knees. You don’t fix it. It feels too gentle a moment to disturb with fussing.

“I thought I might find you awake,” you murmur.

Phainon sits down as well, crossing his legs. He watches you without speaking for a long while, his head tilted slightly. “I told you I wouldn’t sleep on duty,” he says.

“Master Gnaeus would be proud,” you agree solemnly. He cracks a smile at that, and shifts slightly so his knee brushes yours. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Are your favourite things still the same?” you ask.

He leans back against the wall and thinks on it. “Some. Not all. I used to think the best sound in the world was the call to market in the city square at first light, before the crowds set in. Now I think it might be the way the torches crackle in the hallway when it’s too quiet to hear anything else.”

You glance at one of those torches now. It pops, like punctuation to his words.

“I still hate wearing the ceremonial gloves,” Phainon adds, tugging at the fingers of one hand, though he’s not wearing them now. “They make my hands sweat and I can’t hold my sword right.”

“You always said they felt like trying to write with wool tied around your fingers.”

“They still do,” he says, grinning. “I still think the kitchens make the best bread before sunrise, when no one’s had the chance to ruin it yet. And I still don’t like pears.”

You press your cheek to your knees, watching him through your lashes. “You used to say pears were fruit pretending to be water.” 

“They are. Pick a side, I say.”

You laugh again, louder this time, and then fall quiet. “And… is Lyra still your favourite constellation?”

“Yes,” he says. “That won’t change anytime soon.”

You nod, something warm and fluttery settling inside your rib cage. When you don’t speak, he adds, “Your turn.”

“I still dip my bread in tea when no one’s watching. I still hate wearing slippers—too stiff. I prefer walking barefoot, even when I’m not supposed to.”

“I noticed,” he says, with a wry glance to your feet.

“I still sleep facing the window,” you continue, “even though it gives me the worst light. I still read by the hearth until my eyes ache. And I still braid my hair when I’m anxious, even if I undo it right after.”

He watches you closely, eyes roving over your features like you’re a scripture he’s memorising. You swallow, suddenly self-conscious, and say, “I still love marigolds. Even if they do smell like dust.”

“Because they look like little suns,” Phainon finishes for you, so easily that it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Your eyes meet his. Neither of you looks away. He leans forward just slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s something cruel about time,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t wait for us to grow into the people we need to be. It just expects us to be them anyway.”

“I missed you,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I missed you, too, Princess. Every single day.”

You shift your hand and your fingers brush against his. “I should get some sleep,” you whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t move. “Will you be able to?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll stay until you do.”

You push yourself to your feet slowly, and he rises with you, less like a friend now, and more like the soldier he has grown into being. “Goodnight, Phainon,” you say.

He bows his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

(What is this aching, this yearning, that settles itself behind the bones of your chest and nestles itself deep into your heart? It pulses with every beat, quiet but insistent, like a secret knocking at the inside of your ribs. You press your palm there as if you could smooth it away, but the warmth of Phainon’s voice still rings in your ears, and the ghost of his hand brushing yours won’t leave you be. 

You return to bed, but the sheets are colder now, lonelier somehow, and your thoughts spin in endless, silent circles. You don’t get a wink of sleep, not like this, and Mistress Calypso tuts over the abysmal state of you come the next morning.

When you describe this strange ache to her, her motherly eyes soften in understanding, and her lips curve upwards in a knowing smile. “Oh, my dear child,” she sighs, and says nothing more of it.)

ii). When you’re older, you think you know it all.

Years pass. You are older now, not prone to childish whims and fancies anymore, or perhaps you are, but you’re forced to keep it hidden. Your father deems it necessary that you sit by his side during court meetings. You are to pay attention and make note of stately affairs, but you are not meant to speak, your father had told you sternly. It had stung, just a little, but Mistress Calypso comforted you by saying that your father was merely afraid you would surpass him in wit and knowledge.

Thus, you spend less time with your needlework and more time in the palace halls, and so, Master Gnaeus had only deemed it fit that Phainon gets a promotion. He is now your personal guard, and the distinction is not a small one. It means he is no longer posted just outside your door at night but follows you throughout the day—into the great hall, the colonnades, the gardens, and even the stifling court meetings where noblemen drone on about wheat prices and border tensions. 

He stands a step behind and to your right, hands clasped at his back, eyes ever watchful. He rarely speaks, save for short exchanges or quiet jests whispered under his breath when no one else can hear. You’ve learned to school your expression well, to stifle your laughter behind the pretense of a cough or a delicate touch to your lips.

Today, the sun slants through the high windows in angled beams, catching dust motes in its golden light. You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your posture is impeccable and your gaze is fixed on the speaker, though your mind drifts.

Phainon shifts behind you, just slightly, and the movement pulls your attention like a tide. Even without looking, you can sense him—solid, steady, unchanged in most ways. Yet, two years has carved something finer into him, like a sword honed again and again on the whetstone. His face is sharper now, his presence heavier, though never suffocating. You wonder if he notices the changes in you, too.

As the meeting finally draws to a close and the courtiers begin their ritual of shuffling and bowing, your father rises. You do, too, bowing your head as expected. He doesn’t spare you a glance, his attention already swept towards his advisors.

Phainon steps forward, a half-measure closer. “Boring as ever,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to catch.

You glance up at him, lips twitching. “I’ll add that to my notes.”

He smiles, but only faintly. “You’re doing well.”

The simple words settle in you more deeply than they ought to. You nod, grateful, and start walking, the long train of your gown whispering over the marble. Phainon falls into step beside you, just far enough to be proper. You don’t speak as you make your way down the corridor. You don’t have to; the silence between you both is companionable now, a familiar quiet like the hush before dawn.

But you’re aware, more than ever, of how much space he takes up in your world—and how little room you’re allowed to show it.

So you walk, head high, voice quiet, fingers itching by your sides for something you cannot name. When he opens the door for you and you pass through first, you pretend your heart doesn’t falter.

You are older now. You are wiser. But still—still—he is the softest thought you carry.

“Do you think we can visit Marmoreal Market today, Princess?” he asks.

“Why? So you may see your precious baker girl once more?” you say, allowing a sly smile to play at your lips.

Phainon exhales a laugh, low and amused, as he follows a pace behind you down the corridor. “She has a generous hand with the honey glaze, that’s all,” he says innocently.

“And a generous bosom, if I recall.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies with too much earnestness to be sincere.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you say.

“Terrible at many things, Your Highness. Lying is simply the least dangerous of them.”

You shake your head. He’s always been like this: clever in a way that toes the line between impish and careful. He knows just how far he can go, how much he can tease without overstepping. You, for your part, never quite want him to stop.

You reach the landing where the hallway forks—one way leads to the royal chambers, the other to the open terraces that overlook the city. The late spring breeze filters through the carved stone arches, warm with the scent of wisteria.

You pause, turning your face towards it. “Let’s go,” you say, already veering off the expected path.

“To the market?” Phainon asks, ever the guard, ever the rule-follower—but he follows anyway.

“To the terraces,” you amend. “The market can wait until you’ve made your peace with the fact that your baker girl does not, in fact, love you.”

“She doesn’t have to love me,” Phainon says breezily. “She only has to give me free pastries.”

You laugh, startled at the honesty of it, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flick towards you at the sound, like he’s collecting it to keep. The two of you walk in step now, no longer master and guard, but friend and companion. There are things you do not say: how his presence is a balm; how his nearness steadies you in ways even your lessons cannot; how in a court full of power plays that treats you as nothing more than a precious accessory, he is one of the only people who speaks to you like you’re simply a person.

When you reach the terrace, you rest your hands on the balustrade, staring out at the sea of rooftops and chimney smoke below. He stands beside you, just close enough to share the view. The wind lifts your hair gently, teasing strands loose from their pins, and you make no move to smooth them back. Phainon leans his forearms against the stone railing beside you. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.

“You’ll get in trouble for slouching like that,” you say.

“I’ll get in trouble for far worse one day,” he says, not looking at you.

The words land between you, light as falling ash and just as hard to ignore. You don’t respond right away. Instead, you look out again, watching how the light glimmers off the glass domes and copper roofs of the kingdom. It’s beautiful in the late afternoon, with the shadows lengthening and the air warming with the promise of summer.

“Would you ever leave?” you ask.

“Yes,” Phainon says, after a moment. “If it was the right reason. If it meant protecting something, or someone, I care about.”

When you breathe, the air catches in your chest and stays there, unmoving. “And would you come back?”

Phainon tilts his head towards you. “That depends. Would you want me to?”

You finally turn to look at him, the wind catching the hem of his cloak and the light catching in his eyes. He’s not smiling now.

“I don’t think I’d like the palace very much without you,” you admit. The words are too small for what you mean, too fragile—but they’re what you can give, and he seems to understand that. His gaze softens. Something in his expression shifts, like the drawing of a curtain.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to stay,” he says, and you think you can see the trace of a smile return, though it’s smaller than usual.

You lower your gaze before you can say something foolish. Before you reach for his hand, or let your shoulder brush his, or ask him if he ever thinks about things he shouldn’t.

“Phainon,” you say lightly, chasing the heavy quiet away, “when you go to the market, you ought to bring back something for me. Pastries, or maybe dried figs.” 

“Of course, Your Highness,” he says with a playful bow of his head. “Though if I bring the wrong kind of figs, like I did last time, will I be banished to the dungeons?”

“Only if they’re sour. Like last time.”

“Then I’ll make sure to taste all of them first.”

You smile to yourself, turning your face back towards the sun. It’s easier this way—to pretend, to flirt with jest and hide everything you mean in the spaces between the words. You don’t know if he feels the same, or if this is all just duty and loyalty gilded in affection for his childhood friend. But for now, it’s enough. It has to be.

(You wonder what happens when a princess and her guard cannot stop looking at each other with fondness.)

“There are reports of the Northern Kingdom rallying for war, Your Highness,” says Master Gnaeus, voice grave as it cuts cleanly through the silence of the chamber.

The candlelight flickers against the polished marble floors, throwing golden shadows against the walls. At the centre of the great hall, the court is gathered—noblemen in their brocades and ribbons, advisors with scrolls and ink-stained fingers, the occasional general in muted armour trimmed with the kingdom’s colours. All eyes are on the man standing near the raised dais.

A hush falls in the wake of Gnaeus’ words. Tension coils in the room like smoke. You feel it settle in your bones, even as you sit perfectly still, hands folded in your lap like you were taught. You do not speak. You are not meant to.

Beside you, your father—the king—does not react at first. His face remains unreadable, cast in part shadow from the sun filtering through the high stained-glass windows. He is a man who does not betray emotion easily, whose command is forged from control.

“And the severity?” he asks.

“More than rumours this time,” Master Gnaeus answers. “Our border outposts have reported movements. Small skirmishes, targeting mainly the farmland on the border. They haven’t attacked anyone outright, yet.”

Your father drums his fingers once against his armrest. “What of the Southern provinces?”

“They remain neutral,” the commander of the royal guard says, “but neutrality seldom lasts when coin and blood are promised. The North is testing us. They are measuring how far they can reach before we push back.”

Lady Caenis, ever eager, ever cunning, rises from her seat near the front. Her ceremonial rings clink softly against one another as she clasps her hands behind her back. “If I may, Your Majesty.”

The king lifts a hand. “Speak.”

“We may yet avoid full war. The prince of Castrum Kremnos is expected to arrive at our court in three months’ time. His father has long sought favour with our kingdom.”

Several heads turn at this. The name holds weight—Castrum Kremnos is a mountain city-state fortified by steep walls and a fearsome army, known for surviving three major invasions without surrendering an inch of land. 

“They are not without ambition,” Lady Caenis goes on, “but they are strategic. If we were to offer an alliance, formal and binding, before the North makes its move—before they choose a side—we could secure a military partner unlike any we’ve had before.”

“An alliance of what nature?” your father asks, though you’re certain he already knows the answer.

Caenis smiles with well-practiced diplomacy. “A royal one.”

You are acutely aware of your surroundings: the rustle of a silk sleeve to your left, the distant creak of a high window shifting in the wind, the flicker of torchlight behind the throne. But louder than all of that is the silence that follows. Your name is not spoken—but it doesn’t need to be.

A royal match. A marriage.

You remain unmoving, as you have been trained. But your breath catches ever-so slightly at the back of your throat. You don’t let it show. You focus on the cold edge of your seat beneath you, the feel of your gown’s embroidery beneath your fingertips. 

“A marriage,” your father echoes.

Caenis inclines her head. “The prince is said to be capable and respected by his men. It would be a… strategic match. Kremnos’ military strength paired with our control of the trade routes would ensure no northern force dares to strike. We have a strong enough army to hold off their advances until the prince arrives.”

The weight of the room shifts, as if the very air bends towards your father. Everyone is watching him—but he is not watching them. He is watching you. His gaze turns slowly and fixes on you in full for the first time that day. You meet it, though your heart is thundering somewhere behind your ribs. You have always obeyed. You have always listened. Still, some part of you—that foolish, tender part—had hoped you would be more than a pawn on a royal chessboard.

There is no cruelty in the king’s eyes, but neither is there softness. There is only that strange, piercing contemplativeness, like he is studying you through smoke, measuring something that can’t be weighed with scales or numbers.

Behind you, Phainon is still as stone. The distance between him and you that has always been proper now feels unbearable.

(“Princess,” Phainon starts, later, when he accompanies you back to your chambers. “You’re to meet with the seamstress after the meeting.”

“Tell her I am unwell,” you say, hurrying down the corridor as fast as you can. It isn’t a lie; you do feel ill, your stomach roiling and roiling uncomfortably.

“Princess,” Phainon says again, keeping pace with you. “I understand this is sudden, but—”

“You don’t understand anything!” you snap, harsher than intended. Your words echo in the corridor, clipped and cold.

He falters just slightly, enough for you to notice out of the corner of your eye. His jaw tightens, though he says nothing. Loyal as ever. Silent as ever. You regret it instantly. Your footsteps slow; the tightness in your chest presses deeper now, regret curling alongside the sickness in your stomach. 

You stop a few paces ahead and close your eyes for a breath. “I’m sorry.”

He approaches again, careful. “You’re not well,” he says, as though offering you permission to feel as overwhelmed as you do.

“No. I’m not,” you say.

He nods once, gently, and then says, “I’ll tell the seamstress you need rest.)

The throne room is overwhelmingly vast when it is just you and your father standing inside it. Your footsteps echo against the marble as you approach the dais, the train of your gown trailing behind you. The light through the stained glass paints the floor in fractured colours—crimson, gold, deep sapphire—but it does little to warm the air between you. Your father watches you with cool detachment from the foot of the throne, hands clasped behind his back. His crown sits slightly askew on the crown of his head.

“I would like to leave the palace,” you say, the words coming faster than you’d meant. You swallow and lift your chin. “Just until the prince of Castrum Kremnos arrives.”

Your father arches a brow. “Leave? And where, exactly, would you go?”

“To the coast,” you say. “To the summer manor. I won’t be idle—I’ll continue my studies with Mistress Calypso—”

“Your nursemaid?” he interjects, a faint sneer in the word.

“She is my governess as well,” you say. “I’m not asking for leisure, Father. I… I feel ill here. I haven’t been sleeping. I find it difficult to breathe within these walls.”

There is a long pause. A crow calls somewhere beyond the windows. Your father regards you a moment more; then, he exhales once, short and dismissive. “You may go,” he says. “There is no use for you here until the prince arrives anyway.”

You flinch, just slightly, but you nod. He doesn’t notice, or perhaps, he doesn’t care.

“You may take your guard and Mistress Calypso,” he says, already dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not have the court talking of you dragging half the palace to the shore for your whims.”

“It is not a whim,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“Is that so? Very well, then. See to it that you leave tomorrow before dawn.”

“Yes, Father,” you murmur, dipping your head even though he no longer faces you. You remain where you are until he disappears into the adjoining corridor, footsteps echoing until they vanish entirely. Only then do you lift your gaze again and let your shoulders sag.

The next morning dawns muted and grey, the sky still heavy with the last clinging fingers of spring. Your trunks are packed by the time the sun crests the horizon, and Mistress Calypso waits patiently near the carriage. Phainon stands beside it, already in travel leathers, a pale grey cloak draped over his shoulders and a sword belted at his hip. He helps you into the carriage without a word, though his eyes linger on you longer than usual—not as a guard, but as someone who has quietly noticed how tired you’ve become.

The journey to the coast takes most of the day, winding down through green hills and old roads, past vineyards not yet in bloom and sleepy villages with bright rose bushes. The sea appears at last like a sliver of melted silver along the horizon, widening with each turn of the road until it swells fully into view—vast and blue and endless, the waves curling like ink upon the shore.

The coastal town lies nestled in the curve of a shallow bay, its rooftops the colour of worn terracotta and its buildings pale from salt and sun. It smells of brine and fish and rosemary, and the narrow streets are paved in rounded cobblestones that shift slightly beneath the wheels of the carriage. 

