#hsr reader

[veneralice]

art credit @zephyrine-gate on X ! all credit to the artist!

divider credit to @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

a soul divided | mydeimos

born to be a spy in castrum kremnos’ ranks, your heart quickly learns that war and love are too severely entangled to extricate yourself from mydei in any way that matters. (28k words) (yeah idk either i went crazy)

content/content warnings: before you start reading this take my hand…. did you take it… okay good…. now promise not to spit in my face bc i know only the barest of details about amphoreus lore bc i’ve been skipping through the game like crazy ever since v3.0……….. Yeah…….. anyways i tried to read up as much as possible and some of the plot is inspired by mydei fanfics i’ve read Go Easy On Me yall pls, PLS, i’m sorry. okay now, also if mydei feels too ooc for you you’re legally obligated to stab me through the tenth thoratic vertebra, reader’s faith and city-state ladon is reminiscent of the tale of the garden of the hesperides, hesperia the goddess is inspired by the dragon ladon who guards the golden apples, ladon and hesperia is implied to be athens/athena-adjacent so it mirrors castrum kremnos ares-/spartan-adjacent lore (enemies to lovers am i right) (i think homer just turned in his grave), arranged marriage situation (mydei has become part of eurypon’s court to kill and usurp him), reader doesn’t know mydei is a chrysos heir or that he’s immortal, forced proximity, allusion to sex and some descriptives but no actual sex scene, murder attempt, reader is stabbed (no major character death), Idk . i’ll update this as i go LMAO

Hesperia guide you, because you have no idea how to kindle her light when your life is so completely enveloped by the threat of darkness.

You can still hear the growl inside your mother’s voice as they had broached the plan in the council meeting for the first time, the unusual anger that had tainted the usual decadence of it. It was a beautiful voice, clear and strong, strengthened by her faith in the goddess your home worshipped. It was said that Hesperia’s calls herself had been so loud it had shaken the earth and the seas, which is why the shallow sandbanks around Ladon stretch for miles before they deepen into the ocean. The only easy access one gained was through the terratic way to the north, symbolic for how Hesperia had to fly with the north’s winds to return home after fighting in the war against the looming darkness.

This is how they try to comfort you as they tell you about your duty to the country you call home: you’ll only be taking after the goddess, Hesperia, after all. And isn’t that the greatest blessing one could ever experience as a mortal being, to walk the path of gods?

Even as a child, you could taste the lie in the sweetened words. It was as clear in the water as the fish in the sea, the many eels you used to catch with your friends for entertainment in the lazy afternoon sun. And even if you hadn’t realized it, your mother’s angry disposition cleared up the situation at hand pretty quickly.

This was not an honor. This was the Golden Council throwing you the wolves, before they scented the blood and wounds the city of Ladon was already nursing.

It’s an easy lie, embedded in the fact that Ladon bleeds at the edges of this planet’s universe. Commerce and trade came often, but didn’t stay long, not interested in the wisdom of the city, and the luscious mountains did not provide any specialties that you couldn’t find anywhere else. There was a particular interest by the city-state of Okhema in the pearls the Ladonians harvested from its’ sea, due to its mythological connection to Hesperia as a daughter of light, a cousin to the Dawn Device’s creator. But aside from that, the fact remained that it was a ripe city, lush for the taking, and for Castrum Kremnos, whose existence depended on the import of life-saving goods, even a simple flourishing agricultural situation as Ladon’s was enough for them to covet Hesperia’s pearlescent city.

The water way is irrelevant when the terrain in the north is perfect for a march on the safe haven of Ladon.

They are here on the Golden Council’s cowardly invitation, of course. This conflict has been spanning on for even longer than you remember, older even than the crown forged for your mother as she ascended to the throne beside your father. You are not truly Ladonian, at least not in the Golden Council’s eyes, because your mother is only a “borrowed bride” from the shores of the wealthy city of Pyria. They do not recognize your mother’s authority, nor your claim on the throne. So when the time comes to work out a solution against old King Eurypon’s threat, they quickly suggest a marriage as “succesful as King Atlaion’s with the queen mother”.

Translated, they want you to go and become what they always feared from your foreign mother. A snake in the Castrum Kremnoan’s gardens. A dagger at the only prince’s throat.

If Atlaion had still been alive, the council would have been turning on a spit for the fire to roast as soon as the afternoon sun would have set on Ladon. You remember your father in the few times where you let yourself, when the memory doesn’t hurt. A melodious voice, a roughened palm that seemed as protective as your own skin. Your father hard always been praised for his big heart, too gentle for a throne. But also too weak for it. The council had verbally torn him to shreds for his decision in marriage, always claiming he’d been tricked by Pyria, always arguing that Aeolia was the true hand behind the throne. A fact that did not sit easy with a council as vying as this one. And a fact that had made them point their blaming fingers at the queen mother’s family, the one they accused to be hungry for Ladonian treasure.

Pyria had long been swallowed by the black tide then, but that wasn’t anything they wanted to discuss.

And anyways, your father is gone, and his assassins are still free. There is no universe for you except this one, where you bend your head to the borrowed authority of a council that refuses to crown any head but your future’s son’s, still hiding in your womb. Metaphorically, of course. If you hadn’t been unmarried, unwidowed and unchanged, they would never have been able to broker this pact with the mad king of Castrum Kremnos.

Eurypon had wanted an excuse to leash his son, and the Golden Council had wanted an excuse to press you for an heir. And if you threw in a few Kremnoan secrets that would help free Ladon of the title of a vassal state, well, that was only good and fair. So they raise you to be a sword, ready to cut anything down: to sneak. To spy. To steal.

Slyfooting is not part of a queen’s education, but it becomes a part of yours. You become a royal deceiver, a living lie. The Golden Council files your venom-containing teeth and puts its hands together for a prayer, a prayer for a future where Ladon becomes an empire again, reborn in the dawn of light. They dream of holding the Dragon banner high, to devour their enemies whole.

You, on the other hand, dream of a quick death.

As you walk the causeways of Ladon’s only defense ring to the north, you can see the detachment of soldiers come nearer and nearer. It restricts the air in your chest, strangling you to the bone. An entire decade ago, this had been the sight you glimpsed from your apartments as Castrum Kremnos first drew closer to beat Ladon into submission. Eurypon himself had headed that army then, eager for a fight against the noble Atlaion, of whom he’d only heard about his golden-coated words and his shying back from a warrior’s valor. He had wanted a fight, and had almost burned the city to the ground when he thought Atlaion would rather hide than face him. A good king would go to his death willingly, if only to uphold his city’s honor and the people’s pride. Little did anyone know that good, old, noble Atlaion had been murdered in his throne room, the beheaded corpse still seated on the throne. He’d been readying himself for peace talks. The banners of surrender had already been prepared to be flown. The surviving soldiers of the Kremnoan invasion instead found the banners stuffed into the mouths of the murdered royal guard, drenched in blood. A fitting image for a situation so totally beyond salvation.

You, however, had to live with the sight of your father’s beheaded corpse forever. They found you shaking the body, crying for him to wake up and face you, your own face streaked in tears and blood. You didn’t see the face of the assailant, but you had found the weapon. Despite the extensive investigation, no culprit had ever been found, and the dagger was to be locked away and sealed forever. In case the murderer would ever be found. In case anyone woule be ever able to identify the owner of the weapon.

In the end, King Eurypon had made your mother sign away the future of Ladon. This, too, became a weapon the Golden Council brandished against her. Here sat this foreigner, who’s only been crowned queen because she seduced a soft-hearted king. And she dares to hand away Ladon’s future just like that. You hadn’t been present then, confined to a prison that was supposed to serve as a hiding place. Not that Eurypon was unaware of you. But the hope was still there that he wouldn’t take notice of you. His own queen had made him a widow, and no one knew what the king would do. All morality had seemed to have fled him in the days after the loss of both of his son and queen. After long-breathed peace talks which had felt like a particularly calm siege, King Eurypon and his army had finally withdrawn, one city-state richer.

Back in the present, you stare at the advancing army and think of the commander leading its charge. You wonder how you are supposed to marry a man whose only inheritance was blood and violence, when you had been supped on wisdom and gentility.

Hesperia herself had been a strategic queen, a clever woman. The faith of the Hesperian gardens practices patience, meditation, self-reflection. This city alone had been born out of Hesperia’s wish to reunite with her family, her song rising steadily in volume until all her sisters had come rushing home. The seas had dried and opened a way for her sisters to place their feet upon, so they could rush to Hesperia’s waiting arms. In their reunion, they had planted a golden-leaved tree bearing fruit of the same color, forever a symbol of their love, community and perseverance. Nowhere in that picture does the Kremnoan urge for patricide and warmongering fit.

And yet here he marches, Mydeimos of the noble blood of Gorgo. Ready to become part of that picture, against his will or not.

The winds carry the salty scent of spilled blood, though you can’t be sure if that’s actually true or just a product of your fearful imagination. But it also carries something else: a spiced perfume that settles in your chest, like a cozy blanket thrown over your shoulder. You turn and see Queen Aeolia approach, a heavy-mantled cloak she must have stolen from your father’s closet hastily thrown over her shoulder. She must have seen you climb the causeways and went to join you. “I knew I’d find you here,” she says when she has drawn near enough, although the wind swallows some of her words eagerly, as if it too cannot contain the yearning for her wisdom in the same manner as your father had. “Though I do wish you wouldn’t have come. I wished to spare you this sight.”

To that, you can only answer with a sigh. “Mother, I’m supposed to marry him. It’s not like I can avoid this army forever. I’ll be marching with them to my new home, after all.”

“It won’t be your home.” Your mother’s voice is steady, firm. She’s always been your bedrock, the foundation of your life. Silently supporting you always. Helping you stand steady. “No matter what that blasphemous council says, your home is here with me.”

“What, you don’t believe they speak with the voice of Hesperia?” you ask sarcastically. It should have come off as a quip, a joke with which you had intended to ease the tensions. All it sounds like though is bitterness. This is your mother, whom you do not have to hide anything from. So you cannot find it in yourself to pretend to be alright. “I don’t really care whether the gods are with them or not. The Golden Council means nothing to me. But I don’t want to turn my back on father and all he’s done for this country, and I cannot deny that an alliance with Castrum Kremnos, no matter how it came to fruition, is something that could benefit the people. We’d never have to worry about an invasion again.”

Your mother musters you warily. It’s the look you give someone when you know they aren’t being quite honest with themselves, but you cannot deny them, either. So she says, “And I love you for that. But do not forget that an heir to the Ladonian throne is only a forefront. What those vipers truly yearn for is a Castrum Kremnos they’d be able to control.”

You roll your shoulders, still focussed on the troops as they transform from indistinguishable dots to the silhouettes of real, blooded men. The distance is closing steadily. It feels like they might be running to you, and the panic, which had nestled itself on your tongue in the past few days, has finally travelled into your blood and is beginning to seep into your bones. It will live with you there, forever perhaps, or until your golden-soled boots crushes Castrum Kremnos in the name of Ladon. Neither solution seems realistic. “I will bear it,” you say, and then, as if to convince yourself, “I can do it. Hesperia is with me.”

Your mother’s hand goes to your head, brushing over the elaborate hairdo. The hairpins you have studded inside the coiffure are wrought in the image of Hesperia’s dragon appearance, an image of bravery from which you are trying to draw strength from. “The light of Hesperia be with you, daughter,” your mother sighs in turn. Then she straightens up, for both her sake and yours. The time to mourn and grieve is over. The battle has just begun. “Now come with me and get changed into that other gown. I’ve heard this prince favors the color pink.”

You think in truth your mother might be trying to distract you from what you perceive as your impending doom (really now, what Kremnoan prince would like the color pink? or perhaps that just pertains to the lovers he is attracted to? Maybe he likes it when they wear pink?). But you grasp at the opportunity to be a daughter again, just one last time. For now, you are still princess of Ladon, daughter to the Sunlit Throne. And you are safe in your childhood chambers, laughing with your mother, unworried abut anything. You are present. You are here. And you are loved.

In the glint of the jewelry your mother holds up to your ears, you briefly wonder what her marriage was like. You’re not familiar with Pyrian marriage customs, had only been schooled on what a proposal to you might look like. Not even this marriage to the Kremnoan prince was usual. His own traditions outlined different approaches, and the arrangement itself was unusual for their royal house. As far as you were aware, the proposed to partner was carried away under the cover of night, with the proposed to partner giving consent ahead of time. In fact, it lies in the will of the proposed-to party to set the meeting and location, being fully in control of everything up until the marriage bed. There, a Kremnoan marriage served but a single duty for the rest of its duration: the production of an heir.

Your mother had paled in reaction when she had first heard the terms. After a long-battled discussion, both royal families had finally come to the agreement that Prince Mydeimos was allowed to carry you off, but he had to come and do it in the light of sun, where Hesperia could see. And you had to be allowed to say goodbye to your loved ones, to fulfill the celebrations on the shore of your old home. After this marriage, your home would be Castrum Kremnos. Only time would tell how that would work out.

They find you just as the sun reaches its zenith in the sky, the young noon bathing you in its stinging heat as the lady’s maid that will accompany you knocks at the door. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she speaks, her voice tentative. Perhaps she fears for her own future, as well. “The prince is here.”

The prince.

You gather your skirts and rise, feeling deceptively light. Maybe that’s because you are about to be cut free. This had been your childhood kingdom, but also a gilded cage in the claw-fingered hands of the Golden Council. You knew next to nothing about Prince Mydeimos: not about his behaviors, not about his personality. He is said to be the most skilled warrior alive, more walking death than man. His enemies scream in terror at the mere mention of his name. His blood-soaked shadow has been said to swallow entire battlefields whole; in fact, his armies always prepare for celebrations ahead of the battle because of the surefire certainty they have in him. He may not be accepted by his father, but he is his people’s pride. You try to be comforted by this, but all you can think of is blood and violence and murder.

Mydeimos. Prince Mydeimos. You roll the name around your tongue in silence as your mother walks you to the throne room.

Yet when you see him, you can’t make heads or tails of him.

Prince Mydeimos of the Castrum Kremnoan dynasty is a tall, impressive man, of a muscular and broad stature that seems to tower above his peers and the emissaries of the Golden Council who have come to welcome him. He is painted in the colors of his home; honey-dew hair, pomegranate eyes, bloody whorls on his chest and arms which you cannot decipher. It’s nothing you’ve read about in the history books which were supposed to lecture you about your groom’s city. You suppose he might the very picture of a Kremnoan ideal. On another woman, that might have made a lasting impression: he’s attractive, after all, and you are not blind. But his appearance only turns the syllables of his name to ash in your mouth, a fresh batch of anger welling up inside you. If he had never accepted his father’s terms and asked for your hand, you might have been free from this fate. When Prince Mydeimos eyes’ finally find yours, they look as if they know exactly at what you might be thinking.

“Prince Mydeimos,” comes your mother’s loud address, cutting in over a particularly nasty councillor who had once compared your mother to a slow-working poison. The sneer that presents itself on his face only seems to imbue your mother with more strength, as if his envy only spurs her on more. She approaches Mydeimos with a polite smile, leaving you to remain where you stand. Indicating with her hand towards you, she says, “My prince, I am pleased to introduce you to this humble island’s only princess. This is my daughter and your bride.”

Mydeimos respectfully inclines his head at your mother. The motion makes your mother’s eyes flash with surprise, an emotion she cannot hide as quickly away as she usually does; Ladon was but another colony in Castrum Kremnos’ repertoire, smaller than most of the treasures King Eurypon had acquired. Eurypon had never bowed his head, nor made any over effort to grace your mother with any kind of respect that would befit her station. “Queen Aeolia, I thank you for welcoming us so graciously in your home,” he speaks then, and his voice is a lion’s roar. Not because it sounds threatening, or because he speaks particularly asserting. It’s in him, you realize, that natural inclination to command authority. No wonder his troops seem to adore him. “You will forgive me for joining you so late. As I am not old enough, I still sleep in the barracks with the men who serve me. We intended to settle in quickly so I could meet your daughter as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Your mother has reasserted her own grip on her politics. She is quick that way, more skillful than you are. You are going to have to mimic her when you are married. Mydeimos’ odd decision to bunk with his barrack mates has already been reported long before he set sail for Ladon, a matter your mother privately worried about. Kremnoan women do not live with their husbands for the entirety of their military service, and she fears in your future lonely days and even lonelier nights. In truth, you could not care less. This was a marriage for duty, not for love. “If there is anything you or your men might ask for, do not hesitate in doing so. The city is yours, my prince.”

“Yes,” he quietly affirms. “That I know. But I thank you for your hospitality.” It’s an arrogant comment, a statement that sets your blood to a boil even though he doesn’t mean it with any bad intent. His eyes are devoid of his father’s hostility, but they are still his father’s eyes: war-driven and impulsive. When they find yours again, you have carefully built up a wall in the same manner as your mother has done, steeling yourself against this lion-born nightmare. Mydeimos thus passes by your mother and approaches you, and the room grows quiet at that. You warily watch as Mydeimos comes to a halt before you, wondering if he will approach you like this when he discovers your true intentions before he murders you for your crimes. He upturns his palms, each finger ensconced by his gauntles. He hasn’t even bothered to disarm himself as he proposes to you. The thought settles in your already upset brain as Mydeimos asks, “Chosen princess of Hesperia, in the eyes of the golden-eyed dragon and the sunset mountains, I ask for your heart and your faith. Will you accept me as your groom?”

You stare up at him, stunned.

These are not the words your advisors have prepared you for. They are your words: your traditions as you had reminisced about just an hour earlier. Kremnoan marriages do not seem to glorify the process, keeping to a very simple ‘marry me’ and a ‘yes, I do’ to bring it to a close. There aren’t even any priests to preside over the wedding that will be held, and so you hadn’t had any hopes for this proposal, either. It was all dictated upon, anyway, your hand practically already given away.

You do not know what to make of this. You do not like the fact that these words are coming out of his mouth, and yet, a small corner inside your heart breathes out a sigh of relief since you aren’t abandoning your father’s ways entirely. Unsure about Mydeimos, and still in awe at the reunion with a part of your culture before you are torn away from it, you answer, placing your hands in his, “In the spirit of Hesperia’s faith and devotion, I accept you as my groom, Prince of Castrum Kremnos. In the eyes of the golden-eyed dragon and the sunset mountains, I vow to become your wife.”

There are no rings, no other significant symbols of the engagement. But as you look into this prince’s eyes, you feel that vow wash over you as dizzily as the future does - forceful and unstoppable. The metaphorical lock has clicked into place. The gleaming metal of his armor is sun-warmed and smooth. It feels like touching a human heart. Mydeimos presses your fingers and releases them.

You are a captive of Castrum Kremnos now.

Mydeimos is still staring at you as you hesitantly put your hands into another, fumbling with your fingers nervously. You cannot tell what he’s thinking; he seems to be more statue than man, and he strikes the same fear in your heart as he does in his enemies. You are glad that you never have to face him in earnest on a battlefield, but then remember your duty, and you lower your eyes. This makes Mydeimos clear his throat, and the moment passes. He turns towards your mother again, leaving you to your inner turmoil. “If not to your offense, I would like to retire with my men now. The days have been long, and our exhaustion has made us weary. We are quite eager to partake in the celebrations you have prepared for this evening.”

The councillor at your mother’s side, who apparently has had enough of your mother’s spotlight, speaks up almost immediately. “Understandably so, Your Highness!” he rushes to assure Mydeimos. “But perhaps you’d like to attend this evening’s assembly before you attend the revelries? You still have not told us when you would like to leave, and when the marriage is supposed to be held.”

“That will be at my bride’s discretion.” Mydeimos nods once at the councillor, the only sign displaying that he seems to have listened to the puny man, then directly addresses your mother again. “Queen Aeolia, if you’ll excuse me. I will withdraw now.”

And so he flaunts his cape behind him, leaving the throne in his wake.

The councillor, in the face of naked disrespect, stares after the Kremnoan prince in what seems to be open indignation. Over his shoulder, your mother’s lips break into an uncharacteristic grin, an expression she so rarely employs. You tentatively smile back at her, your relief making you sag back into a more comfortable stance. You still don’t know what kind of man Mydeimos is, but he’s at least proven to possess a better set of manners than his father does. Although this is his vassal state, and his army is large enough to destroy the city without breaking a sweat, he went out of his way to to treat your mother with the respect a queen mother of the prospective bride should be treated with. If anything else, it bespeaks diplomacy.

You watch that lion’s back be swallowed up among his men, disappearing in the throng of human bodies. Of course he’s diplomatic, you think to yourself, the magic of the situation disappearing in the same moment as your tiredness returns. He’s going to steal you away from here and keep you like a particularly special treasure. You do not rattle a toy beyond repair without ever having played with it first.

You’re only moments away of becoming a bride in earnest, and yet you already shrink back from the responsibilities that await you. As you inspect your fingers, you realize Mydeimos’ gauntlets have already drawn first blood. This is how it starts.

(Back in the comfort of your chambers, as your mother watches your personal attendants slip you into another dress of your choosing, she falls trap to mistaking what this entire farce is about. She says, “He might not be such a cruel husband as I thought. Well, I don’t know. He might also just be trying to put on a good face here so I’ll let you go without a fuss, but it did feel like he’s was trying to make an effort to be different than his father. You don’t earnestly look into someone’s eyes like that. I really do hope he would make a good husband to you, if only politically.”

“Oh, mother.” You had raised your arms higher as the maid tried to feed you through the dress’ opening, feeling as though you were prostrating yourself in front of a weapon that was coming to swing down. “It doesn’t matter if he’s a good husband. I’m not there to actually be his wife.”

She doesn’t say anything after that.)

Hesperia’s embrace begins to bathe Ladon city in the feverish warm light of the dusk while you hide out in a hallway right before the Great Hall. The festivites are already in full swing, an entire group of musicians having travelled here to sing your father’s childhood songs and reminisce about a life on Ladon. The homesickness grips your chest like a sickness, like you might keel over and begin to vomit everywhere. It’s a confusing feeling. You are standing inside the bones of your father’s home, surrounded by the only buildings you’ve been raised in. And yet you already feel so, so far away. The thought saddens you.

“Not feeling festive enough to join the proclivities?”

Your head snaps up, alarmed. You are a pacifist’s daughter, unused to the ways of war. That doesn’t mean you’re entirely stupid, though. Most times, sneaking up on you is not the easiest feat - the sounds of a servant’s steps, of wandering councillors searching for an excuse to eavesdrop, have become a steady rhythm you were attuned to so that you could maintain your privacy. Amidst all these instincts you’ve honed, Mydeimos has managed to surprise you.

He’s found a chink in your armor.

In what seems to be a lazy manner, he begins to lean on the side of the wall you had been turning your back to. You straighten up, your royal tutelage not allowing you to make him see past that careful face you maintain in the schemes of politics. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” you tell him, the lie tasting disgusting already. However were you going to do this, when you’re married and shipped off? “I was just thinking about my father. I have always been told, by my mother and old friends of his alike, that he had a particular knack for dancing during Ladonian celebrations. It seems that talent has evaded me. I was just thinking about what sort of excuse I might dish up in case you were wanting to take to the dancefoor.”

At the mention of fathers, a dark shadow passes of Mydeimos’ eyes. You do not know what to make of that. You know of the rumors surrounding his mother’s death and the own fate he seemed to have suffered in the loss of his homeland, but you know not what is rumor and what is truth. You do not want to poke at a lion before you ever step into the lion’s den. Mydeimos himself does not address it, instead pouncing on the ‘dancing’ part of the sentence. “I assure you, no lie is necessary,” he says, gesticulating with his arms at the parade of his own company as they stream into the grand hall. “If you do not wish to dance, I will not make you. I myself have not felt the urge to. We Kremnoans are raised to the dance of swords, not the dance of partners.”

We Kremnoans. Rather soon, that will include you. The thought makes you twist the rings adorning your fingers rather nervously. Mydeimos’ eyes pick up on it, then watch as you still your fingers as to not reveal your fear. “I’m sure my prince jests,” you try to joke, but you have none of your mother’s grace. The joke, like your tone, falls flat. “I’m sure there are some dances you partake in. After a successful battle, perhaps.”

“You ought to call me Mydei.”

You stare at him, mystified. “Your pardon?”

Mydeimos draws himself up, staring at you with an indifferent gaze which reveals nothing. He is the mask of a human, as part of the masquerade as you are, even though he does not know what your actual endeavors for this marriage are. “Mydei,” he repeats, this time a little louder. “Mydeimos is the name the subjects of the crown or strangers use. But we are to be husband and wife, and I tire of formalities rather easily. Call me Mydei. It does not have to imply any intimacy between us.”

You grip your rings again. This time, you don’t twist them, but the bite of the cold metal keeps you steady as you look at him. Use this chance, a voice whispers in your mind, the personification of the Golden Council digging through your brain, sifting it with a sieve until all your thoughts become hateful. Get close to him, and then carve out his heart. “Mydei,” you echo with a faint voice. He reaffirms the action with an approving nod. “I will do that. But, my lord, I cannot so easily slip off the bonds of my house’s teachings. I will try to be less formal, but please understand when I slip back into these habits, because even in their restriction they offer a kind of comfort.”

The words settle into the air as Mydei takes them in. “I understand, my lady. Then I do suppose I might have to insist on a single dance with my bride, for formality’s sake.”

Which is how you end up on the most powerful man of all Amphoreus’ arm, led in under the gawking gaze of a gossiping, scavenging court. For all his talk about not knowing the rules of dance, Mydeimos - Mydei - leads you into the center of the room and then faithfully takes up his position. As you face each other, Mydei raises his hands to mirror your own, and thus you begin to twirl around each other, beginning the dance.

It’s not comfortable, or relaxing. But it does loosen up some of the tension that’s been holding you prisoner, and you let yourself fall back into the familiar rhythm of the circling partner dance your mother taught you in your father’s stead. One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Mydei’s eyes, still steeled over to hide the truth below them, never once leave your face as you dance, though you try not to be intimidated by it. In the artificial light of both Kephale’s devices and the more natural one as the flickering candlelight, his image does not frighten you into visions of a doomed future as they had this noon. You decide to break the silence then. “I am quite sure this makes you the liar after all, Mydei, and not me. It seems like you dance as though you’ve been born to it. I have encountered more unfortunate men who kept falling out of the rhythm, or stumbling into me without meaning to.”

His golden eyes seem darker than earlier. The shadow hasn’t quite left them yet. “It was my mother who taught me,” he answers, turning in time to evade a stray couple which proves your earlier point of the common fail-at-dance attitude at your court. Your chest feels tight at the mention of Queen Gorgo; you hadn’t meant to steer the direction of the conversation there, but now that he’s speaking about her, the interest does begin to spark up. You wonder what of that woman’s traces have remained in Mydei. He seems to have become the epitome of his father’s Kremnoan ideology. “She was always of the opinion that dancing and fighting are not so different. I did not share that opinion, but given the nature of how my father and her came to be married, I suppose she might have been more right than I previously assumed.”

You remember the tale, of how lion-braving Gorgo almost managed to best Eurypon himself. In turn, he married her. Just as violence was the key to the throne, it seemed it was also the key to stealing a Kremnoan’s heart. “I see,” is all you manage to voice. This isn’t what you wanted. You hadn’t wanted to be perceptive enough to recognize how this man was talented enough to reveal no weakness, and yet his tone had significantly gentled. How he must have cared for his mother. You will betray him. You are going to eradicate his dynasty. There is no time for niceties. “My lord,” you say, making his honeydew eyes flick towards you again, and your voice feels very far away as you speak your next words. You are making yourself walk onto that path you can never return again from, afraid that the longer you seek to suspend the moment, the more it will hurt when the sword finally swings down. “This was celebration enough for an engagement, and for my taste. If it does not bother you, I would wait for a full week so that your army’s strength might be restored, and then leave for Castrum Kremnos so we might be married.”

Although Mydei has looked passively polite the entire day, his face now visibly puzzles up in confusion. Your actions and behaviors aren’t matching up; you’re sure that your lackluster face hadn’t been able to support the forced enthusiasm of the words you had spoken. It’s no matter. You cannot seem to rip yourself free of that assembly inside your mind, how they had poured poison into your ears, equipped with you so many lies. It will be so easy to charm him, don’t worry about it. All you have to do is write a few letters. You might naturally even be inclined to tell us, after all. They are so terrible, it won’t even raise suspicion for you to report about it.

And if you can kill him, then do it swiftly enough that we can still extract you.

You swallow the memory, and Mydei’s eyes follow the motion. “It will be done,” he concedes, but his voice has lost the melody it had taken on earlier, the way he had spoken about his mother. You thought it had made him seem more human.

(You forge your first lie that day, in the same manner as a sword-smith completes his very first order to prove his efficiency and skills. When your mother asks what exactly made you want to quit the shores of Ladon so quickly, you find yourself forming the words, without thinking about them too much: “I can’t lie properly if I’m still surrounded by the home in which I always could be my most true self. I need to leave, or I’ll never able to.”

That exact statement helps you understand why the best lies contain a kernel of truth. You see that kernel hit your mother straight into the heart, the way her lips turn down to form that heartbreaking expression you as her daughter cannot bear. But she needs to hear it, now, before her seeds of betrayal bear fruit and result in an altercation with the Golden Council. “Strength and wisdom, my daughter,” she only answers, the ancient words a promise. She wishes for Hesperia to be with you, but where you are going, that goddess cannot possibly follow you to. You nod and accept the blessing graciously, because the alternative would be to break down crying and tarnish that very first good lie you taught yourself to speak.)

Your soon-to-be husband, apparently, does possess a sense of humor. It’s just so dry that you cannot make sense of it.

When he passed by the guard who was supposed to feed you into the chariot so he could help you himself, you almost snapped at him out of reflex (you don’t have to do that, this is an arranged marriage, don’t pretend to care about me). Then the anguish made you pliant (don’t make this any harder for me). You took his hand without words, letting him handle you inside, the gauntlets as startling on your skin as the day he met you. It felt like he was reaching right through the chiton, below even the flesh of your human body and right into your traitorous heart, weeding out the lies before you could even get started tossing them at him. You look into his eyes to reassure yourself he can’t actually do that, and find him already looking at you. Mydei truly is quite unsettling. You cannot even imagine the sight of those righteous-fury eyes through the visors of his war helmet. “You should get comfortable,” he advises you. “The roads to Castrum Kremnos are as unforgiving and winding as the descent into Tartarus. It might take us an actual month to reach it.”

You gape at him, feeling the startledness resonate in your mind like a scream into the void. “Truly?” you sputter out, feeling your entire perception of time shift. How would you survive out of a chariot for an entire month…? “I …had not known. I promise to be a courteous and patient traveller.”

Mydei stares at you for a very long time … quite so long that you feel awkward beneath his gaze, like an insect inspected through the scope of a magnifying glass. And then, as wondrous as the first flashes of brilliant light in the morning dawn, the corners of his lips jump. Barely there. Not even enough movement to call it a twitch. But you recognize it for what it is: the ghost of a smile. “What a faithful bride they have given me,” he says, slipping back into his tonedead diction, something you begin to recognize he employs to guard his true feelings. “She hangs on to my every word. In fact, I give you my word I will not use it for my own personal entertainment.”

“Oh,” comes your embarrassed reaction. And then, because you cannot bear the shame and your lady’s maid of all people begins to chuckle, you place your hand on the heavily armored shoulder of his intimidating back and turn him away. This oak tree of a man, whose reputation makes him out to be an unstoppable force, turns at the lightest of your touches. Mydei actually lets himself be pushed away. “I suggest you leave before I hit you with my fan for the deception.”

“I do think that would be entertaining still, my lady,” Mydei retorts. “But I accept your command. You are, after all, my bride.”

Your hands fall from his shoulder as he begins to skirt away, returning to the position he has been given as the commander of this company. You hastily clamber into your seat, not wanting to see him go. Not wanting to see him in general. You clench your hands into fists.

When they first told you about how you were going to be a bride to a foreign king, you had tried to conjure up an image, to try to fit yourself into that equation. It was all smoke and mirrors, anyways, the attempt like sifting through sand to find a treasure that has long ago disappeared. But from what you’ve known about Kremnoan culture, about the tales that had proclaimed Mydei to be a god-killer, how his father’s cruel blood ran in his veins, you had expected something more monstrous. Something akin to honorable Nikador, succumbing to baseless violence and madness, losing grip on His divinity. You meant no disrespect to Nikador, as you had been raised to respect all the gods in equal measure, but you certainly were no Mnestia. You couldn’t think of yourself as a noble lover, sacrificing everything to try to steer Nikador back into his true place at your side. That wasn’t the nature of this arrangement, anyways. Even without Eurypon’s and the Golden Council’s scheming, this marriage would still only serve the survival of the Kremnoan line. Marriage is for reproduction. It had no room for love, at least not in the traditional sense that you were raised into. Perhaps you would have been able to come to accept Mydei as an amicable business partner, but that, too, would only survive so long as any son of yours would grow into maturity. That future is as invisible to you as the one that you are actually walking towards. But something about the shape of the smoke has changed distinctly.

You hadn’t expected Mydei to view his father through the same critical eyes the rest of the world seemed to look at him with.

Here he is, walking with common men, accepting their hands. He nods in the same rhythm as their laughter; although he can’t share their bellows and jests, he makes an effort to be present, to acknowledge their camaraderie. He doesn’t cull their cheers, only heeding them to stay in formation, and everyone does so without complaint. At one point, they break out into a coordinated yell, startling your lady’s maid from the careful slumber she’s been nursing while at the same time trying to remain upright at your side. “The son of Gorgo will be crowned in blood!” they chant. “May his sword always strike true and his back reflect the illumination of our future! Long live the prince!”

You are at a loss for words. You recognize the words in passing, of course; the clever dichotomy of them. Gorgo, his noble ancestor, shares a name with the mother who has given birth to him. They are honored both in that chant, whether consciously or unconsciously. But they didn’t say “long may he reign”, the usual phrasing for a prospective monarch such as Mydei. They wished for him to live. And you see the effect it has on him: Mydei straightens up, becoming the shield and mirror they wish for him to be. The sun sparks across his shoulders like stars, making him seem more mythical, a prophecy having become flesh and bone.

They love him. You cannot find a better fitting verb that would encompass their culture more accurately, so you scramble to your own terms. This is what Atlaion had always dreamed of. Mydei is a king already in their eyes; they have given him their loyalty.

The thought rains a dangerous shower of goosebumps down your back. No wonder his father wants him dead.

The truth of Mydei’s joke (if that can be actually called a joke…) reveals itself after a steady, continous trek that stretched out for three nights and four days in total. On the afternoon of the fourth day, the glorious city of Castrum Kremnos has begun to claim the entire horizon as you stare at it. You hadn’t realized how pompously giant it was. Ladon is an ant in comparison to its size. The soldiers have begun to yowl in relief as they recognize the walls of their home, and this time Mydei doesn’t scold them. In fact, he’s headed straight for your chariot, and without waiting for it to stop, he jumps inside, with the same slinking grace as a predator going for the killing strike. Ignoring your lady’s maid quickly-smothered squeak in reaction, he settles into his seat as if nothing out of sort has happened. “As you can see, my lady, we will reach Castrum Kremnos shortly. I have sent a rider ahead to inform them of our coming, which is why I am here to warn you of what greetings will await us when we pass the city’s borders.”

(You find yourself forced back into the memory of the day you had left Ladon. Those customs, as shrewd as they were, had seemed to you more like a funny tale than an actual literal activity to be done. But Mydei, without even blinking or shying away from it, had lifted you up as one might pick up a doll; with the clinical neutrality of a healer, his hands had found the hollows of your knees and the space in-between your shoulder blades to lift you up. Your head had fallen at his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat had surprised you into wordless compliance. As though you had become part of his army, when he told you to hold on to him, you had obeyed and wrapped your free arm around his shoulder as best as possible (he was impossibly broad…), then used the free hand to wave goodbye to the people gathered. Mydei’s pulse had over-toned even your mother’s laughter, which in retrospect almost seems sad because of how rare it was for her to laugh in earnest. Your father’s death had eaten at her in a way that made her untouchable to most, even to you. You couldn’t help it: the sound of Mydei’s steady heart had soothed you, because in the end, he was a human being just like you.)

You take in the words, thinking about them. Will there be a riotous celebration for the prince’s return, then? Or do they condemn the crown’s choice in their bride, and have come to proclaim that rejection? You sure hope his deadly literacy will not make you carry you inside the city, then, because you would need your hands free to be able to defend yourself. “I see,” you say. Today, your nervous fingers are hidden beneath the swathes of your chiton. You specifically chose this one for its ruffles, intending to look as polished as a prospective bride, but also wanting to don some kind of armor of your own. Mydei, however, looks down at your hidden hands as if he can tell exactly what you’re doing. During the celebrations at home - Ladon, you chide yourself, that place is no longer your home, not for a long time - you had already taken note of how perceptive he was. You needed to kill your habits now, or you’d never live to be called a spy (you have to actually spy on something to be considered one, don’t you?). “So what will our day look like?”

“Your hands,” Mydei says though, immediately throwing you off course again. Does he always ignore questions so impolitely if he doesn’t want to answer them? But you’re too distracted to take offense. You feel shocked that he’s decided to call out the weakness himself. “I think that if you fold them together and then hide them in your lap, it would make you seem more like a blushing bride. Then you’d have the comfort of holding on to something, but also not having the danger of someone sniffing out your fear. Try it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or sob. Here this man sits, the object of all your future sins, teaching you how to betray him. But only an idiot would reject advice from the most talented commander in all of history. You intertwine your fingers, then lay the conjoined hands into your lap. They still seem to twitch, something you cannot identify whether it’s actually happening or is just an illusion of your overworking mind, but Mydei nods in approval. You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you say, not knowing how to handle the situation. Everything is already going so much differently than what the council had outlined. “Was it so obvious?”

He cocks his head at you. You try to find any sign in his eyes, of mockery or contempt or bemusement. You find nothing. “Not to the unlearned eye,” Mydei tells you then, and you can’t decide if he’s saying it to soothe your nerves or whether that’s actually true. Your own people had never taken any notice. Or maybe they just hadn’t bothered to tell you. “I would think that leaving the only country you’ve ever known, especially for marriage, would be daunting to anyone. And you are handling this in your own way. You’ve never once complained, or anything. I did not mean to offend you or your manners.”

“No, do not worry. You didn’t.” You press your fingers together. “I am not afraid of marriage. Or at least that’s what I think. I mean, the Sunlit Throne cannot be sat on by a queen alone, so I’ve always known that I would need an heir whom I could crown for the future of Ladon. And that entails a political marriage. I am just not … I mean… Ladon is not exactly similar to Castrum Kremnos.”

“No,” Mydei agrees. “You will quickly realize that. When we get home, they’ll fit you with a weapon of your choice for the wedding. At dawn, the wedding will be held in front of a few witnesses, including my father.”

“A weapon? Of my choice?”

Now there actually is a tint of amusement inside his sunny eyes. The color, although just a regular golden, seems to melt and rearrange itself depending on his mood. Quite disorienting. “I trust you know what a dagger is? Didn’t Queen Hesperia fight with one?”

“I know what a sword is, thank you,” you interrupt him impatiently. The insult, although harmless, paints your cheeks in an unwilling blush. His gaze zeroes in on it, and you try not to squirm under his gaze. For all his complacency, he still doesn’t have the courtesy not to disrespect your home and upbringing. Just because your father was a pacifist, it does not mean he raised you to be an idiot. “I just don’t know what relevance it possesses in correlation with our wedding. I was told there would be a simple procession, where no priest is necessary to reside over the rites, and we will be sharing a cup of wine that is supposed to represent our union. Your emissaries have specifically asked for a barrel of the finest Ladonian wine we had so they could mix it with the type that is produced here in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Quite right you are. What your teachers have neglected to foretell though, is that we have to cut our palms to bleed into the cup and sweeten it this way. The Kremnoans of old have always advised to consume blood, so it strengthens us in battle.”

You blink at him, all finely court manners forgotten. You’re sure that even your lady’s maid mouth has dropped open. “You drink blood?”

Mydei leans back against the chariot’s seat, spreading his legs to sit more comfortably. You ignore it. “No, of course not,” he says. “Do you think us brutes? We enjoy pomegranate wine, though I prefer to take mine mixed with a good cup of goat’s milk.”

“Goat’s milk?” you squawk. It doesn’t make any sense at all. His lips twitch, in that aggrevating almost smile that makes you want to stomp your feet. Heavens above. This man is a test from Hesperia herself. So annoying! Every answer he gives creates a thousand more questions, clarifying nothing!

Your lady’s maid carefully taps your hands. “My lady,” she cautions. When you look down, you’ve realized your careful arrangement has reasserted itself into clenched fists. You quickly loosen them, abandoning your hands for now. You’ll try to work on that habit later. “Alright,” you huff then. “I’ll just follow your lead, my lord. I’m sure it will work out.”

“Certainly,” Mydei answers. “They’ve given me a queen that is as wise as her father herself. You’ll do fine.”

He doesn’t sound sarcastic. In fact, this is the most earnest he’s sounded during the entirety of the conversation. You want to ask what he means, to have him clear up the confusing clouds looming above your head, but Mydei has already vaulted himself back over the chariot again. It seems like you will brave the citizens of Castrum Kremnos alone.

When the gates of the city swallow you up and spit you back out onto a long passageway leading into the inner walls of the urban life, you’re not sure what to expect. But the people’s faces are smiling, if not singing. These are songs you don’t recognize, songs of return and bravery and honor. Their hands stretch out to touch the soldier’s shoulders, and you hear a passerby applaud the guard near your own chariot for not returning on his shield, although you don’t understand what he means. The guard knocks her shoulders against the passerby’s, laughing and joking about how if she couldn’t return from a simple retrieval of a bride unharmed, than she did not deserve to be part of the royal household’s infantry. “Honor to Castrum Kremnos!” he tells the guard in answer, and that’s that. You continue walking, leaving the man behind.

From your vantage point, you can only see the tops of Mydei’s shoulders and his head. His own hands are situated firmly at his sides, and no one reaches to touch him, but they honor him in his own way. The jubilant chant belonging to the Son of Gorgo follows him into the endless maze of his city, and before long, the castle bids you welcome as you leave the cheerful masses behind.

As before, Mydei himself waits below the chariot to help you down. You cast a quizzical look at him, one that he doesn’t catch. Why bother? you think, and then, as always, Don’t make it any harder for me. Stop being courteous. Stop. But you give him your hand. His metal-cold fingers carefully wrap around the wrist he could easily break before it writes down any tales about the Kremnoan court. The architecture outside of the palace had involved a lot of humongously large pillars, stretching so far that even the craning of your neck did nothing to erase the intimidation they had evoked, and an intricate connection of block-like facades incorporated into siege-surviving walls. But the inside was as familiar to you as the passageway to the Ladonian castle, a sight that took hold of your frail heart and made you want to collapse with grief. You already missed your home. Despite your aversion to the young prince, you find yourself grateful for the support of his hand, feeling as unsteady as the reeds in the wind. “I had not expected such a warm welcome,” you admitted to Mydei. Somehow you knew you wouldn’t have been this honest towards him if you weren’t so shaken by the loss of Ladon. “They were all so happy. I assume that is because they saw you rather than me, but it was still a relief. The city of Ladon historically has been a thorn in Castrum Kremnos’ eye, so I was preparing myself for the worst.”

Mydei guides your hands toward his bicep. The emissary who was supposed to be your chaperone steps away and melts back into the shadows instead of taking offense. Even at his father’s court, where he is supposed to be surrounded by enemies at all sides, they defer to him as naturally as one might require air. The Golden Council would never. They never squandered any opportunity to flaunt their disrespect into your mother’s face. Mydei feels unnaturally hot beneath you, and your fear-cold fingers curve around his muscles on instinct so that they might warm up. If that bothers him, he doesn’t address it. Courteous as always. Perhaps it’s not so wild to believe that he might be his father’s doppelgänger, but it is his mother’s nature which guides him. She had been a warrior, too. A more welcoming concept of a warrior to your Hesperian beliefs than Eurypon is. “I will not lie to you. There might still be some folk which cling to their old hatred of the Ladonian revolt. But Kremnoans take pride in their values: strength, glory, victory. Castrum Kremnos has already called Ladon to heel, and you’ve been a loyal subject ever since then. No one likes to grovel over past grievances when there is victory in other places still to be secured.”

You nod, although the logic doesn’t appear that sound. You’re in no inclination to pick apart his arguments. Instead, the ruby-red halls of Castrum Kremnos begin to busy all your senses; there hangs the scent of their favored pomegranate wine, there the loud clang of soldiers being led through a series of drills by their drillmaster. Hanging around the stairs to a courtyard with a pond embedded in the middle of it you even spot a gaggle of children, busying themselves with flicking stones across the pond’s surface. The children look as trained to the bone as their soldiers do, but as you search their faces, not one looks dissatisfied. Their grins are as familiar to you as the expressions of the children at home; youthful, mischievous and happy.

After a long series of stairs (which tire you, while Mydei seems to remain unbothered, darn athlete) you come to a stop before a with wood carvings adorned door. “This is to be our sleeping quarters,” he informs you, gesticulating for you to open the door. You remain where you are, wiping a drop of sweat from your forehead. “I thought you were sleeping in the barracks,” you reply, forgetting your manners.

Mydei raises his eyebrows at you. “Did you think Kremnoans stayed celibate until marriage?”

Oh. Well, of course that settles it. It doesn’t matter if he slips into your chambers to … produce an heir, as long as he returns to his own bunk in the barracks by the end of the night. Prude of you to consider otherwise. Foolish of you to think that the elders of the Golden Council were actually right in claiming that being his bride would require no effort at all. You think of blood soaking a blanket, seed taking root. “Your pardon,” you hear yourself say. You wish you could let go of his arm.

The silence stretches on for a long time. When you look up, wondering what the matter is, Mydei’s eyes look at you in what seems to be his attempt at smothering pity. “Listen,” he says, sounding awkward. He even has to clear his throat before continuing. “I won’t be … consummating the marriage. But we have to keep up appearances, which is why I will sometimes come and sit with you. You won’t be bothered by me, I assure you. I’ll sit on the bedroom bench and read.”

“Why would you do that?” You don’t understand this man. He was acting all pliant to his father’s wishes, so intent on the marriage. For crying out loud, he’s been carrying out every custom to the exact letter. Does he not … maybe he doesn’t desire women? You are at a loss for words. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to consummate a loveless marriage? Maybe he thinks this won’t hold, and he’ll be free to take a partner he loves when he ascends the throne?

Mydei disentangles your fingers from where they were holding on to him, but it doesn’t feel like an insult or rejection. He respects my boundaries, you think, the realization like a lightning strike. He’s only been following what he thinks is proper in the sense of this arrangement. It makes you uncomfortable. He’s going to make this as hard for me as possible. He’s making sure that any betrayal on my side will hurt. “If you wish to consummate the marriage, I will,” he clarifies, although that makes your stomach twist in disgust. “But I do not feel comfortable with the thought of forcing that upon you. I may appear thick-headed to some, but I am well aware that this is a marriage of convenience. My father has told me if I do not marry, the Council of Elders will strike me off the line of inheritance. I need an heir. But I won’t be breeding at their every wish and whim. I am my own person, and their future king.” At those words, his face tightens in what you interpret as anger. For making himself seem so calm in front of you the entire time, you feel like his true fury makes him less scary than his faux-peacefulness earlier. This is what you were expecting at least.

Well, how good for him. Mydei’s already proven himself to be your better. Where you had bent your head like a shameful commoner, Mydei has found a way to assert himself in front of an over-reaching council. Perhaps it’s better you wouldn’t be able to ascend the Sunlit Throne. It feels bitter to admit to. “Thank you,” you murmur. “I don’t … I mean no disrespect, but I don’t feel comfortable with immediately consummating the marriage either. I will find a way to entertain you during your visits to our chambers.” At his quiet chuckle, you find yourself blushing again, and this time, instead of pushing down the instinct as you did in the chariot, you actually stomp. “You know what I mean, Mydei. I just meant that we’ll find some board games or something to pass the time. I’m quite mean at chess.”

“I will be quite pleased to crush you decisively in chess, then,” he answers, dropping your hand. Mydei opens the door to your bedroom for you, ushering you inside and watching you go. You turn to look at him standing on the threshold of the door. “I am a strategist after all. And quite competitive. But I look forward to seeing you try.”

He actually looks like he means it.

As he nods at you in a simple goodbye and makes sure to acknowledge your answering wave, the door then clicks decisively in its lock. You immediately find your way to the bed and crawl beneath its covers, feeling both in and outside your body. So many liberties, so many cages. The image of your marriage undergoes constant metamorphosis. It’s better if you stop expecting things to happen, in the same way as when you told Mydei in reference to the Kremnoan welcome you wouldn’t, and just start letting them happen of their own accord. It seems like you process things better that way.

Now that you’ve come to know the heir of Nikador’s strife a little better, you try to adjust the way you think about him. You are still bothered by his arrogance, although he’s given you no reason to - it’s kind of infuriating how he just exudes it, because of the Kremnoan attitude of how victory and glory are always certain. Defeated warriors have no place in their society: they are fed to Nikador’s wrath as appeasement, stricken from their country’s historical records. Aside from that, he’s made every effort to become the amicable business partner your mother had tried to envision for you. You don’t know what to think about that. It would have been easier if he could have made you hate him. Perhaps he will give you reason to when you are actually married.

But at the moment, you just don’t know how to go behind this man’s back without the guilt crushing you in his fists’ stead. You are aware of the Kremnoan attitudes to enemies who strike a Kremnoan’s back to defeat him; they are deemed honorless, and unworthy. You crawl deeper below the covers, hoping the shame will swallow you whole.

Your mother would have never wavered like you did. You are a disappointment to all.

This is how you remain as the sun steadily climbs the sky. You watch her travels from the little window that opens up the sight to the clouds above, training your eye at the passage of time. Perhaps you should have freshened up or something. Or maybe Kremnoans find honor in endurance like this. Whatever the case, not one of the attendants comments on your state of being when they come to knock on your door. You let them in with a sigh. As they come to surround you, you scan their faces with a wary glance, but don’t bother taking note of possible foes or allies. Inside this castle, every person is your enemy.

Your lady’s maid Hemera joins you a little while later, out of breath from the household inspection. She’s supposed to be in charge of you, as you take charge of Mydei’s household as his wife, your only task in this marriage. Aside from that, you will be freer than any Kremnoan woman to walk this city, not even mentioning the helots it employs. That is the single aspect you focus on as Hemera makes an effort to catch you up with her newfound knowledge. “My lady, I’ve already informed the kitchens to draw you and Mydei up a dinner after the wedding. They don’t exactly have our golden apples, but dire times demand dire solutions, so we’re just gonna have to make do with regular red Kremnoan ones. Do you think His Highness might be averse to them? The cook has told me he’s not allergic, but maybe he doesn’t like them? He couldn’t exactly tell me a lot of His Highness’s preferences.”

“Hemera,” you patiently interlope. The lady’s maid seems to be more fraught with nerves than even you are. Strangely, that helps you come to terms with your own anxieties. No wonder your mother liked to surround herself with attendants when she herself was dealing with an unquiet mind. “We’re not in Ladon anymore. I appreciate your attempt at trying to bring me comfort in a strange land, but this is a Kremnoan wedding, not a Ladonian one.”

“But my lady.” Hemera sounds strangely sad. “You are Ladonian. It would only be fair to at least share both your countries’ traditions, would it not? I apologize for my indiscretion, but I do believe His Majesty, your father, would have liked for you to feel like a Ladonian bride.”

Your throat constricts. (Don’t think about father, don’t think about him right now.) Hemera has always been the gentlest of all your maids. Her fellow attendants had scorned her when your mother decreed for her to become your lady’s maid, feeling as though she didn’t put in enough effort to actually deserve the task. But Hemera has always, unswervingly and faithfully, served you well. Your mother had gifted you with an anchor that would steady you as you braved the Kremnoan court. “No apology necessary,” you rush to tell her, and she smiles in relief at that. “And I’m sure you’re right. My father has always told me to take pride in my Ladonian ancestry. We should not disregard his wish just because I am marrying a man of a different dynasty. I trust you’ve told the cook to serve the apples with the freshest cream he could find?”

Hemera’s smile is down-right radiant. In another life, perhaps she would have been the princess you would have been doting on. “Yes, my lady.”

That radiance warms you to the very core of your existence as she guides you into the palace gardens. True to the fibers patterning Castrum Kremnos’ banners, the sky has been streaked blood-red with the last shoots of dawn’s light, reflecting back in the armor across Mydei’s chest. It’s different than the one he usually tends to wear, adorned in designs that are identical the ones embedded into the garment of your own wedding garb. The garden itself has been readied for the occasion, and your heart rejoices in the fact that although beauty is not celebrated here, at least they have incorporated it into the venue. Decorational bows and flowers line the greenery, and the witnesses are holding rice to be thrown when the wedding vows have been exchanged. You can’t discern the colors of your surroundings due to your own choice of dress; the red veil which has hidden your face has tinted your sight. It is lifted by King Eurypon himself, and his hand feels much coarser than his son’s as he hands you off like a trinket to be gifted.

Under the watchful gaze of Nikador’s sky, you turn to face Mydei as a fiancée one last time. With your hands free at last, you accept the weapon you were supposed to prepare ahead of the ceremony from the attendant who carried it for you. She places it on your palms, with the guard of the weapon removed already. At the choice of your jeweled dagger, the only ornate one out of the collection of weapons to be presented, Mydei’s eyes flash with mirth. Perhaps he’d wagered you’d choose that one, favoring beauty of practicality. The pommel of the dagger was decorated with the depiction of a lion, but its choice of diamonds and glittering rubies had evoked the light of Hesperia in your eyes. “Mydeimos,” you speak, and then revel in the shock that your voice had come out unwavering. You’d have expected to stutter with all the faux-pas you’ve been stumbling into today. “I take you as my husband, now and forever more.”

Simple and succinct. This is what your councillors had drilled into you for when Mydei came to ask for your hand.

You draw the sharp blade over your unscarred palm, not being able to hide the wince that flashes across your features. You’ve never been wounded in a serious manner, not touched by a weapon except for those which had been strictly decorational. Although Mydei continues to do the exact opposite of what you assume, it still surprises you when his warrior hands come to steady your own, hiding the tremor of pain from the sight of the witnesses. Though your entire body remembers that this is a man you have been raised to recognize as an enemy, it inadvertently relaxes under his touch, taking comfort in it. His eyes never stray from your face as you raise your hand, taking his with it, and then obediently bleed into the presented cup in Eurypon’s hands.

The king looks like he wants to guffaw at the spectacle. Given he’s the only one aware of the full truth, you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. Mydei, though, with all the somberness of a priest, deftly changes the positions of your fingers so that now your hand cradles his own as he moves to cut his own palm. It feels oddly intimate, but you don’t draw your hands away. You recognize the act for what it is. Just as he supports and boosts his troops’ morale, Mydei has tried to uplift you. “Bride of Hesperia,” Mydei says, using the polite form of addressing you, “I take you as my wife, now and forever more.” You watch as the blood wells from the clean cut he has made, the blood pearling like a clam’s treasures. It drips as assuredly into the cup as your own.

“Children of Kremnos!” Eurypon bellows then. In comparison to his son, he has nothing to hide. The schadenfreue in his eyes is as easy to discern as the stars in the nightsky. “Take the cup and be united, in both body and soul. May your marriage be timeless and eternal.” When Mydei accepts the cup and turns away from the sight of his father, Eurypon grins at you. It looks like a monster flashing his teeth at the prey he’s caught. You shudder and turns towards Mydei.

Mydei himself looks unbothered by his father’s antics. You press your hands above his own as they carry the cup, smaller than his, but as certain as his own in their grip. You are going to do this: you are determined. It almost seems like Mydei’s headstrongness has permeated through his skin and infected you. For better or for worse, you are partners in crime now.

He keeps watching you as you take the first, strong swallow. It tastes like salt and corruption.

Your own fingers help tip the cup towards his mouth as Mydei makes his own gulp. The witnesses have begun to cheer as soon as the goblet touched Mydei’s lips. He truly is beautiful; every feature, precise an artist’s rendition, contorts as he drinks, but it does not lessen his beauty. If the mixture tastes strange to him, he certainly doesn’t comment on it. Eurypon leads the applause as you begin to trade the cup back and forth, like nursing a cup of nettle tea when you have fallen sick, and then the king leaves you to your drink to meld back into the masses. His voice booms over all else, louder even than the encouraging smack he gives an advisor, who in turn flinches.

“Eyes on me, my lady,” Mydei breaks you out of your thoughts. He hands you back the cup so you can take the last swallow, and you scrunch up your nose as you look at the last lap of liquid at the bottom of the goblet. “Nothing to turn your nose up at. The last swallow is the easiest.”

“Easy for you, perhaps,” you throw back, intending for it to sound teasing. You want to let yourself be wrapped up in the cheerful atmosphere before you turn into the scheming bride. The witnesses have already begun to mingle and laugh amongst each other. “I don’t really enjoy the thickness of blood enough to swallow this without complaint.”

Mydei raises his hands. One hand - he’s not wearing gauntlets, you think with a note of appeasement you can’t crush - he places just below your jaw, the fingers there guiding you into position. It doesn’t feel forceful. Instead, like the instinct you had given into when he had carried you off from Ladon, you let your head be tipped back, steadied by that powerful hand. You hope he doesn’t see the way your nervous swallow grips your throat. His touch doesn’t feel that revolting. In fact, it leaves a shiver of sparks in its wake. The other hand cradles the cup as he takes it from you, then lifts it to your lips. “Come now, wife,” he says, and you feel like he’s laughing at you, but not because he’s being demeaning. More like two companions, in on a shared inside joke. It makes you smile. “One more toast to your health.”