The manor sits just beyond the town proper, high on the cliffside and overlooking the water. Pale limestone walls rise from wild green, sea-thistle and tall grass climbing up the stones. Ivy winds around the old balconies and shutters. The air here is sharp with the scent of salt and the sea, but it is clean. For the first time in days, you inhale without feeling caged.

Phainon and manor’s maids begin unpacking the trunks, while Mistress Calypso busies herself with inspecting the interior for dust and damp. You slip away quietly, sandals crunching over gravel, until you find the narrow path that winds down to the town below.

You aren’t alone for long. Phainon catches up with you, as he always does. “Princess,” he chides, “don’t walk away like that.” But you smile at him widely and he softens, shaking his head.

The coastal folk are not the court. They do not bow or stare. Few even seem to recognise you.

You pass through the open-air market with your hood pulled loosely over your shoulders, but it’s more habit than disguise. The baker merely offers a polite nod as he stokes his oven; the fishmonger continues haggling with a hunched old woman, and the children dart barefoot through the plaza fountains, trailing laughter. Here, they do not see a princess and her guard. They only see a boy and a girl, walking through streets unfamiliar to them.

Phainon walks half a step behind you at first, out of instinct more than instruction, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. But as the crowd thickens and the scent of roasted almonds and sea-brine swells in the air, the stiffness in his shoulders begins to loosen. A boy juggles apples near the fountain and nearly drops one at your feet. You catch it before it rolls away and toss it back with a grin.

“You should be careful,” Phainon says, though the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “If anyone did recognise you—”

“They haven’t,” you say, tugging him towards a stall where seashell necklaces hang in neat rows. “And they won’t.”

You buy one with a pale pink conch strung between two tiny ivory beads, trading a copper coin from the hem of your sleeve. The merchant gives no second glance; he simply pockets the coin and moves to the next customer. Phainon watches you quietly.

“You’ve changed,” he says after a while, once you’ve wandered beyond the edge of the market, towards a low stone wall that overlooks the bay.

“Have I?” you ask, settling on the wall with your arms around your knees.

“You’re… lighter,” he says, and then immediately flushes, like the word has embarrassed him. “I just mean, you seem more at ease. I haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

“I suppose my father trading me off to some prince I’ve never met from some kingdom I’ve never seen will do that to a person,” you say. You lower your gaze to the water. The tide has begun to turn, waves curling in slow arcs towards the shore.

“I think,” Phainon says, “you could ask your father to let you stay for longer.”

“He might prefer it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” you say. “But it’s still true.”

A gull cries overhead. A boat rocks gently in the harbour, its sails furled tight. The air is cooler now, and the stars begin to prick through the veil of twilight, soft and faraway. You reach into your pocket and pull out the seashell necklace, the pink conch warm from where it’s rested against your skin. Without a word, you hold it out to him.

Phainon blinks. “For me?”

“For the boy who’s always chasing after me,” you say. “Consider it a reward.”

He takes it gingerly, like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. Though he doesn’t say thank-you, he loops it around his wrist. 

(When you return to the manor that evening, Mistress Calypso eyes your wind-tangled hair with something like fond disapproval, but she says nothing—only sets a cup of chamomile tea on the table and reminds you to take your tonic before bed. That night, the waves sing you to sleep, and for the first time in many weeks, you rest.)

“Isn’t it cruel, Phainon?” you say, walking through the market once again, the next week. “I always thought parents were supposed to love their children no matter what. My father did love me, when I was very young, but it was so long ago that I hardly remember.”

Phainon walks beside you in silence, his eyes scanning the street as if the right words might be hiding between the bread stalls and spice carts. The market is livelier today—someone is playing a tin whistle near the fountain, and the sweet scent of cinnamon buns wafts through the warm air. You pass a stall draped in bright fabrics dyed indigo blue and pomegranate red. Children dart around your legs, laughing, their feet kicking up dust. But all you can think about is how far away the palace feels now—how far away you feel from it.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I only think he loved me because that’s what children are meant to believe,” you continue. “But the older I got, the quieter it became, as though his love faded with time, the way stars disappear at dawn.”

Phainon exhales slowly. “It’s not meant to be that way,” he says. “But it happens.”

“Did it happen to you?”

He shrugs. “My parents were bakers. They had too many mouths to feed to waste time on affection. But they gave me bread when I was hungry and kept me warm. Maybe that was love in their own way.”

“I think I would have rathered bread and warmth, too.”

A wind stirs, carrying with it the faint tang of approaching rain. You tip your head back towards the sky. The clouds are heavy, charcoal grey and swollen, rolling in fast from the sea.

Phainon notices it too. “We should—”

His warning comes too late. A single drop of rain lands on your cheek, followed swiftly by another on your brow. Then the sky breaks open all at once, a sudden, sharp curtain of rain that scatters the marketplace into bursts of movement. Children squeal and dart into open doors. Merchants scramble to cover their wares with linen and oilcloth. You laugh, startled, as the rain soaks through your sleeves in an instant, the hem of your dress sticking to your ankles.

“Come on,” Phainon says, reaching for your hand without hesitation, and you let him, your fingers slipping into his with a familiarity you don’t allow yourself to think about. He tugs you under the cover of a narrow alcove just beside a shuttered pottery stall. It’s cramped, the two of you standing close with your shoulders brushing, the sound of rain pounding the roof overhead.

The rain comes heavier now—thick sheets of it, washing the colour from the sky and smearing the edges of the market into pale, trembling silhouettes. It’s as if the sea itself has leapt into the clouds and poured down onto the town, soaking everything in its path. The cobblestones are already slick, puddles forming in the dips between them. Water rushes in rivulets along the gutter, swirling with petals from the overturned flower cart you passed by just minutes ago.

You shiver, rainwater dripping down your temples. Phainon’s cloak is coarse and rain-damp, but warm. It smells faintly of him: sun-dried linen and leather polish, salt and steel. He undoes it; and wraps it over your shoulders as he fastens it clumsily at your throat, his fingers brushing the hollow of your collarbone, and you don’t move. You barely breathe.

His touch lingers, fingertips ghosting over your skin like he wants to do more. Then, he draws back, expression shuttered.

The alcove is carved into the curve of an old wall, likely once part of the town’s inner ramparts. Its stone is damp and moss-slick behind your back, but you don’t dare shift. If you move, if you speak, you’re afraid everything will spill out—and it’s not the kind of truth you can shove back once spoken. 

You stare at the market, though it’s empty now, save for the most stubborn vendors crouching beneath makeshift coverings. A woman pulls a basket of apples under an awning with an exasperated grunt. A dog scampers down the alley, drenched and wild-eyed. You try to speak—to untangle the knot growing steadily tighter inside your throat—but your voice fails you.

“Phainon…” you say, soft and shaking, eyes still fixed on the grey blur beyond the archway. You cannot look at him.

He doesn’t respond, though you feel him shift slightly beside you. Waiting. Listening. The words are right there: You make me feel safe. I don’t know how to exist in the palace without you. I think I’ve fallen—

“I—” you try again, but your mouth closes around the rest. Nothing comes. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak where it bunches at your chest.

It’s too much. Everything is too much. The chill from your soaked gown clinging to your skin, the ache in your chest that’s grown bigger every day you’ve been at the coast, the quiet way Phainon looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching—it all unravels you from the inside.

You press your back harder against the stone wall and slide down just enough that your shoulders slump and your knees bend, curling in on yourself like the fragile thing you’ve spent years pretending you’re not. Phainon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t touch you, either, but his presence is steady and unwavering, as it always is. 

Your breath fogs in the cool air, heart racing and thoughts tangled. You wonder if he knows—if he’s always known—and you’re simply the last to understand what you’ve become, what you’ve come to need.

The rain hammers down around you both. The marketplace stays empty. The skies remain grey. Still, he stands beside you, silent and stolid, as if he, too, cannot speak the thing that lies heavy between you.

(It’s as if you are children again, scolded for playing too long by the fountains in the courtyard. Mistress Calypso clucks her tongue as she pulls the soaked cloak from your shoulders and ushers you through the manor’s side entrance, both you and Phainon dripping water onto the tiled floor. You don’t resist when she pulls your hands into hers and frowns deeply at your cold fingertips.

“Idiots,” she admonishes. “Running around like storm-chasers. Look at you both: half-drowned and already flushed.”

You’re too cold to argue. The fever came on fast—maybe it had been waiting for the first excuse to bloom. Your limbs ache; your skin is too warm and too tight. Phainon’s face is pale, lips tinged with grey, but his hand steadies you at the elbow as you waver on your feet. You don’t make it to your own chambers.

Mistress Calypso directs you both to the same guest room at the end of the east wing: closer, easier, warm. The fire is already lit. One of the maids must have stoked it while you were gone, and the flames crackle gently in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the stone walls.

She has you both strip out of your damp clothing behind a screen, averting her eyes though she’s seen you in worse states since infancy. Fresh linens are brought, and the manor’s softest night things, smelling of cedar and rose. You pull the wool shift over your head with trembling arms, and when Mistress Calypso guides you to the wide feather bed, you don’t protest.

You don’t even realise Phainon has followed until the mattress dips under his weight. “You’ll share,” Calypso says briskly, tucking blankets around you both. “You’ll warm faster that way. Don’t argue; I’ve had enough of your foolishness for one day.”

Phainon shifts beside you, awkward and uncertain, but says nothing. It’s the first time you’ve shared a bed since you were children who knew nothing better. You’re both too exhausted to protest her orders, and truthfully, neither of you want to be anywhere else.

She lays a damp cloth on your forehead, then Phainon’s. Her touch is gentle now, brushing hair from your temples, fingers cool and firm. “Try to sleep,” she says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

You nod faintly. When she leaves, the room settles into silence, punctuated only by the pop of firewood and the wind outside whispering through the shutters. Phainon lies on his back beside you, stiff as stone. You, curled slightly on your side, are close enough to feel the warmth of his arm beneath the blankets, though not quite touching.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Phainon mutters eventually.

You smile weakly. “They’ve a mind of their own.”

Feverish and trembling and tucked beneath thick quilts like unruly children, you finally sleep, pressed into the silence you cannot name and the warmth you cannot speak of yet.)

“The prince of Castrum Kremnos will treat you well, Princess,” Phainon says one afternoon, as the two of you walk a winding trail that cuts through the windswept cliffside. The sun is veiled by thin clouds, casting a soft, silvery sheen over the sea. “I’ve never met him, but I know a soldier who has, and—”

You stop walking. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you turn towards the edge of the overlook. Below, the sea churns, restless and dark, rolling and breaking against the jagged rocks far beneath. The air is sharp with salt and cold with the promise of another rain. 

“Princess?” Phainon turns to look at you. His voice falters into silence.

“Please don’t call me that,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond, but he waits. Always, he waits.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the breeze tugging at the hem of your light wool cloak. The wind toys with your hair, and curls it at your temples. You can’t bear to look at him, so you look at the horizon instead—where the sky meets the sea, blurred in shades of pewter and indigo.

“I don’t want him to treat me well,” you say. “I don’t want to be treated like anything. That ship will arrive soon, and when it does, I’ll meet a stranger. I’ll smile at him, and I’ll dine with him. I’ll be paraded beside him in silks and jewellery, while the court whispers about how well the match turned out. And in time, I’ll be expected to love him—or at least tolerate him—and bind myself to him before the gods and bear his children in a kingdom I have never seen.

“And none of it will have anything to do with me. Not with what I want, or what I fear. There are other ways to secure alliances, Phainon, but they do not care.”

Phainon stands with his arm at his sides, but there’s tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t offer empty comfort. He knows better. Instead, he listens.

You glance at him, then, catching his gaze. “Doesn’t that sound like a sentence to you?”

“It sounds like a prison,” he says, voice soft.

You search his face, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If I did not bear the title of a royal,” you say, barely more than a whisper, “would you treat me differently, Phainon?”

He draws a slow breath, and when he exhales, something in him loosens. His gaze drops to the earth for a moment, and then returns to you. “Yes,” he says. “I would.”

Your throat tightens.

“If you weren’t a princess,” he continues, quieter now, his voice roughened by something that aches, “I’d steal your hand in the street. I’d kiss you when you looked at me like that—when you see something you want to show me, too. I’d braid wildflowers into your hair just to make you laugh, and I’d call you by your name, your real name, until you were sick of hearing it and asked me to never say it again.”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest. His words are simple, but each one is a tether pulling you further into the confines of your rib cage.

“I’d take you dancing at the summer festival,” he says, stepping closer. “Not in a hall with stuffy walls and bowing nobles, but barefoot in the town square, beneath paper lanterns, with music spilling out of open windows. And I’d hold you so close, no one would doubt what you meant to me.

“I would have written poems about your smile, even if I was no good at it. I’d have carved our names into the old fig tree by the palace gates. I’d bring you honey cakes when you were cross at me. I would have walked beside you—everywhere—not as your guard, but as the boy who accidentally climbed through your window and the man who loved you.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t look away.

You take a step towards him, lips parting, the confession trembling just behind your teeth. “Phainon, I—”

The words falter. Your voice breaks and nothing comes. You clench your jaw against it, but the surge of feeling is stronger than pride, stronger than caution. So instead of speaking, you slump down to the ground, sitting down with all the grace of a weary heart. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill.

Phainon is beside you in seconds. He crouches low, but doesn’t touch you—doesn’t press. He simply sits there, knees drawn up, watching the wind rake through the tall grass and whip the water below.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I can’t say it. I don’t know how.”

There is no one here, in this secluded spot, and even if there was, the coastal folk don’t know you. It’s this logic, you’re sure, that compels Phainon to wrap his arms around you, tentatively, and draw you to him. You fold into him as though you’ve done it a thousand times before, as though your body knows something your tongue is still afraid to say. His chest is warm, the fabric of his tunic soft, and when you press your cheek against it, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat underneath your skin.

The sea below crashes against the rocks in a rhythm older than names. Overhead, gulls wheel and call out across the sky, and the clouds—those heavy, brooding things—have begun to break apart, letting through faint bands of light. The wind is calmer now. The storm has passed, but something in you still trembles like a girl lost in it.

Phainon’s hand shifts to the back of your head. He cradles you against his body.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says into your hair. “There’s no need to be sorry.”

You stay like that, wrapped in him, while the wind combs gently to the grass and the scent of the sea clings to your skin. Your dress is muddy, and your shoulders ache, but here, in the quiet hollow between cliffs and sky, you are allowed—for the first time in what feels like forever—to simply be.

You don’t speak again for a long while. You let the silence hold you both. When at last you lift your head, his hand falls away, but he doesn’t move far. He watches you with that same unreadable expression—half-guard, half-man—eyes the colour of deep sapphire skies.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“I know.”

“If I asked you to take me away from all of it, would you?”

He doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops to the earth once again, and he holds you close and buries his face into the crook of your neck.

(“I would want to,” he says finally, lips warm against your skin. “More than anything.”)

The halls of the manor are dark by the time you return. The oil lamps have been extinguished, and the shutters latched against the rising wind. The others sleep in the opposite wing—Mistress Calypso, the maids, the steward—and only the distant hum of cicadas and the gentle creak of wood frame the silence as you walk side by side, like children sneaking back in from mischief.

You reach your chamber door, and Phainon stops as he always does. He lingers just a pace behind, like a shadow unsure of its shape. A week ago, he might’ve bowed and stood outside your threshold with the discipline of a man sworn to service. But tonight—tonight, something hangs unfinished between you. Unspoken. Unburied.

You turn the key in the lock and open the door. He begins to step back—but your hand reaches for his.

He stills immediately, and the look in his eyes is not confusion. It’s caution, hope barely daring to surface. You don’t speak. You simply tug, gently, and he follows. You shut the door behind him, lock it, and turn to find him watching you. Your heart hammers, thunderous in your chest.

Phainon gives you that lopsided grin, the one that used to irritate you for how easily it made your guard drop. “My, Princess,” he says. “How very forward of you.”

You arch an eyebrow, walk past him to the chaise without a word, and throw one of the embroidered pillows directly at his chest. He catches it with one hand, chuckling.

“Do all royal invitations come with threats of smothering?” he says.

“Only for the most insufferable guests.”

“So violent,” Phainon teases. “Should I be worried?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” you reply. “That depends on how much more teasing I’ll have to deal with tonight.”

“More, probably.”

You watch him, waiting—for a joke, a quip, another deflection—but he simply stands there, silent, watching you in return. He sets the pillow down carefully. The candlelight plays against his jawline, his collarbone, the faint line of a scar along his knuckle you weren’t witness to him earning. He’s right in front of you. You ache.

Toeing your sandals off, you sit down on your bed, patting the spot next to you. Phainon obliges, unlacing his boots and unclasping his cloak.

“Will you indulge me once more?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course, I will.”

“If I wasn’t a princess, and you weren’t my guard, and we were just two people alone in this room,” you say, unwavering despite the nervousness that flits inside your chest, “what would you do with me?”

Phainon stills, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on your face for a long, measured beat, as though he’s trying to decide if you really want the answer. If he is allowed to say it out loud.

But he leans in slightly, voice low and steady. “I’d start with your hair,” he says, and your breath hitches.

“I’d take it down,” he murmurs, fingers moving slowly, carefully, to the pins holding it in place. One by one, he slides them free, until the last piece falls and your hair tumbles down around your shoulders. He doesn’t touch it, yet; he watches it fall like silk over your collarbones.

“I’d run my hands through it,” he continues, “because I’ve spent months wondering how it feels. If it’s as soft as I imagine. If it would slip through my fingers, or tangle there and stay.”

He lifts one hand, and brushes a lock behind your ear. Your skin burns beneath his touch. “And then?” you whisper.

His gaze drops, and a quiet smile plays at his lips—something almost shy. “Then I’d trace your face, slowly, with just my fingertips. Your cheekbones, your jaw. I’ve watched you turn away when you’re not trying to laugh. I’ve watched your mouth tighten when you’re fighting not to speak your mind. And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if you let all of that go.”

“I’d kiss the space between your brows first,” he says, brushing his knuckle there, “because you furrow them when you’re reading. When you’re worried. Then your nose—because you scrunch it when you’re annoyed, and it drives me mad.”

You let out a quiet breath of laughter, and he grins. “Your lips,” he says, voice dipping, “I’d take my time with. You always speak so carefully. I’ve always wanted to see what you’d say when your mouth is only mine to kiss.”

“Your neck,” he goes on, and his voice is like velvet now. “I’d kiss the hollow of your throat, and the curve where your shoulder begins. You hold tension there when you’re trying not to show you’re tired, and I’d kiss you to make you feel better.

“Your hands—they’re so small compared to mine. But they’re strong. I’d hold them open, palm to palm, and kiss each finger, because I want to know what touches the world before it touches me. Your chest, because that’s where your heartbeat lives. I’d rest my head there and listen.

“I’d trace the line of your waist. Hold your hips steady beneath my hands. Kiss the softness of your stomach where no one else dares to be tender. I’d go slow,” he whispers. “Learn the map of your body like a pilgrim, not a thief. And if you asked me to stop, I would. But if you let me…”

“Phainon,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes, like your voice is something holy.

“And then?” you ask, again.

“I’d kiss you,” he says, and his eyes flutter open, “until your lips were red, until you forgot how to speak. I’d find every place on your body that makes you shiver, and claim them all.”

Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it. You pull him closer. “Do it, then.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t tease. He merely leans in and kisses you. It begins soft, a brush of lips. But the second time, it’s deeper—warmer. It’s as if you’re making up for every time you looked at each other and turned away; every secret glance; every second you stood too close and did nothing.

His hands rise to your face, cradling your cheeks as your mouth parts beneath his, and your fingers move up his chest, over his shoulders, dragging his shirt with them. He shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, and you marvel at the heat of his skin, at the strength of it. Every inch of him is sun-browned and scarred, hard-earned.

Your hands find the hem of your dress, and slowly, you lift it over your head. You sit bare-chested before him, skin kissed by firelight, heart beating so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it. Your arms twitch to cover yourself, but you don’t.

Phainon’s gaze sweeps over you, not with hunger, but with awe.

“You’re—” He swallows. “You’re so beautiful.”

You duck your head, bashful, but Phainon will have none of it. He closes the space between you again, kissing you like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to memory. His hands tremble slightly when they touch your skin, moving carefully across your ribs, your waist, as though he’s still not sure he’s allowed. You guide him. You teach him.

You lie back against the pillows, and he follows, bracing himself above you. You undress each other slowly, fumbling at times, laughing once when his belt catches on itself and breaks the moment. 

You touch, explore, learn. You whisper when something feels good. He listens. He mirrors your movements, unsure at first, and then with more confidence, brushing kisses over your collarbone, the swell of your breast, your stomach, like you’re a language he’s finally been permitted to speak.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow and careful. You clutch at his shoulders, eyes locked to his, you breath stuttering in your chest at the stretch and burn and fullness of it. He goes still, watching your expression, concerned and cautious. You nod.

He presses his forehead to yours, and the movement begins—gentle, uneven, his hands cradling your hips. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. The ache turns to pleasure, a pulse in your core that builds and builds, and the sounds you make only encourage him: little gasps and whimpers, your name on his lips, his on yours.

There are no titles here. No barriers. Only two bodies moving together under candlelight, tangled in silk sheets and first loves.

You cry out as pleasure crashes through you, seizing your limbs, your breath, your thoughts. He follows soon after, gasping into your neck, trembling above you; he is, you think, a man who’s finally been allowed to feel everything he’s been denied.

(“Is it strange that I don’t want the sun to rise?” you whisper into Phainon’s throat. He’s tucked your head under his chin, while his fingers trace patterns onto your spine.

“Not strange,” he whispers back. “Cruel, maybe. But not strange.”

You shift slightly, enough to press your cheek against the warmth of his collarbone. His skin smells like salt and cedar, and something softer—like the sheets between you, like sleep.

“If morning comes,” you murmur, “it all goes back to how it was.”

“I know,” he says. You feel the breath he lets out, the way it lifts his chest just slightly; then, he adds, “But it’s not morning yet.”)

Dawn comes cruel.

The pale light bleeds in through the gaps in between the drapes, casting the room in watery gold. You blink slowly from where you lie tangled in the sheets, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Phainon is already awake beside you—half-dressed, back half-turned, one hand dragging down his face in exhaustion or disbelief, or something in between.

You sit up, letting the silk slip from your bare skin, and watch him for a moment. There’s a softness to his posture, something almost boyish in the slope of his shoulders and the way the morning light outlines the curve of his neck. A purpling mark blooms at the base of his throat—your mark—and something about that fact knots your stomach with heat and something else you dare not name.

“We should’ve slept,” you say, voice rough with sleep.

“We did,” Phainon says, not turning.

“For an hour.”

“Better than none.”

You rise and cross the room. Your fingers brush the back of his hand as he laces up his bracers—not for armour, just for show. “You should go,” you whisper. “Mistress Calypso always wakes early, and if she finds you here, no explanation will suffice.”

He smiles faintly at that. “I know. I dived into a laundry basket because of her, remember?”

You laugh softly, but the sombre thought of him leaving wedges in your mind like a splinter. Phainon seems to realise it, too, because he simply nods once with no protest or drawn-out goodbye; just the quiet acknowledgement of what the world expects. He leans down, presses a kiss to your shoulder, then the inside of your wrist, and finally the corner of your mouth: a promise and a farewell folded into one.

When he slips out, the door closes with a soft click. You exhale.

You move through the rest of your morning on instinct—pulling on a light gown, brushing the knots from your hair, fastening a necklace you don’t even remember choosing. You find Mistress Calypso in the parlour, seated in an armchair with her book on her lap and her cup of chicory in her hand.

“I wish to visit the marketplace today,” you say. “The sea air is good for me, and I want to walk before the sun climbs high.”

“As you wish, Princess,” she says. “I’ll send one of the girls with you.”

You smile. “I’d rather go alone, if I may. I’ve grown tired of fussing.”

“You always were a stubborn little thing,” she sighs.

“Would you have liked me soft-spoken and obedient?”

“Stars, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” She waves you off, and you leave before you can change your mind.

Outside, the market stirs to life with colour and noise. The scent of salt and fruit and spice fills the air as fishermen arrange their catch and fabric merchants unfurl bolts of dyed silk to flutter in the breeze. Shopkeepers shout over one another, offering baskets of ripe pomegranates, jars of preserved lemons, bundles of thyme and bay leaf, and combs cut from metal. You walk slowly past the stalls. A younger girl thrusts a petal-stained hand at you, offering a bundle of dried flowers with uncertain eyes. You buy it immediately.

Phainon appears eventually, as he always does. You find him standing just beyond a barrel of olives, his arms folded, posture loose. He wears no armour today, and there is no sword tucked into his belt. He only wears his simple shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a sardonic little smile on his lips.

“Is it dangerous to let the princess wander alone?” you ask when you reach him.

“More dangerous not to,” he quips.

You grin and link your arms together, pulling him with you. You share grapes and honey-coated figs. He dares you to out-bargain a spice merchant, and you do, though the old man throws in an extra pouch just for your smile. Phainon nearly gets pickpocketed by a boy no older than ten, and ends up giving him a coin anyway.

When you walk past the stalls selling sweet loaves of bread, some of the older women smile knowingly in your direction. One offers you a braided loaf of bread with lavender baked into the crust. Phainon insists on paying for it, and the baker swats his hand away.

“Let a soldier buy a gift for his princess,” Phainon says, exaggeratedly courtly.

“Buy it for your wife, then,” the old woman retorts, winking.

You leave with warm bread, a small jar of honey, and cheeks that refuse to cool.

Later, with the heat rising and the stalls beginning to close, you and Phainon slip away from the crowded square and walk down to the narrow, pebbled shoreline. The beach is quieter here, tucked behind a rise of sand and sea-worn grass. Pebbles clack underfoot as you both step closer to the water’s edge. You kick off your sandals, letting the cold saltwater lick at your ankles.

Phainon sits first, knees bent, arms draped across them. You lower yourself beside him, knees drawn to your chest, head tilted back towards the endless stretch of sky. Your fingers graze his over the sand.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The wind plays with the hem of your skirt. A gull shrieks in the distance. Phainon says something, low and teasing, about kidnapping you onto a fishing boat and vanishing into a life of anonymity. You laugh. You tell him you’d hate the smell of fish guts, but your hand doesn’t leave his.

“I could stay like this forever,” you say eventually.

“I know.”

You look at him. “But I won’t, will I?”

“No,” he says softly. “You won’t.”

It hurts more than you expect, that simple truth.

“Princess!”

You both jolt at the voice—breathless, hurried, and too close. A maid stumbles over the rise behind you, skirts bunched in her hands, cheeks flushed with exertion and panic. When she spots you, her face nearly crumples with relief. “I’ve been looking everywhere,” she pants. “Please forgive me—there’s news. A messenger has come from the capital.”

You straighten at once. “From the king?”

She nods, still catching her breath. “He carries your father’s seal. He’s waiting at the manor.”

Behind you, Phainon has already risen. He’s gone silent again, every part of him falling back into his role: the guard, the shadow. You brush the sand from your dress, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The sea wind picks up, and suddenly, the morning is no longer yours. The world has come to collect you.

You trudge back to the manor, not bothering to fix your appearance. Let the messenger see you wild-eyed and wind-snared. Why should you care? Phainon’s offer of running away suddenly seems ironic, and you bite back the sudden laugh that bubbles up your throat. The maid rushes ahead, her slippers slapping unevenly against the stones, but you walk slower. Your feet drag through the fine grit that clings to your soles, and the humidity makes sweat bead at your temples.

Phainon doesn’t speak. He walks beside you at a careful distance, eyes forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. You want to reach out, just once more, and say something small. But you don’t; if you do, you might not stop.

The manor gates loom up ahead, black iron wrapped in ivy, and beyond them, the sun-splashed courtyard where the roses are still in bloom. A shadow waits at the threshold. The messenger is tall and narrow-shouldered, dressed in the king’s colours—deep blue and silver—and he carries a leather satchel with the royal seal. His eyes flick over to you with the barest hint of surprise. You wonder if it’s the sand on your calves or the flush on your cheeks he notices first.

He bows. “Your Highness.”

“You’ve come a long way,” you say, dipping your chin, just slightly.

“I bring a letter from the king,” he says. He extends the sealed parchment, and you take it with hands you hope don’t shake. The wax glints blood-red in the afternoon sunlight, imprinted with the crest you’ve seen since childhood, familiar and final all at once.

You break the seal with the nail of your thumb. The parchment unfolds stiffly, the script inside unmistakable. Your father’s hand: ornate, precise, and devoid of warmth. 

The prince of Castrum Kremnos is to arrive at the capital in two weeks’ time. His arrival must be met with the dignity and preparation befitting our kingdom and future alliance. You are to return immediately and make the necessary arrangements. 

You are not to delay. Your presence is required.

— By Order Of The Crown.

(You glance at Phainon, stricken, wanting nothing more than his arms to wrap around you and soothe away the tension in your shoulders like he’d told you he would last night.)

iii). If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

The prince of Castrum Kremnos looks rather like a brute: long, messy hair, bright golden eyes that rake over your face, robes the colour of red rubies, and strong arms that look like they could crush a boulder. Yet, when he takes your hand in his and presses his lips to your knuckles, his fingers are gentle.

“Princess,” he says, after he straightens up. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”

You tilt your head to the side in greeting. “Welcome to our kingdom, Prince Mydeimos. I trust your journey here was pleasant.”

He smiles, and his eyes gleam like coins freshly struck. “Long,” he replies, “but not unpleasant. I do hope it will have been worth the ride.”

You withdraw your hand with care, suppressing the urge to wipe it against your skirts. Behind you, the courtiers shift in interest. Somewhere near the dais, your father watches with thinly veiled satisfaction, his expression the mirror of a man who has already counted his gain.

“Mydeimos,” he says, voice echoing throughout the hall. “We are pleased to host you. You must be tired. I’m sure my daughter will be happy to show you the gardens after you’ve had a moment to rest.”

“If it pleases you, I’d be glad to give the prince a tour,” you say, schooling your expression.

“Excellent,” the king says. “Then it’s settled.”

Mydeimos’ golden gaze flicks to you again, appraising. “I would be honoured.”

The moment the two of you step past the threshold of the great hall, into the quieter, sun-warmed corridor beyond it, it feels like slipping out of a costume. The marble walls hush the sounds of courtly interest behind you, and the breeze filtering in from the open arches smells faintly of lemon blossoms.

You lead him in silence for a while. Mydeimos falls into step beside you without complaint. His presence is large, but not overbearing, his footsteps heavy but measured. The sword strapped to his back shifts slightly with every step, a quiet reminder of who—and what—he is.

When the garden gate swings open with a soft creak, you both step into a world of colour and calm: roses spilling over trellises, white hydrangea blooming in the shade, and the soft burble of the fountain in the centre where ducks often gather in the early morning.

“Impressive,” he murmurs, gaze trailing over the grounds. “Your kingdom is fond of beauty.”

You glance at him. “Is yours not?”

“We don’t have the same luxury of fertile grounds,” he says simply. “But we do what we can.”

You walk slowly towards the edge of the reflecting pool. Mydeimos stops beside a small cluster of marigolds, crouching to inspect one without plucking it. His fingers are rough, but he touches the petals with unexpected care.

“You know why I’m here,” he says after a moment. His voice is low but not unkind. “There is no sense pretending otherwise.”

“The alliance was finalised only weeks ago,” you say quietly. “My father moves fast.”

“He’s trying to protect what he can,” says Mydeimos. “And he thinks a marriage will keep the borders from collapsing.”

“He is probably right.”

He looks up at you. “That doesn’t mean either of us has to enjoy it.”

“I have no interest in being your wife,” you say.

“I suspected as much.” Mydeimos sounds resigned.

“My heart belongs to someone else,” you say, softer now, “though no one else knows. It’s… complicated.” If you are to be wed to this prince, he must, at least, know the truth.

To your surprise, he doesn’t scoff or sneer. He only nods once, slowly. “Then I won’t insult you by asking if it’s returned. But I will promise this: if we are forced into this arrangement, I will treat you with respect. I won’t make a mockery of you.”

There is something sincere in his voice, you think. Something lonely, too. “Thank you,” you say. “That’s more than I expected.”

He straightens up, brushing the dust from his hands. “I’d prefer to have a friend in this, if nothing else.”

You consider him—messy hair, calloused hands, and eyes like summer lightning—and nod. “I would like that very much.”

He smiles at you, this time less like a prince and more like a boy your age who has also had to grow up too fast. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “At least between us.”

“I suppose it is,” you agree, giving him a smile of your own. “Tell me about Castrum Kremnos, my new friend. I have never visited, though I’ve heard many things about it.”

Mydeimos turns towards the hedge-lined path, and you follow his lead, walking in slow, companionable silence for a few steps. “Many things,” he echoes with a dry laugh. “Let me guess—bleak stone cliffs, soldiers with no tongues, and children raised to fight?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that not the truth?”

“It’s not the whole truth,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “We do have cliffs, yes. Our mountains overlook the ocean, and the citadel sits high above the sea. It’s built into the rock itself. The wind there howls in the winter and makes you feel like you might be swept into the sea if you step too close to the edge. But in the spring… the fog rolls down like a veil, and everything smells of salt and wild herbs.”

You imagine it: the sound of crashing waves below stone towers, boys training with swords in the mist, women weaving thick wool in candlelit halls. You ask, “And the people?”