You open your mouth to receive the last of the bloody liquid, then lick your lips when the goblet is put away. You don’t miss the way Mydei’s lips curl into an actual smirk. Cocky bastard, you think. The thought lacks its usual heat. You are too busy trying to ignore the flips in your abdomen at seeing the expression. “Alright, enough of the jokes at my expense,” you announce. “I think I’d like a tour of the gardens now.”

“A tour of the gardens?” Mydei snorts.

You blink at him, slipping into the role of naivety. Tomorrow, you’ll don the mask of deception. But today, you are a bride as any other. If nothing else, then at least this will be a joy for you. Perhaps there are still small acts of rebellions you can live out against the Golden Council, small victories of your own. Honor and glory, as the Kremnoans proclaim. “Yes, exactly.”

Mydei shrugs, offering you his arm again. As if you’ve done this a thousand times before, you hold on to it. “As my wife desires,” he says, and for now, it doesn’t sound like an insult.

It almost sounds like a term of endearment.

The small garden was a place of retreat for Queen Gorgo. Her handiwork is reflected in the patterning of flowers embedded in the earth. A particular exotic flower whose name you don’t recognize was brought here after her marriage to Eurypon, in recognition of her valor. It was imported from Styxia, and is said to grow from the blood of fallen enemies. The meaning is gruesome to you, but you find comfort in the fact that it was an attempt of honoring her. Even your own mother Aeolia had sung Gorgo’s praises, comparing the queen to Hesperia, who had been a queen in her own right. You may not agree with the Kremnoan way of battle, but both your cultures recognize the necessity of warriors. The flower thus cheers you. When you ask whether you would be permitted to pluck one, Mydei goes ahead and pulls the stem from the earth, putting the flower in its entirety into your hand. With Mydei in one, and the flower in the other, you continue to weave in and out of the crowd. Here he explains the relevance of a particular statue, and here he shows you a Kremnoan inscription on the steps that lead into the garden. They are said to be magicked to light the path to victory. Concerning your inquiry into whether that’s actually true or just make-believe, Mydei shrugs and says, “Well, it did bring you here so I could become your husband”. You hurry to switch the topic, and Mydei lets you.

The night continues in that manner. Eurypon himself interjects your tour only once to shake your hand once more. This is your actual partner in crime, one you’ve made against your own will. His secretive little laughs only serve to irritate Mydei further, and when Eurypon states, “I do believe you shouldn’t tire yourself out with a stroll already, you’ve got the entire night still in front of you!”, the prince clenches his fist. As his father throws his head back to laugh, you notice that he misses Mydei’s unwilling reaction. You move to cover his hand with your own, intertwining your fingers before Eurypon can see. “You’re quite right, Your Majesty,” you tell him, not looking Mydei in the eyes. “I do believe it is time for us to retire.”

“I’m sure it is!” Eurypon guffaws. He just cannot help himself from delighting in his son’s humiliation. The court itself rearranges themselves to look away from the sight. Perhaps they don’t share their king’s taste for degradation, but they also don’t do anything to stop it. You bow and take your leave when Eurypon gives the permission, stopping you only once to remind Mydei to return to his barracks after “he’s finished” (that is underlined with His Majesty’s mocking laughter, too). You try not to let your own shame soften your spine, instead remaining rigidly upright as you lead Mydei away. This time, it’s him who turns pliant, only taking charge when you find you do not recognize the way and need him to guide you back to your apartments.

The hallways seem much spookier at night. The moonlight, like cobwebs, bathe the rooms in a mysterious aura. “I apologize,” Mydei finally speaks after a long time of walking. He hasn’t let go of your hand yet. “I’m afraid my father delights in cruelties like these. I did not mean for you to have to bear them.”

You wave the concerns away, concentrating not to stumble over the length of your gown as you begin to climb the stairs. “No need to worry over me,” you state. “I’ve had my fair share of bothersome councillors. Meaning no disrespect towards your father, my lord. I just meant to imply that this isn’t the first time I’ve been the subject of these kinds of jokes. They may be harmless, or not. It does not mean anything to me. If you were wondering, I was actually already busy conspiring a strategy to beat you with on the chessboard.”

You can’t see his face, but you’d like to imagine his lips are turned up in that almost-smile that he can’t bring himself to finish. Maybe it’s been too long for him, in the same manner as it had been for your mother. Some lose the ability to experience joy in the face of so severe grief. But his shoulders roll back, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Although I am asking myself how that can be possible without us having moved a single piece on the board, it remains irrelevant,” he shoots back, in his voice the lazy undertone of his usual arrogance. “I will deal with you as swiftly as with any enemy of Castrum Kremnos.”

You ignore the spark of fear inside your abdomen. You will learn how to live with it inside your bones, nibbling at your marrow. “Most certainly not. Prepare to be utterly crushed, Prince Mydei, because I will be the one teaching you humility.”

“Hah!” Having arrived at the door of your chambers, he quickly opens it and beckons you inside. As you finally glimpse at his face, you’ve realized that he’s looking at you with pure bemusement, none of the explosive anger he’d been carrying inside at his father’s words. You sink back down on the bedroom bench, disoriented. You hadn’t realized how important it was to you that he wouldn’t remain angry. It was your wedding night, for crying out loud. “I’d like to see you try.”

(You spend the night not only eating the prepared apple slices, their relevance explained to Mydei and accepted quickly when he had realized what it meant to you, but also your words. Sitting in that maddeningly stance that he’d been employing in the chariot, muscled legs spread wide open and arms crossed over his chest as he stared at you in triumph over the board, you had allowed yourself to cuss in front of him in the same manner as you would in front of any other friend. You’ve actually thrown a rook at him the third time he put you in check, not wanting him to speak the checkmate out loud. For a man who’s been hit in the shoulder with a chesspiece, he had only declared with the graciousness of a victorious leader that you’d lost fair and square, so he’d like some recompense for your lies now. When you pointed out that he had lied first on the dancefloor, you were rewarded with a returning throw of a bishop of his own, which had made you burst into laughter. Mydei, mystified by the sound, only stared at you, so you hastened to challenge him again.

You lost twice more. When you rose to rain your fists on his back because you were a sore loser, he had only taken your hands into his and said with a deadpan expression that your attempt at violence was pathetic. If you wanted to actually learn how to inflict pain, he promised to take you to the courtyard to drill you properly in the ways of war. You, distracted by the way how fascinating the muscles in his back had felt like, had hurried to shake your head before he could get any more ideas. Hesperia forbid if you ever picked up a weapon in earnest.)

That is how you continue to spend the remainder of the next few nights. Although you don’t beat him once, you at least get better in chess. Your mother had been evenly matched with you, so sparring across the chessboard had most times just resulted in friendly draws. With Mydei, not only is your patience heavily tested, but your nerves are, as well. It seems to amuse him to no end how quickly you are roused to anger, or to embarrassment for that manner. When he had suggested guiding your hands since you couldn’t be trusted to play accurate strategies on your own, he’d earned himself another chess-piece to the face. Your attendants have come to the stupefied realization that Mydei has begun to duck in preparation when you pick something up, and Hemera secretly asks you if you’re being violent with your husband.

“Me?” you echo, incredulous. “No, of course not. Does he look scared to you, Hemera? The man is the embodiment of blood and death.”

“Well, no, Your Highness, but it does seem puzzling, to say the least, to see him hurrying to avoid your throws … perhaps you’d like to adjust the way you treat him.”

The next night, Mydei asks you if you’ve swallowed a frog or something since you’re so quiet and reserved. You resume with throwing chess pieces.

That’s the crux of it, really. Your mother’s wish, intended to be harmless, has turned into a curse upon your existence. It’s just too friendly with Mydei. You bicker like children about the littlest of things - his hubris concerning all things in life, his pokes at your home life in Ladon, his stupid winning streak. You’ve even forgotten to keep up appearances because of how smoothly your interactions go, and you are shocked when Hemera makes the absentminded comment that your sheets don’t contain the slightest splatter of blood, so perhaps the prince is being particularly gentle with you? You hurry to tell her yes, of course he is, you are quite happy with him. You are glad when Mydei announces that same night that at least for now, the game of charades is over, as he is expected to leave for another skirmish at the Kremnoan borders in a fortnight.

You blink at him, unsure of how to respond. “Don’t return on your shield,” you say. You remember hearing them in passing, when the passerby who recognized your guard on the march to Castrum Kremnos had spoken them. You thought they were meant as a blessing, in the same manner as the people in Ladon told one another “may the light of Hesperia be with you”. Mydei, however, in response begins to sputter. You belatedly realize that he’s actually trying not to laugh.

“Do you even know the meaning of what you just said?”

You glare at him, crossing your arms in front of your chest in a protective manner. Guarding your heart. “No,” you deadpan. “Forgive me for trying to be a supportive bride who only wishes the best for you. Why yes, I would personally light the beacons of hope inside Nikador’s temples for you if you let me. Of course I don’t know! I was making an effort here.”

Mydei puts a hand to his mouth, the mirth in his eyes coloring them in the image of honey today. They are soft and warm, an expression so unusual for someone who usually has the same charm as a stone. “The proverb goes ‘either with it or on it’”, he clarifies, his tone gentling in the same manner as it did when he had told you of Gorgo. You wished you wouldn’t know him well enough to recognize it happening. You wished he wouldn’t turn that gentle tone on you. “It means that as a Kremnoan, you are either expected to return victorious or carried home as a corpse on your shield. If you’ve been defeated, you do not return to grace the city with your shame. Return victoriously with the shield, or dead on it, so you can at least be buried with dignity since you tried to return victorious.”

“Oh.” What a crude belief. There was no shame in a retreat. It could be quite tactical, really. Ladon itself was known to survive on sieges, the soldiers fleeing towards the comfort of the inner city’s walls as it steeled itself against the outside world. You feel like it would be disrespectful to voice these thoughts, though, since Mydei is still the prince of the city, and these are the values he’s been brought up with. “Then I do hope you return with your shield. I’d make an awful widow, but a beautiful one. I think I look quite nice in black.”

“I’m sure you do.” He doesn’t sound flirtative; instead, it sounds like he’s stating a fact. Distracted by what sounds like an earnest compliment, you don’t notice the way he unsheathes his dagger until he’s grabbed your hands and placed the weapon inside. As you stare at him with a quizzical look, he clarifies, “You may be a beautiful widow, but I won’t be. And I’m not sure I’ll find another bride whose anger rivals my own. So make sure you won’t make me a widower.”

The implication is clear. Mydei is wary and suspicious. Maybe not of his own men, but very clearly of those who are loyal to his scheming, brutal father. You enclose your fingers over the weapon, certain you will never be able to wield it, but taking it all the same. Perhaps it gives Mydei some kind of peace of mind if he at least knows you’re in possession of a weapon. “Hide it inside the sleeves of your chiton,” he tells you, and you do. Listening to his commands as always. Another habit you should break. “And don’t cut yourself on it. Seeing as to how self-destructive you are on the chessboard, I shudder to think what you could achieve with this.”

You make sure to stomp on his boot as hard as you can. Fully knowing that violence to him is like a kiss given, as seen in the way his mother had fought her way into his father’s heart, you turn your face away with a pout when the only response you earn is a grim smile. You have become husband and wife in earnest.

Watching his enormous frame grow smaller and smaller as he disappears, you ponder what to make of Mydei. You hadn’t expected for married to life be so … well, unbothered. It almost feels like cohabitation. You are two animals to be experimented on by your respective courts, interacting with one another like two variables. But no matter how friendly he is, you cannot let yourself forget what you are truly here for.

Under the cover of darkness, the first dove containing your first report of intelligence is let loose. You try not to think about what will happen if your spywork were to be discovered. You won’t even get the quick death you were hoping for.

You wonder if Mydei himself would become the torturer.

When Mydei returns from his campaign (victorious, of course, what did you even expect), you find yourself greeted by an entirely different sight than the one you were provided with the day you arrived here to become a bride. After having loosened another dove under the pretense of wanting to message your mother, but not meeting anyone who would dare question your decisions, you had decided to walk through the palace to at least maintain the charade of appearing busy. Like wildfire, word had quickly spread that the army had returned, and you made your way to the place where you would expect them to be. Standing still at the railing so you can have a better vantage point of the courtyard that opens up into the palace, you peer down to watch Mydei about to be crowned with a laurel signifying his success by a gaggle of children who have surrounded him. Unbecoming of his station, he bends his head as low as his seated position on the ground allows, and their tiny hands struggle to place the wreath of leaves atop his sandy-colored hair. The blond in his curls looks molten in the sunlight, framing his face like a saint in a mural.

And he’s smiling. In a way he’s never been able to with you, or anyone else for that matter, his lips are turned into a fond expression as he interacts with the children, accepting their curious hands as they pat his shoulders and flood him with a torrent of questions. The rest of the world seems to have stolen away, and Mydei’s face looks like he’s entirely swept up in their conversation, answering earnestly and promptly. The children clap in satisfaction when the answer is to their liking. When it isn’t, they hurl another torrent of questions at him. Anyone else would have lost their head at this rapid-fire way of interviewing a person, but Mydei isn’t deterred, seemingly taking the time to answer every single one properly.

You are lost in thought. This is supposed to be the warrior who turns into a beast on the battlefield, eating the hearts of men for sport. All you can think of is whether perhaps he’d delight in having children of his own, how perhaps he’d avoid his father’s methods of raising a child like a pig to slaughter. The consideration of that hurts. It actually manages to tear at your heart, when all you’ve been doing this entire time is try to guard it against Mydei’s influence.

You think of the way you eavesdropped on the Council of Elders, how quickly you had penned that treacherous letter before you could think better of it.

“Excuse me,” you call to a passing female attendant, carrying a heavy box of scrolls. She rushes to attend you almost immediately, and you wince, thinking of the weight of that box. “I apologize for disrupting your work. I was just wondering whether this was a common occurence.” And you point down at the spectacle.

The woman follows the line of sight your finger points out, then erupts into polite laughter. “Oh, yes, the prince is popular with the children of the city,” she proclaims, her voice tinged with pride. Beloved Mydeimos, you think. “He often takes some time in the week to train and spar with them. When they do exceptionally well, he rewards them appropriately, and they love to be taught by him. He’s quite patient, much like noble Krateros, who was his mentor before. And he does have quite the hand with children, doesn’t he?” She drops a wink at you, her gaze only briefly flickering to the stomach guarding your womb.

Almost like an afterthought, you move to cradle your stomach. Right, you’re supposed to be expecting soon. Or at least try to be. “He does,” you confer, your voice soft. Your eyes drift back to where Mydei still sits with the children, their childhood-softened voices detailling something to as him as he listens attentively. The attendant snickers and leaves you to it, probably busy with delivering whatever that box contained. If you’d been a cleverer spy, you would have used the opportunity to steal one of those letters, perhaps feign interest in them and see what she would reveal. But your eyes remain glued on Mydei.

When you finally descend to join the throng, the children quickly disperse to make way for you. Mydei’s eyes flicker up to meet yours, then return to rest on the children. “This is my wife,” he introduces you to them, sweeping with his gauntled hands towards you. There’s a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” that makes you smile. “Be kind, or there won’t be any water balloon fight come next morning anymore.”

“No!” comes the indignant response from one of the children, a boy that looks to be the oldest out of the three of them. “Of course we’ll be nice. My name is Antonus, but you can call me Toni!”

“And my name is Lydia! Please remember it! I like the way your hair looks!”

“Lydia!” The third child sounds horrified at Lydia’s extroverted compliment. “You can’t just go around giving people compliments about their hair! It could be rude! I apologize, Your Highness. My name is Lycaon, and I’m Lydia’s older brother.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Lycaon,” you assure him, voice purposefully gentle as to not startle them. You lower yourself to the ground so you are on the same eye level as them, which puts you below Mydei. He stares at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes, but you’re busy shaking each tiny hand as somberly as you can, and they giggle at being treated like political officials. “I thought it was quite nice to be complimented. And I was just going to compliment Lydia’s braids. They’re beautifully done. Did you braid them yourself?”

“Yes!” The girl beams, pleased at having her efforts recognized. Her hands go to her braids as if to reassure herself that they’re still there, then pluck up the bundle of hairs so she can show you the intricacies of it. “It wasn’t difficult, you see! It’s very easy once you get the hang of it. My mother told me this was called a fishtail braid, and they’re quite fond of it in Okhema, so I begged her to teach me and she showed me. I like popular things!”

“It looks extraordinary.” You nod earnestly. “You must teach me some other time.”

“I will!”

“Alright.” Mydei offers you his hand, and you allow yourself to be pulled up. The children surround you again as you stand, their upturned faces reminding you of puppies scrambling for attention. You almost laugh. “That’s enough attempts at stealing my wife, you rascals. I’ll see you tomorrow, without her.”

“But we’ve barely gotten to talk to her! Lydia was hogging up the entire conversation.”

The girl in question nods, quite satisfied. You move to stifle your laughter with your hand, not wanting the boys to feel mocked. “I promise I’ll come talk to you another time,” you vow, which makes their eyes light up in happiness. At Mydei’s annoyed expression, you snicker and add, “with my husband’s permission, of course. If you can convince him.”

“We will!”

“Shoo, you,” comes Mydei’s response. “We’ll see about that tomorrow.” He turns to watch them go, his gaze soft. You like that look on him. You don’t like that you like that look on him. When he faces you again, you bite your lip in an attempt to smother the well of emotions that has poured up in you. You feel like your insides might be on fire. “What, did you enjoy watching me squirm like that?” he questions you, sounding gruff.

He might actually be pouting.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip so you don’t actually laugh at him. His eyes, matching his armor, harden over as they trace the way you release the lip to put on a polite smile, the kind you use to entertain ambassadors of foreign courts. “Well, of course I do. It’s not often I get to see my mighty husband crumble at the whim of children.”

“No one’s crumbling. You might be projecting.”

“Oh, truly? Then perhaps I also imagined the conversation with the maid I had just now, where we commented upon how truly lovely your smile looked when you interacted with the children? That would be quite odd. Perhaps you ought to fetch me a doctor to help with these mental ailments.”

Mydei crosses his arms, unimpressed. He does not blush as easily as you do, nor is he perturbed by the mention of the chink in his armor you’ve found now. A well-seasoned warrior who’s trained to reveal nothing, even as he suffers. “What was that about a lovely smile?”

Ah, well, he’s got you there. Slip of the tongue.

You lean back as Mydei begins to tower menacingly over you. And it truly takes no effort. The man is a living statue, perfectly sculpted in the images of the gods, every muscle cording into the other in a flawless pattern. You can even see the veins that rise above his skin from the countless hours of training he endures. Your frame merges with his shadow, becoming part of him. You’ve never met a man as well-endowed as Mydei. “I’m sure you’ve misheard,” you tell him. A meager attempt at evasion. “In the same manner as I must have misheard you talking with the children. What an odd day of auditory and visual hallucinations.”

“I assure you I’m quite sane. Do elaborate on the judgement you’ve passed on my smile, dear wife.”

“Ah,” you breathe out shakily, stepping back. Your heart has begun to race now, steadily climbing in speed. It wishes to escape your chest and run, although this isn’t true fear. More intimidation. And maybe anticipation. Only a liar or a blind person could close their eyes to the truth; seeing as you were the former but quite inept at it, you were forced to face the fact that Mydei was the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on, and that was not an exaggeration. Seeing him care for children so tenderly only seemed to accentuate that. “Oh, then, maybe it’s me who’s delirious. You must excuse me, husband, so I can lie down and recover from this tenuous ailment. I am losing all grip on sense and meaning, it seems, and my words evade me…”

“You seem to be talking just fine.” And for the first time since the night you were married to Mydei, he consciously reaches out to touch you. His hands, wrapped in the gauntlets you’ve been steadily cursing from preventing a skin-to-skin touch, come to rest on your waist, pulling you closer like an anchor rushes to meet the seaground. You fall against him without any fight. For the first time, the feeling of the sharp metal threatening to rip your skin does not feel disrespectful, but rather… enticing. You look up into a heated gaze that gives you a dizzy spell, melting down like actual gold as you become trapped in the yellow of Mydei’s eyes. “My smile, wife. What did you call it?”

“Lovely,” you exhale with great exertion. Mydei seems to delight in it.

“And you liked seeing me with the children?”

“Perhaps.”

His fingers, each tip of the gauntlet sharpened to resemble the claw of a wild animal, dig in. Not enough to hurt you. Just enough to caution. It feels exhilarating. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” you hiss at him, the anger finally catching up with you now. If only you had a chesspiece … but the closing distance between you feels so achingly nice, and this is the first real human contact you’ve had since leaving Ladon. You hadn’t realized that though he looks like a beast from the distance, being in his proximity felt like residing in a safe haven. Your hands curl into fists on his chest so you don’t actually grab him out of desperation. “Yes, I liked seeing you with these children. It pleased me to see you interacting so gently and carefully with them. Does that please you?” You had meant it as a jab, to return the insult. He’s the one whose put you into this humiliating situation, after all.

His answer is as blunt as his expression. “Yes, of course it does,” he tells you, cutting to the quick. Straight and direct. You blink at him, shocked. “What man doesn’t delight in pleasing his wife?”

Oh. You are going to explode after all. Your fingers, your ever-betraying fingers, twitch inside their prison, and you clench your fists harder. You can’t seem to look away from Mydei. He, in turn, looks at you as though you are behaving stupidly for ever thinking otherwise. But this is a marriage of convenience, you think, grasping for the safety ring of that excuse. I am going to sneak and spy and deceive you. I might even kill you. This doesn’t matter to me. Your senses, immune to the logic inside your thoughts, are thrumming with desire. You are hungry for any kind of intimacy, any scrap you can get.

You stand up on the tips of your toes, slowly approaching Mydei’s face with your own. His eyes screw shut as you place your lips to his cheekbone, kissing him there. The kiss lingers as you press yourself against him, and his fingers are on your spine, and your nerves are alight with sensation. As you lean back again, his eyes have taken in the color of the burning sun. “There, that’s how much I liked it,” you tell him. You’re actually shaking, vibrating in his hold like a twitching instrument. “I am pleased. Your wife is pleased.”

Now you’re both blushing.

That night, neither of you speak as you play chess. No chess-pieces are thrown. You are staring at the board, never at each other, but the heavy erotic implication of your fixation on the other’s fingers looms above you. Something has changed within the nature of your relationship, loosened the boundaries. All the armor you’ve clung to is beginning to fall from you in a steady rhythm, and you are afraid that when you are finally as exposed as you can be, naked as the day you were born, it will divide you forever as you overturn the kingdom Mydei has fought and bled and struggled for. So you continue staring at his fingers, never once saying anything, and Mydei doesn’t say anything either.

He loses for the first time, though even you realize that this was entirely the fault of your distracting kiss in the afternoon rather than a rise in skill on your side. He hands you his king, palm up, and you try to focus on the outstretched hand as you move to take it. His fingers wrap around yours the moment you try to grab it. Startled, you let the chesspiece fall. Instead of leaving with a courteous bow as he always does, Mydei’s head drops to your hand as he kisses the fingers there, his lips somehow feeling as sharp as his gauntlet’s claws even though you knew that was just your mind playing tricks on you, and your heart expands in your chest. “For a win well-earned,” he says, relinquishing your hand. You cradle it to your chest, as if it were wounded, and he says nothing more as he stands up and leaves the room.

You are unravelling, coming undone. Hours later, the scent of his perfume still hanging in the air, you drag the palms of your hands against your eyes so you can stop thinking of the way he looked, his eyes darkening like pooling blood, his fingers possessive and strong. The bed feels hot and uncomfortable. You twist and turn until exhaustion claims you, and even then, you do not go easy; your hands tear at the memory of Mydei, dragging him into your dreams. He is all-encompassing, warm, firm against you.

Perhaps he’ll be the death of you, instead of the other way around.

(In your dreams, he tastes rather sweet than salty. Still drunk on his kisses, you never realize when the dagger comes stabbing down.)

Mydei begins to visit you more often then, as if the lure of another kiss beckons him. That was something you hadn’t once considered; that as soon as you kissed someone in earnest, the possibility of it happening again lingered over every interaction. It remains at the forefront of your thoughts, making you nervous around Mydei, and making Mydei restless in turn.

He finds you in Gorgo’s garden, enraptured in your weaving. The festival of Hyacinthia is closely approaching, a celebration that was considered to be among the most important of the Kremnoans. It was tradition to prepare a chiton as an offering to the hero who has been lost, his name swallowed by the erosion of history. The memory of his identity is long forgotten, but his honor and glory remain. To keep at least that in tact, the celebration, representational for all efforts of victory, centers around communal prayer, drinking, sharing meals, and giving offerings. As wife to the youngest prince, it would not do if you didn’t partake in it as well.

Most importantly, though, the rite of weaving a chiton feels reminiscent to you. In Ladon, too, the people offered clothing and the like to Hesperia, although for a different reason. Since Hesperia had yearned for a home to protect, and a home is where a family feeds, clothes and nurtures you, the men prepare a meal to feast entire armies for days, while the women work on preparing clothing for Hesperia to wear. Another common denominator that binds you a little tighter to Castrum Kremnos. You glide your hands over the expensive material the servants brought you, touching the stitches. You had used the familiar traditions to write another letter, this one encoded. There were men gathering under the light of moon, whispering, conspiring. You hadn’t been able to discern exactly what they were speaking about, but it bespoke dissent, dissatisfaction with the king. You imagined the Golden Council would be ravenous for a piece of information like that, scenting weakness like a shark scented blood in the water.

“I wasn’t aware you were quite this talented in weaving.”

You set the weaving fork down. The light of the morning sun is too bright already, and you are feeling tired from your menses, which is why you only shrug in response. When Mydei sits down beside you, his knee leaning against yours, you finally muster up the energy to formulate an appropriate answer. “It’s not truly a talent, but it’s better than doing nothing. And I don’t quite have the strength for anything else today. I have my menses, so you’ll sadly have to inform the Council of Elders that I do not carry an heir yet.”

“I don’t imagine that’s any of their business.” Mydei takes up the weaving fork, twirling it around his fingers. It looks beautiful to behold, the quick trick of making the wood disappear and appear again. Maybe you’ve just grown too entranced by Mydei. Now that you know what these fingers feel like on your skin, you cannot trust your sanity anymore. Or your judgement. When he looks up, his face looks entirely open, almost vulnerable. “Are you in a lot of pain? I’m not too familiar with the bodily processes during the menses, at least not in a satisfactory way. I’ve been taught what it is like and what it does, but I have no knowledge of personal experience. I’ve not grown up encountering it.”

You tuck your hands under your butt, sitting on them. You don’t trust your restraint when it comes to Mydei. You almost cradled his face just for his adorable expression for inquiring about your wellbeing. You’re a snake in his bosom, you scold yourself, but it sounds ridiculous. You’re an evil spy. Get it together. “Yes, it hurts,” you tell him. “Sometimes it hurts so badly I cannot even leave the bed without collapsing or passing out. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable. It’s different for me every month, but also different for every woman.”

Mydei stares at your hands. “How cruel of the gods, then, to test you so strenuously. But I admire with which strength you braven these trials and try to face the day. It is an admirable feat.”

That makes you stare. You don’t need any reassurance from a man, mind you, especially not concerning such a matter as this. But the way he says it, devoid of any tone and delivered completely earnest, offsets you. “Thank you. It means a lot.” You gift him a rare smile, the kind you used to reward your mother with if she made a particularly funny joke.

The way Mydei stares at that smile hits you right in the chest. As if stripped from all his usual masks and reserves, his eyes contain only fondness. He’s letting you see beneath his usual calm and collected demeanor, deeper than you’ve ever dared to peek behind his facade. Your heart is racing.

“Prince Mydeimos! Your father is asking for you.”

Mydei’s head snaps back, breaking apart the connection. You breathe out in relief, although you don’t understand why. It felt like his gaze had kept you captive, but you hadn’t been an unwilling prisoner. More so a willing participant. There was an active decision there your unconscious had madefor you. The wish to look further. To see more. To want more. As Mydei looks back at you, you carefully try to school your features in a way that doesn’t reveal those wishes of your heart. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go now,” he says, as if you hadn’t heard the servant yourself. Either way, you nod. You understand the scramble for a return to formality. The safety aspect of it. “But I’d like to see the chiton when it’s finished. It truly does look beautiful.” With this, he leans forward and drops a kiss on your cheek. More careful, less lingering than yours had been. But still decisive. Like he wanted you to feel the kiss down to the marrow inside your bones, to recognize it by his name.