“Stubborn,” he replies. “Proud and practical. Not particularly good at small talk.”

You laugh at that. “I can’t imagine how you survived court, then.”

“Barely,” he admits, glancing at you sideways, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I’m adaptable, even if I’d rather be sparring or riding.”

You reach out to brush your hand against the soft lavender lining the path. The breeze stirs the petals and sends their fragrances trailing through the air. “I don’t think I expected you to have a sense of humour.”

“I’ve been told that a lot.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that it makes you laugh again, and this time it feels freer, lighter than it has in days. You almost forget that you had worried yourself sick over this man, feeling so ill at the prospect of marriage that you’d put yourself through a self-imposed exile. But it was worth it, you remind yourself, because you now know that Phainon is yours and you are his.

“I think we’ll get along just fine, Prince Mydeimos,” you say honestly.

He gives you a short, mock bow. “Then I’ve accomplished something today. Although… I have told you about my kingdom, boring as it may be. It is only fair that you tell me something about yourself, Princess.”

The path begins to curve back to the courtyard. In the distance, the bells begin to chime the hour.

“I am madly in love with my soldier,” you say, surprising even yourself with your candour. 

He straightens, clearly startled—but not offended. If anything, he looks intrigued, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, the tilt of his head more thoughtful than disapproving. “That,” he says slowly, “is quite the answer.”

You don’t flinch, though your cheeks warm. You lift your chin and meet his gaze squarely. “I assumed you wanted honesty.”

“I did,” he admits. “Though I expected a more… diplomatically evasive kind of honesty.”

“I’ve had enough of diplomacy for today,” you say. “You asked who I am. That is who I am.”

Mydeimos studies you for a long moment. “Does he know?”

“Yes,” you say. “But it changes nothing.”

You expect a sigh, a frown, some bitter commentary on alliances and duty. Instead, he hums, low and contemplative. “Then he must be brave. Or foolish. Or both.”

“He’s many things.” You smile faintly. “Brave among them.”

“I won’t ask who he is,” Mydeimos says. “It doesn’t matter to me, and I suspect it wouldn’t be wise for either of us to say more than we already have.”

You nod in agreement. He offers you his arm, and you place your hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“For what?”

“For not being angry.”

“Ah.” His mouth quirks. “I might be. Later. In private. When I’m alone and wondering what sort of fool I’ve been made into. But right now, I think I quite like you.”

You don’t suppress your grin as you walk in silence back through the hedge gate. It is a tentative friendship, not created out of roses and vows, but made out of something oddly sturdier—honesty in the face of expectation, and the quiet understanding between two people playing parts in a story neither of them wrote.

(“Well, Princess,” Phainon says later, when you make your way back to your chambers. “What do you think about the prince of Castrum Kremnos?”

“Must we talk about this here?” you ask, rolling your eyes with fond exasperation.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m curious.”

“He is perfectly agreeable, Phainon, but he is not you.”)

The corridors of the palace are quieter in the late evening, steeped in amber torchlight and the sounds of the servants returning to their quarters. You move swiftly, the hem of your gown caught up in your hands to keep it from dragging on the stone. Phainon walks a pace behind you, silent but solid, a shadow at your back that warms rather than frightens.

You slip through an archway that leads into the west wing—a part of the palace few use, half-forgotten in the shuffle of royal life. It’s not entirely abandoned, but it’s private enough. The corridor ends in a small vestibule with high, narrow windows and an alcove half-swallowed by trailing ivy from the outside garden wall. It is, in essence, a hidden corner of stone and moonlight.

You turn to face Phainon as soon as you’re sure you’re alone, chest rising with the breath you’ve been holding in all day. “We only have a few minutes.”

He doesn’t ask if it’s a good idea. He doesn’t ask if you should be here. He simply steps forward, steady and certain, and brings his hand to your cheek.

“I hated seeing you walk beside him,” Phainon murmurs.

“I know.” You lean into his touch. “But I had no choice. My father expects—”

“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to explain.”

There is nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant chatter of wind through the ivy. His forehead rests gently against yours. His fingers graze your wrist, and even that is enough to make you shiver. You tilt your chin up, and he kisses you, soft at first, slow and sure. Your hands twist in the fabric of his tunic, and—

You hear someone clear their throat behind Phainon. 

You jolt back as if burned, heart leaping to your throat. Phainon instinctively moves in front of you, his hand flying to the hilt of his blade out of habit, until he realises who stands at the edge of the corridor.

Prince Mydeimos leans against the archway, arms folded across his broad chest. His golden eyes gleam in the dim light—far more amused than angry. “Well,” he says lightly, “I was looking for the stables. Imagine my surprise.”

Neither of you speaks. Phainon tenses like a drawn bow, and you feel your shame blooming hot across your cheeks.

But Mydeimos raises one hand, palm outward. “Relax. If I was going to cry treason, I’d have done it already.” He pushes off the wall and steps closer, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Though I must say, soldier, you’re either very bold or very stupid.”

Phainon doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched so tightly, you want to soothe his skin with your thumb.

“Mydeimos,” you begin, voice low, “please—”

“Don’t worry,” the prince interrupts. “I’m not here to tattle like a child. I told you before—I like honesty.” He looks between the two of you. “And this… this is honest, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly.

Mydeimos sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. It complicates things, but I suppose it makes my position easier to refuse when the council starts pushing for wedding dates.”

You blink. “You’re not going to—?”

“No,” he says, smiling a little. “I may be considered one of the best warriors around, and not very well-versed in matters of the heart, but I know enough, Princess.”

Phainon finally speaks. “You won’t tell?”

Mydeimos shrugs. “It’s not my secret to tell. But if you value her, soldier, you’d better be careful. The king may be blind, but the court is not.”

The prince disappears with a rustle of his cloak and a low whistle trailing behind him, as though he really means what he said—that he won’t tell. The corridor grows quiet again; the lack of his presence leaves behind a vacuum. You don’t move. Phainon does. He steps away from you, the warmth of his body vanishing as if a door has slammed shut between you both. His jaw is tight. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and when he finally speaks, it’s not the softness you’re used to—it’s something harsher, brittle and breaking.

“You can’t let him do that.”

“What?” you say, disoriented.

“You should’ve stopped him.” He turns to face you fully now, eyes dark and unforgiving. “You should’ve told him the truth—that you’ll marry him. That it was just a mistake. That this—” he gestures between you, his voice rising—“whatever this is, it ends now.”

The words knock the breath out of your lungs. “Phainon—what are you saying?”

“You can’t let him call off the engagement because of us,” he says.

“He said he doesn’t want to marry me if I don’t want to,” you argue, stepping towards him. “He said he understood—”

“He’s being kind!” Phainon shouts. “Because he’s honourable! Because he’s giving us a chance to walk away before this escalates any further!”

“You want to walk away?”

“I want you safe,” he says. “This is not safety. This is selfishness. We are selfish. Do you think I don’t want you? Gods, I want you more than I want to breathe. But if it means your father sees your reputation torn apart in court, if it means Castrum Kremnos turns its fleets away and innocent people die on the borders, then yes. I want to walk away.”

“Don’t put all this on me,” you say.

“I’m not!” he bites back. “I’m as guilty as you are. But you’re the princess. You’re the one they’ll parade down the aisle and pin like a jewel to someone’s throne. Not me. I’m just the stupid son of some village baker with a sword. I was never supposed to climb through your window all those years ago.”

“You don’t get to decide that!” You push past him, chest heaving. “You don’t get to act like this is just a lapse in judgement. You don’t get to—to kiss me and hold me and touch me, and—and then just run the moment something happens!”

“I’m trying to protect you!” he yells.

“Then stop pretending it’s about me,” you say. “Stop lying and admit it. You’re scared.”

Phainon freezes. “Of course I’m scared,” he says, low and bitter. “You think I want to watch you marry another man? You think I want to hear the bells ring and know you’re standing at an altar I’ll never be allowed near? I want to kill every man who’s ever looked at you the way I do. But I don’t, because I can’t. Because I’m not supposed to. I’m nothing. I’m a sword in your father’s army. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

You’re shaking now, rage and grief tangled together so tightly you can barely breathe. “Then why did you ever touch me?” Your voice breaks. “Why did you let me fall in love with you?”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and when he speaks, his voice is a whisper of war-torn resolve. “Because I thought—just once, I thought—that maybe the gods had made a mistake.”

“Then fall out of love with me,” you whisper, venomous and hurt. “Go ahead. If it’s for the kingdom, if it’s for the people—fall out of love with me, Phainon. And I’ll fall in love with Mydeimos like I’m supposed to. I’ll do my duty.”

Phainon’s face crumples. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Princess.”

You square your shoulders. You don’t cry. You won’t give him that. “I mean every word.”

(You cry and cry and cry yourself to sleep that night, streaks of saltwater running down your cheeks and your nose. The next morning, there is a different guard standing outside your doors.)

“Do you find this banquet particularly riveting, Princess?” Mydeimos nudges your shoulder, with the same ease he has shown you since your friendship.

You blink, pulled from your thoughts by the touch of his shoulder against yours. The ballroom is a blur of warm candlelight, colourful gowns, and laughter that sounds too bright to match your current state of mind. You haven’t tasted a single bite of the feast. You haven’t truly slept since that night with Phainon. Your eyes flick towards the far end of the hall—towards the empty space near the guards’ post, where he should be. But he’s not there.

He hasn’t been anywhere.

“Sorry,” you say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly,” says Mydeimos, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “I’ve been singing a ballad to you for the last five minutes. You didn’t even flinch when I rhymed ‘goblet’ with ‘sorbet’.”

That earns the faintest laugh from you. Mydeimos doesn’t push more than that. Instead, he reclines back slightly in his chair and surveys the grand room as if it’s a chessboard. “I have been thinking lately,” he says.

“A wonderful feat, Prince,” you tease him, and he smiles, just once, quickly.

“Indeed. But I have been thinking about how strange it is… how much power we let titles have.”

“You’re a prince,” you say, glancing at him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Precisely. And yet, I didn’t choose it. I didn’t earn it. I was born with a crown on my name and a sword in my hand and told the world would make way for me.” He takes a sip from his goblet, watching the wine swirl like blood amidst gold. “Meanwhile, I’ve seen men sharper than any general be dismissed because they didn’t speak with the right accent. I’ve seen women with more grace than any noble be cast out because their blood wasn’t ‘clean’ enough for court.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell the council about me and Phainon?” you ask.

Mydeimos doesn’t answer right away. He studies you, eyes glinting with something far more serious than his usual jesting nature. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t tell them because I don’t believe love should be a privilege reserved for the highborn. And because… I don’t think either of you deserves to be punished for wanting something honest in a world this rotten.”

You drop your gaze to the still-full plate in front of you, food long gone cold, because your appetite has vanished. “You really think it’s honest? Even when it hurts so much?”

“I think,” Mydeimos says, “that anything worth wanting is bound to hurt. But it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

The music swells again, a string quartet weaving a lively melody as men and women line up to dance.

“Come, Princess,” Mydeimos says, offering you a hand. “We must salvage what little enjoyment is left in this banquet, don’t you think?”

You look down at his extended palm, hesitant, and then place your hand in his. His grip is warm. He leads you to the centre of the ballroom, where nobles glide like swans across the marble. The music swells into a sweeping waltz, ornate and majestic, like everything else in this place: grand and golden and only beautiful if you don’t observe too closely. You don’t look for Phainon this time. It already hurts too much.

Mydeimos settles one hand against the curve of your back, the other clasping yours. He moves with a grace that belies his broad demeanour, not stiff like the courtiers who danced only to be noticed, but smooth, fluid, as though music lives in his bones. You let yourself be led, each step a distraction from the turbulence in your head.

“My mother used to dance like this,” Mydeimos murmurs. “Always a bit too fast. My father used to say she was trying to outrun the court.”

You glance up at him. He’s watching the crowd, not you. “She sounds wonderful,” you say.

“There are few things court life respects less than a woman who defied expectation,” he says, eyes flicking to the high dais where the elder lords sit. “Fewer still who remembered her for more than the silks she wore.”

“Your mother was… Gorgo, wasn’t she? Didn’t they call her the Sapphire Princess?”

“Yes. For her eyes. Never for the fact that she broke a treaty engagement and nearly started a civil war because she refused to be sold off like cattle.”

“She was supposed to marry the northern lord, wasn’t she?” you ask.

Mydeimos nods, spinning you gently in between phrases of the music before returning you to him. “She was betrothed to the very man whose army threatens your borders now. But then came my father—Eurypon, the commander of the Castrum Kremnos army. He was a war hero, but he was common-born, and entirely unacceptable for that fact.”

You smile softly. “But she chose him.”

“She did,” he says, gaze finding yours, “and nearly lost everything for it. Her father threatened exile. The court was scandalised. Yet… they married. Their stations were close enough—barely—that it could be spun as political, not romantic. She reminded the court that without Eurypon’s army, her home kingdom of Argyros would have fallen to siege three winters earlier.”

You’re quiet, absorbing this. “She married for strength?”

“She married for conviction,” he says. “And she gambled her kingdom on it. My father was no noble, but he was necessary, and sometimes, that’s all the crown cares about.”

You close your eyes, your mind reeling with ideas now, after Mydeimos told you about his parents. “Phainon, he—he told me he was going to be the commander of the royal guard one day. It was his dream. Master Gnaeus is fond of him, certainly, but he cannot let favouritism come in the way of electing the new captain.”

Mydeimos’ eyes twinkle. “How convenient that you have one of the most skilled warriors of the nation visiting your court, then, Princess.”

(The banquet is not over yet, but you excused yourself early and now, you search for Phainon. You walk fast at first, then break into a near-run, your slippers skidding slightly on the polished stone floors as you hurry down the palace corridors. Your heart thunders louder than the orchestra ever could. You don’t entirely know where you’re going—but your feet do.

Phainon is not on duty tonight, but there are places he goes when he wants to be alone. Places even the guards forget; places he showed you when you were young and guileless. You remember them all.

You find him behind the old watchtower in the eastern wing, where the wall juts out just enough to be missed unless you know to look. The alcove is dim, lit only by moonlight slanting through the high windows. He stands there with his back to you, armour unbuckled and resting on the stone bench beside him. He’s in a plain shirt now, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed.

For a moment, you simply look at him, relief and frustration warring inside you. “Phainon,” you call.

He stiffens, and doesn’t turn. “Go back, Your Highness.”

You ignore the sting in his voice, the distance in it. “I will,” you say, “after you listen to me.”

“I have nothing left to say.” Phainon moves to reach for his armour, but you step forward, blocking his path. 

“Then you’ll listen out of duty,” you snap. “If not to me, then to the princess of your kingdom, who is issuing you a command.”

Slowly, Phainon lifts his eyes to yours. The anger in them is subdued, like embers glowing between ash, but it is there. “Is that what we are now?” he says bitterly. “Orders and rank?”

“You told me, once,” you say, “that you were going to become the captain of the royal guard.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” you say. “Everyone knows you are the top candidate for the next position, but Master Gnaeus cannot let his affection for you and me affect his decision-making. If you were to become the captain of the royal guard, then we—” You stop yourself there. “You have a chance now, Phainon. Mydeimos is here, and the court is already restless with the border skirmishes from the north. If war comes, they will need strength. They will need leadership.”

He shakes his head, turning away again. “They’ll never choose me. I’m no one.”

“Then make them choose you. Challenge Mydeimos to a duel.”

“Are you insane?” he says.

“I’m serious,” you say. “He’s a prince, yes, but he respects strength. And the court does, too. If you defeat him—or even come close—they’ll have no choice but to remember you. There are other ways we can secure this alliance, Phainon. And if you become the captain of the royal guard, they cannot say anything about us staying together, because our ranks will be nearly equal.”

Phainon ducks his head and curses under his breath. Then, he looks up at you, and his anger cracks. “You think I can survive fighting a prince and the court?”

“If there is anyone who can, it is you.”)

Dawn has barely begun to stretch across the horizon, but the court is already assembled around the patch of training grounds used as a sparring ring. Nobles in rich brocades and glinting jewels watch from the colonnades, expressions schooled into polite interest or thinly veiled dread. The dew has not yet dried from the stone, and a thin mist curls around the edges of the courtyard, ghostlike.

There is no music, no fanfare; there is only the rustle of silk and the occasional murmur of speculation passed behind a gloved hand. The duel is not public in the usual sense—no civilians, no celebration—but it is undeniably a performance. Every glance, every breath, every footfall will be judged.

On the eastern platform, the king watches from his elevated seat, robed in black and silver, his crown slipping down his forehead. His expression is as if it is carved from stone. You stand just beneath him, close enough to hear the way his ringed fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, right next to Master Gnaeus. You force your spine straight, your expression passive, but your nails leave crescent-shaped indents on your palms. You are not allowed to show favour here: not for Mydeimos, the foreign prince and your suitor; and certainly not for Phainon, your oldest friend, your hidden heart, and your last defiance.

The rules were made clear the moment Phainon approached the council chambers and issued the challenge. If Mydeimos wins, the alliance will be sealed by marriage between him and you. Phainon will be exiled for insubordination and interference in royal affairs.

If Phainon wins, the alliance will be negotiated through trade and defense treaties instead of marriage. He will be named the next captain of the royal guard, by merit and recognition.

At the far end of the ring, Phainon steps forward first.

He is silent, face unreadable beneath the steady press of expectation. His silver-white hair is tied back, his armour plain but fitted with care—worn in places, the leather softened from use. He carries no insignia. The hilt of his sword glints at his back, catching the early sun in flashes as he moves with calm, deliberate steps to the centre of the ring. He does not look at you.

On the opposite end, Prince Mydeimos arrives with significantly more fanfare. His entrance is flanked by two of his personal guards, though they peel away before he enters the sparring ground alone. He is dressed in deep crimson, edged in gold, and his armour is polished to an almost absurd shine. His twin swords rest easily at his hips, curved slightly and sheathed in scabbards inlaid with foreign script.

Phainon does not extend a hand. Mydeimos doesn’t seem surprised. They say nothing, but they bow their heads as the king rises. The hush that falls over the courtyard is instantaneous. When he speaks, his voice carries without effort.

“Let the court bear witness to this sanctioned duel—its terms already set, and its consequences clear. Combatants, you will fight until surrender or  incapacitation. Death is forbidden.”

He motions for Master Gnaeus to step forward, and that old man, with his father-like fondness towards you and Phainon, calls out: “Begin.”

Just like that, the world narrows down to two figures moving swiftly across stone.

Phainon moves first—not charging, but closing the distance quickly, decisively, blade angled low. Mydeimos watches him, lips curling into a faint grin, before drawing one sword and blocking the first strike with a clean, practiced motion.

Steel meets steel, and the sound echoes throughout the courtyard.

The duel begins as a dance of testing: quick jabs, dodges, parries. Mydeimos is faster, his footwork more fluid, spinning lightly on the balls of his feet with the ease of someone trained since birth for pageantry and power. But Phainon is relentless. He fights like a soldier, not a showman, waiting for Mydeimos to overextend.

They are matched blow for blow, sword ringing against sword, the courtyard captivated by the clash of wills. Dust rises around them in golden clouds, sun now creeping past the pillars and spilling onto the marble arches.

Mydeimos breaks the rhythm first. He feints left, then spins behind Phainon and lands a glancing strike across his shoulder. Phainon stumbles but does not fall. He turns, grits his teeth, and retaliates with a blow that Mydeimos barely manages to deflect. Sweat beads on their brows. Blood blooms through Phainon’s tunic where the blade cut—but he doesn’t slow. If anything, it fuels him. He ducks low, aiming a swipe at Mydeimos’ legs, but the prince leaps back, laughing under his breath.

“You’re better than I expected,” Mydeimos says through panted breaths. “But is it enough?”

Phainon does not answer. Instead, he drops his centre of gravity, shifts his stance, and surges forward.

There is a moment—barely more than a blink—when everything shifts. Mydeimos lifts both swords in a cross-guard, but Phainon’s strike doesn’t aim for the swords. It aims just past them—forcing Mydeimos to twist, exposing his side—and Phainon slams his elbow into the prince’s ribs, making him grunt in surprise and pain. Mydeimos staggers. One of the blades flies from his hands.

Phainon doesn’t let up. He drives forward, his movements tighter now, every swing more urgent. Mydeimos parries one more strike, two—but his footing is off. He is sweating hard, slower than he was.

Phainon knocks the last sword from Mydeimos’ hand. Then, he levels his blade at the prince’s throat.

You realise you’re holding your breath when Master Gnaeus steps forward again and announces, “The duel is complete. The victor: Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, a member of the royal guard.”

Cheers do not erupt. The court is too stunned for that. But murmurs rise, and heads turn. Even the king’s eyebrows raise fractionally.

Mydeimos stares at the sword pointed at his neck, then raises his hands in surrender. Surprisingly, he laughs—just once, rich but tired. He steps back, out of reach, and bows. “Well played,” he says. “I hope you make a fine captain, soldier.”

Phainon lowers his blade. 

You do not move. You can’t—not when every gaze is trained on him. Not when the weight of the court settles like lead on your shoulders, pressing into your chest until your lungs feel tight. Phainon looks up, and for the first time since the match began, his eyes find yours. There is a flicker there—just a flicker—of something that is soft, meant for you and you alone. It’s not a smile, not quite. It’s a promise. A plea.

But he does not reach for you. Not with the king mere steps above. Not with nobles whispering into goblets and adjusting their gem-encrusted jewellery. Master Gnaeus is already striding forward to escort him from the ring, murmuring something low that you cannot hear.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You imagine what it would feel like to run to him, to place your hand against the scrape on his cheek and whisper, “You did it,” over and over again into the space between his breaths. But you cannot.

So instead, you force your hands into stillness and let your eyes speak in the language you’ve both learnt too well: restraint; longing.

Phainon holds your gaze for one heartbeat longer than wise. Then two. Then, with the barest incline of his head—a bow meant for the crown, but perhaps tilted just slightly in your direction—he turns and follows Gnaeus from the ring.

You remain in place. Behind you, the king speaks, announcing the revised terms of the alliance. There is clapping. The courtiers resume their performance of diplomacy. You follow Mydeimos back into the palace.

(“Tell me the truth, Prince Mydeimos,” you say. “Did you lose to Phainon on purpose?”

Mydeimos blinks, then lets out a soft, almost wounded laugh. You’re alone now, or close enough. The colonnade is empty but for the afternoon sun hanging high above your heads and the low hum of distant music echoing from the feast halls. Mydeimos leans against a stone pillar, arms folded, his tunic stained from the duel and a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead.

“Do you really think I would do that?” he asks, looking at you not with offense, but with something quieter. “Throw a duel in front of the entire court? Humiliate myself in front of your father, the king, and the council, when I am a guest in your kingdom?”

You don’t answer.

He sighs, pushing himself off the pillar and taking a few steps short steps closer. “Your soldier bested me. That is the truth of it. I didn’t expect him to fight like that.”

“Mydeimos—” you start, but words fail you. What can you even say, that would be kind to this mighty prince from a mighty kingdom, but also your gentle friend, who promised he would treat you well even if the marriage were to go through? 

“I didn’t lose on purpose,” he says again, gentler this time. “But if you’re asking me if I regret it?” He tilts his head, golden eyes studying yours. “No, I do not, Princess. It was an honour to fight against such a skilled warrior. I meant what I said—he will make a fine captain of your guard.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you, Mydeimos.”

“Hush, now,” Mydeimos says with a chuckle. “Friends do not thank each other for such trivial things.”)

Your father summons you to the throne room before the court meets the next morning. Mistress Calypso untangles your hair and pats your cheek, and tells you to not keep him waiting. 

The throne room is nearly empty at this hour—quiet, hollow, the banners of the kingdom fluttering faintly in the stale wind. Light from the high windows spills across the polished floor, catching on the familiar stained glass windows. You walk with steps too loud and a heart beating even louder.

The king sits alone on the throne. There are no courtiers, no scribes, and no guards, save for two flanking the doors behind you. There is only your father, his crown placed on his lap and his shoulders wrapped in a robe, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The moment you bow, he speaks—not with rage, but with something closer to weariness.

“I would’ve rather heard the truth from your mouth than have to pry it from a sword fight,” he says.

You keep your head bowed. “I did not think it would change anything.”

“You’re my daughter,” he says. “You’re the heir to a kingdom and the last piece of a woman I loved more than life itself. Of course it would’ve changed something.”

Silence stretches like a shadow between you. Then, in a voice that surprises you with how small it sounds, he adds, “Do you think me such a tyrant that I would barter your happiness away without care?”

You glance up at him. The lines on his face are deeper than they were a season ago. “I only wished to protect the kingdom,” he continues. “You are smarter than I am, daughter, for you have done better than I in securing an alliance with Castrum Kremnos.”

“Father…” you trail off, unsure.

“I have not spoken of your mother to you,” he says, “and it is a great folly on my end. I have not been a good father to you, and she would despise me for it. She was wittier than any noblewoman who has ever graced this court, and ten times as beautiful. She was a commoner, yes, the daughter of a tailor, but she had fire in her blood and stars in her eyes.

“She used to say that fate is only a thing to curse when it doesn’t give you what you already knew you wanted. She would’ve liked Phainon. Gods help me, I think she would’ve told me to step aside and let you choose him.”

“But it was not in vain, father,” you interject. “Phainon was given the chance to prove himself and to the court that there is a reason why Master Gnaeus always favoured him.”

“Do you know,” he says, “the first thing your mother said to me? I was in disguise, wandering the markets, trying to discover the commonfolk’s woes in my kingdom. I had not been prince for long. She looked me up and down and said, ‘You walk like a farmer, but your boots are too clean. Who are you fooling, really?’ She never let me pretend to be anything less than I was.”

You allow yourself the tiniest smile. “She sounds like she would’ve terrified the court.”

“She did. And me, most of all.”

He looks down at the crown in his lap then—polished, heavy, too bright for the early hour. “I have worn this longer than I should’ve. My father died too soon. And I… I have tried not to repeat his mistakes, but I see now that I made different ones. I thought to guard you by turning you into a symbol. I forgot to see the girl who craved a parent’s love and had to learn how to stand taller than every man in this court, alone.”

“Father,” you begin, “I was never alone. I am everything I am now thanks to the people around me: Mistress Calypso’s motherly gentleness; Master Gnaeus’ fondness for me; Phainon’s steadfast, unwavering presence; and now, Mydeimos’ kind friendship. You have not been very kind to me, father, but I have more than sufficed with what I have.”

“I am sorry,” he says at last, swallowing hard. “For nearly binding your fate to someone your heart did not choose.”

“But I have chosen,” you say. “And Phainon has chosen me.”

He studies your face then. Not as a king studies an heir, but as a father studies a daughter grown too quickly—half pride, half sorrow. “Then may the gods bless what I nearly ruined,” he says, and rises from the throne with more effort than he shows. He places the crown back on his head, the gold glinting in the pale morning light.

“Let it be known,” he declares, “that the match was the Princess’ will, not mine. May the court know her judgement surpasses even my own.”

The throne room is full by the time the sun reaches its highest point, with courtiers and nobles lining the marble aisles in their finest dress. You stand beside the dais, dressed in formal regalia, but your hands are warm—not from nerves, but from where Phainon’s fingers briefly brushed yours beneath the folds of your robe when no one was looking. At the foot of the dais stands Master Gnaeus, his weathered face solemn but proud. Beside him, Phainon kneels, one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed.

“Rise, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” your father says, voice ringing clearly through the chamber.

Phainon stands. Sunlight cuts through the windows, catching on the dull bronze of his breastplate at the clean line of the sword at his hip.

“By the authority vested in me as sovereign,” the king continues, “and with the recommendation of Master Gnaeus himself, I name you Captain of the Royal Guard. May your sword be the shield of this kingdom, and your loyalty its unbreakable spine.”

Master Gnaeus steps forward. In his hands, he carries his old sword—notched from years of use, the hilt worn by time. “I have served three kings, and fought more battles than I care to count,” he says, placing the sword flat between his palms. “But I have never met a soldier with a truer heart than this one.” He turns to Phainon and holds the sword out. “I was a younger man when I carried this into battle. Now I give it to one younger still, but stronger, steadier, and far more stubborn.”

Phainon takes the blade, kneeling once more—not to the court, not even to the king, but to Master Gnaeus himself. You catch the gleam in his eyes as he rises. He meets your gaze across the floor, and the faintest smile passes between you like a shared secret. 

Mydeimos steps forward next. Dressed in his ruby-red ceremonial garb, he bows to your father, then to you. “It is with honour that Castrum Kremnos finalises its alliance with your realm. But I would be remiss if I did not also speak personally.” 

He glances at you, his gaze kind, if bittersweet. “Your Highness, thank you—for your companionship and your presence. You were never obligated to give me either. I have learned more than I expected, and I carry no bitterness at how things have turned out. In truth—” he turns his gaze to Phainon—“I look forward to fighting beside a warrior like you in the campaign against northern raiders. Your reputation, it seems, is well-earned.”

Phainon nods. “I look forward to having you at my side, Prince.”

The moment settles—a rare, rare peace shared between kingdoms and warriors and people who have each made their choices. Your father raises a hand.

“Let this court bear witness to the dawn of a new alliance,” he says, “and the beginning of a reign led not by fear or ambition, but by strength, and by choice.”

Cheers rise like a tide, and the stained glass above scatters the light like jewels across the floor. Phainon sidles over to your side, no longer covert, but open and proud. He leans ever so slightly closer.

(“Is it always this loud when you win a fight?” he says.

You don’t look at him, but your smile answers for you.)

iv). Look at us, it’s like we’re one.

There is a man inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow and eyes the colour of the sea before a storm, and he gazes at you with a smile you can only think to describe as terribly lovesick. The hour is late, and the moon spills silver through the open windows of your bedchamber, pooling in quiet puddles across the stone floor and the silken-smooth sheets. The hearth crackles low, casting flickering gold across the canopy above you. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, you don’t have to.

“Mistress Calypso is very proud of you, you know,” you murmur. “She would not stop raving about how the little boy who used to climb in through my window every night is now the captain of the royal guard, off to fight along with the prince of Castrum Kremnos two weeks from now.”

You turn your head, letting your nose nudge against Phainon’s jaw, where the faintest hint of stubble tickles your skin. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, legs hooked in between yours, and he smells like grass and leather and cedarwood. The shell on the necklace you’d bought for him, wrapped around his wrist, digs into your skin just slightly.

Phainon exhales a soft laugh, the sound low and warm against your temple. “I think Mistress Calypso just likes that she no longer has to pretend she doesn’t see me sneaking out of your window at dawn.”

“She always did turn a blind eye,” you agree. “But we were so young then, so what could she do about it?”

“Barred your windows, probably,” he answers solemnly. “But she is like a mother to you, and does not have the penchant for such cruelty.”

You stifle a laugh into his shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his tunic where it’s wrinkled from your embrace. He shifts so you’re nestled even closer, his thumb drawing gentle patterns on your hip beneath the sheets. “Two weeks,” you whisper, quieter now. “That’s not very long.”

“No,” Phainon says. “But it’s long enough to kiss you a hundred times.”

“You speak like you don’t plan on coming back.”

“I do. But the north is cold, and war is colder. If I’m to leave, I’ll leave no words unsaid.”

You lift your head to look at him. His sea-storm eyes meet yours, steady and full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache. 

“I’ll return to you,” he promises. “If there is breath in my body and strength in my limbs, I will always return to you.”

You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the spot just below his eye. “I’ll be waiting. With the same window open, just in case you forget the door exists.”

He grins then, boyish, beautiful, and yours. “I might climb it anyway. For tradition.”

You laugh, and he kisses the sound from your lips. There is no rush now, no secret to keep. There is only the moonlight, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the quiet promise of love that spreads between you like an oath sworn in fire and sealed in starlight.

a/n: thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated ♡ also thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her, and for being my biggest supporter ever! the first section’s title was taken from cardigan by taylor swift; the second was my own; the third was from emma by jane austen; and the fourth was taken from above the time by iu.

[thekaykery]

I recently addicted to ur taehyung fic (little and the beast) god I loved the couple like how adorable their relationship was so maybe can you do for the same couple or an individual tae x reader smut where OC is his girlfriend and she secretly planned to tease tae by wearing bunny cosplay lingerie and asks him to fuck her in that outfit which she looks so cute as well as hot and tae immediately giving in his pretty girl's wish 🥺🥺💗

This is my first ever ask so pls ignore if it's cringe or whatever lol

yes ofc!!! tsym for loving little and the beast! this one's for you ❤️

honey bunny

pairing: kim taehyung x f!reader

category: smut, fluff

word count: 2.3k

rating: 21+

warning(s): ddlg, daddy dom!taehyung, little sub!f!reader, bunny costume, destruction of said costume, pet names, daddy kink, cursing, teasing, begging, dirty talk, nipple play, fingering, allusion to choking, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), praise, aftercare, mentions of squirting and passing out from said squirting

notes: again, tsym for requesting this! ik this took forever but life grew hectic bc of college! ty for your patience! p.s. what a good time to release this with layover amirite-

You don’t know if this is a good idea.

Purchasing this… gift with Taehyung’s card was risky enough. Yes, he’s able to see the Amazon charge in his account and know it was you. Yes, he likes to ask what you buy. Yes, you tried your best to hide this in a spot where Taehyung doesn’t normally look. Really, you’ve just been waiting for the opportunity to take it out and wow him.

And today is the day.