You raise your hand to your cheek, watching him go. You are playing with fire, and mistaking the warmth of the flame with a safe kindling, when the reality of it is threatening to swallow you whole.

(You’re not able to join the celebrations after all, which is why you ask Hemera to bring the chiton to the marketplace, where they have decided to hold celebrations, and offer it there in your stead. She returns with the cheeky news that Mydei has cut into several conversations to point out the magnificent gown his wife had made, and to give a closer look to the intricate details in-laid in the weaving work. You complain to Hemera how that man has no sense of propriety and humility at all, but secretly, you want to explode in happiness. Of all the things Mydei can take pride in, he decides to do so in you. His weaving wife.)

(The night passes with you dozing in and out of sleep, the soft sounds of laughter and singing waking you every few hours. It’s a relaxed rhythm of consciousness and unconsciousness. Floating gently on the clouds of dreams, you notice too late that someone has come and gone out of the room. You reach for the carefully folded letter you find tucked under the plate where a slice of chocolate cake has carefully been arranged around an array of golden-sliced apples. Ladonian apples. You rub your sleep-blurred eyes, then rub them again for good measure as you come to understand what is written. Your heart feels as light as a feather.

Eat up. I asked around on what food the women in the household like to eat when they have their menses, and I have been told that chocolate is not only a craving, but also beneficial for one’s health. I made this myself, so I hope it is to your taste.

Mydei.)

A warrior, a cook, a drillmaster, a caretaker, a husband.

So many roles that you begin to associate with Mydei.

In the discovery of those roles, you come to know his favorite colors, the types of activities he favors. You even find out he has a habit of sleeping like a felled bear, after a particularly long night of learning more about the other person. With wildy pointing hands and as many adjectives as you could, you had tried to explain what living in Ladon felt like, how the waves were just the right temperature to bathe in, but still refreshing enough to cool you after a warm summer’s day. How you had learnt how to ride in the sweeping hills to the north where his campaign had led him towards the city and back to Castrum Kremnos. Tales of the father you knew, not those you’ve been told about after his death. And Mydei, in turn, rewards you with a gift of his own: his soft but demanding voice as he tries to make you understand what it had tasted like to cook a proper dish on his own, how it felt like making magic despite it being the most normal of human activities. The thrill of battle, even though its ugliness continues to scar you long after the blood has been shed and the enemy in front of you has fallen. What his mother had smelled like in his earliest memory, a disorienting perfume of earth and wood and flowers, as spicy as cinnamon. You read each other like books, flipping open pages you want to know more about, re-reading passages just to make sure what you have heard was correct. He asks you about the Ladonian summers, and you ask him about Kremnoan pomegranate wine. When he asks about the athletic games you hold every winter, you in turn want to know everything about the race they hold in Nikador’s honor, a marathon where they pass the flame of Nikador’s strife from one hand to the other until the last runner reaches the walls of Castrum Kremnos again. Neither of you tires of questions. Neither of you tires of the other’s company.

The days turn into weeks, stretching into months. You barely notice the time pass by. Twice more, the city holds celebrations, once for the summer solstice, a second time to honor Nikador’s homecoming. It’s supposed to be like his birthday, you suppose, but in actuality the Kremnoans celebrate the day they think Nikador descended from heaven to defend the city against the cruel enemy tearing down the gates. This marks the birth of both the Titan and the empire. Thrice more, Mydei goes to war.

The third time, he returns with Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

Mydei has told you about the knight long before you came to know him, claiming him to be a ‘good-natured idiot’. Seeing as you would describe Mydei in a very similar way, you had only cocked your head at him and took him at his word. If it were otherwise, then you’d learn about it soon enough. Now the opportunity has risen for you to discover yourself what Mydei’s friend is like, and Phainon in turn is very enthusiastic about you.

“It is so good to finally meet you!” Phainon proclaims as he takes your hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm. You see the flash of annoyance in Mydei’s eyes come and go, a sight that makes you want to raise your eyebrows in curiosity. He has a very short temper, and often times can be described as quite hot-headed, but this is still a first. Perhaps because Phainon is such a close companion? “I’ve heard so much about you, friend, so it feels like I know you already. You must know how often I have complained to Mydei about the fact that he’s hidden you away like some jealous dragon guarding a treasure. Or perhaps it’s you that’s the dragon in question? I hear you are Ladonian.”

You grin at him, happy at the mention of your country. Aside from Hemera, your grip on the memories of your home continue to slip away from you. Slowly but surely, Mydei has started to replace them with Castrum Kremnos: accompanying you to the temple, showing you the city, taking you out for boat rides and street markets and food festivals. He’s even let you watch him drill the children now, although he still scolds them for trying to steal his wife away from him. You, uncertain about your relationship, have stopped interjecting a long time ago. “Why yes, Phainon, I am. But I am a dragon in a very well-kept cage, and it’s not often I get to meet Mydei’s friends. How did you manage to change his mind?”

“It was easy. Seeing as it’s his birthday soon, I simply had to come attend the celebrations. It’s the least I could do after he fought with me, even though he’s taken out a lot less monsters than I have.”

“Rubbish.” Mydei scoffs, then sidesteps around Phainon. In a quick motion, he’s tugged your arm out of the confines of Phainon’s and instead wraps it around his own, his familiar bicep fitting around your fingers like a wedding ring. The strength of his grip doesn’t elude you; if you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he was acting possesive. Phainon drops a knowing wink at you, then turns back to Mydei as he speaks again. “I am the better fighter out of the two of us. The proof lies in the countless bets you’ve already lost against me.”

“Well, but you rigged those competitions.”

“Are you a sore loser?”

“No, but I’m guessing you are. Do you not like admitting defeat when it’s necessary?”

“Ironic, since you’re the one who’s doing that right now!”

You watch them bicker back and forth like a particularly angry debate in the city hall, the sight of it curling a smile around your lips. It makes you happy to witness, but also sad. With every day that passes, the reminder that although you are learning more about Mydei, the fact that you continue to deceive him with your every breath becomes more unbearable. Hemera herself isn’t even aware of all the details. How you broke into the royal treasury to secure a report. How you listened in on assembly after assembly after assembly. The many doves you’ve had to intercept just to see who Eurypon was contacting, your fingers covered in the wounds procured in the fight against the dove’s claws. You are wracked with guilt, weighed down by the existential dread when you will be figured out.

For Mydei’s birthday, all matters of planning and organizing had fallen to you. You were in charge of his household, after all, the matron of the house, and even though there were no heirs running around yet, the servants deferred to you in the same manner as Mydei. A mother of the Kremnoans, with or without a womb carrying the newest monarch. You’ve been faithfully speeding around the palace, amusing even Mydei, who’s started to grace you with the same smiles he gives his own children, the students of battle he entertains on Sundays where is not off to make war in Eurypon’s name. The necessary nobles have been invited, the decorations prepared, and even the kitchen has started to dance to your tunes. Although you are quickly shoved out of it due to Mydei’s own hobbies being cooking and baking, you manage to fire off a series of commands concerning the rest of the cooking staff, and they fall in line immediately. Only Mydei, who thinks you’re making a big fuss out of nothing, refuses to listen to your requests, so you’ve had to make him.

(At one point, letting his stubbornness get the better of him, Mydei flipped you over his shoulder like one might carry a sack of potatoes and carried you away from the market. You’d been telling him to point at anything he would like, since his obstinacy made him insist in you not getting any gift for him at all, and Mydei, who was always of the opinion that actions spoke louder than words, had put an end to it. You remember the way you had to claw at the small of his back in an effort to stabilize yourself, and his only response had been to not excite him further before he decided he’d want you as a gift.

In an effort to turn the tide on him, you had asked whether he was actually able to handle a gift like you. You were a dragon, after all, capable of eating lions. Mydei had laughed so loud that even the people on the street had turned to watch the prince walk by as he carried his wife home. As if this were just a regular occurrence during his daily schedule. He never laughed, and not this genuinely.

“Sweetheart,” he’d said. “I was born to handle you. Otherwise I should not be permitted to call myself your husband. You’ll regret asking me that.”)

You are torn back to reality by someone’s careful fingers in your hair. They gently tug at the root of the strand to gain your attention, but also take care that it does not actually hurt you. Your gaze goes to Mydei automatically. His features are schooled into an expression of puzzlement, a singular arched eyebrow raised in question at the lack of the attention you seemed to display to their show-off. “Where did your mind wander off to? I was beginning to worry.”

“What, does my prince have to bask in my attention all the time?”

“He does.” The answer comes to him as natural as breathing, delivered with the straightest face one could imagine. Phainon, much more expressive than Mydei, gives a dramatic gasp and places his hand above his heart, then grins at you over the top of Mydei’s shoulder. That makes you laugh.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I promise you have my undivided attention. My mind was just occupied with the memories of my home, since Phainon brought up their recollection, but I promise I am here now. A flash of nostalgia, that was all.”

“My apologies,” Phainon cuts in. His face, suddenly somber, seems to reflect the exact same melancholy yours does at the thought of the sunny shores of Ladon. Perhaps he too has a home that he yearns for, but cannot return to. Mydei’s eyes too have softened at your demeanor, although more imperceptibly than Phainon’s obvious expressional change. “I did not mean to upset you, my lady. Does it ache to think of Ladon?”

You lean your head on Mydei’s shoulder. As the time has progressed, you and him have come to an understanding that seems to satisfy both your needs for intimacy. You still haven’t shared a marriage bed, but small affections like these don’t seem to matter. A kiss goodbye, a press of the fingers. Even now, as you lean your head on the strong shoulder that has become a home akin to Ladon to you, his gauntled fingers go to brush over the strands of your hair that have tumbled loose from your chignon. A slight touch, barely there. But enough for your heart to recognize that he is appreciative of your trust. “No, it is my mistake for phrasing it that way. Against all odds, my husband has made Castrum Kremnos a home for me. It feels odd to me now not to wake up in the baked sun and breathe in the dry air.” Your lips curl into a mischievous smile at your slight nudge at the climate of Castrum Kremnos, but Mydei only rolls his eyes. Not taking the bait. “But it does make one reminisce about the place of childhood. I sometimes think I miss the memory of Ladon more than I actually miss the place itself.”

You will sneak, spy, and steal everything that kingdom has to offer. And when the time is ripe, you will either cut his throat, or make way for us to do so.

As Hesperia returns home to her family, so shall you return to us with the crown prince’s head.

Phainon hastens to reassure you that he understands completely, but your strength for niceties and politeness has left you. Mydei, recognizing your mood, brings the conversation to a stop and then informs Phainon that he’ll accompany you to your chambers, then rendezvous with him at the training grounds. While the white-haired knight nods at you in understanding and continues to wave goodbye as you leave, you try to your best to reciprocate the earnest goodbye. You will see him this evening anyways, when the festivities for Mydei’s birthday are scheduled to happen. “I apologize for clouding your birthday, Mydei,” you tell the prince in question, still waving as he makes you turn the corner to begin climbing the stairs towards the wing of the palace that contains your chambers. “I am not truly upset. Just distracted. I think I’m nervous you’re not gonna like the celebration.”

Mydei, whose hand had been positioned on your lower back to propel you forward, moves to take your hand. Although he cannot intertwine his fingers with you with the heavy armor scaling his skin, the touch still makes a rush of blood quicken your pulse. He truly has a considerate heart. Not many see it, due to the way he carries himself: his Kremnoan pride, his gunpowder temperament, his prowess in battle. In part, it is exactly because Mydei wills it so that he is perceived so scarily and menacingly. But on the other hand, the truth is as clear as the Ladonian sea. He cannot hide his Gorgon heart. “You are truly senseless if you think your mood is less important to me than some celebration I hadn’t even expected. At any other time, the day would have gone by unceremoniously. It is you who has made it special.”

That makes you stop in the middle of the stairs. Mydei, who had been focussed on the long train of your garment so you wouldn’t trip and hurt yourself, stops immediately after, as attuned to you as the songbirds to the sunset. My Mydei, you think to yourself, and that is perhaps the worst lie out of every single one you’ve ever told. He will never be yours, not truly. “But it is a special day,” you insist. “And you are special to me. As much as I wanted to find a gift that will enrapture your heart, it is you who has become a true gift to me. Your attentiveness, your caring attitude even though you loathe to address it. You know, in the Hesperian faith, one can only hope to ever share even the slightest of steps Hesperia has taken. But you have given me her entire path. You have given me belonging.”

The words burst out of you before you can take them back. After all the poison your lies have inflicted on you, it feels freeing to tell the truth for once, to rid yourself of their nasty influence. Mydei’s eyes, which you have learned to interpret as surely as the signs of the gods, for once are wide open in surprise and reveal nothing. Your heart beats too quickly in your chest, and a sweat has broken out on your skin, one you are certain has nothing to do with the actual heat and everything with the way Mydei is staring at you right now. “I’m sor…” you hasten to apologize, but then you are actually falling, once again tumbling against that familiar chest. Like you’ve done so many times before.

This time, Mydei’s fingers angle your face up towards the sun, and then he’s kissing you so deeply you think you can feel it in every cell of your being.

Your very soul melts in the constraint of its vessel. You throw your arms around his neck, molding your shape to the curve of his sinful body as he bends to kiss you. He dedicates himself to the act like a devotee faithfully, rigorously throws himself into prayer: his lips, fervent and passionate, perfectly fit into your own, a heart that’s been divided slotting together to create a full. You feel so complete that you find yourself sighing into the kiss, lips parting as you do, and then your long-lost dream finally becomes true as you taste Mydei’s tongue for the very first time.

He tastes simply divine.

It seems your roles have reversed. It is you who becomes the ever-devouring beast, your blunt nails creating crescent moons on the naked skin of Mydei’s defined back. They seek purchase as his tongue learns to dance with your own, the action as unfamiliar to him as it is to you, but you are chasing after an instinct that has born under your skin and there are no lessons necessary. As surely as Nikador and Mnestia had been fated to be together, your tongue embraces Mydei’s as he explores your mouth, butterflies exploding on the tip of your tongue from the sensation. Where your fingers seek refuge from the pleasure, his own touch gentles: the hands cradling your face as he kisses you turns reverent, the fingertips of the gauntlets becoming more and more careful as he traces the shape of your jaw, your cheeks, the curve of the back of your head. You melt against Mydei as he tucks you closer, intending to close the distance as much as possible.

If you could crack your chest open and let him inside, you would.

When your lungs feel like they are going to burst and the need for air in your lungs makes you release Mydei’s lips with a shuddering gasp, his own lips continue to chase you, feathering across the skin of your face. “You idiot,” he tells you, but from his mouth, the insult feels like the most beautiful compliment you have ever received. Like a lion teasing its cub, he bites into the curve of your throat, not breaking the skin. Just nudging you, teasing you for a reaction. You squeak and angle yourself away, cocking your head to hide the skin his teeth had been grazing. There’s a lazy smile on his face that feels reminiscent of the grimaces he sports when he is trying to get under your skin, but this one is so radiant with genuine, explosive joy that you can’t help yourself but smile in return. You’ve never been this blissful, not once in your life. “Did you really think you were the only one who felt that way? Why exactly do you think I was being so pig-headed about not needing a gift from you? I’ve got everything I need already.”

“You mean me?” Your eyes are wide, hanging on to every word.

“Of course I mean you, you foolish woman.” The words are as tender as his kiss, so languid it makes your insides want to rearrange themselves in exultation. Everything, including you and your body, wants to jump in joy. Even his gauntlets seem dear to you now, the shape of them as familiar to you as the features of his face. They glide around the curve of your waist, protectively, possessively. You definitely weren’t imagining that tang of jealousy that had hung over your conversation with Phainon, and the realization makes you want to laugh. But you are still intently focussed on every word his heavenly mouth speaks. “Aren’t you a blessing from Hesperia herself? My entire life, I thought I had to build myself up like a castle, to guard the inside of it from anything and everything that could penetrate it. There was only dust, and sorrow, and darkness, and I thought it would remain that way for the rest of my life. There was dimmed candlelight, and flashes of lightning, from the single moments in my life that brought me joy… and then you came, endowed with the power of Hesperia herself, and you broke open the gates so that each and every facet of myself could feel the warmth of the sun again. You have broken me open. You have made me vulnerable.” The words feel like an accusation, but they are spoken like a caress, like his hands in your hair, on your skin, on your heart. “And I want it that way. There’s nothing you can do to change that, now or ever.”

You are brimming with emotion, shaking apart. “Wow,” you can only say. “That is the longest assortment of words you’ve ever spoken to me.”

Again, Mydei rolls his eyes, but this time there’s a curving smile underlining the sting of his actions. “There you go ruining the moment again, my lady,” he grumbles, pulling you in for another kiss. You giggle against him, then lean your head over his as he hides his face in the crook of your throat. “Does that mean you don’t like my words?”

“Oh, I like them alright. But I have something I think you’ll like even more.” He goes still in your arms. Preparing himself for the worst. You grin and place your lips to his ear, lips brushing over the sensitive cartilage. “Prince Mydeimos, son of Gorgo, I have given you my heart. I love you.”

(Do you remember his claim of him being born to handle you? Yeah, me too.)

…

(He never does make it back to meet Phainon for sparring before the celebration. You, however, learn exactly how Mydei feels like under all that armor, and for ruining his romantic speech, you learn to appreciate every single wag of his tongue, for better or for worse. You don’t think you’ve ever wept that much from simple bodily pleasure; how your soul seemed to separate from your body and comes apart on his tongue as Mydei feasted on his birthday present early. You also find out the exact reason why he always has to spread his legs so far to sit comfortably: you are spread open for that exact same reason, split open by it. You never knew how much the borders of agony and pleasure could seem to blur, and even though you cannot walk for a while right after, you don’t regret a single thing. Mydei, lounging on your marriage bed, his face cradled by his own hand as he rests his head on it, seems bemused by your attempt to stand, and you end up falling into his arms again pretty soon.

You do it all over again. And again. And again.

Turns out you two like the consummation part of a marriage much more than you would have thought.)

(Phainon, of course, spends the afternoon gossiping with an attendant he always visits in the kitchens when he visits the Kremnoan palace. He snickers at the attendant’s shocked expression as he recounts the gloomy look on Mydei’s face when Phainon had tried to make him jealous on purpose. He’s gotten sick of Mydei’s endless pining after you during campaigns, and his ears have started bleeding from it, so he was determined to make that visit to Castrum Kremnos count. This marriage was going to become real, damn it, or he would never be able to call himself ‘Phainon, the talented matchmaker’ again.)

Hours later, the attendants are invited in and treated to the sight of you guys still naked in bed. They have the common decency to avert their eyes, a feat that Mydei hasn’t been blessed with. With his arms behind his head, leaning back against the headboard with his entire chest exposed down to the muscled curve that is feathered with a happy trail you’ve found a happy ending to, he watches shamelessly as Hemera detaches from the group of attendants to help you up. You are naked still, your throat covered in the evidence of your coupling, some bruises on your thighs leaving remnants of the clawed hands that had kept you open until you had positively crushed Mydei’s head between them. “Good evening, Hemera,” he says then, voice as dry as the desert.

Your poor lady’s maid nervously turns her head to the ceiling as she robes you, fully intent on not breaking any rules of propriety. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Don’t mind him, Hemera. He has no manners.”

“I thought that was the part you most liked about me. It certainly sounded like it just an hour ago.”

“Mydei!”

He remains as he is while the servants surround you and prepare you for the birthday celebrations. When you look like a fully polished jewel, sparkling enough that you could be in-laid in the Kremnoan queen’s crown, you dismiss everyone but Hemera and sit down next to Mydei as you plead for her to prepare your hair. Mydei, sitting up, careful to keep himself covered for the most part, reaches for your hands and presses them to his lips. “Are you excited?” he asks, meaning the party.

You shrug minutely, careful not to disrupt Hemera’s ministrations behind you as she weaves the comb through your hair. Mydei hands her a strand of hair dangling in front of your eyes, and she quickly incorporates it in the braid she’s begun. “I guess I am. It’s the first birthday I’ve ever celebrated with you,” you answer, grinning at him. He returns the smile, tentative but real.

In truth, there’s been a cold spot inside your stomach that you’ve been nursing for almost a month now.

When they asked you for Mydei’s head, you had ripped the letter to shreds before you could think otherwise about it. They hadn’t even bothered sending a coded letter through your mother: this missive came straight from the Golden Council itself, the scrawls so angrily imprinted onto the letter that it tore through the creamy paper in some spots. You had expected a reaction like this when your intelligence grew scarcer and scarcer. Eurypon was not your king, so you hadn’t cared about spying on him. But the longer you remained in Castrum Kremnos, the more you realized that he was not even the people’s king. There was a deep-reaching unhappiness etched into the souls of the people here, dividing them in their soul and loyalty. When they turned their souls towards Mydei, that unhappiness turned into hope. You couldn’t find it in yourself to crush that hope, remaining Atlaion’s daughter whether you wanted to or not - so you tore your metaphoric spy’s teeth out, the ones the Golden Council had been filing for more than a decade, and turned quiet as the grave. What little information slipped from your fingers was always in dismissal of Eurypon, never Mydei himself.

But the Golden Council had never wanted Eurypon. They wanted Castrum Kremnos.

All your life, they had been a roaring group of fools pretending to be dragons, exerting their influence over both you and your mother. Now they had grown silent. It scared you more than anything you’ve ever endured in your life, because your thoughts keep circling back to your mother, the way her letters told you not to back down from your courage, to not regret anything. How those letters had ceased. How they’d been replaced by that one, unforgiving order.

“Will you teach me how to pin her hair up, Hemera?”

You look up just in time to see Hemera hand Mydei the hairpins, the ends of the pins adorned with both lions and dragons, an effort to incorporate both the cultures that have moved and changed you. Glittering red and golden, she gently lifts up your hair and tucks it in place in mock fashion of how Mydei will have to do it, and your heart lurches at the concentration in his eyes, the determination to do this right. His fingers are light in your hair, lighter even than your feather heart, and when your hair has been affixed, his fingers remain. Hemera quickly stands up and leaves the room, and Mydei bends towards you to kiss you one last time, hot and slow and mind-curdling. Speaking the words directly against your lips, straight into the very core of your existence where his name has begun to imprint itself over the shape of your soul, he whispers, “You are more beautiful than anything this world has to offer.”

And because he doesn’t want to ruin your prepared, polished appearance, he lets himself be pushed down to be ruined just one last time before he has to go get ready himself.

The memory of the bedroom haziness still hangs over you as you make your way to the ballroom, but there’s a certain sweetness, as well, a pep in your step and a giggle in your mouth. Mydei pinches at your waist and cheeks, but he can’t find himself to be bothered by your quiet happiness, not when this is the prettiest birthday celebration he’s ever had, not went you went out of your way to prepare his favorite dessert even though you never knew how to cook. The honey-cakes are slightly too doughy, and the cream a little bit too sugary, but he scarves it down like it’s his last meal before the expected execution. Just to see that prideful look in your eyes, to reward your efforts in the only way he can.

You watch him socialize with military officials you don’t recognize, the expression of joy permanently etched into your face now. You just can’t get rid of it. Phainon, whose decided to glue himself to your side while the crown princes mingles with potential enemies and rubs shoulders with potential allies, raises a glass for you to clink yours to. “Seems like you two finally got down and dirty. Thank god. I was getting real sick of his lovelorn puppy behavior.”

“Oh, shut up.” The pearling laughter his joke illicits from your mouth makes Mydei turn and look for just a second, his own mouth twitching into that almost-smile you had to grow accustomed to at the beginning of your marriage and now only have grown fond of. “I know you since, like, yesterday. I feel like there has to be a certain passage of time before you get to comment on my sex life.”

“Yesterday? My dear, I feel as though we’re best friends already. He’s only been talking my ear off all summer long about you!”

“You exaggerate, I’m sure. Mydei? Talking?”

Phainon crosses his arms, pouting at your disbelief. “Like you wouldn’t believe. But it was always this angry kind of groveling, like he wanted to talk about you and didn’t at the same time because he never talks this much. I barely got in a word myself. And I love talking!”

“I can tell.” You knock your shoulder against his, grinning at him like you would at a brother. Perhaps in another life, he would have been. In a life where the black tide didn’t threaten families and countries whole, swallowing them without leaving a trace. But in this one, you make sure to make him feel as at home as Mydei did, even though he disliked admitting that he did. Your eyes go back to your husband in question, having lost sight of him during your chatter with Phainon. Not seeing him anymore, you scan the crowd for his pretty face.

And then lose grip of your glass.

You can barely hear the sound of Phainon’s complaint, the way it transforms into worried inquiries. The whole world has fallen away. If you listen closely, it even sounds like your heart has stopped in its chest, like a clock winding down, dying, freezing time. They’d stopped all the clocks in the palace when they found Atlaion dead: stabbed by the same dagger you were staring at right now.

You’d recognize that dagger ANYWHERE.

You break into a sprint. At your shoulder, without you having noticed, Phainon has pressed a worried hand to try and break your trance. You shake the hand off, its touch feeling as intangible as dream, swallowed whole by the nightmare in front of you. You dig your way through the crowd, losing sight of the dagger, not once, but twice. And then you see Mydei’s back - the wide, strong back that only his soldiers saw as he protected them and guided them towards victory, the back that was lined in the illumination of the future of Castrum Kremnos.

The same back a fellow Kremnoan would never stab, taught as they were that a backstabber is a coward, never a true warrior.

You should scream, direct Mydei’s attention towards you, but the fear keeps your tongue captive. Some animal instinct clawing its way out of your brain tells you that you need to guard that back, the wide expanse of it specifically, you NEED TO. You push through a mass of bodies, reuniting with the sight of that dagger, all breath in your lungs evaporating like the dew in the morning sun.

You think you see the dragon guarding the apple tree open its mouth wide, ready to incinerate you for your sins. You’ll be too late. You won’t reach him. You won’t.

(Mydeimos, my Mydeimos - I always knew I was going to die for you. I just didn’t realize how relieving it would feel. Better me than you. Better me.)

You slam against the one person in your life you can never betray, that strong body that’s been holding you up this entire time without complaint while you were struggling not to drown. The dagger goes in, scarily deep in, blighting your nerves. You think you’ve been struck by lightning, the way the agony sears your nervous system alive. Perhaps it actually was Hesperia herself coming to burn you for your treason. It tears and tears, cutting you free like a puppet on strings, and then you finally lose all grip on reality, returning to the darkness.

You wonder if this is how your father had felt.

Gentle Atlaion, dragon-born Atlaion, soft as the golden dragon’s wings. Unfit for the throne. Unfit for the Sunlit Garden.

You are not in the throne room, but somewhere else entirely. This is not your ocean. But as your feet sink into the surf, you’re not sure whether it matters. Like a tree, your roots reach deeper than the earth, deeper even than anything you’ve ever been taught.

And your father is here.

Atlaion of the House Hesperia looks much younger than the father you came to knew. His face is not yet burdened by worry lines, his spine more straight than ever. This Atlaion hasn’t learned how to bend yet. This Atlaion wasn’t aware what it meant to balance himself on a throne.

He is blissfully, unworriedly, completely happy.

“They came for her, you know,” he tells you. He never turns his face from Aeolia, not once. She is all he sees. Her laughter is louder even than the waves itself, and as you cock your head to take in the sight, you begin to realize what she looks like. Like Hesperia herself has come to level the earth again. Love personified. “I’ve always known my council consisted of traitors. But this was my father’s throne, and his father’s before him, and I thought that as long as we remained in Hesperia’s light, we would be able to vanquish the threat together. Aeolia supported me, and guided me, and protected me. She wasn’t a queen consort. She was my queen. That’s why I ruled together with her, instead of over her. I thought it would please Hesperia, too, if she knew why I had done it. I thought I could keep them in line.”

“Papa,” you whisper, the word like sand in the wind. Drifting apart without ever taking shape. Weightless in the echoes of time. He smiles at the sound, mellow and bittersweet, like the word pleases him.

“That, too, I thought would still their hands. I was too foolish to realize that their hatred was not for the throne itself, but for the competent women that would replace them atop it. That council may have called itself as golden as Hesperia’s apple itself, but the inside of it was rotten to the core, failing at its function long before consumption. Do you understand, daughter? It’s not your fault.”

“But they tried to kill him, Papa.” Your voice cracks. After all this time of wishing you’d be able to open your chest like a closet so the entire world could see the truth, the key in its lock turns to reveal your heart whole. It’s scabrous and poison-riddled and dead, but it beats despite it all, beats for the lion-haired prince with the lamb heart. “If I had recognized your assassin, if I had done away with the council, they’d never have supped themselves on an authority that was never theirs to begin with.”

“My dear daughter.” Although unwillingly, Atlaion’s eyes leave Aeolia to her dance in the ocean. You cannot bring yourself to face your father, instead concentrating on the graceful figure sweeping in the water, cutting through the sea. The dances of her childhood she never got to teach you. “We may wish to become Hesperia’s image, but we should not allow ourselves to become blasphemous in our wishes. Do you truly think you could become as omniscient as a god? Do you think that is the purpose of humanity? Why have them create humanity in the first place, then?”