Gazing in the mirror at your reflection, you run a hand over the sleek white leather costume. Cinched at the waist, it emphasizes your hips and bum, and the cups do little justice to contain your breasts. You paired fishnet tights, wrist cuff sleeves, and a collar with the costume, along with a bunny ears headband; white stilettos top off the outfit. You even put on some makeup: black liner, mascara, blood-red lipstick.

Although you know it’s all going to come off with your tears and spit, you wanted to be pretty, look pretty for Taehyung.

However, this seemed like a good idea at first, but now you’re second-guessing yourself.

As your dom and caretaker, Taehyung is accustomed to seeing you in cute, frilly clothing, since you’re in little space more often than not. So you don’t know how your boyfriend is going to react. The least he can do is like it, right?

He doesn’t have to love it. You just want to… surprise him.

The familiar sound of the front door opening and closing catches your attention. Your hands become clammy. You scurry to the bed and lay down, stretching along the blankets, which are soft against your skin. Footsteps approach, growing louder with each one, then–

"Jesus Christ."

You shyly peek at your boyfriend. Taehyung stares at you, utterly divine in loose beige pants and a garnet tee tucked into the waistband, his dirty-blond hair swept back away from his face. His brown eyes are wide with shock, knuckles white from his tight grip on the doorknob. You carefully roll over, exposing your chest, and his throat bobs.

“Hi,” you murmur, smiling a little.

He doesn’t reply straight away, obviously stupefied by your costume. “What’s this?” he croaks.

“Do you like it, Daddy?” you quietly ask him, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and standing. Your heels click on the hardwood floor as you step towards him. “I got it for you.”

Another gulp. Taehyung drifts to you, enchanted. “You look…” His slender fingers curl around your waist. He sharply exhales, eyes unable to stay still. “Fuck, you look so pretty, babygirl.”

"Thank you," you whisper.

His touch is fire, burning through the costume and branding his fingerprints into your skin. Your eyes flutter when his hands trail up to your breasts, caressing them, your sensitive nipples rubbing against the leather. You bite your lip to contain a mewl, heat flooding your cheeks as Taehyung tugs the cups out of the way. He plays with your rosy buds, rolling and pinching them between his fingers, bolts of arousal shooting straight to your pussy.

“So this is what you bought that day,” Taehyung softly says, almost to himself, tugging at your nipples.

“Please,” you pant, jolting when he pinches a bud.

A ghost of a smirk. "Please what?"

You swallow, trembling. "Please fuck me."

Taehyung chuckles. He pinches your other nipple, drawing a whine from you. "You can do better than that, sweetheart."

You pout, eyes dropping in embarrassment. You dislike voicing your needs. He should know what you want by the way you react to his teasing, but that’s what Taehyung likes. The power he holds over you as your dom. He wants you to express your thoughts, tell him exactly just what you want.

It reminds him how much you trust him with yourself, submitting to his every touch and kiss, handing over your body to do as he pleases with it.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” you whine, shivering, head tilting back as Taehyung mouths kisses on your throat. “Please. N-Need you so bad. I-I don’t are what you do to the costume, just please fuck me.”

Taehyung chuckles, the low sound a sweet caress. “Alright, babygirl. Anything for you.”

A few seconds later, you’re on the bed again, this time with Taehyung crawling on top of you. He slots between your legs as your lips meet in a slow, passionate kiss. You quietly moan when his hands cup your tits, calloused fingertips digging into them. The stark comparison of his rough fingers on your smooth skin is arousing. Your eyes roll, bucking your hips up into his hand while he strokes your hot center over the costume, his tongue slipping into your mouth and dancing with your own. You grasp his shoulders for support, a little wail escaping you when Taehyung rips the costume at the seams.

“Daddy!” you whine, heart aching at the loss of your costume.

“What?” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Just doing what my babydoll wants.”

You open your mouth to retort, to remind him you bought this costume with his money, but the thought disappears the second Taehyung glides a finger through your folds. You quietly moan, pressing your lips together when he easily locates your clit and rubs quick, little circles on it. You swallow, rocking into his touch all while his eyes burn into you.

That’s another thing Taehyung loves in this dynamic with you: Watching you squirm beneath him from pleasure and your orgasms. It doesn’t matter if you seek from his mouth, touch, or cock. He adores the view of you experiencing total euphoria because of him, and it’s even better because he’s the only one who gets to see you like this. His precious girl, all his to love and care for in every way possible. But he knows you secretly like it too, watching him get off on you getting off.

“Daddy, please,” you plead, your hand sliding down to his arm from his shoulder. “Fuck me.”

Taehyung merely hums, his eyes dark and gleaming as he sips a long finger inside you. You whimper, your legs trying to snap shut, but his body stops it from occurring. He pumps it in and out of you at a steady pace, listening to you whine and moan, observing the way you writhe in bliss.

“How badly do you want it, babe?” Taehyung rasps, deep voice husky with lust. He rests his forehead on yours, your breaths mixing while more noises spill out of you. “Huh? How badly do you want Daddy’s cock? Tell me, babygirl.”

“Please!” you cry out, back arching when the pad of his finger brushes over your sweet spot. “O-Oh, fuck yes, please–”

“W-Want it so bad!” you sob, tears stained black from your liner and mascara. “Please, please, fill me up until I can’t think of anything but you!” You squeal, your entrance burning slightly from the intrusion of a second digit, but it feels so fucking good. “P-Please, fuck me up with your big cock, please!”

Taehyung smirks. “That’s a good girl."

While he continues to finger you, Taehyung miraculously shucks off his pants and boxers, cock springing free from its confinements. You lick your lips at the sight of him. Long and girthy, slightly curved with a bulbous tip, veins ridging it, the prominent one crawling up to his frenulum like a tree. You pant in anticipation as Taehyung sits between your legs once more, clenching around nothing when he taps his cock on your drenched pussy.

You’re so deep in your own little world that you don’t even notice him removing his shirt. You grind up against his dick, whining, clit singing at the friction.

“Want Daddy’s cock so bad, don’t you?” Taehyung coos.

You eagerly nod. “Yes, please!”

“Let me hear it one more time, baby.”

You keen, clutching the sheets in your hands, a lump of frustration growing in your throat. Damn him and his teasing. “Please, fuck me, Daddy.”

“Good girl,” Taehyung purrs, and finally, after what felt like endless torture, he enters you. He hisses. “Fuck, so fucking tight...”

You, on the other hand, are in complete bliss, eyes shut in ecstasy. He fills you up little by little, sinking further and further into you until he’s fully seated within you. Your eyes roll at how full you feel, his pelvis pressed to your core, his balls flush with your second hole. You softly pant, shifting in your spot beneath Taehyung, your walls rhythmically clenching around him. This spurs him into action.

He starts slow, one deep stroke after another. You quietly curse, and Taehyung lowly groans, the sound causing you to clamp down around him again.

“Fuck, relax,” Taehyung croaks.

“F-Feels so good,” you whimper.

“I know, baby.”

Your head falls back on the bed, a little whine slipping out of you, your tits bouncing in time with Taehyung’s gentle tempo. You hook your knees to your chest, allowing him more room to work. He lovingly pets your thighs in thanks. Taehyung grunts, nibbling his lip, his hair falling in his face. God, he looks like a god above you like this, completely drunk on your pussy, just like you’re drunk on his cock.

“Go faster,” you plead. “Please.”

“Yeah?” Taehyung picks up the pace, assuming a medium tempo. “Like this?”

You whine and shake your head. “Faster!”

“Be specific, darling.” His hand ghosts over your throat, which has your walls fluttering around his cock. His fingers always make a pretty necklace when Taehyung’s in the mood.

“F-Fuck me until I can’t think straight,” you beg, lightly grasping his wrist. “Please, Daddy.”

“That’s better.” Soon, Taehyung bucks into you with the manner of a well-oiled machine, quick and precise, hips smacking against your ass. He grunts, holding your legs for you while you cradle your tits for emotional support. “This what you wanted, babydoll? Hm?”

“Yes!” you cry, pinching and pulling at your nipples. “F-Fuck yes, Daddy, oh my god!”

Taehyung breathlessly chuckles at your confirmation, using your words as encouragement. He adjusts his angle slightly, along with the depth of his thrusts, and a loud wail is ripped out of you. He smirks. Bingo. Taehyung continues at this position, tip bludgeoning your sweet spot repeatedly. You shriek, eyes crossing, stars speckling your vision. You can’t even talk anymore, rendered speechless by his cock.

He melted your brain. He always does.

The sensation of his cock deliciously gliding against your throbbing walls is addicting, creating a high only your pussy adores. The veiny ridges provide a pleasant catch along your molten core, the lip of his tip adding to it, perfectly hitting that spongy part within you again and again. Your toes curl in your heels, and because of Taehyung’s godly pace, one of them falls off, bouncing on the bed and clattering to the floor. The other one joins it in courtesy of Taehyung.

“Gonna fuckin’ pump you full of my cum,” Taehyung grunts, curling up and hovering above you, forearms situated by your head. His pace becomes stilted, signaling his approaching end. “Until it leaks out of you, babygirl.”

You simply moan, which has him laughing. “Did I fuck my girl dumb? You’re so cute.”

Despite his impending doom, it doesn’t stop Taehyung from fucking you with fervor. No, he keeps going, pistoning into you, operating like a jackhammer.

“D-Daddy,” you croak, clawing at his ribs. The icy burn you’ve learned to love has begun to creep up on you, body trembling in expectation. Fuck, you’re so close. “‘M-M gonna cum.”

Taehyung groans. “Yeah? Gonna make a giant mess on my cock?”

“U-Uh huh!”

He hisses, brows furrowing in determination. Jaw clenching, Taehyung vigorously pounds into you, fingers tangling in the sheets by your head. Your noises rise in volume as your orgasm speed towards you like a bullet train, closer and closer until–

You scream, back arching like a bow, your soul dropping into the pool of euphoria waiting to embrace you. You loudly moan as its fingers caress you, stroking the most intimate parts of you while your pussy paints Taehyung’s cock white, not even aware of the clear liquid splashing all over the two of you. You sink deep into that pool, ascending into spaces you’ve never reached before. Your eyes grow heavy, and your hearing is reduced to a high-pitched ringing.

You shut your eyes to rest for a few seconds, just to wholeheartedly enjoy euphoria’s touch. However, when you wake, you discover you’ve been tucked under the blankets. You frown and sit up, only to pause at the feeling of cloth on your body. You glance at yourself. You’re no longer in the costume; rather, in a large oversized tee.

What the hell?

“You’re awake.”

At his voice, you seeks him out. He enters the bedroom with a bowl of your favorite snack and a glass of water.

“What happened?” you quietly ask him.

His lips stretch into a smug smirk. “You squirted. Hard. Then you passed out, but I cleaned you up and made sure you were comfortable.” He offers you the snack and water. “I bring refreshments.”

Your cheeks flare with heated embarrassment. “I-I passed out? From squirting?"

“Yup.” Taehyung chuckles, crawling into bed beside you. “It was pretty hot, not gonna lie. I came on your tummy instead of inside you like I wanted, but it’s okay. Your health and safety comes first.”

You shyly sip your water, leaning back on the pillow. “Did you like it, at least?”

“Hm?” Taehyung peeks at you. “Like what?"

You bashfully divert your gaze. “The outfit.”

A low chuckle. “I loved it, baby. You looked so pretty in it while I fucked you, and those tights… Goddamn.”

You quietly giggle, bowing your head, your hair falling and curtaining your red face. Taehyung brushes it behind your ear. “I loved it, babydoll.”

“Really?” You peek at him.

“Mhmm.” Taehyung twines an arm around your waist, tugging you close. “If you order another costume next time, tell me. I wanna see you put it on.”

“N-Next time?”

“Oh, baby.” Another chuckle rumbles in his throat. He presses a kiss to your ear. “There’s always a next time with you.”

© thekaykery 2023

[meiguicha]

Come From Way Above (to bring me life)

Yan! Phainon x AFAB! Reader

Always a part of you, always a part of me. I will never leave you.

TW: incest, implications of cucking (is it cucking if its,,, just you but not you), perceived non-con, M on F oral, F on M oral, explicit sexual content, codependence, flame reaver, character death

Note: spoilers for 3.3, phainon's backstory and upcoming "rumours". pre 3.4 please don't hurt me. no use of y/n or actual names, i prommy its still an x reader

// thank @if-loves for this absolute deranged nightmare. his greed sickens me, three instances of smut despite knowing i dont know how to write it, this is the type of greed they warn you against

Aedes Elysiae is a home that matters to no one but two.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, sole survivor of a great calamity and ███ of Aedes Elysiae, ████ ████████ of Aedes Elysiae. 

Children of dawn coloured wheat fields, twin offspring of Hieronymus and Audata.

Your parents once said to tear your brother from you would be like trying to rip the stars from the sky. Your mother laughed every time she talked about your birth, she said your brother came out first with only a pudgy arm left inside, dragging you out with him. He cried first, wailed until his face grew red and his lungs filled with the first few bouts of air. And yet when he noticed that you did not, he silenced for but a moment before sobbing harder. Yet still, your father would helpfully add, you would not cry until he elicited for you to. 

To those outside, it seemed like only your brother had been born and that you had never been birthed at all. 

They worried for a while, that your seeming aloofness compared to your brother’s natural curiosity would clash, but perhaps they did not expect the natural belonging that came easy to you two. For so many years, you shared a room and a wardrobe, shared soap and secrets, it was as if they had been blessed with one child. 

Silly boy, you called him, the words that fell from your lips as easily as a leaf gliding across the wind. And though he knew that perhaps it started as some insult, even then, as a child, he couldn’t help himself but preen under your attention. 

Phainon had never realised just how deep his attachment to you went. His mind at the time had always been Cyrene and the others, of thoughtless prophecy and wishes to remain here forever more. But nothing lasts forever, and as your brother, your silly brother, there was so little he could do except for curl his form over you as he swears for vengeance against that black-robed swordsman. 

It was him who took this elysium from him, from you, from the both of you. And now all he has left of that peaceful life is you. 

Though memory can very often be a balm to woes, nothing can replicate the delights of reality. 

He remembers the first time he felt your skin beneath his touch, as adolescents splashing around in cool river water until not a single piece of fabric was left dry. It is such a distinct memory, one unmarred by the claws of time. You had lost a play-fight, he remembers, climbed yourself out of the river to drag him back for another round despite your being so utterly drenched that even your hair stuck to your forehead.

‘█████! Come back here!’ Your shrill voice that had yet to truly develop is still clear, and he remembers shrieking the moment you grabbed him, unable to do anything but to cling to you then. 

You did nothing but laugh at him, whistling through your nose, called him your silly brother and carried him as if it was nothing. At the very least, you did so until someone flicked water at your face and you loosened your grip.  

He remembers how soft your skin was, like running his hands over fine silk. The smell of that day too is seared into his mind, the smell of your floral soap on your skin and the mineral-rich waters when you dropped him. 

But something is different now, he’s older, taller than you ever were. And as he trails through tall grass and wildflowers, he hears you sing in a voice much lower and familiar. So he lays his eyes upon you, bathing in the very same river of your childhood with white robes clinging to your skin. 

In this unconscionable haze of slumber and fantasy, you climb yourself out too, older and taller. Your hair is wet, sticking and coiling on your neck and chest as if a part of your skin. And when you meet his wide gaze, something plays in your eyes, a mirth he thinks. 

You gesture for him, curl your finger and urge him over. He listens, you could drag him in like you did all those years ago and he’d still let you. 

Some part of him fears you will, it worries that if you really did pull him into this river he’d drown at the sight of you. 

You don’t, thankfully you don’t. Instead, you pull yourself out to kneel in front of him. 

“You got this hard just looking at me?” Your hands dance along his thighs, nails dragging over muscle and sinew as you pillow your cheek against his thigh. When did he get so hard? Soft, your hands are so soft. Your warm breath elicits a jump in his arousal, a smile playing at your lips as you murmur, “Still so silly.”

Phainon can’t quite answer, as if cotton were lodged in his throat, and yet he rasps back, “Can you blame me?”

A laugh escapes your lips, and once more something dances in your eyes, more than mirth he realises. Without wasting a moment, your hands push past his shirt robes and fleetingly dance at his pants, the tips of your fingers playing with the waistband before pulling it down. 

He wants to be embarrassed, to have not let you have your way with him as easily as you do, but as you take him into your mouth, he finds there is nothing inside him that can let him be embarrassed in front of you. Hissing out a sharp breath, though his hands’ first instinct is to move, to grab onto something, he doesn’t. 

“Hm?” Humming around him, your eyes pour over him, narrowed as if stalking prey. 

Soft, you still feel so soft. Shakily, he tries to meet your eyes despite the way they blur. “Y-you feel so good—”

Your lips tighten around his girth before you bring yourself further in, not to the point that he can feel your nose against his pelvis– no matter how much he fantasises about that very concept– and yet as you bob your head slow and calculated, it doesn’t seem to make much difference to his addled self all the same. 

One of your hands travels closer, frigid cold against his balls almost negligible compared to the gentle touch and your persistent play. He feels his chest tighten every time your tongue would flatten over a particular vein, and he’s certain you’re getting off every broken sound he can make. 

“Please. Please don’t stop,” He begs, pleads as a hand card through your wet hair. 

The noise of your spit and his pre is all he hears, more than rushing water or whistling wind, it's so lewd, too lewd. He doesn’t want this to end, he wants to feel you suckling everything he has to give and more, he wants to feel your tongue circling his tip as he begs you to let him come to, he wants you. He wants you, he wants you, he wants you, he wants you—

You’re next to him, bathing in warm daylight and faced away from him in your shorts and slipping top. 

A dream, of course. It's impossible to return to that paradise again. 

He doesn’t have to look to see the tent in his shorts, the desires he nurtures for you is heavy without question. 

Tentatively, he calls for you, “███.” 

You don’t stir. Your chest rises and falls in slow fluctuations as your hands absentmindedly twitch at the wrinkled sheets.

Sucking in a breath, the sheets beneath your forms shift and twist upon his movement, closer to prop himself up, closer to bring himself between your legs, until he can feel the back of your cold thighs fleetingly press against his legs. It is an odd thought at times, but he has grown so used to feeling how frigid your arms feel when you wrap them around him or the coldness of your palms, that just the slightest chill against his own skin plucks at something within his veins. 

The light friction made purely from making shallow circles against your folds takes the edge off just the slightest, his mind is still blurry with the feel of your warm mouth around him. Just thinking about it, his throat seems to have dried up entirely and air comes by difficult, the soft noises you make in your sleep don’t help either, small hums and mirthful breaths that keep bringing him back to that fantasy. 

He wonders whether, even in such deep slumber, you can feel him throbbing against your core, the thin fabrics that separate the two of you do little to nothing. And as he rubs himself against you, smears more of his desire along the flimsy crotch of your shorts until it stains the cloth, only then do you shift. Nothing that implies your wake, your slumbering form merely shifts and yet such an innocent move only grinds against his aching bulge. 

It's not enough, it's not enough to just hump against you like he’s some teenage pervert. 

Carefully, he pushes your shorts aside to reveal your damp panties, years of washing them over and over again making them almost translucent. Pressing the pad of his finger against your soft folds, he can feel just how wet he’s gotten you already. His lips feel dry, and though he swipes his tongue across them in some vain attempt, he can already think of some other ways. 

Still, Phainon has never been the kind to play with his food, and he wouldn’t torture you nor himself like this any longer. 

Soft. You are so soft that he thinks he could die here, with nothing but the feeling of you and the thought of you. He hasn’t even started moving but forming sensible thoughts feels incomprehensible when you’re wrapping around him so tightly, clenching around his girth as if trying to squeeze him for all he has.  

If he starts moving, if he does anymore than this shallow grinding–

Awakening from your restful dreams, your eyes flutter open with nothing more than a soft hum from your lips. Then, as if roused by bird song and morning light, you smile at him, the birth of a laugh in your throat as you open your arms, urging him.

“█████.”

If not for the breathy lilt of your voice– lewd, too lewd to call him like that and expect him to not want to make himself yours– he might have thought you were unaffected.  

Pressing his nose against your neck, the smell of your shared soap only makes him push himself further into you. He presses open mouthed kisses across your neck, trail to your collarbone and to your chest as his hands dig marks into the flesh of your hips. And your arms that wrap around him, your soft skin and soft walls that envelope him into yourself, it's like you want him to become a part of you, to be inside of you. 

A particularly deep thrust rips a raggard sound from you, and yet that mirth of yours doesn’t die. Through your shameless whines and your clawing hands, you only sigh, “Silly b-boy– ahhh– did you have another wet dream?”

“Can you blame me?” Phainon mutters between wet kisses, his tongue peeking between his lips to circle around your hardened nipple. The flesh surrounding it is smooth, and as he takes it into his mouth, the low whimper that leaves your lips only pushes him to keep going, slam his hips against you harder to coax more of your sweet noises.  Looking at you beneath half-lidded bliss, though his vision is blurry, he can still see your bitten lips so clearly. “You’re so pretty– mmph– I want to be inside you forever…”

Your hand scrambles to cover your mouth, frantic over your own body only for him to pry it away, entwining your fingers together as your nails tear into his skin. Cold, your hand is so cold he can barely understand how his own hips can thrust harder, rut into you like he’s just some animal in heat just like that. And it hurts, he’s barely had you all to himself and now it hurts so much just to be inside you but he can’t stop, can’t even think about stopping when every time he drags himself out, you squeeze around him tighter, trying to keep him inside you despite how hard you’ve been gushing around him.  

You don’t even complain when he pushes you onto the bed proper, arching your back as you take him deeper, as you accept his other arm as comfort, as you rely on him entirely for your own pleasure. 

He could have sworn he has more stamina than this, but he can feel it, and no matter how much he wants to keep going, even the slightest graze of his tip against your walls leaves you drawing blood, still holding him closer. 

“Can I—? Can I–ahh– please?” You don’t answer him, only wrap your legs behind his back to push him further inside you. 

“Please?” He can beg, he can do anything you want but please, please, you have to tell him he can. He can’t finish if you don’t, you have to tell he can cum inside you.  

His voice cracks, embarrassingly like he’s that over-eager teen again, “Pleasepleasepleaseplease–” 

Your hands reach out to grab his face, and upon instinct he tilts his head if only to kiss you more fiercely, desperately. Snapping his hips in some odd rhythm to prod at that spot he knows makes you whine and cry his name louder, until he can feel your hip bones digging into his and his tip pressing against your cervix.  

He wishes he could say his climax comes quietly, that it doesn’t feel as if every nerve in his body isn’t set ablaze, but even as your trembling legs hold him down, hold him tight against you until he can feel his release leak out, the noise that you swallow is strangled and raggard all at once, too loud and too much. Your own is no better, barely intelligible and more spit than sound. 

It's his drool and yours that connect your mouths when he pulls away, it's sweet, so sweet. Ambrosia cannot possibly compare to you, to this taste of your pleasure.  

“Good morning,” You smile against his lips, rasped breath bringing him in for another. To deny you would be to torture no one but himself, and as the soft plush of your lips meet his once more, gentler, kinder, something in his chest curls. It is only now that some semblance of warmth courses through your veins, like rushing gold that entangles your veins ever the more. 

Remnants of your blood tinge his tongue, and as he swipes it across his lip– your lip– he wonders whether his taste just as sweet to you. “ ‘morning.”

Your hands are cold, even while basking in the Sunbearer’s light, even in his own hand. He’s used to it by now, though perhaps what he isn’t accustomed to is when they slip past his fingers, your familiar frigidity replaced by a mere absence. 

Very little captures your attention to halt you in your steps, less so that you would not join him immediately. So when he glances back to find you vehemently staring into the eyes of a certain grey-haired trailblazer, he doesn’t quite know what to think. 

Cocking your head, you tug at his sleeve the moment he returns to you. “Is that the friend you were talking about?”

“Hm? Yeah it is,” His voice pitches just the slightest higher, a notion that has you sending him a sideway glance. 

It's more than clear that your staring has attracted them, and as they approach ever closer, each step they take seems to spark an odd flame inside him. He should take you away now, he should bring you away from here and take you home, he should–

“Phainon! I didn’t think I’d see you out and about.”

They’re waving at him, excitedly, almost like an over-excited dog and in some ways, it's cute. Though, the moment they come, crinkled eyes and light stepped, you flinch back, as if burned by something. He feels your stinging cold around him once more, feel your fingers interlock his as you press yourself close to him. 

A smile pulls at his lips almost immediately at greeting, “Well, gotta have some fresh air and stretch once in a while, right?”

The trailblazer only nods, playing at mock pensiveness and contemplation before making a glance towards you. Their eyes pour over you, like they’re trying to look for something wrong about you. “And this is…?”

“███, my sister.”

Something in the trailblazer’s face shifts, a minute tensing of their brow, though they say nothing. 

You tilt your head, pulling yourself away just enough to properly greet them and yet, even an inch of your skin away from him feels odd, wrong. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Phainon has told me so much about your adventures together,” Your voice lilts higher too, though it isn’t from some mysterious origin like his. The hitch upon his ‘name’, and the dip upon the last word, vaguely sing-songed. His eyes glance at your lips, remnants of your blood still clinging to the wrinkles. He should have licked them off. “Thank you for making sure my silly brother doesn’t end up dead in some ditch, I always worry he’s going to end up dying of something stupid when he goes with Lord Mydei.”

At the mention of his friendly competition, his brows knit together as his bottom lips juts out. You don’t even pay him any mind, and he has to tug at your held hands for you to look at him. 

“I wouldn’t! If I did you wouldn’t let me live it down!”

“As I should, how would you face Ma and Pa?”

Placing a hand on your forehead, you play at a swoon as you lean against him. “Oh I left my dear ███ all alone because I decided I needed to one-up Mydei in the hot bath and lost for the final time.”

They blink, a few too many times to be normal. And yet, the laughter that erupts from their lips plays at his ears like playful bells, “You too sure are close, I wish I had a sibling I was close with.”

“Alas, all I have here is Dan Heng.” Mimicking your fake woe, they too press a hand to their chest as they look away with squeezed eyes and furrowed brows, even going so far as to sniffle fake snot. 

The sheer commitment coaxes a small laugh from you, the kind that has you whistling from your nose, the genuine kind. 

Phainon tightens his hold on you, pulls your form closer to him as he absentmindedly recalls something you told him yesterday. Was it when you were wringing your hair out of the baths, humming to him in that distrait airiness? Or was it when you were running your hands through his hair, when the low vibrations in your chest hummed by his ear?

“Ah, didn’t you say you wanted to drop by Mr. Theodoros’ place?”

You turn, eyes fully focused on him, and the weight of your gaze is comforting, no matter how light. The plush of your lips dip under the press of your finger, instinctively, he wants to look away, but the way you tilt your head and your eyes glimmer with that uncertainty, the sight of it is enrapturing.  

“Did I?” He nods, fiercer yet when your face scrunches in remembrance. When you don’t seem to quite believe him, his hand wraps around yours tighter while he pleads through lowered lashes. 

With a sigh, you only shake your head and return his grasp, bringing your other hand to wave the now very conflicted trailblazer off. It's cold. Nothing but your touch is cold. 

“Bye bye then, don’t get yourself into anything too stupid,” Smiling, the corners of your eyes crinkle together for just a moment before you reach for his face, pulling the fat of his cheeks between your fingers as a shadow of a scowl creeps upon your visage. “So pushy, when did you get so embarrassed of me that I can’t even talk to your friends now?”

You’re pulling too hard, it's like you’re trying to rip a piece of his face off of him. Murmuring through your tugging, he tries to push some tears out, tries to elicit the same fawning you always do when you get like this, “I’m nooot. You know we always spend a while with Mr. Theodoros and I know you’ll get huffy if we get home too late.”

The pinching stops, his cheek vaguely sore only to be met with a few light pats from your palm. A soft breath of mirth leaves your lips– the blood from earlier is still there– as your tongue peeks out to lick them. He can barely feel the ache in his face anymore, and as he reaches out, presses his thumb against your bloodied lip to wipe it off. Soft, so soft under his touch.

“What am I going to do with you?” Sticky sanguine stains his hands and yet you don’t question, merely sigh and pat his face again. 

You can do anything you want to him, with him, as long as you keep looking upon him with those indulgent eyes and holding him with those cold hands. He’ll do it, no matter what it is. 

If he had known that he would’ve failed so horribly, if he had known that he would’ve troubled his friends once more to pull him out– Well, there was no telling what would have happened but he should have been stronger. He should have been able to reflect upon that burning horizon without feeling every grain of sensibility slip from his fingers, should have been able to at the very least consider what would have happened if he hadn’t held himself over you that day. 

And he knew, he knew he couldn’t face it again but somehow the idea that you could have died, that your cold hand would be the last thing he had of you, that weighed heavier in his chest. Between his ribs and amidst his veins, that he would have been truly, utterly alone without the one person that shared his origin, shared his blood, he should have known. 

There is no knock at the door that precedes its opening, the slink of steps is light, almost transient as leaves falling in the wind. Bed dipping beneath the weight of two forms, he doesn’t even realise it's you until you snake your arms around him, your chest pressed against his back rising and falling in rapid pace. 

You lay your head on him, the warmth of your breath pricking hairs to stand on the back of his neck as you whisper, “There you are, silly boy.”

Carefully, slowly, as if scared that maybe if he– if he turns, the cold of your hands will slip from his grasp again– 

Without question, you bring his head into the crook of your neck as you cradle him in your arms, slowly bringing your two forms to lay against the soft sheets. Phainon returns your embrace, wrapping himself around you, entangling legs and veins, looking for your hand to hold. This too you don’t question, merely let him slip his hand into yours. 

It's still cold, but something is off. Your chest is warm, and though you still smell of gentle flowers, he has become accustomed to the nature of your scent. Heavier when you finish your warm baths, lighter as the hours pass you by.  

No matter, you’re here. That’s all he wants, all he needs. As if that child from years long past, tears dew at his lashes, falling to his cheeks and to your chest as his voice shakes, “I thought I could take it…. I thought maybe I was finally strong enough to…”

“Shhhhh.” Your chest rumbles low in his ears, he can hear your slow heart beating, second by second, the proof of your life leaks into his head. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Burying himself into your embrace, the blood you share is warm, as if maybe he could really pretend that what rushes through his isn’t molten gold but deep sanguine like yours. Warm, you’re so warm, he wishes this was a world where he could spend everyday in your warmth. 

You card your hand through his hair, push back snowy strands to reveal his forehead. Instinctively, he knows what you want, exactly what you need him to do. And so he listens, presses himself closer to you, closer to your lips so you can lay a chaste kiss upon his forehead. “You don’t have to be a hero with me.”

“But I want to be able to protect you,” Muttering against your chest, he wraps himself around you tighter, until you’re all but swallowed by his form. 

A huff of warm air escapes your nose, yet you don’t say anything. Your lips press another kiss to his burning skin, another and another, until you have left not a single inch of his face untouched, kissing away bitter tears and grief alike. The attention washes over him like cold river water, and though through glassy eyes and quivering lips, through undeserved vulnerability, he needs to keep feeling you like this.

“No matter what happens, I will always be with you.”

And for the first time in the aftermath of failure, the voices that claw and shred at the rationality of his worth are quiet. Even if it is for just a moment, even if only for a second, they can continue to tear him apart but knowing that you’re here, knowing that you can still hold him to your chest and hum, that the hand that he holds is real, it's enough. 

The hour is late when he can finally return to your home, when he can finally claw at what little time he has, careful to mind his volume as he strips himself of armour and veneer. Some part of him expects to find you slinking through the kitchen, shirt slipping off your shoulder as you blindly search for a jug of water in your drowsy haze. And yet, there is nothing. 

He doesn’t think too much about it, though his chest curls with warning, instead choosing to enter your bedroom. And so you lay, as he expected elsewise, the thin blanket he remembers helping you pick out outlining your form beneath it. Your chest rises and falls in slow rhythm as your fingers twitch against the soft sheets, hair sprawled across pillows and curling onto your chest. 

Maybe he should be embarrassed for tracing over your form like this, but the image that belies him, that thin blanket that does so little to conceal what presents to him as your bare chest and soft thighs, is tempting. He wants to be embarrassed but there’s nothing inside him that truly lets him be. 

Yet for you to be so tired that you wouldn’t even bother to find something to put on, the least he can do is let you rest undisturbed. 

Passing by your shared drawers, he notices the third cabinet just slightly ajar, enough so to garner attention. There is something thrown above neat rows of soft bras and underwear, ashy dark fabric haphazardly covering your most intimate clothes. 

Do his eyes deceive him? He can barely trust his own senses now, his own hands numb to all sensations but his own searing nerves, as though the very pads of his fingers have been burned off. 

His steps are heavy, and yet they do not wake you from your haze. Even as he throws the thin blanket off, as the weight of his form distorts the plush bed, you make not a single notion of consciousness. Phainon brings his face to your form, to lift your legs apart, to see for himself. 

In his haste, his desire to return home, he missed the smell of ash and soot that lingers in the air, on your skin. The sweat of two forms casts a soft sheen on your breasts as your legs that tremble in the aftermath reveal the dribbling remnants of the intruder. 

You’re warm, the pulse of your veins slow but rushing with boiling blood. 

A soft whine escapes your lips as he drags his tongue along the seam of your ruined folds, the taste of your own pleasure distinctly drowned out by the bitter sting of that thing’s liquids. And though he can feel you pulse beneath his tongue, can feel you tug his hair to pull him closer, can feel you squeeze his head between your thighs in want, he keeps his movements shallow. 