Your lips crack into an unwilling smile, the begrudging kind he always used to laugh at when your father had still been your teacher and guide. Clever Atlaion, caring Atlaion. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me. You always knew better, father.”

When he laughs, he sounds as if he never died in the first place. The sound is sweet and clear as a bell, like the first bite of a Hesperian apple, comforting and nurturing both. The wind rises, blurring the sight of both your parents, like the gently fading edges of a photograph. You wish to brush your fingers over it just once, before the memory drifts away and leaves you behind. Father, father. “My sweet daughter,” he says. “Of all the things I’ve taught you, I’d have imagined this was the one your mother and I imparted the best. Fate has brought you to the one your heart calls home, after all. Does it matter how that has happened, or what obstacles it will bring? Isn’t it the nature of humanity that has sustained you all this time?”

On the third day of Mydei’s vigil at your bedside, the guards at the gate of the palace bring him new tidings. If he’d been a tyrant like his father, he’d have sent them away with a head lesser. Murder now, ask later. But Eurypon is rotting in an unmarked grave, and Mydei is not his father, so he tells them to come in and keep their distance from your comatose body.

“If it’s another emissary from any country, send them away. I haven’t decided on Castrum Kremnos’ fate yet. If it’s a Chrysos Heir, then have them sit in the reception room in the east wing and tell them I’ll join them shortly.”

“Your Majesty,” the left guard, who looks less nervous than his compatriot, speaks up. His voice is more betraying than his face. Though he looks more composed, his words are shaky. “You don’t understand. It’s the queen’s mother.”

He stares at both guards, hard. They stare back. When no one laughs or slaps their knee, and Mydei does not get the excuse to beat them for their lies, he presses your hand one last time before he rises to stand. “Have Hemera come and sit with the queen in my absence,” he orders the soldier that’s been standing guard in the room. The man nods and silently slips outside to search for the lady’s maid in question. Then, with a sigh, Mydei turns back to the gate guards. “Alright. Have her brought to the reception room.”

To leave you feels as painful as to watch you be stabbed again. He can’t erase the image, no matter how hard he tries. It’s burned on the back of his eyelids, tattooed on every fold of his brain. The way the blood had drained your face immediately, a surefire sign of deadly blood loss. Your immediate collapse to the ground, the coldness of your limbs as he caught you before your head could crush against the unforgiving marble stone. For one scarily long minute that might have been the worst minute of his life, you had ceased breathing, your pulse giving way to silence. With the help of the healer, he’d been able to resuscitate you, but then the panic was clouding his brain and he’d begun yelling and punching the wall, stabbing the next pillow he came across. He’d never been this afraid in his life, not once, not even when the cold waters of the river of souls had closed over him. At least then, the spirits’ soothing whispers had told him he wasn’t alone, and though they were dead and gone, they still had been able to guide him to safety.

As he looks at your pinched, deathly pale face, he fears to be alone for the rest of his life. The loss of you will be the one thing he will never be able to overcome.

He feels the distance growing between the two of you like an invisible string drawn taut. It doesn’t hurt as much as watching you rescued from the brink of death did, but it hurts nonetheless. At least he’d have some good news if you woke up. When you woke up. His traitorous word choice in thoughts has him gasping for air, clenching at his chest, and he momentarily stops in the hallway to try to remember how to breathe.

When you wake up. When you wake up. When you wake up.

Your mother looks just as destroyed as he does. At least here now sits someone who shares his mental state, who looks as half-crazed as the image in the mirror. Her emerald-green eyes, which had sparked with mirth and intelligence when she first introduced him to you, have grown dead, their light diminished. “I assume it’s King Mydeimos now,” is all she says in greeting. Although it would be considered disrespectful in any other setting, she remains seated. Mydei, who couldn’t give less of a shit about formalities at the moment, remembering the way they used to give you comfort, settles in the chair. “Do I offer congratulations?”

“I suppose you should. Your Golden Council’s spying and scheming presented the golden opportunity for me to finally rise up against my father and take my place on the throne.”

Mydei watches as the words wash over her and result in nothing. Not a single muscle in her face twitched at the knowledge that he was aware of her country’s treason, and what it might mean for her that she delivered herself right into the Kremnoan justice’s hands. “So you knew what she was,” your mother croaks, the only sign of her fear. For you. Not even for her. “And you married her all the same? Why?”

“My hands were bound. I understood that this was my father’s way of leashing me, and it worked.”

“But she would have been fair game the second you knew about her spywork. You could have exposed him in front of the Council of Elders. The marriage would have been nullified then. And I knew you did not consummate it; she told me. So I ask you, son of Gorgo… Why?”

Yes, why?

He remembers your small, fear-stricken face when he had come to ask for your hand. The many times he’d left the barracks to come visit you and then stopped in front of your door due to the sound of heartbreakingly grief-stricken sobs, imagining the way you were falling apart and building yourself up every night. The letters he’d intercepted, the crude refusal you’d dished out to your mother, the woman you might worship more than even Hesperia herself. I love him. I choose him.

He thinks of the happiness you’ve returned to his life with just a simple joke, a small gift, an affectionate action here and there. The way you listened and listened and listened. Never judging. Always curious for more. The way you told stories, hands sweeping and eyes alight. Your habit of knocking into doors and objects when you try to sneak up on him.

Your face, as bright as the sun in the sky.

“You know,” Mydei finds himself speaking. “I don’t really care if you believe this. If you’ve even heard about the Chrysos Heirs. But the gods, in their mercy as my father turned me over to the depths of the river of souls, have made me immortal. I can die, of course, but every time I do, I find myself back on the shores of Styxia, the river of spirits at my back, the safe haven of the land in front of me. I’ve braved that river so many times, I could dig my way out of it eyes closed. And I was always searching for something. In the beginning, I think it was for Castrum Kremnos. When my mother died, I prayed for a reunion, always hoping to see her face at least once as I died. But something changed. While I was drowning, I began to hear your daughter’s voice on the shore. Singing so unbelievably loud, you’d never believe those tiny lungs were even capable of breathing those kinds of melodies. The spirits sighed and quietened, and the waves themselves seemed to gather a path, guiding me back home. To her. Always to her. I stopped looking for the light guiding me towards Styxia and have started chasing after the sound of her songs. She is my home. I love her.”

Your mother gapes at him, painted in the colors of disbelief. In a slightly comical way, her mouth has even dropped open. “Hesperia’s light,” she whispers, the closest thing to cussing she possesses. “So she chose you. And you chose her.”

“I’d choose her in every life time,” Mydei shoots back. It sounds like a vow, but it feels more significant to him. You are the manifest of his existence. “It doesn’t matter to me what she did. She stayed. She saved my life. I wasn’t in any real danger, of course, but she didn’t know that. For that, I’d die a thousand times over.”

In the end, Mydei does not pass any judgement at all. His father is dead, the country is his, and his people are waiting for his call. He doesn’t even know if they will be able to remain here, not if the black tide continues to rise. It has already swallowed Ladon whole, the city immortalized in your memory now forever. And Aeolia is his mother-in-law. After having lost a mother already, he does not want to lose the chance to connect with another. Nor does he want to be responsible for taking away yours.

At the moment, her hand is intertwined with yours, her gaze fixed on your sleeping face. The dream of recovery. The illusion of return. She fears, just as much as him, that the river of souls will claim you. But then Aeolia raises her hand to place it on his arm, the touch so motherly that he allows himself, for a brief moment, to feel like a son again. “You are a good man, Mydeimos,” she says, sounding like her daughter. In the echoes of her tone, he can only find you. “My daughter has proven that to me now. And it is the pride of any mother to have her child follow in a goddess’ footsteps.”

Mydei swallows his tears. “She is the only faith in my life.”

In the past, your father guards Ladon as steadfastly as he guards you, his gentle smile watching as you grow into your throne. In the future, a prophecy in Okhema is about to be fulfilled as you and Mydei try to protect your Kremnoan people, the only children you will ever have.

But in the present, the sun has risen, the wind is cool on your skin, and Mydei is here.

Breathing in too deeply hurts. Breathing in too shallowly hurts, as well. Everything hurts. But what hurts the most is how Mydei’s hot tears splash over your hand, searing into the skin there. For years after this, long after the threat of the titans has been vanquished and you are the only one holding on to the hope that your husband will return home, you will remember what this feels like. Swear that those tears will actually have brand-marked you. Point out the shape of the drops as they scattered over your skin, like pearls skimming over the ocean’s surface.

You smile, tired from the pain, tired from all the lying. “I’m guessing I’m in trouble?”

“So much trouble.” His voice comes out a growl.

You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your chest, transforming into a cry. Mydei moves too steady you, but then shrinks back trom it; the fear in his eyes hurts, too, so you make yourself go still, not wanting him to worry anymore. “Sorry,” you whisper. “I’m fine. Where were we?”

“I was going to kill you for scaring me that badly, actually.”

“Wouldn’t that be counterproductive, after I just took a knife to the back for you?”

Mydei glowers at you. The anger in his eyes is stifling, murderous and real. But it’s not directed at you, not really. All he has for you inside his eyes is love. It looks the same as that dream you had of your father, his gaze on Aeolia, the one you cannot tell whether it was a vision or a memory or something else entirely. “You’re awful,” he says. “An awful spy and awful bride and awful person. I thought I was going to lose you forever. The thought was so crushing I thought I was going to die right alongside you in that bed.”

“But you love me?” you try. The joke, like always, doesn’t fly. It seems to whoosh right over Mydei’s head.

But then his hand is in your hair, gently disentangling the knots. He looks as if he is holding the most precious treasure. “Yes,” Mydei confirms. “I love you. Titans help me, I love you more than anything.”

“Even more than your wish to kill me?”

“Even more than that.”

“Enough to give me a healing kiss?”

“Don’t get too over-hasty.”

That makes you laugh, and this time, you cannot hold it back. It resounds in your chest, a multi-melodied symphony of pain, and sorrow, and endurance, and joy, and love. It almost makes the gentle scolding he gives you worth it as your husband leans over to kiss your forehead, each kiss separated by another warning of how you were never going to do that again, the next kiss on your nose bespeaking how he’s going to tie you up and sit on you so that you’ll stop running head-first into danger, and then his lips are on your mouth and no one’s saying anything at all because your soul has never felt this whole and it’s singing to Mydei’s in enough words for the both of you.

The future may divide you, but this moment is entirely yours.

Hesperia sings, lighting the way home. Your love, the lighthouse on the sea, continues to glow, now and forever, even when the black tide rises against Okhema.

But that is a tale for another day.

[moineauz]

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋

synopsis: you've learned a lot being dr. ratio's assistant and had to wrestle with your ever conflicting feelings. just when you thought you knew all about your boss, he proves you wrong.

side comments: kinda just let myself go free style with this one. is every piece meant to make sense? not really lol.

extra: gn reader, arguments, angst to fluff

IF LOOKS COULD KILL, THEN YOU WERE SURE VERITAS WOULD BE CROWNED YOUR MURDERER with how the rings of his auburn eyes shot arrows of pure disdain.

The two of you clashed at every given moment. His blunt nature and imperious side comments made your spine coil and fume. It didn't help that he loomed over you- his broad princely shoulders leaving you little room to breathe.

Aeons, you despised him. Utterly abhorred his patronizing demeanor and flawless eloquence. This man could trip on his own sandals and the universe would turn it into a Renaissance painting. Passion and pursuit were the drive of his world and the astute gaze of his eyes punctured through ignorance like a blade. His hands drafted words into colosseums: persuasive essays to keep knowledge public and education free.

The limelight fell onto him and Veritas never faltered. Never wavering in his resolve, loyal to his values and word all while clinging onto his very namesake- the truth.

It made you quiver slightly- it made you linger upon his visage like how you'd stare up at an altar.

How could a man like him bother to gaze down at you?

"You think I despise you?"

Your lips part, and you fold your arms across your chest, stepping back slightly, "Well, I- I am merely deducing your actions as such."

Veritas scoffs, exhaling slowly as he rubbed his temples, eyebrows furrowing, "Then clearly you lack the deductive skills. You're my assistant for Aeons sake, I hired you for a reason-"

"Yes, to file your papers, clear your schedule, accompany you to lectures and debates," you heave, grinding your teeth, "I know my responsibilities well doctor. But surely you don't think you've been- been so-"

You pause, searching for words until they get lost in your throat. Lost in his troubled complexion and hues of softening auburn. He steps forward, arms reaching and lips parted.

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't understand," you seethe, his face grows blurry and the blood underneath your skin boils, "I've been your assistant for a year! And still the same look of scorn."

"Scorn?" he mutter, a mixture of confusion and irritation rising in his eyes, "I never-"

"And yet you did!"

You point your finger at him, the tension hangs taut above you two. Like a ribbon coiled around your wrist, leading down to your fingertips, linking with his. Your chest rises up and down, you could hear his heartbeat thundering like rain. Veritas looks down at you, eyes never departing, never retreating in shame.

At that moment- with your finger pointed at him, faces barely apart- Veritas feels, for the first time in years, a fool.

"( Name ), I never-" he fumbles, pressing his lips together before resuming, "Scorn is the last impression I-"

"Really now?" you scoff, "Backing out now? Come on Veritas I'm not a idiot-"

"I know!" he exclaims, raising his hands, "You're the farthest from being a fool. You're-"

You're breath hitches.

"You're brilliant."

You pause, heat diffusing, "Brilliant? Veritas what are you-"

"You're brilliant because of your words, for the life you choose to pursue," he cuts through, in your peripheral vision you see his hands quiver, "You're brilliant because at the end of the day, you render me a fool. Stupid because I can't confront my own truth."

"Veritas..."

"My logic be dammed," he muttered, gingerly stepping forward, heart racing, "Not once did I hate you. Even during our heated debates."

“On the contrary, I left feeling properly defeated.”

You blink, anger now stripped away and exchanged for something inexplicably possible: amusement.

And a tinge of quiet frisson.

"I really thought you hated me."

Veritas tilts his head, "Oh? What happened to that-"

You lean forward, placing your lips on his cheek with the gentleness of an angel. The motion is prompt but strangely familiar. As if done like clockwork when a new dawn begins.

It shuts Veritas up effectively.

"If you wanted me so bad," you muse, slipping past his shoulders, "You could've just invited me to dinner."

His response is immediate, like instinct, "Consider it done."

You're long behind him now, hand grazing the doorknob. That's when you smile. You're shoulders felt lighter, arms more supple. As if you were springing into an invisible tomorrow: an unknowable future, the kind you craved fervently.

"I was wrong too, Veritas."

You open the door, truth spilling behind you in ripples, a familiar, salty wetness pushing you forward.

"I never could bring myself to hate you."

masterlist.

[danijaci]

obsession w/ sunday

inspired by @yandere-romanticaa's fic! Tehee your works are so eye opening 0.0 <333 I licherally haven't created a yandere content for such a looong time lolol let's see if I can still pull this off lmao

WARNING/S: Yandere, Obsessive Behavior

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@hydroarchon-furinaa @pleniluneg4ze @keirennyx

[kekewrites]

Tw. Insecure/bratty/tsundere reader, dark content, noncon, dubcon, obsession, sloppy blowjob, attempted breakup, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, multiple creampies, cunnilingus, baby trapping, coercion, aftercare

***

Thinking about dating an angelic guy.

You always wonder why, out of all the pretty and influential girls chasing after him, he chose you. It doesn't help how of a unit he is. Your typical perfect guy, popular, rich, and body that's comparable to a Greek God... and his voice— how you love his gentle and warm voice, there's just something about it that hypnotize you.

He always compliments you, shower you with affection, and be an absolute sweetheart. It gets you pissy. You don't know why you're always in a foul mood around him, he's not even doing anything that could trigger you. He takes a breath and you're already fuming. Grumbling profanities that he would laugh at wholeheartedly, like you didn't curse his entire being.

You hate how perfect he is. Hate how much you adore him. Hate how much you love him, and inside your mind you always question if he genuinely loves you. Maybe he's just playing with you? Waiting for the day he'd humiliate you, telling how you're too idiotic to even believe someone like him could ever love you.

That's probably why you're always cautious around him, you don't believe him enough to love an average girl like you.

***

He can't believe he's dating the cutest in the world. Everytime you scowl, show that adorable pout, he just wants to squish your cheeks together and kiss you plenty. Like a little kitty hissing when you sneer curses at him.

It's adorable really.

You'd say you didn't want to go to the movies he chose. Yet, you arrived earlier than expected, wearing a hint of makeup in that cute dress of yours. Makes him want to crush you. You put in the effort, took the time, even gave him the watch he'd been talking about—his favorite.

He really loves you. Really really loves you but why are you acting like he doesn't? He's confused. Hasn't he done enough to show you, tell how much he adores you? It makes him sad. Don't you know how much he's holding back? There's only so much he could take, you know. He could just take you everytime you run that cute foul mouth of you, shove his cock to make you shut up. But he's so patient with you because he loves you.

So don't push him too much, ok? Or else you might not like it when he finally show you his desire.

***

"You're late," you grumble, sending him a glare. Your arms are crossed, and your foot taps impatiently on the ground.

He chuckles, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I arrived just on time, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. "You're just too excited for our date, no?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are warm, sparkling with affection.

You huff in response, but you can feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, tugging into a smile. He notices and takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"You're just so cute, you know? I really wanna crush— ow!" He hiss slightly as you swat his arm. He pouts a little, "You're strong, you're gonna leave a bruise."

You roll your eyes— as if that's gonna happen. Huffing you tug on his hand, "Let's go. I'm starving."

He smiles, looking at your back, "Ok, sweetie~."

Ah, you really are so cute.

He can't wait to fuck you.

***

"Why're you not eating, sweetie? Is the food not to your liking?"

Your appetite was gone the moment that waitress flirted with him, leaving you empty and bitter. This always happen. You're sick of it, sick of being jealous and feeling shitty for not looking like his girlfriend. Are you really worthless by his side? Do people not see you as his companion?

"Sweetie?"

You didn't want to lash out on him so you remained silent. Too bitter to talk. Even the food turned bitter, leaving you more upset.

He's such an idiot. But you're more of an idiot for being triggered by that stupid waitress, too much of a wuss to tell her he's taken, that he's yours. You're the idiot.

"I don't wanna eat anymore," you bitterly muttered, your face covered by the shadows of your hair, hiding that frown you wore he always seems to love on you.

He gets a sick twisted feeling in his guts, watching how jealous you get whenever some worthless wench tries to get his attention. It satisfies his urge, his sick thoughts hidden by his angelic face. You really love him, don't you? His lips curving into a sweet smile, eyes twinkling with desires. If only you know how much he gets off with you being jealous, you'd never doubted your pretty little self.

So… why are you saying such stupid things?

“Let’s break up.”

“Hm?”

“I said…” You take a breath, steadying your voice. “Let’s break up.”

For a moment, his smile wavers. Just a fraction. His right eye twitches ever so slightly, a crack in the carefully crafted mask he wears. But then, like a master of illusions, he recovers, his sweet facade sliding back into place, though something darker lingers beneath the surface.

“Now, now,” he says, his voice dripping with a saccharine softness that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. “What’s the matter?” His tone is gentle, almost soothing, but there’s a sharp edge to it—a venomous undercurrent that cuts through the air.

You don’t answer immediately, your chest tightening under his unblinking stare. It’s as if he’s waiting, watching every little twitch of your expression, trying to peel you apart without lifting a finger.

“I just think…” you start, your voice faltering as his head tilts slightly, his smile remaining unnervingly intact. “I-I think we’re not… good for each other anymore.”

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a predator sizing up its prey. He takes a step closer, the air between you growing heavy. “Not good for each other?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Sweetheart, where’s this nonsense coming from? Didn’t we promise forever?”

The sweetness in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you hold your ground. “Forever shouldn’t feel like this,” you say, trying to steady your trembling hands.

It shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself, shouldn't make you anxious, shouldn't make feel... pressured.

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes boring into yours. Then, his chuckle breaks the tension, soft and low. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You’re upset. That’s all. We’ll talk this through, won’t we?”

But his words aren’t a question—they’re a command, wrapped in the guise of concern. And as his smile lingers, you realize leaving might not be as simple as you hoped.

***

Why is this happening?

You thought he would accept and move on.

"Mmm, that's it sweetie. Take it deeper." He coaxes, his grip on your hair tightening. He starts to push forward, forcing more of his thick length past your stretched lips.

So why?

Your eyes squeeze shut tighter as he pushes in deeper, your throat convulsing around his invading cock. He throws his head back with a guttural moan.

"That's a good girl. Mhm, your throat feels so good wrapped around my dick." He grunts, starting to set a steady pace. Fucking into your mouth, using your face like a cock sleeve.

It was gross. He never did that to you.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the office as he picks up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each rough thrust. Drool escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your messed up clothes.

He looks down, taking in the debauched sight of you on your knees, choking on his cock. His dick is spit-shined and glistening, streaked with their drool. Shit. The sight makes him thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure.

"Look at me," He demands breathlessly, wanting to see the tears and desperation in their eyes as he uses their mouth ruthlessly. He's close, so fucking close already from the intense, vice-like grip of your inexperienced throat. He grunts and curses, slamming forward one last time before pulling out abruptly.

Thick ropes of cum paint your face and hair, marking you as his. Some of it even lands in your eyes, making them sting and water.

"You're so pretty... You look so pretty covered in my cum," he whispers lovingly, smearing the head of his cock across your messy face, pushing the hot seed into their skin like makeup. "The prettiest girl in the world."

You were supposed to break up with him...

How did it escalated to this?

***

It's not like he's losing a lot... you aren't that special. So why is he acting this way? There are a lot of better options for him, prettier, smarter, and richer girls. Someone who can actually match him, who doesn't embarrass him, worthier to stand beside him.

Why is he fucking you like his life depends on it?

Your eyes already hazy and unfocused, breathing hard as you couldn't count how many times you've already come.

One of his hands snakes up your trembling body, finding a soft breast. He squeezes the supple mound roughly, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he kneads and gropes. He finds a pert nipple and pinches it cruelly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until it stands stiff and aching in the cool air of the room.

"Hm? Are you already tired? We're just starting," he coo, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin. He bites and sucks, determined to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his own. His. He can feel his orgasm building, his heavy balls tightening as he ruts into your abused cunt. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by the creaking of the bed and your cries. He's close, so fucking close to filling your cunt with his seed.

"Gonna... hngh... fill this pussy..." He grunts between clenched teeth, slamming home one last time. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to come, thick ropes of hot cum painting your inner walls. He grinds against them, making sure they take every last drop as he marks your womb with his essence.

Finally, with a last shuddering groan, he collapses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your tender, cream-filled pussy. He pants harshly against the shell of their ear, his hands still groping and fondling your sensitive body.

"Y-You're an idiot..." You sniffle, "Why me? There's a lot of—."

He cuts you off, "You know, I would never cheat on you, right?" He whispers tenderly, kissing your ears as if assuring. "No matter who comes to me, I would never pay attention to them. Never. You're the only one I want." His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his intense, burning gaze.

It was the first time you ever heard his voice to be so... vulnerable.

"The only girl I want... So..." You can hear his voice shake, "Don't break up with me, ok?"

Your eyes glaze with tears, your heart tugging at his words. No, it wasn't supposed to end up like this. You made up your mind a few weeks ago, always nagging at the back of your mind. Ending your relationship would be the best for you two—.

He kisses you then, any doubts in your mind disappearing as his mouth claiming theirs in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, plundering the warm cavern as he grinds his hips forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against your thigh.

Ah, you don't care anymore.

"Don't think anymore, ok? Just let me do it for you."

He starts to rub the broad head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your combined juices. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll be gentle like the usual... for now." He promises darkly, his voice rough with restrained lust. "I'll make this first part nice and slow, nice and easy for you."

"H-Huh?"

With that, he starts to push forward, the thick length of his cock slowly sinking into your tight, clutching heat. He has to fight the urge to slam forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. But he resists, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor the exquisite feeling of your walls stretching around him.

"Ah, you're still so tight." He grits out through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing against your hips as he fights for control. "Such a perfect cunt."

"Too soon! I'm still... s-sensitive!" You cried out but he starts to move then, his hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm as he fucks into you with deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust pushes him a little deeper, a little harder, until he's finally buried to the hilt inside you. He pauses for a moment, letting you feel the heavy weight of him, the way he's stretching you impossibly full.

"Hehe, sorry can't help it. Does that feel gentle enough for you, sweetie?" He asks, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, yet his angelic face covers it. "Or do you need me to be even more... careful?" He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit.

Your brain short circuit by the overstimulation, all you could think about was him, and his big cock, "A-Ah, you— ish... so good~!"

He snarls in feral pleasure as he feels your pussy clench and ripple around his pistoning cock. The way you are moaning and crying out, begging him not to stop... it's the headiest fucking thing he's ever heard. It makes him want to ruin you, to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

You came in surprise, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, chest heaving, "C-Can't too much..!"

"You can do it," He growls, his voice a dark, distorted rumble. He can feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he fucks into you with wild abandon, "A-ah~ clench this greedy cunt around my dick, dollface. Milk it for all it's worth.

You never saw this side of him before, a more vulgar side to him. Spouting dirty words that's the opposite of his facade. Maybe, you didn't know your boyfriend that well? He was always gentleman to you in bed, always going with your pace and being mindful about his words but now...

"N-No~ I really ah! Can't!" You shake your head frantically, having enough of the sensitivity.

"Yes, you can! You will, sweetie~!"

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin as he chases his pleasure. He wants to mark you, to leave his claim all over your body for everyone to see. He wants the whole world to know that you belong to him, that you're his to fuck and fill and love as he sees fit. The thought of another man putting his hand on you makes him mad, you're only his and he isn't afraid to take that way for you to be officially his.

"I'm gonna cum, sweetie." He grits out, his hips slamming forward with sharp, brutal thrusts. "I'm gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my seed, gonna breed this fucking cunt until it's dripping with my cum."

Breed?

He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing mercilessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel you shake and quake as I fill you with my my child."

Wait...!

His other hand slides up, wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly. It's enough to make you gasp for air, pulse jumping wildly beneath his touch. It's enough to make you even tighter, body instinctively clenching down around him as he fucks into you with short, vicious thrusts.

Too much!

"Now, sweetie~ cum. Now." He commands, his voice a dark and sinful. And with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside her and starts to cum. His cock jerks and pulses as he paints your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed, filling you up just like he promised.

So full...

You gasp out, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. The room spins around you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as you struggle to catch your breath. Body aches all over, especially between your legs. The feeling of his cum painting your insides is strange, unsettling.

Your vision having black spots, your consciousness fading as you hear him murmur promises to you.

"I'll take responsibility whether we have a child or not, we'll get married and have a cute child."

You feel a warm kiss on your forehead.

"I love you. I love you more than anyone else, I only love you."

[wirelazeee]

COMN FANFIC WRITERS !!

[aventurineswife]

[lowkeyren]

—how to win my husband over 101

in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?

wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.

surprise pookies @vxnuslogy @luvether @knnichs @kazucee it’s finally here!!!!

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment. 

it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity. 

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.” 

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?” 

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself. 

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you. 

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination. 

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband. 

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him. 

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in. 

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest. 

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace. 

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal. 

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down. 

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees. 

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality. 

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve. 

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you. 

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent. 

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him. 

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place. 

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena. 

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent. 

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side. 

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone. 

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit. 

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters. 

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence. 

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner. 

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts. 

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses. 

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—” 

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain. 

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing. 

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.” 

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—” 

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you. 

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry. 

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself.  she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward,  “take her away.”

 “y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction. 

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it. 

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly,  as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips. 

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words. 

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth. 

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters. 

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development. 

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?” 

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite. 

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat. 

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall. 

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either. 

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble. 

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?” 

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear. 

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch. 

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena. 

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching. 

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince. 

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout. 

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident. 

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway. 

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it. 

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears. 

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip. 

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal. 

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought. 

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want… 

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back. 

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see. 

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips. 

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it. 

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand. 

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands. 

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

[quimichi]

˚✦ ˑ 𝐄𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐫, 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭? ִֶ 𓂃⊹ - MDNI

WARNINGS: NSFW - MDNI, Pet names, sexual behavior, name calling, some a bit rough and mean

SUMMARY: They took your virginity. Case solved.

CHARACTERS: HSR Men X F!Reader (no aged up Charas)

WORD COUNT: 13.150

Argenti

All you can do is whine as his fingers scissor and stretch you, juices dripping down. His tongue softly rubs circles around your clit like he’s painting you, a masterpiece. And you can’t help but moan out at the new pleasure. His fingers hit that spot that sends an electric jolt to your toes and back, you desperately arch with another whine. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the pleasure. It's overwhelming you, he promised to be gentle, and he is. But never once did he tell you how good this will all feel.

“S-Shit Argenti-, I can’t—I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish your sentence, your voice begins to crack, your hips bucking widly as he speeds up. And then you’re coming, babbling nonsense and his name like a prayer as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. You don’t even comprehend that you squirt all over his hand and mouth, or that he’s rutting his hips against the bed and moaning into your cunt as he tastes you. Not only is it a pleasure to please you, beautiful you. It's a pleasure to be your first. It sends a wave of possessiveness through his body.

Slowly, he withdraws his fingers, his glistening fingers running up to your waist.  “Such a dirty little rose,” he murmurs as he leans down, teeth grazing across your neck, hair tickling your skin. “Youre a sight to behold, breathless, dazed...divine.”

Aventurine

“You like that, don’t you?” He asks, grip on your throat. Its not enough to hurt you, but enough for you to know his hand is there. “You like my cock stretchin’ you out, huh?” You're unable answer him, the only thing you manage are whines and moans slipping through his fingers through your throat. He'd be mean to not let you moan out like a bitch in heat after all. Aventurine smirks knowingly, continuing his assault on your insides.

“Can't believe no one ever went inside you, youre far too good. Shit-you love it too, don't you?” You whine out, hiccuping out a moan as his other hand travels down your tummy, the soft touch sending waves to your core. His fingers eventually find your clit, rubbinh the swollen skin over and over again. Your eyes glaze over and roll back, it's too much, too much!

Your vision goes white as your orgasm hits you unexpectedly, stealing the breath from your lungs as your legs shake and back arches. “Mine, ok? Youre mine, my girl. You don't mind do you? Surely you don't...look at you, sweet girl.”

Blade

“feels s’fucking good—“ you mindlessly babbles out. His large palms are stretched out on both sides of you hips, nails digging into your skin. “Such a greedy little pussy,” he groans out with another roll of his hips. “keeps suckin’ me back in…you're a little greedy slut, hm?" he teases.

You can feel his hot breath fanning your ear while his dark hair tickles your neck. The sloppy sounds that fill the room seem to only grow louder with each thrust, as your arousal practically drips down his balls. Headboard constantly hitting the wall. You wouldn't be surprised if something would break this night, and it doesn't need to be the bed.

“if you keep moaning like a bitch in heat, i won't fucking stop,” he hissed out, as he presses down on your stomach which makes you whimper in response. "Naw, look at that," he points at the bulge in your stomach, "that's me all the way inside your greedy cunt."

Boothill

"you still good, darlin?" he asked, amused, his hands moving up to grab one of your tits, giving it a squeeze with his cold hands. He hummed at your subtle nod, his fingers pinching your nipple from below with just the right amount of pressure to bring you to the edge but not send you over. He knows he could do this for hours, his stamina is much longer than yours after all, but he doesn't want to push you just yet.

"shit.." he cursed, though not out of frustration, “your pussy is driving me crazy." he whispered against your folds, the vibrations of his voice sending shivers through your entire body, it almost felt as if you were being electrocuted or something. “its so fucking pretty for no fucking reason...”

Caelus

“shiiit-just like that...” he mumbles out as he lazily guides your movements, helping you bounce yourself up and down on his cock. Hands softly gripping your hips as he guides you. He smirks when he heard your whine as a reaction to his groans, golden halflidded eyes stare up at you. He thinks you’re adorable when you’re like this, so desperate for him yet so adamant on not asking for his help. You had no idea what you were doing, well, neither does he. But you insisted on riding him.

“doing so well,” he says with a slight whine as he thrusts his hips up in time with your movements. It doesn’t take much effort for him to flip you over and have you at his mercy. Your legs are now lifted over his shoulders while his dick is fucking you even deeper, "sorry,-shit-sorry I couldn't-hold myself back much longer-!"

Dan Heng

“just as i expected, it slipped right in...” your arm immediately slung over your face to hide your embarrassment. Something about the way he talks to you has you throbbing.

“fuck, so deep inside you already.” he breathes, as he eases his way into you. He's so painfully splitting you open. You whine and whimper, it feels too good to be true. “that’s it, there’s my girl.” his raspy laugh fills the silence. “youre doing so good for me, just a bit longer, ok?”

He speeds up his thrusts, "eyes on me," he says, "you can do it, eyes on me." And when he hits just the right spot, your eyes roll back and flutter closed.

"Good girl."

Dr. Ratio

“it hurts, doesn't it?” he whispers, no mock, no tease, unusual for him. He knows it hurts, he's just deep enough inside you, balls deep.

“yes, it hurts…” you whine, eyes watering as you adjust. He’s letting you distract yourself a bit, letting you soak up the pain with pleasure. “… so bad.” you keep whining.

"I know, it will get better." he presses his hips flat against you, just to slowly drag his cock out of you again, leaving just his tip inside. “Doing good for a first timer. Don't worry, I'll teach you everything you need to know.”

You nod desperately, biting your lip between your teeth.

“I'll be slow, we got time.” he mumbles, a sick grin painting across his face. He'd be lying if he would say he doesn't enjoy the power play that's going on at the moment. "I'M gonna teach you everything you need to know."

Gallagher

Your mouth falls open when he grinds his hard cock against your ass. Youre breathing hard, chest heaving. But you can't help but lean back against his chest. He slips a hand back into your underwear, rubbing slow circles against your clit. His breath is hot against your ear as he chuckles at your reaction. His middle finger slips between your folds and gathers some of your arousal to use it at your clit again. Once he had your hips jerking and whines leaving your lips, he slips two of his thick fingers inside. He moves slowly, fingers working inside of you like a caress.

“I- ‘m gonna-” you muster, weakly clawing at his arms.

He slips his hand out of your pussy again, letting his tongue run over his fingers, lapping at your juices. He hums, as the taste hits his tounge, “Shit, girl. Got me addicted already.”

Gepard

“That’s it.. Just like that..” He takes hold of the hand, kissing your knuckles, whispering soft praises into your skin to help you work up courage to keep riding him. He knows it's embarrassing for you, he knows you doubt yourself. But he also knows that you can do it.

“Doing so good for me, ok? So good, keep going..”

It takes his everything to hold back his hips and not fuck up into you, it's all too inviting.  He holds you, wrapping both arms around your torso and pull you close to his chest. One hand slips down to your hips, guiding you on his cock. "Like that, yeah."

Hot breaths reach your ear as he hums in approvment. "Good...shit--good."

Jing Yuan

“ass up. There you go, atta girl.” and you almost shiver from his touch on you'd hips as he turns you over. Jing Yuan stares at your ass, bringing a rough palm towards your left cheek. “Mm, nice. You're doing good. Don't worry, I'll go easy on you...for now.”

As he speaks, your cheek presses further against the pillow, hiding in embarrassment. Jing Yuan watches as your ass writhes and he hums, springing out his thick cock. “I'm going in, ok? No need to be scared”

“ok...” you breathe, big talk for someone who probably has way to much experience for his own good.

"I'll go easy on you, I promised you that birdie." He whispers in your ear as he leans over, slowly pushing in.

Jiaoqiu

He dives in, his tongue delving deep into your soaked folds. He laps at you hungrily, savoring your taste as he eats you out with wild abandon. His tongue swirls around your clit before sucking it between his lips, flicking the sensitive bud rapidly. “you're so hot...,” he hums against your core, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “thank you for the meal...”

Your finger desperately looking for support and found his hair, scratching his scalp with your long nails in the process. You can't help but let one hand wander to one of his ears, tugging on it. Immediately a whine leaves his lips as he laps on you more desperately than before.

He doubles his efforts, lapping at your clit with broad strokes of his tongue before sealing his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and suckling greedily.

"Do that again and watch me eat you up."

Luka

Luka leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as he pounds into you relentlessly. His hands grip your hips hard you feel like you might see some bruises tomorrow as a souvenir.

"Damn, you take my cock better than expected, baby," he rasps against your mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Way to fucking well, you sure you're a virgin?" he breaks the kiss to gaze down at you. “look at me,” he commands, "that pussy is mine now. Mine."

As you meet his eyes, he reaches between your bodies to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck-didnt know you could get any tighter."

Luocha

The next thing you felt was his cock entering you all at once, barely giving you time to get used to his huge size and thickness. Hes not a mean man by any means, but he figured that maybe him going in faster with the ammount of slick you already got, might be less painful. Wronh judgment in a hazy moment. And fuck if he didn't love feeling the way your cunt stretched to accommodate him, how your walls are so tight around his length.

When he did it, it was over for you, and you thanked him with the most beautiful sounds he ever heard. You squeezed him and croed out, making a mess of yourself as you grab onto his shoulders for support. It all was too much for you, too much happening all at once. But you'd be a lair to say you didn't enjoy it.

He would slowly start to run against you, holding your hips in place as he drags his cock in and out of your hole. His slow speed was annoying, painful, but so good.

But the best feeling was yet to come.

“Just you wait once I'm done with you. We'll have plenty of time left to get to know each other much better."

Sampo

Without warning, he pulled out – only halfway – and plunged back inside you with an almighty push. It .ade your eyes roll back into your skull, your mind went blank for a second. His teasing laugh pulling you back into reality, "Oops-went to hard there~" As a apology he went softer on you, slowly dragging his cock in and out of your hole.

“Doing so well for me,” he groaned, as he lightly speed up again, holding your hips in a tight grip.

"Damn-" he groans as you grap onto his shoulders and dig your nails in. "Careful there baby, you don't wanna hurt poor Sampo, hm?" He laughs again as he kisses down your neck and leaves yet another bite behind.

"We could do this more often, I know I wouldn't mind."

Sunday

The all so collected man practically loses it when you wrap your legs around his back. You unknowingly push him against you, silently asking for more. "Needy, needy." he teases as breaths in your ear, giving it a soft kiss afterwards.

“Dont you worry, I'm not done with you yet.”

Although his words came out more scary than they should, his action of hiding into your shoulder makes it all seem more pathetic than dominant. His wings flutter as your parted lips let a whine escape.

He groans, burying his cock deep just as it starts to gush, painting your walls white. Your nails dig hard into his scalp.

“That came...rather unexpected.”

Welt

“it won’t fit!” you sob out loud. No way this all will fit inside you, you never took anything, or anything that size. He's bigger than you, this wont fit without tears. But you're determined today, telling him you wanted to fit everything in you.

He trails his fingers up and down your side before one hand snakes down to thumb at your clit while the other large hand clasps your hip. "i'll make it fit, and I'll be careful." he promises, soft as he pleasures you. You expected nothing less of him, he always treated you with more care than any others. He softly rubs your clit as he enters, a way of distracting you from the pain that you will encounter.

"there you go, told you I'd make it fit."

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 real mature... | various (i mean it) hsr men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; someone asks you out infront of your boyfriend while you're on a date, how do they react ?!

love mail — this is a lot because its short and i literally dk what to write 💔 YES im sqgeism and lost movitation after two weeks ゜゜(´O｀)°゜atp i'll make a tiktok bc this is NOT me.. 5 million metaphors and unnecessary poetic language imy

anaxa just looks offended. death stares them till they get a hint and makes sure to be much closer to you the whole date. he does NOT play and if you try he's bashing someones head in.

no one is approaching you with mydei around.. lets be real.. but in the hypothetical that it DOES happen.. all he has to do is smile and have his hand hold onto their shoulder a bit too tightly. there will be NO ONE flirting w his soulmate.

phainon knows he's too pretty to leave so he does NOT care. his facecard got him here and NOBODY is taking that place 🤦‍♀️ tells 'em to read the room while kissing your forehead.

jing yuan is totally the person who lets them shoot their shot, smiling the entire time as he knows you'd never choose anyone else. however, it does get to a point, and he takes your hand into his while scoffing. "can't quite compare, can you?"

caelus totally pushes you towards them like "oh yes, one burden off my back!" before quickly pulling you back into his arms, back pressed against his chest as he looms over you, glaring at the guy. "kidding, fuck off."

blade stares. sends them off running and mutters "it works every time."

aventurine places a stack of bills in their hand and mutters a quick "don't do this again." before taking you away from the place, hand VERY intentionally caressing your waist while he does.

they trip before they get too close, totally not because of il dan heng's tail. probably also gets whacked in the face while they're on the floor, and you don't even notice because he starts talking about taking you to a fancy dinner while walking away.

you have to be the one to pull dr. ratio away because he's about to drop a building on some idiot. kidding... kind of. he has that look in his eyes that convinces you he's thinking about it.

acts nonchalant about it in the moment, gallagher has them blacklisted from every bar you frequent in the next. NEVER happening again

who the hell is messing with the silvermane guards partner 💔 gepard thinks about it happening and makes himself upset over a fictional scenario.

"taken. move on." moze is quick to the point with a sharp glare, proudly flexes his promise ring to you and continues on with the date. doesn't even try to get away cause he knows he's got you.

"as if you could handle alla that." boothill knows he'll be 10x the man of ANYONE despite being 90% machine. carries you over his shoulder to prove a point, but apologizes if you get embarrassed LMAO

[meowdei]

godslayer — ft. mydeimos

your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave

word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss

before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering

commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly

You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos. 

On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants. 

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not. 

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves. 

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones. 

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength. 

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you. 

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady. 

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders. 

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him. 

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king. 

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic. 

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation. 

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly. 

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh. 

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room. 

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around. 

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break. 

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid. 

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. 

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot. 

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.) 

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him. 

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly. 

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds. 

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side. 

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time. 

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening. 

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.) 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. 

“Goodnight,” you huff in return. 

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos. 

At least, it is for you. 

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head. 

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly. 

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband. 

��He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince. 

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown. 

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?” 

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out. 

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do. 

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days. 

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms. 

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly. 

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything. 

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy. 

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves. 

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you. 

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused. 

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them. 

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated. 

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears. 

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence. 

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly. 

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come. 

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I  have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort. 

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire. 

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go. 

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open. 

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic. 

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing. 

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles. 

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout. 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves. 

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment. 

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained. 

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream. 

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you. 

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him. 

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again. 

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos. 

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him. 

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders. 

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely. 

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose. 

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage. 

“Ready to return home?” He asks. 

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth. 

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends. 

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner. 

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest? 

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way. 

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise. 

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you. 

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming. 

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.) 

And you cave. 

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason. 

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff. 

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile. 

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect. 

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist. 

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face. 

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament. 

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects. 

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine. 

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse. 

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point. 

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate. 

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy. 

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping. 

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass. 

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.” 

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you. 

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close. 

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries. 

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive. 

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him. 

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm. 

You blink in surprise. 

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly. 

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties. 

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it. 

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically. 

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!” 

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood. 

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth. 

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles. 

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth. 

He melts for a second, on instinct alone. 

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”  

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it. 

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.” 

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you. 

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back. 

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry. 

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry. 

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first. 

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent. 

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle. 

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.” 

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips. 

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts. 

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze. 

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you. 

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei? 

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin. 

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest. 

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock. 

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.” 

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers. 

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages. 

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls. 

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock. 

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression. 

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you. 

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything. 

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take. 

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him. 

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you. 

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile. 

Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.

────────────────────────

The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day. 

You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is. 

After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.

“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments. 

“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed. 

Then, he walks. 

As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets. 

“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”

“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”

“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”

“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”

That only seems to irk you more. 

“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile. 

“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”

“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief. 

Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you. 

“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”

“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight. 

Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”

“You torture me,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink in confusion. And then—

Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.

Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)

“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.

He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”

You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”

“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”

“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”

“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.

“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”

“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”

Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft. 

“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”

“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”

“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”

“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”

“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt. 

“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows. 

Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow. 

“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”

“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”

He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim. 

And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill. 

“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”

“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”

“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”

“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)

His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—

“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”

Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly. 

“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.

“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”

He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”

You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”

———————

Mydei does, in fact, return to you. 

Except, it is not in the condition that he left. 

He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat. 

“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers. 

You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound. 

“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”

“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”

“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle. 

“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”

“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”

You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all. 

———————

It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed. 

“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.

“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”

“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”

“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise. 

And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”

One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him. 

“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?” 

He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”

“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”

“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”

“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”

You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against. 

But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.

And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage. 

“Do you not have any faith in m—”

“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”

“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”

“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks. 

“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”

“Do not scare me like this again,” you command. 

“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face. 

“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”

“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”

“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”

“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.

“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say. 

“The sun,” you murmur. 

He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”

Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt. 

“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”

“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer. 

You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”

He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”

WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.

It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.

It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.

First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.

Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.

Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.

Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.

Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.

For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.

Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily

[staryunaa]

SUNDAY PHAINON AND RATIO??????? AHHHHHHHHAHDLKEWBDAKLBSCKOAWBDKABDCABSDKDKDNA and that annoying enemy ig….

art creds! - @/yuelinpanp98413 on twt!

[royalfriday]

Finished the prologue of the story for the argenti x f reader. So be alert. Probably i will post it in the following days 😃.

[riddlesrose]

"is he single!?" your attention is drawn behind you, to where a group of insignificant chatterboxes cluster together like they're trying to start a mob. their quips died down instantly when someone in the group shushed the rest and you released the breath you were holding. you return your attention to your friends in front of you.

a few minutes pass and another comment catches your ear, "i mean, there's a leech on his side, but other than that, just look! he's so picture perfect." you fight the urge to crane your neck around, to stare directly into the heart of the group with piercing eyes, to let them know that they are anything but quiet. all the while hoping they're not talking about your boyfriend, who's arm is wrapped comfortably around your waist, holding you ever so close. like a leech.

you snicker to yourself at the backwards use of their ugly nickname, gaining the attention of your boyfriend, who asks what's so funny, and comments that no one said anything worth laughing over.

"oh, no reason." you smile as you wrap an arm around to rest on his back. what he can't see is that you folded all fingers down but the middle one so that you're flipping off the group of prattlers stood behind him.

you lean into his side more and press a sweet kiss onto his cheek, he retorts by turning you back to him and pressing a lasting kiss to your lips as muted gasps and scoffs were heard. someone in the group attempts to silence their peers but their calls fall upon deaf ears. "whatever, let's go."

you relax against him as the group disperses, a content sigh escape your lips.

a moment passes, before your boyfriend leans to whisper, "were they bothering you?"

"what? no!" yes. they were annoying. is what you meant.

your boyfriend kisses your temple, "sure. oh, and you're not a leech, my love." you turn your face away, hiding the heat that rushes to your cheeks at the fact he cracked your code so quick.

if your friends could look any more grossed out at the sickly sweet pda, they probably would. but you don't care, your boyfriend is the sweetest 🤍

satoru gojo, suguru geto, tooru oikawa, atsumu miya, tetsuro kuroo, vil schoenheit, malleus draconia, kaeya alberich, diluc ragnvindr, kazuha kaedehara, ayato kamisato, jing yuan, argenti, tenya iida, ejiro kirishima, & your favourite

masterlist

[danijaci]

fur"baby" w/ jing yuan

the lion ignores the latest gap moe update

taglist:

@moristhesecond @hunnieknight @haithxm-main

@mikoochaan

@greyrain23 @reideneris @bro-im-just-playing @teabutmakeitazure @meimeimeirin

@psychopomp-enthusiast @jade1605 @mochinon-yah @eussstasss @lillieofth3valley

@ichikanu @harmonysanreads @yellowelectroslime @miraclecherryblossomsblog @rossithepixie

@schoenpepper @cadesthings @creationsabyss @hirotasama @jth12

@alhaithams-malewife @oliaxter @angeveins @sakisud @xhongshan

@materlux @lost-in-the-night-skiess @shinha @m1kuz0ne @vashyuu

@n0rmalsimp @biytdtdatmirsmlys @mad-girlfan @wriomii @fyodorssimp1

[areislol]

how honkai star rail men would be with their very heavily pregnant wife

pairings. jing yuan, blade, anaxa, phainon, mydei, aventurine, boothill, dr ratio, gepard, sunday, sampo, moze x fem/afab! reader

warnings. phainon and mydei might be ooc! slightly suggestive for mydei, angst if you squint for boothill

a/n. my professor is pregnant and i got inspired, is that weird? i think i went a little overboard when writing.

wc. 18.2k

jing yuan

✧  super protective general mode activated – jing yuan won’t let you lift a single finger. you’re a literal empress in his eyes, and he treats you like one.

✧ he constantly rubs your belly, murmuring sweet nothings to your baby, calling them “little cub” or “our future star.”

✧ yanqing is over the moon, already asking when he can start training the baby. jing yuan just laughs and tells him to be patient.

✧ he pretends to be chill, but he secretly has his cloud knights monitoring your every move. if you so much as sigh, he’s rushing to your side with a massage ready.

✧ jing yuan is so unbelievably soft with you. he treats you like you're the most precious thing in the world, because to him, you are. he’s already a laid-back general, but when it comes to you and your pregnancy, he becomes even lazier—only because he insists on doing everything for you, so you don’t have to lift a single finger.

✧ “why would i let you do anything, my love? you’re already doing the most important thing—bringing our child into this world.” he says it so smoothly, like it’s the most obvious thing ever, all while he’s feeding you slices of fresh fruit.

✧ he loves talking to the baby. every night, he rests his head against your belly, rubbing slow circles over your stretched skin as he murmurs soft words. “are you being good to your mother? not causing too much trouble, i hope.” his voice is teasing, but there’s so much warmth in it.

✧ yanqing is excited beyond belief. he treats your belly like a sacred treasure, constantly checking in and promising to be the best big brother figure. jing yuan just watches with an amused smile, letting the boy go on about how he’ll train the baby to be the best swordsman when they’re older.

✧ if you so much as sigh, he’s immediately at your side. tired? he’s carrying you. back hurting? he’s massaging you. craving something? he already sent someone to get it.

✧ he lets you sleep on him whenever you want. if you’re tired in the middle of the day, he just pulls you into his lap, arms wrapped securely around you as he leans back, perfectly content to stay like that for hours.

✧ you catch him daydreaming about your child a lot. he’ll be sitting at his desk, chin in his palm, a soft smile on his lips as he imagines what they’ll look like. “will they have your eyes?” he asks one day, reaching out to brush his fingers over your cheek. “i hope they do.”

✧ he’s secretly very nervous about the birth. he won’t show it, but you catch the way his fingers tighten slightly when he thinks about it. he just loves you so much, and he hates the idea of you being in pain. he’ll be right by your side when the time comes, holding your hand, whispering reassurances in that deep, soothing voice of his.

✧ at the end of the day, jing yuan is just so deeply in love with you. every moment, every touch, every gentle smile—he’s cherishing all of it, because this is the family he’s always dreamed of.

✧ jing yuan is absolutely smitten with you and your pregnancy. he’s always been affectionate, but now? now he’s downright insatiable when it comes to touching you. his hands are always somewhere—resting on your belly, rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, cupping your cheek as he presses soft kisses against your lips. he just wants you to feel loved every second of the day.

✧ he’s a chronic nuzzler. when you’re sitting together, he leans in to bury his face in your neck, breathing in your scent, his hands splayed across your belly. when you’re lying down, he rests his forehead against yours, murmuring sweet little reassurances about how well you’re doing. if he could, he’d never let you leave his embrace.

✧ he absolutely spoils you. your cravings? already fulfilled before you even realize you’re hungry. your feet hurt? he’s massaging them while looking at you with those warm, golden eyes. you’re feeling emotional? he’s pulling you into his lap, whispering words of love as he strokes your hair.

✧ his favorite thing is feeling the baby kick. he lights up every single time—his eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips as he presses his palm to your belly. “ah, little one, i see you’re already training to be a warrior.” he chuckles, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

✧ he reads to you at night. sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it’s old tales of the xianzhou, but he loves the idea of his voice lulling both you and the baby into sleep. he takes it as an unspoken duty to make sure you’re as comfortable and relaxed as possible.

✧ he will not let you lift a single thing. you could be reaching for something as light as a teacup, and suddenly his arm is there, effortlessly taking it from you. “tsk, tsk, my dear. what did i say about doing things yourself?” he smirks as he hands it to you, obviously enjoying how much he gets to dote on you.

✧ yanqing is so excited that it makes jing yuan even more excited. when yanqing starts talking about how he’s going to train the baby in swordsmanship, jing yuan suddenly finds himself indulging in the fantasy, too. “hm… perhaps they’ll wield a greatsword like me,” he muses, stroking his chin before glancing at you with a teasing smirk. “or maybe they’ll be as quick-witted and sharp as their mother.”

✧ he secretly makes a journal about the pregnancy. he writes down little notes—about the first time he felt the baby kick, about how breathtaking you looked under the moonlight as you rested, about how his heart aches with how much he loves you both. he never tells you about it, but he plans to give it to your child when they’re older, so they’ll know just how much their father adored their mother.

✧ he absolutely, 100% cries when the baby is born. he tries to be strong, tries to keep his composure, but the moment he hears that first cry, he’s done for. he cups your face with shaky hands, pressing his forehead to yours as he whispers, “you did so well, my love… so well.” and when he finally holds the baby, his chest tightens with overwhelming love—he’s never known a happiness like this before.

blade —

✧ he rarely shows outward emotions, but his hands always find their way to your belly, as if grounding himself in the reality of your shared future.

✧ if you ever feel pain, even if it’s normal pregnancy discomfort, he tenses up immediately, staring at you with worry. “are you okay? do you need something?”

✧ he lets you sleep curled up against him, his body warmth soothing you. even if he doesn’t need rest, he’ll lay beside you, hand on your stomach, eyes half-lidded.

✧ the stellaron hunters tease him for being so soft for you, but he doesn’t care. his priority is you and the baby—nothing else.

✧ buys you those pregnancy pillows, not one, not two, not three, but FIVE of them. why? don't ask why. he just did what he had to do.

✧ blade is both the most terrifying and the softest man you have ever seen during your pregnancy. anyone who so much as glances at you the wrong way gets a death glare so sharp it could cut through steel. he becomes hyper-aware of his surroundings, his protective instincts dialed up to a thousand. but when he's with you? when he's resting his palm on your belly, feeling the faint kicks of your child? he's tender in a way no one else will ever see.

✧ he doesn't speak much, but his actions say everything. he’s not the type to whisper poetic words about his love for you, but when he pulls you into his chest, his calloused fingers brushing through your hair—when he kneels in front of you, pressing the softest kiss to your swollen belly—you know exactly how much he cherishes you.

✧ he has a habit of placing his hand on your belly whenever you're together. it’s instinctual, protective, like he’s always ready to shield both you and your child from harm. even in his sleep, his hand finds its way to your stomach, fingers twitching slightly as if standing guard.

✧ he worries about you, even if he doesn’t always say it outright. you catch him watching you with furrowed brows when you move around too much, his lips pressing into a thin line when he sees you wince. if he had his way, you'd be in bed all day, wrapped up in the safest cocoon possible—but he knows you’re strong, so he holds back. barely.

✧ he is unbelievably gentle when touching you. it’s almost ironic—blade, a man who knows nothing but violence, whose hands are stained with countless battles, touches you like you’re made of the finest glass. every time he cups your face, every time he trails his fingers over your belly, his touch is so, so careful. he would rather die than cause you any harm.

✧ he talks to the baby when he thinks you're asleep. late at night, when the world is silent and you’re curled up against him, he whispers words he could never say when you're awake. “i will protect you.” his voice is barely above a breath, his hand splayed over your belly. “you and your mother. always.”

✧ he makes sure you're eating properly, even if it means forcing you to sit down while he prepares something himself. he doesn’t care if he’s never been much of a cook—he will make sure you're fed and taken care of, even if it means standing in the kitchen for an hour, staring at a recipe with a deep frown.

✧ he pretends not to care about the baby shopping, but he totally does. when you bring him to look at baby clothes, he acts indifferent at first, hands tucked into his coat. but the second he sees a tiny onesie in your favorite color? he picks it up, runs his fingers over the fabric, and mutters something about how “this one looks… acceptable.” (he buys it immediately.)

✧ he doesn't know how to express it, but he's excited to be a father. he never thought he’d have something like this—something soft, something real. he never thought he’d have a future beyond endless battles. but now, with you by his side, carrying a child that is part of both of you, he finally starts to believe in something more.

✧ when the baby is born, he is completely, utterly still. for the first time in his life, blade feels like he has no words. he holds the tiny bundle in his arms, staring down at this little life he helped create, and something deep inside him shifts. when he finally looks at you, eyes glassy with unspoken emotion, he whispers the only thing he can say—“thank you.”

✧ blade is absolutely helpless when it comes to your cravings. you want something specific in the middle of the night? he’s already putting on his coat, ready to hunt it down no matter how absurd it is. he doesn’t even question it anymore. one time, you craved something bizarre—like spicy pickles dipped in chocolate—and he just stared at you for a full ten seconds before silently retrieving the ingredients. when he watched you eat it with a satisfied hum, he muttered, “...i have never feared anything more than i fear your cravings.”