You’ve awoken, and through choking over your own spit and tears, the cry of his name is still clear as your fingers dig into his scalp, “█████–?”

It is the only thing he can do. Despite the way his own blood feels more like boiling gold in his veins, he still takes the time to caress your bruised thighs and kiss your puffy clit. You must have been so scared, to be all on your own when he came. But it's all right now, all that matters is that you’re alive and that he’s here. 

“I’m sorry– █████–mffh! I’m sorry–!”

“Its ‘kay, I’m here now. Let your brother take care of you, okay?” His warm breath fans over the over-sensitive bundle of nerves, and in an instant a shriek tears through your throat, your pleasure once more soaking through past crimes. Sweet, still so sweet and soft around him. 

He doesn’t have to wait for an answer, he knows what you mean, your body has always been more honest than your sweet mouth. And as your brother, as your twin brother, it's only right he does by his duty. 

His hands snake over your thighs to hold them down– to pry them open even as they quiver– as he buries his tongue inside you, lapping up every drop of soiled essence, every drop that isn’t yours. Your broken sighs only crack ever the more with each lick, soft walls tensing tighter around his tongue as if unwilling to let him go. 

The thought of that thing, of that swordsman, stealing this of you, that it too felt you tighten around it, cry and whine and beg, it burns. Even as he pulls you into his face further, even as there is nothing left of its touch beyond your swollen clit and bruised skin, even as your voice grows hoarse and all you can do is sob, nothing can erase the very fact that his own inattention caused this. 

Nothing except for his own.

Yes, it is his inattention. It always has been when it comes to you. Too late, too long, too little– 

–too late. 

Swallowing a harsh breath, he rushes past flickering stone and debris to get closer, closer to bring you to him, closer to feel your cold skin. His body instinctively expects to feel your frigid arms wrap around his neck, for your freezing fingertips to dance along his nerves like you always have. 

The calls for him to continue, to leave you here ring distantly in his ears. He should continue on, the fate of Amphoreus awaits him but you’re reaching for him, urging him. Your lips mouth words he can’t hear, but he knows, he knows what you want, what you want him to do. 

‘█████’ ‘Come’ ‘Back’ ‘Here’

You’re so, so cold despite the burning soot and blazing heat. Your eyes are blurry and you’re cold. Breathing comes scarce and no matter how much he forces himself to breath, scream, cry, anything to grasp air back into his lungs, he just can’t get himself to do anything. 

Phainon slips his hand into your weak one, you can’t even wrap your fingers around him, and the cold that greets him is emptying, absent. Dark towers spring from your chest, neither retreating or advancing, merely pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. Slow, unhurried, as if unrushed to live. 

You hum, words rising and dropping as if your words were not coming from your own body, “I’ll always be with you… my….”

His voice is somewhere, he doesn’t know where it's coming from, why it's so warningly low. He calls for you, you have to hear him, he can’t do this if you don’t, “Don’t. ███.”

“███. Please. I’m begging you, please.” He can beg, he can do anything you want him to but please, please, please, you just have to–

Dews of tears weigh your lashes down, trail to his lips and yet he can’t taste anything. Nothing, there is nothing, emptying, absent. Just like the cold of your hand and the scent of your skin. Is he not allowed to even have something of you? Is he not allowed to feel you for the last time? 

Is he not allowed to even be able to protect you?

A squeeze, barely transient and dancing on his skin, you smile, “...silly…. boy….”

“...don’t leave me.”

You don’t stir. It pulses and pulses. Second by second, the proof of your life leaks from your chest.  

He remembers the last time he felt this emptiness inside him, as an adolescent standing amidst flame and ruins. It is his most distinct memory, the only one unmarred by time’s claws. You clung to him, he remembers, held him to your form as you hummed and silent tears trailed down your face. 

He remembers how slow your heart pulsed, unrushed and unhurried to live. The low rumble of your chest lulling him to welcoming darkness still mimicking in his heart, trying–failing– to replicate it.  

But something is different now, he’s older than he ever could be, more powerful than he ever was all those years ago. And as he trudges along the lonely path towards a new world, he hears nothing but his own breathing, shallow, laboured. 

So he arrives at the altar, and though Lygus stands just outside his perception, there is nothing here but himself. 

Trianne, Anaxa, Castorice, Aglaea, Hyacine, Cipher, Tribbie, Trinnon, Mydeimos. Every single person who sacrificed themselves for this lofty goal, they will come back. Different, yes, but return they shall. 

Everyone will return, yet he only fears he would not recognise them for who they are.

Will his parents return? His friends, his neighbours, will they too return? 

Will he open his eyes to pink hair and sky blue eyes? Will he hear Cyrene talk once more of fate and destiny? 

Your cold palms in his, your playful eyes and mirthful laughter, will he get to have that again? Would you come back to him, kiss his forehead and hold him to your chest once more? 

Can he come home to you, can he return to a home together with you again?

It is the voice of a friend long gone that forces him to look back, the visage of a person who has left this cycle of living long ago that plants doubt in his heart. 

But it is the humming of cold rivers and soft sheets that nurtures that seed. It is the rhythm of steps he recognises from kitchens and fields, the smell of floral soap and cold skin– 

There is only one survivor of the massacre of Aedes Elysiae, only one such soul who escaped the claws of violence. And yet here stands two, two souls who have felt the warm breeze of golden fields and the cold river water permeating through skin and bone, who lived to feel the light of Okhema. 

Those fingers that have never clasped around his, those hands that have never existed, reach out to him. The smile that has never formed, and that voice that has never sung to him, something–someone– in his chest curls. 

“█████, let’s go home together.”

[smutoperator]

Is there any idol or idols that you particularly enjoy writing? If so, what's the reason?

Excellent question, Elysia. Before I give an specific answer I'll give a generic one: I really enjoy writing idols that are over 30 years old, because they allow for more mature stories and idols from 2nd generation groups, to introduce them to new audiences. It's the whole reason I created my Legends series: to pay homage to them.

Now on to specific idols

Karina leads all idols in appearances in my fics. I really liked creating a character development that matches her own evolution as an idol, slowly growing into a more mature personality. It also helps she's quite popular and got really big tits.

Sana is a very fun idol to write because you can combine her duality of being a cute girl and an alluring vixen at the same time and create very volcanic stories.

Yuna fits perfectly with stories where you just let her loose and do her thing to create an unstoppable force of sexiness.

Chaewon was the subject of my first fic here and I love to highlight her transformation since joining Le Sserafim, going from the cute pie in Izone to the sexy killer of today.

Yeji is a perfect fit for stories where she's the dominant alpha woman and pushses everybody around her to the maximum. Love write about her.

Momo just fits perfectly for any mindless hardcore scene where you just use her hot body for your pleasure until you get completely drained

Eunbi is obviously my ult and the personification of a mommy. She hasn't even turned 30 yet but I already have placed her in my mommy pedestal and love writing any scene where she showcases her strong personality and big assets

I know it's very stereotypical to write Somi as bratty blonde bimbo but she fits the role perfectly and that makes writing any smut of her quite hot.

Last but not least is an idol that I think following the evolution of her will lead to some very enjoyable stuff to write about. Obviously talking about Wonyoung. I have done 3 fics with her already but I feel we're just starting to see her full potential. She's already a legend but is only going to grow bigger and I'm ready to register it.

[hazbinwhoree]

The Adam Masterlist

A/N: Red = Smut

Constantly being updated

The Devil works hard but I work harder

Chapter Stories

Guardian Angel 1/3

Guardian Angel 2/3

Guardian Angel 3/3

Adam’s Sinner 1/3

Adam’s Sinner 2/3

Adam’s Sinner 3/3

Milk & Cookies 1/2

Milk & Cookies 2/2

The Third Wife 1/2

The Third Wife 2/2

Come Inside 1/2

Come Inside 2/2

Failed 3 For 3 1/2

Failed 3 For 3 2/2

Oneshots

Adam x F!Reader Smut

Jealousy, Jealousy

An Angel & An Overlord

Sensitive Wings

Fucking the Guitarist

Fallen Angel

Virginity

PTSD

Not Today

Shower Sex

Sharing (is Caring)

The Incident

Asmodeus’ Daughter

Hands

20 Years in Eternity

I Wanna Be Yours

Oxytocin

Stay With Me

Hangout or Hookup?

Inches

Father Adam

Too Far

You Catch More Flies With Honey

Tails

My Bandmate’s Sister

I Was In A Band

Consent King

Father of the Year

Panties Thief

Peak Orgasm

Short Oneshots

Moronsexual

Brat

Before It All Went Wrong

Made With Love

I Love You All The Same

Happy Birthday

Ugly

Niceness Ploy

Headcanons

General Adam Headcanons

General Adam Headcanons pt.2

Adam’s Sensitive Wings

Adam Comforting Reader

Protective Adam

Adam x Insecure Reader

420 with Adam

Gay Panic

Adam Receiving a Gift

Domestic Life

Platonic!Adam w/ Child!Reader

Crush

Platonic!Adam w/ Teen!Reader

Adam x Seraphim Reader

Low Sex Drive

Freak

Toys

Toys pt.2

Caught

Period Sex

Adam x Elysia!Reader

Consent is Key, Kids

Adam x Reader w/ a Bad Period

Adam x Affectionate Reader

No Touching Challenge

Drunk Adam Headcanons

Male Reader

Adam x Cocky M!Reader

Adam x Exorcist M!Reader

Adam x Innocent M!Reader

Extermination & Mistakes

Oblivious

Cocky Bastard

[obsessedwhyyes]

After some Astarion fanfiction from a rusty fanfic writer from the old Tumblr days with a penchant for excessively flowery language? I might have something for you!

If you're new here, I recommend starting with The Scientific Method for smut, The Fool for some feels, or A Tale of Fools and Tricksters if you fancy a fully fleshed out story!

To join the tag list, click here!

The Scientific Method Series A mini Astarion x Inexperienced Reader series, cataloguing the important moments in their growing relationship. Rating: Explicit Summary: Inexperienced in the ways of love, you often find yourself labelled an overthinker. But then again, you are a scientist. When your incredibly beautiful travelling companion proposes a night you'll never forget, suddenly you're left wondering, are you really ready for this? Ever the scientist, you propose an experiment, and get more than you bargained for. Part 1: A Sound Hypothesis Tumblr / AO3 Part 2: An Empirical Study Tumblr / AO3 Part 3: Unexpected Variables (T rating, non-explicit) In progress! Series Masterlist on the way...

A Tale of Fools and Tricksters Mystic circus AU longfic, featuring Ringmaster Astarion. Some horror elements. Rating: Varies by chapter (we'll say M to be safe) Summary: The Festival of Fools - a carnival of magic and illusions which shall set your heart ablaze and bring your dreams to life. Legends say that the Festival of Fools will grant one wish to those pure of heart and soul - for a price. Seeking a cure for the Curse of Stone which plagues her people, Elysia Thorne seeks the aid of the festival's enigmatic ringmaster, Astarion Ancunin, whose charm is as dangerous as it is irresistible. But as their fates intertwine, it becomes clear that all is not as it seems... Series under reconstruction! It'll be back soon :D

The Art of Not Admitting a Thing A fluffy Bloodweave shortfic! Interview format. First person from Gale and Astarion POV. Rating: T Summary: You can't help but notice that Gale and Astarion seem to be acting... different towards one another lately. Perhaps it's time to investigate! Alternatively: one simple question leads to some big thoughts. Part 1: "What do you think of Astarion?" Tumblr / AO3 Part 2: "What do you think of Gale?" Coming soon!

Darling Drabbles A series of Astarion shorts. Rating: Various Summary: From bite night to cuddles - this is just a random assortment of passages that don't have a real home, so they sit in this little drabble collection instead! Blood-Bound Rapture (What it feels like to be bitten by Astarion) Tumblr / AO3 The Fool (Astarion reflects on his feelings for you, angst) Tumblr / AO3 Touch (Handholding, pure fluff) In progress!

One-Shots

Beneath the Blood and Starlight Pure fluff. Rating: T Summary: Awoken from a nightmare, you seek a moment of reprieve down by the river, only to find your mysterious vampire companion - covered in blood. As you help him with his mess, you realise that perhaps there's more to this rakish, teasing façade: a vulnerability you hadn't expected. Tumblr / AO3

Chasing Lightning Shameless smut. Spanking fic. Not my finest moment. Rating: Explicit Summary: You've spent all day teasing, tempting, taunting - you've really tested Astarion's patience this time. But pushing his boundaries is your favourite past time. Now, here you are, over his knee, about to receive the punishment you longed for, all according to your devious plan. Not that you'd ever admit it, of course. Tumblr / AO3

The Learned Observer A voyeurism fic request. Gale first person POV. Rating: Explicit Summary: On a sleepless night, Gale notices the distinct sound of hushed voices outside his tent. It couldn't be you and Astarion… could it? When he decides to take a peek - to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, of course - he gets more than he bargained for. Tumblr / AO3

Bending Steel My first M/M, featuring a hulking barbarian OC. Rating: Explicit Summary: There is only one strength that Darius has ever known: brute force; unrelenting power. But Astarion - he challenges everything he's ever known. When a sparring match unearths some complicated feelings, Darius discovers that sometimes letting go can be an invigorating experience... and a pleasurable one, too. In progress!

Prompt Lists Fangs, Wit and Charm - An Astarion Quote Prompt List Velvet and Vice - An Astarion Quote Prompt List for Smut Writers

[moondustlings]

open to: all muse: elysia calderón, visual artist alternate options: chloe harrington, olivia harper, elise parker plot: your muse was on a date; my muse decided to send them an inappropriate video in the middle of it. up to you in what mood they come back in. connections: roommate, friend, ex/fwb, t.aboo connection

the door slammed and elysia's eyes widened before stifling a giggle. had what she had done been evil? maybe, but she was bored. she wanted them to come home anyway. pretending to be deeply interested in her book, she watched as her door swung up and they appeared. "hi," she greeted with an innocent grin. "how'd your date go?"

[eeulysian]

hm enough smut for today, i kinda got tired of it.. sigh, maybe i ate too much. anyhoo, what do u feel about [insert charac] x shy!reader? ^_^ lllike imagine chRCter being all extrovert, party addict, and fun then there's this little lost zoul clinging on the charactwr's arm TT it's be such a cute relationship i swear.

idk what character that would be fit for this role...

reader being shy and possessive after the party (overthinks a lot as well.. im not romanticizing that btw) AKSJDHJEBDHEHEJWHEHU——

“you were talking to them the whole time, u shouldn't have brought me here with u.. they didn't need me there anyway,” tsk. tsk. character ends up cimforting and doing whatever reader wants becuz they neglected them wayy.. too much. (if this even makes sense, im half asleep writing this)🦈🦈🦈🦈 ermm.. im not requesting a fic btw! ur free to make it into one tho. :D

I LOVE THIS TROPE SOO MUCH. its one of my favourite tropes. its like, in terms of animal tropes, it would be golden retriever x black cat. the characters i have in mind for this areeee.... topaz, serval, bai yi, beidou, elysia and kafka. i think all of them would definitely be a perfect fit for this kind of trope. not a fic but just a little short imagine!!

forced to be invited to this rich kid's mansion party by college gf!(char) because she wants to taste the drinks there, eat the food and have fun with other people. you kept refusing at first, because your introverted ass cannot handle crowds. you'd look like a small, crying kitten in the midst of the crowd. you know you'd be pushed here and there, hearing crazy screams and shouting, with rave music in the background and you hated it. in the end, you gave in and was dragged to the mansion by (char). in there was so many people, chatting, laughing, having fun and dancing to the music. (char) saw a friend and ran after them, forgetting you were there with her. 30 minutes passed, you were standing in a corner, a little further from the crowd and you started getting anxious, wondering where she is and why she just left you like that. you decided to just swarm and squiggle into the crowd to find her, feeling your social battery get drained even more. and you spotted her talking with her friend, because her hair color just stood out alot. you ran after her and shyly hugged her from behind, trying to silently tell her that she forgot about you and that you're still here. she flinched a little, but knowing it was you, she gave you an apologetic smile and told her friend that you're her girlfriend in case they were confused.

"y/n, i'm sorry i accidentally left you behind. it wont happen again, i promise", she told you, but you still felt a little insecure that she just... left you like that for a friend. "no it's fine, maybe i shouldn't have been here anyways if i wasn't so important. i don't like parties anyways." you blurted out. she noticed you looked and even sounded sad from that tone, she knew she was going to have to make it up to you with hugs, kisses and snacks when you two get home tonight. she apologizes once again, and tells her friend that she'll be going home earlier to avert her attention more to you. she feels guilty, but she knows you meant no harm and you can't help feeling like that. but she just loves taking care of you and reassuring you anyways, no matter if you guys have huge differences, contrasts and are considered total opposites by others. they say opposites attracts anyways 🤭