✧ there was one time when he brought you the wrong food, and you almost burst into tears. your craving was very specific—a warm peach bun from a particular vendor—but he accidentally got a different flavor. when he saw your lip tremble, he immediately turned on his heel and went straight back out to find the exact one you wanted. “i will not return until i retrieve it,” he swore, like he was going on some life-or-death mission.

✧ he tries to act like he doesn’t care when you make him try your strange craving combinations, but the second you say, “if you love me, you’ll try it,” he knows he’s lost. cue him begrudgingly taking a bite of something absolutely cursed (like ice cream and soy sauce) while you eagerly watch for his reaction. he chews. he swallows. he slowly looks away and mutters, “i am never doing that again.” (he does it again the next time you ask.)

✧ one time, you craved something so bad that you started getting emotional over it. “blade… what if i never get to eat it again?” you sniffled, burying your face in your hands. panic. absolute panic. he thought this was an actual emergency. he dropped everything he was doing, ready to fight the universe itself if it meant securing your food. when he finally got it and handed it to you, you sighed dreamily, saying, “you’re my hero.” his ears turned a little red after that.

✧ you get unbelievably clingy, and it’s both endearing and confusing to blade. he’ll be standing still, minding his own business, when you just attach yourself to him, draping yourself over his back like a koala. “don’t move,” you mumble. he doesn’t. if anything, he just shifts slightly so that you’re more comfortable.

✧ there was a moment when you dramatically flopped onto the bed, groaning about how your feet hurt. before you could even finish your sentence, blade was already kneeling down, silently massaging your feet. you gasped. “oh my god, you’re actually good at this—” his fingers worked into the sore spots with expert precision. you immediately melted. blade, meanwhile, just continued as if he’d been doing this for centuries. “your body is under strain,” he simply said. “this is the least i can do.”

✧ blade has an uncanny ability to appear whenever you need help. you’re struggling to bend down to grab something? suddenly, he’s there. you’re about to lift something heavier than he deems acceptable? boom, he’s already taking it from you. you once tested this by whispering, “i’m craving something…” and within seconds, he materialized behind you with an unreadable expression, already holding his coat, waiting for instructions.

✧ he does not tolerate anyone making unnecessary comments about your size. one time, a stranger made an offhand remark about how big your belly was, and before you could even react, blade was staring them down with the most chilling gaze imaginable. he didn’t even say a word—just narrowed his eyes ever so slightly—and the person immediately backpedaled.

✧ despite his serious nature, there was one time he made a mistake that neither of you will ever forget. you asked him to fetch your favorite snack, and he misheard you. instead of returning with the correct one, he came back with something completely different. when he handed it to you, looking all serious, you just… stared at it. “blade… what is this.” he frowned. “the food you asked for.” you shook your head.

✧ “no, this is not what i asked for.” a long silence. then, without a word, he simply turned around and walked right back out to get the correct one.

✧ sometimes, he gets so used to catering to you that he forgets he doesn’t need to keep doing it after the baby is born. one time, you got up to get something for yourself, and blade immediately tried to stop you. “sit down,” he said automatically, already moving to do it for you. you had to gently remind him, “blade, i can move now.” he paused. thought about it. then, in a deadpan voice, muttered, “...i don’t like that.”

anaxa —

✧ the man is obsessed with your pregnancy. every single day, he’s marveling at your growing belly, resting his head on it, whispering to the baby.

✧ “can you hear me, little one? your father loves you very, very much~” and then he looks up at you with stars in his eyes. you can’t walk five steps without him offering to carry you.

✧ he’d literally sweep you off your feet in public if you let him. he handmakes baby clothes, paints the nursery with celestial patterns, and makes sure you’re always surrounded by warmth and love.

✧ anaxa is absolutely ecstatic about you carrying his child. he’s a man of passion, and this is the most exciting thing to ever happen in his life. he showers you in affection constantly, hands never far from your belly, and every little change in your pregnancy fascinates him. one day, he catches sight of your growing bump in the mirror, and his golden eyes widen with pure admiration.

✧ “by the aeons, look at you… you’re stunning.” he twirls you around, beaming, like you’re the most divine sight in the universe.

✧ he is obnoxiously protective but in a warm, dramatic way. if you so much as sigh, he’s immediately cupping your face, his gaze filled with concern. “beloved, are you unwell? do you need anything? say the word, and i shall move the stars themselves to bring you comfort.” if you so much as stumble, he is catching you like a hero in a romantic novel, dipping you slightly as if it were a dance.

✧ he goes insane over your cravings. no matter how ridiculous, he takes it as a personal challenge. one time, you craved the most specific fruit from a distant planet, and before you could even consider changing your mind, he was already making arrangements to have it imported. it arrived within hours. you stared at him in disbelief as he proudly presented it. “for you, my beloved, there is no distance too far.”

✧ he gets competitive about taking care of you. he must be the one to do everything. need a foot massage? he’s already doing it. thirsty? your drink is already in your hands. you tried to reach for something on a high shelf once, and he gasped dramatically, lifting you into his arms instead. “such tasks are far beneath you, my dear.” you just wanted a plate.

✧ when the baby kicks for the first time, he is overwhelmed. his hands freeze over your stomach, golden eyes widening in shock. he looks up at you, utterly stunned, before breaking into the most lovesick grin you have ever seen. “they’re strong,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. “our child is strong.”

✧ he talks to your belly. all the time. and not just little greetings—he has full conversations. he tells your baby about the adventures he’s had, the beautiful places they’ll see, and how lucky they are to have you as their mother. sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he whispers soft promises to them. “you will be loved beyond measure, little one. i swear it upon the stars.”

✧ he spoils you rotten. anything you want, you get. it’s impossible to stop him. the moment you so much as glance at a pretty item, he’s already purchasing it. if you tell him “you don’t have to—” he hushes you with a kiss to your forehead. “nonsense, my love. you deserve the world.”

✧ he gets extremely emotional when you’re in labour. despite his usual confidence, he is on edge, pacing the room, running a hand through his hair, whispering prayers under his breath. the second he hears your baby’s first cry, he collapses into the chair, exhaling a deep breath of relief (like he was the one giving birth.... 😒).

✧ when he finally holds them for the first time, he is speechless. his usual poetic words fail him, and he just stares, eyes glossy with unshed tears, before finally whispering, “you are the greatest gift i have ever received.”

✧ anaxa treats your pregnancy like the most important quest of his life. from the moment he learns you’re expecting, he dives headfirst into research. he devours every article, medical journal, and ancient text on pregnancy, memorizing every detail.

✧ at night, he’s hunched over stacks of datapads, reading about fetal development, prenatal nutrition, and even obscure childbirth traditions across different planets. when you wake up and ask what he’s doing, he simply replies, “studying for the most important role of my existence.”

✧ he takes notes. meticulous, detailed notes. he carries around a small journal where he writes everything—your mood shifts, your cravings, even what time of day the baby kicks the most. it’s filled with observations like “beloved seemed irritated today—possible correlation with lack of midday nap?” and “baby prefers right side of belly—will investigate further.”

✧ one time, you peeked into his notes and found a page titled “top ten ways to make my love comfortable” with a ranked list of his most successful strategies.

✧ he does field research. he doesn’t just rely on books—he goes out and seeks firsthand knowledge. he interviews every mother he can find, from warriors to scholars, recording their experiences and advice with intense focus.

✧ he once stopped an entire group of mothers in the marketplace just to ask, “ladies, if i may—what was the most effective way your partners supported you during pregnancy?” he listened very seriously, nodding at each answer, before thanking them with a deep bow.

✧ he becomes hyper-aware of pregnancy symptoms before you even notice them. you sigh slightly, and before you can say anything, he’s already handing you water because “dehydration can cause fatigue, my dear.”

✧ If you rub your lower back even once, he instantly offers a massage. one time, you mentioned feeling warm, and within seconds, he adjusted the room’s temperature to the optimal degree for pregnant comfort.

✧ no one can escape his lectures. if someone offers you food that’s even slightly questionable for pregnancy, he immediately intervenes, launching into a detailed explanation of why you cannot eat it. “that dish contains an ingredient known to cause nausea in twelve percent of expectant mothers. i simply cannot allow it.”

✧ you once caught him educating a fellow father-to-be about the importance of emotional support during pregnancy. “your partner’s needs must always come first. if she craves something at midnight, you go. no hesitation.”

✧ he gets way too into prenatal bonding. he doesn’t just talk to the baby—he reads stories, sings songs, and even plays music. one day, you walked in on him reciting a dramatic monologue from one of his favorite plays to your belly, gesturing passionately. “and so, my dear child, this is the tale of heroes and honor… may you inherit my love for storytelling.” you couldn’t stop laughing.

✧ when you’re nearing your due date, he prepares a full emergency plan. he has a route mapped out to the medical facility, a list of supplies packed and double-checked, and contingency plans for every possible scenario.

✧ if labor starts unexpectedly, he has multiple escape routes memorized for a quick departure. one time, he even did a practice drill, making sure he could carry you effortlessly if needed. “i must be ready, beloved. i refuse to falter in your moment of need.”

✧ the moment you go into labor, he activates like a man on a mission. his usually playful and dramatic nature is replaced with laser-sharp focus. he’s immediately by your side, holding your hand, guiding you through breathing exercises he memorized. but internally, he is barely holding it together.

✧ the second he hears the baby’s first cry, he lets out a shaky breath, his entire body relaxing. when he finally holds your child, all the stress melts away, and he just gazes at them in awe, whispering, “you were worth every moment.”

phainon

✧ this man treats you like the most precious treasure. If anyone so much as breathes near you the wrong way, he’s glaring at them. every craving? immediately fulfilled.

✧ even if you wake up at 3 am and want the most obscure food, he’ll find a way to get it for you. he’s fascinated by the baby’s movements and constantly asks, “did they kick just now?”

✧ when you can’t sleep, he’ll hold you close and hum soft lullabies, stroking your hair until you drift off in his arms.

✧ phainon is absolutely obsessed with the idea of being a father. from the moment he learns you’re pregnant, he acts like he just won the greatest cosmic jackpot in existence. he picks you up and spins you around before freezing and setting you down gently, apologizing because “right, right, must be careful now.” but he’s grinning ear to ear, already talking about all the things he wants to do with the baby. “do you think they’ll like stargazing? i’ll teach them all about the constellations, and we can name a star after them.”

✧ he immediately starts making preparations. within days, he’s turned an entire room into a nursery, but it’s not just any nursery—it’s a masterpiece. he hand-paints galaxies on the ceiling so the baby will always feel like they’re sleeping under the stars.

✧ he even commissions a custom-built crib that gently rocks like a spaceship in zero gravity. he’s so proud of it, constantly adjusting tiny details to make it perfect. “our little star deserves the best, don’t you think?”

✧ he takes baby-proofing to an extreme. he starts evaluating your entire home with the scrutiny of a scientist studying an uncharted planet. “this corner? too sharp. that table? unstable. this step? a potential hazard.”

✧ you catch him padding furniture, securing every single cabinet, and even installing a soft landing zone in case the baby ever falls. you try to tell him that it’s way too early for this, but he just winks and says, “better to be safe than sorry, starlight.”

✧ cravings are his absolute favourite part of the pregnancy. the moment you mention wanting something, he’s on it. he once woke up at three in the morning to hunt down a very specific dessert you were craving.

✧ when he finally returned, slightly dishevelled but victorious, he proudly presented it to you like he had just returned from a heroic quest. if you ever apologise for asking for something difficult, he just kisses your forehead and says, “there’s nothing i wouldn’t do for you and our little one.”

✧ he gets really into talking to the baby. not just casual conversations—full-blown storytelling. he lies with his head on your belly, telling the baby about all the wonders of the universe, all the places they’ll visit, all the things they’ll see.

✧ “you’re gonna love it out here. just wait until you see your first comet—it’s breathtaking.” he also sings lullabies, soft celestial melodies he swears have been passed down in his family. even you find yourself falling asleep to them.

✧ he fusses over you constantly. anytime you so much as sigh, he’s immediately checking in. “are you okay? do you need anything? here, let me get you some water. or a pillow. or—” you have to physically stop him from treating you like a fragile piece of glass.

✧ if you so much as try to lift something heavier than a book, he swoops in immediately. “whoa, whoa, whoa—absolutely not. no heavy lifting for my love. let me handle it.”

✧ despite all his excitement, he does have moments of deep, quiet reflection. sometimes you’ll find him sitting by the nursery, looking up at the painted stars with a soft smile. when you ask what’s on his mind, he just pulls you close and murmurs, “i just… can’t believe this is real. that i get to have this with you.”

✧ his hand will rest on your belly, his thumb tracing slow circles as he whispers, “i promise to be the best father i can be. i swear it.”

✧ when the day finally comes, he is a wreck. for all his usual charm and confidence, the moment you tell him it’s time, he panics. he grabs the hospital bag, then forgets where he put the hospital bag. he tries to call someone but dials the wrong number. you have to physically pull him back to reality.

✧ but once he sees you, really sees you, he takes a deep breath, centers himself, and holds your hand with all the love in the universe. when he hears the baby’s first cry, his eyes fill with tears, and he laughs, breathless, as he whispers, “welcome home, little star.”

✧ phainon is an absolute menace when it comes to public displays of affection, and your pregnancy just makes it ten times worse. he’s already the type to drape himself over you, kiss you whenever he pleases, and hold your hand no matter where you go, but now? now he’s practically glued to you. he’s always resting a hand on your belly, rubbing soothing circles over it, or just holding you close like he’s staking a claim. whenever someone congratulates him on the baby, he just beams and says, “i know, isn’t it wonderful? my starlight is glowing.”

✧ the chrysos heirs do not make things easy for him. the moment they find out you’re pregnant, it’s like they’ve been given free rein to tease him relentlessly. they’re always making comments about how he’s become soft, how he’s acting like an overexcited first-time dad, how he’s basically your personal servant at this point. phainon just waves them off with a smug grin, completely unbothered. “jealous? i would be too if i didn’t have someone as perfect as my starlight carrying my child.” the teasing only gets worse after that.

✧ some of them take it a step further, trying to rile him up by making bets on what kind of father he’ll be. “ten credits says he cries when he holds the baby for the first time.” “twenty says he panics and passes out before the baby even arrives.” phainon just scoffs, but the truth is? he does cry when he holds the baby for the first time, and he almost passes out from the sheer emotional overload. the heirs never let him live it down.

✧ despite their teasing, some of them are actually really invested in your pregnancy. they offer parenting books, advice (some useful, some absolutely ridiculous), and even propose setting up a baby fund to spoil the child the moment they’re born.

✧ phainon, of course, refuses. “i appreciate the thought, but my little one won’t need all that nonsense.” ten minutes later, he’s accepting a tiny celestial-themed onesie from one of the heirs with a soft, “... okay, maybe just this one.”

✧ in public, phainon is the proudest future father to ever exist. he makes sure everyone knows. if you go out together, he’s showing you off like you’re the most precious treasure in the galaxy—which, in his eyes, you are. if someone so much as looks at you the wrong way, he’s immediately on guard, slipping an arm around your waist and fixing them with a look that says don’t even think about it.

✧ he gets so protective when you’re in crowded areas. he insists on keeping a hand on you at all times, whether it’s resting on the small of your back or holding your hand tightly. if someone bumps into you even slightly, his entire demeanor shifts—his usual easygoing attitude replaced by something much sharper. “watch where you’re going,” he says, his voice deceptively calm but carrying an unmistakable edge.

✧ if you ever get tired while walking, he doesn’t even hesitate before picking you up. bridal style, over his shoulder, whatever gets the job done. you try to protest, but he just grins. “what? i can’t have my starlight overexerting themselves. besides, you deserve to be treated like royalty.” people definitely stare, but phainon does not care in the slightest.

✧ you catch him buying so many baby-related things on impulse. he’ll see a tiny pair of star-patterned socks and immediately grab them, muttering “they’re going to look adorable in these.” his collection of baby clothes, plushies, and toys gets so out of hand that you have to physically stop him from buying more.

✧ he gets so smug when people comment on how lucky your child will be to have him as a father. he’ll flash you a knowing grin and say something like, “of course they’re lucky. they have the best parents in the universe.” and then he’ll lean in and murmur against your ear, “but between you and me, they’re going to love you more.”

✧ at the end of the day, despite all the teasing from the heirs, the doting, and the over-the-top protection, phainon is just so deeply in love with you and the life you’re building together.

✧ every time he looks at you, he sees the future he’s always dreamed of. and every time he places a hand on your belly, he’s reminded that his greatest adventure is just beginning.

mydei

✧ overly doting husband award goes to… mydei! he treats you like royalty.

✧ if you ever try to do anything yourself, he’s immediately stopping you. “what do you think you're doing? you are carrying our child. i’ll do everything.”

✧ and he means it. he writes letters to your baby before they’re born, leaving them in a box for them to read one day. you constantly wake up to breakfast in bed, your favourite drinks prepared exactly how you like them, and soft, warm blankets because he wants you as comfy as possible.

✧ mydei is absolutely obsessed with your pregnancy in the best way possible. the moment he finds out, it’s like his entire world shifts—everything he does, everything he thinks about, revolves around you and the little life growing inside you.

✧ he becomes so soft, his usual cold, distant demeanor melting away when he’s with you. whenever he talks about the baby, his voice is filled with nothing but warmth. “our little one is going to be amazing. just like their mother.”

✧ he takes everything about pregnancy very seriously. he practically turns into a scholar overnight, gathering every book, article, and medical journal he can find. he takes meticulous notes, cross-references sources, and even reaches out to professionals—doctors, experienced parents, even midwives.

✧ he even asks random pregnant women and mothers about their experiences, carefully logging every detail. “everyone’s journey is different,” he tells you, eyes filled with determination. “but i need to be prepared for anything.”

✧ his research leads to some very specific routines. he makes sure your diet is perfectly balanced, ensuring you get all the necessary nutrients while still indulging your cravings.

✧ he tracks your hydration levels, sleep patterns, and even stress levels. if he notices you looking tired or overwhelmed, he immediately whisks you away to rest. “no arguments. you need to take care of yourself.”

✧ despite his usually elegant and refined nature, he is so comically weak to your cravings. he will go to the ends of the universe to find whatever it is you’re craving, no matter how difficult or absurd. “you want a very specific fruit that only grows on a planet halfway across the cosmos? give me a moment.” he does not settle for substitutes. if it’s not exactly what you want, he will not rest until he finds it.

✧ he gets extremely protective in public. he’s already the type to keep an eye on his surroundings, but now? he’s on high alert. he positions himself between you and any potential danger, shields you from crowds, and death-glares anyone who so much as bumps into you. he carries extra layers if it gets cold, makes sure you’re never overexerting yourself, and always finds the safest routes when walking anywhere.

✧ if anyone even dares to make an inappropriate comment about your pregnancy—whether it’s about your body changing or unsolicited parenting advice—his entire demeanor darkens. his polite mask drops, and his voice turns icy as he calmly but mercilessly shuts them down. “your opinion was neither needed nor wanted. kindly leave before i lose my patience.”

✧ pda with him becomes softer, sweeter, and more frequent. he was always a little reserved when it came to public affection, but now? he doesn’t care who’s watching.

✧ he kisses your forehead absentmindedly, holds your hand everywhere, and often keeps an arm around your waist, rubbing gentle circles over your belly. when he talks to people, his hand naturally rests on your stomach as if it’s second nature.

✧ at night, he always falls asleep with a hand on your belly. he whispers to the baby, telling them stories, making quiet promises. “i’ll keep you and your mother safe. always.” his fingers trace light patterns against your skin, his voice laced with adoration. if the baby kicks, his eyes light up with wonder, a rare, unguarded smile stretching across his lips. “already so strong.”

✧ he takes nesting very seriously. he personally oversees the nursery, ensuring everything is perfect. the colors, the furniture, even the atmosphere—he carefully selects everything with precision and care. he tests the crib himself, sits in the rocking chair to make sure it’s comfortable, and painstakingly arranges and rearranges decorations until he’s satisfied. if something isn’t up to his standards, it’s gone. “only the best for our child.”

✧ the moment the baby arrives, all the walls he’s ever had completely crumble. he holds them with the gentlest touch, his eyes brimming with emotions he can’t even put into words.

✧ he presses the softest kiss to their forehead, whispering their name like it’s something sacred. he looks at you, exhausted yet radiant, and for the first time in his life, he feels truly complete.

✧ mydei insists on accompanying you every single time you go shopping for maternity wear. at first, you think he’s just being his usual meticulous, overprotective self, but then you realise—he genuinely enjoys it.

✧ he treats it like an event, carefully selecting pieces he thinks will be both comfortable and stylish for you. he has impeccable taste, so he always picks out the most flattering outfits, running his hands over the fabrics with a thoughtful hum before handing them to you. “this one will look beautiful on you. try it on.”

✧ the moment you start feeling insecure about your belly, he notices. you run your fingers over the curve of your stomach, frowning slightly at how different your body feels, how nothing fits the way it used to. the way you sigh while looking at yourself in the mirror doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

✧ he steps behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. his hands slide over the curve of your belly, holding you close.

✧ “why do you look so troubled, my love?” his voice is so smooth, low, and filled with warmth. when you mutter about how different your body feels, how you don’t feel as attractive, he simply tilts his head, his lips brushing against your ear.

✧ “you look breathtaking. absolutely divine.” he turns you around gently, his fingers lightly tracing patterns against your stomach. “do you even realise how incredible you are? you’re carrying our child, our future. there is nothing more beautiful than that.”

✧ his reassurance does not stop there. if anything, it becomes a little suggestive. his lips trail down to your neck, placing slow, deliberate kisses as his hands roam your sides. “this body, this belly, this softness... all of it is perfect. you are perfect.” his voice is velvety, filled with unfiltered adoration, and when you let out a small, embarrassed laugh, he just smiles against your skin.

✧ “you don’t believe me?” he whispers, his hands sliding lower before resting firmly on your hips. “perhaps I should show you just how irresistible you are to me.”

✧ you swat at his chest, flustered beyond belief, telling him you’re in the middle of a clothing store, but he only chuckles, tilting your chin up so you meet his gaze. “fine, fine. I’ll behave… for now.” but the way he lingers, the way his eyes darken just a little, tells you that he’s far from done.

✧ even after leaving the store, his hands never stop touching you—tracing over your belly absentmindedly, rubbing soothing circles over your back, occasionally squeezing your hips just to see you flustered. whenever you wear the clothes he picked out, he cannot take his eyes off you.

✧ if you ask him why he’s staring, he simply smirks. “admiring my wife. is that a crime?” he pauses before leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “though, I must say, I quite enjoy seeing you without these clothes, too.”

aventurine

✧ he acts nonchalant (well not really...), but deep down? he’s besotted with you and the baby. he boasts about you to everyone at the family, showing off the sonograms like they’re a rare jackpot he won at a casino.

✧ every time you walk into the room, his eyes immediately land on you. “and how is my favourite future mother doing today?”

✧ if you’re feeling down, he spoils you like crazy, showering you with gifts and trips to the fanciest places just to see you smile.

✧ aventurine treats you like absolute royalty the moment he finds out you’re pregnant. not that he didn’t already spoil you before, but now? it’s on a completely different level. you barely have to lift a finger—he’s already taking care of everything before you even think about needing it.

✧ he immediately starts building a nursery, and by "building," he means designing the most extravagant, high-end, luxurious baby room money can buy.

✧ he spares no expense—custom furniture, premium-quality baby clothes, plush toys imported from different planets, the softest blankets in existence, a crib that probably costs more than a spaceship, you name it. everything is top-tier, only the best for his child.

✧ he goes overboard with baby shopping. you tell him the baby isn’t even here yet, and he just smirks, unbothered. “better to be prepared, sweetheart. besides, it’s fun.” he buys every cute outfit he sees, from tiny formal suits to cozy little onesies, and don’t even get him started on toys. he buys so many that you swear your baby won’t even get to play with half of them.

✧ food? taken care of. cravings? immediately satisfied. he has chefs on standby ready to make whatever you want, whenever you want it. at 2 am, when you wake up craving something obscure, you hesitate to wake him, but the moment he stirs and hears you shifting in bed, he insists. “tell me what you want, love. i’ll get it for you right now.”

✧ and if it’s something rare or hard to find? he pulls strings, makes calls, and by some miracle, has it in front of you within the hour. if that’s not possible, he personally goes out to find it himself. no complaints, no hesitation. he does it happily.

✧ he is obsessed with making sure you’re comfortable. if he catches you shifting around, trying to find a better position, he’s already fluffing your pillows, adjusting your seat, anything to make sure you’re perfectly cozy.

✧ he arranges regular massages for you, has the softest, most luxurious blankets at your disposal, and if he catches you even looking slightly uncomfortable, he fixes it before you can even say a word.

✧ the way he dotes on you is almost comical. he won’t even let you walk too much without insisting you rest. “why strain yourself when I can carry you, hm?” and if you protest? he smirks, effortlessly sweeping you off your feet anyway.

✧ he loves talking to your belly. at first, it’s just quiet murmurs when he thinks you’re asleep, soft reassurances and promises. but then? he gets dramatic. “you better take after your mother. if you inherit my gambling habits, we’re going to have a problem.” he fully has conversations with your unborn child, completely shameless, and honestly? it’s adorable.

✧ he lives for your flustered reactions. if you ever feel insecure about your body changing, he makes sure you never doubt how beautiful you are. “look at you,” he purrs, eyes gleaming as he trails his fingers over your belly.

✧ “glowing. divine. absolutely stunning. you have no idea how breathtaking you are, do you?” and when you get all shy? he just chuckles, pleased. “should I remind you some more?”

✧ the second you complain about your feet being sore, aventurine doesn’t hesitate—he immediately takes off his shoes, swapping them with yours. it’s a comical sight, especially when you see his ridiculously expensive, immaculate shoes paired with your cozy, worn-out sneakers. you can’t help but laugh, but he just smiles, so proud of his solution. “there, that’s better, right?”

✧ he then proceeds to buy you an entire new wardrobe of sneakers—comfort over style, he insists. no more heels unless you want them. “you don’t need to suffer in those when we can make you look just as good in something more comfortable,” he says, his voice serious, as he orders half a dozen pairs of different styles, colours, and designs of the softest sneakers imaginable.

✧ he doesn’t even flinch when the bill comes in, just waves it off like it’s nothing.

✧ lord your man is sexy.

✧ of course, if you really want to wear heels for an occasion, he’ll never stop you. “you look stunning in heels, my love. wear them for as long as you like,” he says, but he always makes sure there’s a soft, padded seat nearby for when you need to rest, and he’ll literally help you change your shoes afterward.

✧ now, when it comes to mood swings, aventurine is the ultimate calm presence. he knows it’s just one of those things, so he simply adjusts to whatever mood you’re in. when you get irritated, frustrated, or upset, he’s there with a soft, unwavering smile, letting you vent as much as you need to.

✧ if you snap at him, he’s not offended at all. in fact, he’s almost amused by it, seeing it as just another aspect of your beauty—your passion, your fire. “feel free to let it all out, darling,” he says, taking your hand, his grip steady and soothing. “I’m right here. whatever you need, I’m here for you.” he doesn’t try to calm you down immediately, because he knows it’s important for you to express yourself.

✧ after you’ve finished ranting, he checks in with you again, his voice soft and considerate. “are you okay now? did yelling at me help?” he asks with genuine care, his smile patient and gentle, never judging. if you’re still upset, he’ll simply hold you and let you settle into his arms, letting you know that whatever mood you’re in, he’s not going anywhere.

✧ nothing rattles him. no matter how dramatic your mood swings get, he handles it with endless patience, making sure you feel safe and loved through every moment. if you start to feel guilty afterwards, he’ll just smile and say, “you have every right to feel how you feel. nothing to apologise for.”

boothill

✧ rough cowboy, soft husband. he insists on carrying you everywhere.

✧ walking is not an option for you, his pregnant wife.

✧ calls you “darlin’”

✧ speaks so softly when talking to the baby, completely in awe that you’re carrying his kid. he always has a protective hand on your back, guiding you gently.

✧ if anyone stares too long, his hand moves to his holster. (you have to smack his hand and scold him)

✧ when you can’t sleep, he sits beside you and talks about life on the frontier, his deep voice lulling you into peaceful dreams.

✧ boothill’s love for you is overwhelming, and yet, at times, you can’t help but notice a slight weight behind his affection. when he spoils you, it’s not out of simple joy—it’s out of a deep need to make sure you’re always okay, that you’re always happy, and it’s almost like he’s afraid you’ll slip away from him if he doesn’t try hard enough.

✧ he goes all out with everything—buying the best things, preparing the most extravagant meals, filling the house with comforts, and making sure you never have to lift a finger. he does it all with a quiet, unshakable intensity, like if he’s not constantly doing something for you, he’ll fail somehow.

✧ his attention is unrelenting. if you so much as sigh, he’s immediately there, asking if you’re feeling okay, if you need anything, if you’re comfortable. and while you know it’s all out of love, sometimes you wonder if it’s a little too much.

✧ there’s an unspoken tension that lingers in his actions—an underlying anxiety that if he doesn’t care for you in every way, you’ll somehow slip from his grasp.

✧ when you become pregnant, that tension only intensifies. suddenly, he’s not just worried about you—he’s anxious about the baby, too. the world around him seems to sharpen, and he starts doting on you even more, almost to the point where it feels like he’s smothering you. but his love isn’t suffocating—it’s desperate.

✧ in the quiet moments, when he watches you sleep or rubs his hand over your belly, there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—a quiet fear. he’s afraid, deep down, of losing you, or the baby, or both.

✧ he hates the thought of you being in any kind of discomfort. when you tell him about the aching in your back or the soreness in your feet, he acts immediately, as if your pain is his fault. it’s as if he believes that if he doesn’t fix it right away, something terrible will happen.

✧ he’s obsessive in his need to make everything perfect for you, and even though you appreciate it, sometimes you wish he would just let you be. let you have some space to breathe, to exist on your own terms.

✧ in moments when the weight of it all gets to him, he retreats a little—his jaw tightens, his eyes harden. when he’s alone with his thoughts, you can see the flicker of self-doubt, a slight crack in his usually confident demeanour. he knows that his fear is something he needs to deal with, but it feels so out of control that it’s hard for him to admit it. he doesn’t want to show you his vulnerability, doesn’t want to burden you with his insecurities.

✧ but you see it in the way he holds you at night, the tightness in his arms, the way he checks on you repeatedly, his hands brushing over your body as if he’s trying to make sure you’re all still there. and when you ask him what’s wrong, he’s quick to mask it, brushing it off with a grin, but you know. you can always tell. the angst isn’t loud or overt—it’s hidden beneath his gestures, his actions, his love.

✧ still, his devotion to you is undeniable. even though he has his own silent battles, even though there’s a constant flicker of fear within him, he loves you with every ounce of his being. the moments when he’s vulnerable with you are rare, but when they come, he holds you closer, as if afraid of letting go for even a second.

✧ you can feel the fragility in his touch, the quiet fear that you might slip away from him.

✧ he doesn’t always have the words to express what he’s feeling, but his actions speak louder than anything. and in the silence, when he looks at you, you know. you know that despite all of his worries and fears, he will always protect you, even if he has to keep some of that pain hidden in the quiet corners of his heart.

✧ when the sun is a little too bright for you, boothill doesn’t hesitate. he’s quick to take off his hat and place it gently on your head, adjusting it with a playful smile. “there, now you can enjoy the sunshine without turning into a tomato,” he says, chuckling at how cute you look in his oversized hat.

✧ if the sun is especially brutal, he’ll even suggest you both find some shade or just spend time indoors with the air conditioning, but he knows it’s about making you feel comfortable, not just avoiding the heat.

✧ if you’re feeling particularly tired, he doesn’t wait for you to ask. the moment he sees you yawn or slump a little, he’s already sweeping you off your feet, giving you a piggyback ride with the kind of enthusiasm that’s almost comical considering his usual serious demeanour. “i’ve got you,” he says, grinning widely, despite his usual stoic nature.

✧ if you’re too tired for a piggyback ride or just don’t feel like walking, he’ll immediately scoop you up in his arms. it’s as if you’re his most precious treasure, and he wants nothing more than to ensure your comfort at all times.

✧ “you know, if you just need to be carried all day, I’m perfectly fine with that,” he teases, and you can see the gleam of amusement in his eyes. he loves it when he gets to take care of you, and he’s never shy about showing it.

✧ sometimes, when you’re nestled in his arms, you’ll catch him quietly grinning to himself, probably at how happy he is just to be with you. you can tell it makes him feel lighthearted to see you enjoy these little moments of care.

✧ when he does these little things for you, it’s clear that he’s not doing them out of obligation, but because it genuinely brings him joy to see you happy, even in the smallest ways.

✧ girl do NOT get me started on "oh i'm too big for you" you are NEVER too big 😒 😒 matter of fact if boothill ever hear those words slip out of your mouth you best believe he won't be tolerating it (and hunting down whoever said that)

✧ if you ever tell boothill that you’re too big for him to carry, he won’t hesitate for a second to shut you down. “don’t even start,” he’ll warn you with a smirk, and before you can protest further, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips, leaving you momentarily breathless.

✧ before you can even process what just happened, he’s already lifting you into his arms, effortlessly cradling you like you’re the lightest thing in the world. “see? not too big at all,” he says with a playful grin, clearly enjoying how flustered you get when he carries you, no questions asked.

✧ despite your attempts to argue, he’s not hearing any of it. “I’m carrying you whether you like it or not,” he adds with a wink, and when you roll your eyes or try to squirm out of his grasp, he just holds you tighter.

✧ his love for you is so overwhelming that he doesn’t care if you’re tired, big, or anything else—if you need to be carried, he’s more than happy to do it, and nothing will stop him from showing you just how much he cares.

✧ honestly, seeing you trying to act tough or insisting you’re fine just makes him more determined to spoil you even more, and he won’t back down until he’s made you comfortable.

cthe look on your face when you realize you’re in his arms is priceless, and he can't help but tease you a little more, enjoying every moment of your adorably flustered reaction.

dr. ratio

✧ he’s cocky as always, but so in love. if anyone dares to say anything about your size, he smirks and goes, “they’re carrying the most important person in the universe. of course, they’re radiant.”

✧ he’s fascinated by the baby’s development and reads every medical book on pregnancy, making sure you get the best care possible.

✧ he massages your feet with so much care, just pure, devoted attention.

✧ if you ever feel insecure, he immediately shuts it down with the most poetic, heartfelt words. “there is no beauty greater than you right now, my love.”

✧ dr. ratio is a caring but incredibly meticulous partner, and when you’re pregnant, that side of him intensifies even more. he’s deeply invested in making sure everything is perfect for you, often researching new ways to ease your discomfort, asking you how you feel every few hours, and keeping track of your health and well-being like he’s running a scientific experiment.

✧ his medical knowledge, which is already impressive, becomes even more focused on pregnancy, and he treats every small change in your body like vital data.

✧ he always has a plan, and that plan often revolves around making sure you’re as comfortable and well taken care of as possible. if you mention even the slightest symptom or discomfort, he’s already reading through notes or pulling out his tablet to find solutions. while it can feel like being under constant observation, you can’t help but appreciate how much he genuinely cares about making sure you’re healthy and happy.

✧ when it comes to cravings, he’s often a step ahead. if you mention wanting a specific snack, he already knows where to get it, and if it’s something unusual or rare, he’s willing to go to great lengths to satisfy it. he finds it endearing, but you can also see his scientific curiosity come into play as he observes how your body reacts to certain cravings or foods.

✧ at this point you're convinced he's some sort of magical being.

✧ in moments of stress or discomfort, he’s your rock. he has a calming presence, always knowing just what to say to put you at ease. if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the changes your body is going through or the looming responsibilities of parenthood, he’ll gently remind you that you don’t have to do this alone. his reassuring words have a way of grounding you, and the love he shows through his actions makes you feel like everything will be okay.

✧ his gestures of affection are quieter but deeply meaningful. he’s not as overt with PDA as others might be, but when you’re not looking, you’ll catch him gently rubbing your back or offering you a hand when you need to stand. when you’re tired, he insists on carrying your things or opening doors for you, always thinking about the little things that make your day easier.

✧ even in moments of humour, dr. ratio’s playful side comes through. if you’re grumpy because of a pregnancy-related mood swing, he might joke about the scientific nature of your hormonal fluctuations, but it’s all in good fun and meant to make you laugh.

✧ he knows exactly when to lighten the mood with a well-timed quip, which helps take the edge off when things feel heavy.

✧ though he’s not as expressive with physical affection as others might be, his love is shown in the constant attention he gives you and the thoughtfulness behind every action. when you’re feeling down, he’s there with a cup of tea, a warm blanket, and a comforting smile.

✧ dr. ratio also gets very protective when it comes to your health. if you’ve been overdoing it, he’ll gently scold you, reminding you that you need to take care of yourself. when he catches you ignoring his advice, he might get a little frustrated, but he’s quick to calm down, making sure to reassure you that he’s just concerned for both you and the baby.

✧ you can always feel the intensity of his care, and while it might feel a bit overbearing at times, you know it comes from a place of deep love.

✧ when it comes to the baby, he’s already making plans for the future, trying to ensure everything will be in place. he’ll bring up practical things like cribs, baby monitors, and even names, all while jotting down notes.

✧ he’s already mentally preparing for the next phase of your life together, and though it might seem like he's focusing on the logistics, it’s clear that he’s doing it all because he wants to make sure your little family is as secure and happy as possible.

✧dr. ratio’s care for you and your pregnancy is absolute, while his approach might seem a bit clinical at times, it’s easy to see that everything he does is out of love, ensuring both you and the baby are taken care of in every way.

✧ dr. ratio’s students are surprisingly invested in your pregnancy, much to his exasperation. at first, he tries to keep things professional, but it’s impossible when they bombard him with questions. “sir, is it true your wife’s craving the weirdest foods? can she still beat you in an argument with pregnancy hormones? is the baby gonna be as smart as you?!” the sheer enthusiasm wears him down, and despite his usual cool demeanor, he eventually (and very reluctantly) brings you along one day to satisfy their curiosity.

✧ the moment you step into the room, his students light up like it’s their favorite lecture of the year. they’re practically buzzing with excitement, treating you like an honored guest. some of them even bring small gifts—cute little trinkets, baby books, and even a stuffed animal or two—much to ratio’s dismay.

✧ he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, but there’s a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, betraying the fondness he has for them (not that he’ll ever admit it).

✧ and of course, the moment everyone settles down, they start betting on the baby’s gender. someone pulls out a makeshift betting board with tally marks, arguments breaking out as they debate whether you’re carrying a boy or a girl.

✧ “based on my calculations, professor ratio will absolutely have a daughter—” “nah, the baby’s definitely gonna be a mini him.” you’re laughing at the chaos while ratio sighs dramatically, muttering about the intellectual downfall of his students.

✧ what really makes you melt, though, is how gentle and considerate his students are toward you. they ask how you’re feeling, if you need anything, if you have any weird cravings (which, of course, leads to them trying to outdo each other with the weirdest food combinations to test your reaction). ratio, meanwhile, is standing beside you with his arms crossed, watching his classroom turn into a circus with a half-annoyed, half-amused look.

✧ “if you all put this much effort into your studies, perhaps your grades wouldn’t be so pitiful,” he finally deadpans, earning groans and protests from the students.

✧ but despite his sarcastic remarks and eye-rolls, he’s oddly protective over the whole situation. if any of the students even joke about you overexerting yourself or getting too tired, he shuts them down immediately. “don’t encourage bad habits,” he scolds. “she needs to be resting.” and then he’s ushering you to sit down, subtly adjusting a pillow behind your back like the doting husband he is.

✧ he pretends to be indifferent, but when he catches one of his students quietly mentioning how cute you two are together, he doesn’t correct them. if anything, he just glances at you, and for a brief moment, the smallest, softest smile crosses his lips before he composes himself again.

✧ when you finally leave, he huffs as if he’s endured the most exhausting day of his life, but the way he holds your hand just a little tighter tells you otherwise. despite all his grumbling, he secretly doesn’t mind how much his students adore you, and maybe—just maybe—he even enjoys it.

✧ DON'T POINT IT OUT THOUGH

✧ dr. ratio will never outright admit it, but deep down, he doesn’t care whether the baby is a boy or a girl. all that truly matters to him is that the baby is healthy and, if he’s being honest, hopefully inherits some intelligence.

✧ “no child of mine will be foolish,” he says with a smirk. Still, the underlying meaning is clear—he wants the baby to thrive, to have every opportunity to succeed. He’s already mentally drafting an entire syllabus on how to make that happen.

✧ however, if he had to pick something personal, something that isn’t dictated by logic or science, he’d want the baby to look like you. he won’t outright say it, but there are little moments where it slips out.

✧ like when he’s absentmindedly staring at you with a thoughtful expression, then mutters under his breath, “it would be preferable if they took after you.” when you catch him saying it and ask what he means, he simply waves it off with a “don’t worry about it.”

✧ the truth is, he thinks you’re beautiful, and the idea of a child with your features makes something warm settle in his chest. he pictures small hands, bright eyes, a little face that mirrors yours—and the thought alone is enough to make him pause.

✧ when he sees you asleep, one hand resting on your stomach, he wonders if the baby will have your smile, your expressions, your way of looking at the world.

✧ and maybe the idea of a mini-you running around makes his heart clench in a way he isn’t quite ready to admit.

gepard

✧ overprotective knight mode: ACTIVATED. he refuses to let you do anything remotely strenuous.

✧ literally the type of pick you up effortlessly and throw you (gently) on his shoulder when he sees you doing something you shouldn't be doing.

✧ he wakes up early to make sure you have everything you need—food, comfort, warmth. you’re never lacking anything.

✧ every night, he reads to your belly, his deep, soothing voice telling fairy tales as if he’s already preparing your baby to sleep peacefully.

✧ you catch him practising how to hold a baby with stuffed animals, and he gets so flustered when you tease him about it. (oml you're gonna overload him with kisses at this point!!!)

✧ gepard tries—he really, really tries—to be there for you as much as possible, but being a knight, let alone the captain of the silvermane guards, means he’s constantly being pulled away for duty. he feels horrible about it.

✧ every time he has to leave you alone at home, every time he misses one of your check-ups, every time he’s not there to comfort you when you’re feeling exhausted, it gnaws at him. he’ll come home late, tired and covered in the dust of another long patrol, only to see you already asleep, curled up in bed with your hands resting on your belly. it makes his heart ache.

✧ he tries to make up for it whenever he can. he’ll bring home small gifts—a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a dessert from that bakery you love, anything to make you smile. when he does have a free moment, he dedicates it all to you, making sure you’re comfortable, massaging your sore feet, listening intently to you talk about your day because he wants to be involved in every way he can.

✧ “i’m sorry i haven’t been around much,” he murmurs against your hair one night, voice heavy with guilt. “i should be here with you more.”

✧ and you understand—you always have. you know his duty to belobog is important, that he’s responsible for so many people. so you reassure him, tell him it’s okay, that you’re not upset because you know he’s doing his best. but no matter how much you insist, he still feels guilty, still thinks he should be doing more.

✧ it’s sweet, really, how much he wants to be present, but you wish he’d stop beating himself up over something he can’t control.

✧ sometimes, though, frustration does creep in—not at him, but at the sheer unfairness of it all. one particularly bad day, when you’re feeling extra emotional, you storm into the silvermane guards' headquarters, demanding to speak to the general.

✧ the poor guards are stunned, unsure how to handle their captain’s very pregnant wife glaring daggers at them. when you finally get an audience with the general, you don’t hold back. “my husband is working himself to the bone while i’m carrying his child, and you can’t even spare him a little time off?!”

✧ the general tries to placate you, explaining that gepard is needed, but you cross your arms, huffing, “well, i need him too.”

✧ word of your little outburst spreads quickly, and when gepard hears about it, he’s equal parts embarrassed and touched. “you... actually scolded the general?” he asks, eyes wide. when you nod, still grumpy about it, he lets out a chuckle before pulling you into his arms.

✧ “i appreciate it, but you don’t have to fight my battles for me.” but you just pout, mumbling, “if they won’t give you a break, then i will.”

✧ and despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the never-ending duty, gepard swears to himself that no matter how busy he gets, he’ll always find a way to be there for you and your child. because at the end of the day, you’re the most important thing in his world.

✧ despite his constant guilt, gepard does everything in his power to make things easier for you when he is around. he wakes up extra early to prepare breakfast before heading out for duty, making sure to leave little notes beside your plate if he has to leave before you wake up.

✧ “good morning, my love. make sure to eat well today, and don’t forget to drink plenty of water. i’ll be home as soon as i can.” sometimes, he even sneaks in a silly doodle of a chubby little knight standing guard over a tiny baby, which never fails to make you smile.

✧ when he finally does have time off, he dedicates every second to you. he follows you around like a loyal knight, carrying anything remotely heavy before you can even try to lift it.

✧ he’s constantly fluffing your pillows, adjusting your blanket, and making sure you’re not overexerting yourself. if you so much as sigh, he’s immediately asking, “are you okay? do you need anything?” you start to joke that having him home is almost more exhausting than when he’s away because he fusses over you like a mother hen.

✧ sometimes, the exhaustion from work catches up to him, and you find him nodding off while sitting beside you, his head drooping onto your shoulder. you know he should be resting, but there’s something endearing about how he fights off sleep just so he can be near you.

✧ “gepard, go to bed,” you whisper, brushing a hand through his hair. he grumbles something incoherent before shifting to hold you close, murmuring, “just a little longer…” and really, how can you say no to that?

✧ his fellow silvermane guards are incredibly supportive, though they also love teasing him about how smitten he is. “captain, you should see yourself when you talk about your wife. it’s like watching a lovesick puppy,” they joke, and while he tries to maintain his usual composure, the tips of his ears turn red every single time. but he doesn’t deny it—he is completely and utterly devoted to you.

✧ if he ever gets called in for an emergency while he’s finally spending time with you, he gets so frustrated. “i just got home,” he mutters under his breath, clearly torn between duty and being with you.

✧ you give him a small smile, placing your hands on his cheeks and gently pressing a kiss to his forehead. “it’s okay, love. go, do what you need to do. i’ll be right here when you get back.” and he sighs, pressing his forehead against yours before reluctantly heading out.

✧ but the moment he returns, he makes up for it tenfold. he brings back your favourite snacks, runs a warm bath for you, and massages your feet until you’re practically melting into the couch. and when you’re in bed, he places a hand on your belly, speaking softly to the baby as if making up for lost time.

✧ “i’ll be around more soon, i promise,” he murmurs, his voice filled with love and determination.

✧ and no matter how much his duty calls him away, you know one thing for certain—gepard will always come home to you.

✧ serval is your biggest supporter and, quite frankly, your partner-in-crime when it comes to dealing with gepard’s overwhelming guilt. she checks in on you constantly—not just for you, but because she knows her brother would want her to.

✧ “if gepard had it his way, he’d probably never leave your side,” she jokes, plopping down next to you and handing you some of your favorite snacks. “but since he’s stuck being captain serious all the time, you’ve got me.”

✧ she’s a lifesaver when gepard is too busy with work, stopping by with homemade meals, comfortable clothes, and the occasional silly gift to make you smile.

✧ she even offers to help you with stretches and light exercises, claiming that a rockstar like her knows all about keeping the body in top condition. sometimes, she’ll strum a gentle melody on her guitar while chatting with you, creating a warm and relaxing atmosphere that makes the time pass a little easier.

✧ and of course, she’s the first to tease gepard whenever he finally has time to come home. “wow, look who finally decided to show up! i was starting to think you’d abandoned your poor wife.” she grins as gepard groans, running a hand through his hair.

✧ “i didn’t—i was just busy—” but serval only laughs, nudging him toward you. “relax, i’m just messing with you. now go dote on your wife before she decides i’m her favorite landau instead.”

✧ she’s also not afraid to scold him when he’s being too hard on himself. “gepard, you’re doing the best you can,” she tells him one evening when he’s sitting on the couch, guilt heavy in his expression. “she understands, you know? stop acting like you’re failing when you’re clearly not.” and though gepard still struggles with his guilt, serval’s words always stick with him, reminding him that he’s doing enough.

✧ but perhaps the funniest part of all is how she sometimes acts as an undercover spy, gathering intel on your moods and cravings to report back to gepard.

✧ “hey, just so you know, she’s been craving those honey pastries from that bakery again. if you don’t bring some home tomorrow, you might be sleeping on the couch,” she whispers conspiratorially to him one night, and gepard immediately makes a mental note to buy them on his next break.

✧ at the end of the day, serval is always there—not just for you, but for gepard, too. she makes sure both of you are taken care of, keeping an eye on her little brother when he gets too caught up in his responsibilities and making sure you never feel lonely. and when the baby finally arrives, you already know serval is going to be the coolest aunt in all of belobog.

sunday

✧ he’s the most excited husband ever. every day, he’s kissing your belly, murmuring sweet promises to your unborn child.

✧ he calls you “sunshine” even more, saying you’re literally glowing with life.

✧ if you so much as sigh tiredly, he immediately rushes over, rubbing your shoulders and making sure you’re comfortable.

✧ he’s already planning family outings, even though the baby isn’t born yet. “oh, i can’t wait to take them to see the stars. you think they’ll like astronomy?”

✧ "honey i think they'll just be obsessed with your cute fluffy wings like me!!"

✧ but lets be real...sunday is, without a doubt, the most dramatic and doting husband in existence. from the moment you wake up to the second you go to sleep, he is right there, acting as if you are the most delicate, precious treasure in the entire universe.

✧ “ah, my love, are you comfortable? do you need anything? shall i fetch you the moon? pluck the stars from the sky?” you’re used to his flowery words, but pregnancy has made him even more extra, if that was even possible.

✧ he spoils you absolutely rotten. he treats you like royalty, making sure every possible luxury is at your fingertips. you so much as glance at something while out shopping? it's already paid for. your back aches? he's on his knees, massaging you with a level of devotion that could make poets weep. the moment you sigh even a little, he's dramatically lamenting,

✧ “alas, this cruel world dares to bring discomfort to my beloved! how dare it!” you roll your eyes, but the way he kisses your hands so reverently makes your heart flutter every time.

✧ when you’re out together, he is practically glued to your side, one arm always wrapped protectively around you. if it’s too sunny, his coat is suddenly draped over your head to shield you.

✧ if you so much as stumble, he’s catching you before you can even process it, scolding the ground for daring to trip you. he doesn’t care who’s watching—his priority is you, always.

✧ sometimes, his dramatics get absolutely ridiculous. one time, you had a small craving for a very specific dish from a very specific place, and before you could even tell him it wasn’t a big deal, he was already on a mission. “fear not, my love! i shall return with your heart’s desire!” he declared, disappearing into the night like some kind of hero embarking on an epic quest.

✧ when he finally returned, victorious, with the food in hand, he dramatically collapsed into your lap. “it was a perilous journey… but for you, I would traverse the ends of the world.” you simply kissed his forehead and enjoyed your meal.

✧ he is obsessed with talking to your belly. no matter where you are, no matter who’s around, he kneels down, placing his hands gently on your stomach and whispering sweet nothings to your unborn child.

✧ “ah, little one, do you hear me? it is i, your devoted father, who eagerly awaits your arrival.” if he feels a kick, he gasps like he just witnessed a divine miracle, his eyes practically sparkling. “they kicked! they love me, my love!”

✧ sunday does everything in his power to make sure you never feel lonely, even when he’s busy. he writes letters to you if he has to be away, each one filled with poetic declarations of love and exaggerated longing, as if he’s been separated from you for years rather than a few hours. when he finally returns, he rushes to embrace you like a man starved, spinning you carefully in his arms (if you let him).

✧ and when he thinks you’re asleep, he gazes at you with so much adoration it’s almost overwhelming. he runs his fingers gently through your hair, his voice soft as he murmurs, “you and our child… my greatest treasures. i will cherish you both for all eternity.” even in slumber, you can feel his warmth, his love wrapping around you like a promise—one that you know he’ll keep forever.

✧ sunday has always been a man of grand gestures, poetic words, and boundless devotion—but this, this is his dream made real. to love and to be loved, to have a family with you, to witness the very embodiment of your love growing within you… it is almost too perfect, too beautiful. sometimes, when he watches you rest, his hand gently cradling your belly, he wonders if he is merely lost in a dream.

✧ he never thought he would find something—someone—that truly anchored him. he always spoke of eternity, of the stars and the endless sky, but nothing in the cosmos compares to you. and now, with your child on the way, that love has expanded into something even greater, something he didn’t know was possible.

✧ late at night, when the world is quiet and you’re curled up against him, he traces slow circles over your stomach and whispers, “this is my dream… and you’ve made it come true.” his voice is softer than usual, lacking its usual theatrics, filled only with raw, unfiltered love. and even though you’re half-asleep, you squeeze his hand in response, as if to say, i know. me too.

✧ sunday absolutely refuses to leave you unguarded when he’s away for business or handling matters of the reverie. even though you insist it’s unnecessary, that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, he simply will not take the risk. the moment he steps away, you have a team of skilled agents discreetly watching over you. “indulge me, my love,” he pleads with that charming smile of his. “i would never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you or our precious little one.” and really, how can you argue with that?

✧ when he returns, however, it’s as if he’s been deprived of air itself. the second he sees you, he sweeps you into his arms, pressing lingering kisses to your temple, your hands, your stomach—anywhere he can reach. “ah, my beloved, i have been lost without you,” he murmurs dramatically, holding you as if you might disappear. and though you roll your eyes at his theatrics, you let him cling, because you know he truly means it.

✧ public appearances with sunday are nothing short of dazzling. he insists that the two of you look absolutely impeccable whenever you step out together—not because of status, but because he sees you as his perfect match, his divine counterpart. “you always look breathtaking,” he muses, adjusting your accessories with delicate fingers. “i must simply strive to be worthy of standing beside you.”

✧ when you’re out together, he is attached to your side, his arm securely around your waist, hip to hip, refusing to let an inch of space come between you. he whispers sweet things in your ear, makes you laugh with his endless romantic declarations, and shoots sharp glares at anyone who so much as looks at you the wrong way.

✧ if the sun is too bright, his coat is draped over your shoulders in an instant. literally the definition of "is the sun bothering you, queen?"

✧ iykyk

✧ if the crowd gets overwhelming, he subtly maneuvers you to a quieter space, all while keeping his usual suave demeanor. if you even look the slightest bit tired, he’s already preparing to whisk you away somewhere more comfortable.

✧ and when the night finally winds down and it’s just the two of you again, he presses a kiss to your hand and murmurs, “no matter where we go, no matter who is watching… my love for you remains the most magnificent thing in this world.”

✧ sunday takes so much pride in being your husband that it’s almost ridiculous. the way he says "my wife" is always so smooth, so deliberate, like he’s showing off a rare treasure. even in the most casual conversations, he will find a way to bring you up.

✧ “ah, yes, that reminds me of something my wife said the other day—brilliant, truly.”

✧ “oh, you need advice? well, my wife is an expert in these matters, allow me to consult her.”

✧ even when it’s unnecessary, he finds a way to slip it in. someone asks him how his day is going? “Better now that I’ve spoken to my wife.” A meeting about logistics? “Oh, my wife would find this terribly boring, but let me humor you all.”

✧ it gets to the point where even his closest advisors and subordinates are just nodding along, fully expecting him to mention you in every conversation. you overheard one of them sigh, “yes, yes, we know your wife is the most wonderful being in existence, my lord.” sunday only grinned and said, “it’s good that you understand.”

✧ and of course, he boasts about you endlessly. your intelligence, your beauty, your kindness—every little thing about you is worthy of praise in his eyes. “have i mentioned how radiant my wife looks today? oh, but she always does, so I suppose that goes without saying.”

✧ sometimes, he’ll purposely say it just to fluster you. if you’re walking together and he spots someone eyeing you for too long, he’ll lean in, voice full of smug adoration, “ah, my wife, the most stunning woman in the room. it’s only natural they’d stare, but truly, they stand no chance.”

✧ even when you roll your eyes or playfully smack his arm, he just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “what can I say? I’m simply a man who adores his wife.”

✧ the second you even mention a craving, sunday is already making arrangements to have it delivered to you. it doesn’t matter how strange, complicated, or impossible it seems—he will find a way.

✧ “you want watermelon dipped in honey at three in the morning? say no more, my love.” within minutes, he’s either personally retrieving it or sending someone out on an urgent mission.

✧ once, you offhandedly mumbled, “i kinda want ice cream… but with pickles.” sunday, ever the devoted husband, merely nodded and said, “consider it done.” you expected him to hesitate or at least question your taste buds, but instead, he had it in front of you within the hour, presented on a fancy plate as if it were some gourmet dish.

✧ he has absolutely no shame in going out himself to fetch your cravings. the sight of sunday, regal and refined, walking into a market and asking for the most bizarre food combinations with a perfectly serious face is something to behold.

✧ one time, a vendor tried to stifle a laugh when he requested “mango slices with chili powder and a side of marshmallows” and he just smirked, “ah, you must not be married. love requires dedication, my friend.”

✧ if your cravings happen while you’re out in public, he wastes zero time in getting it. you once sighed, “i really want those fried dumplings from that one place…” and before you could even finish your sentence, sunday was already steering you toward the restaurant, ordering extra just in case you wanted more later.

✧ on the rare occasion that something isn’t immediately available, sunday turns it into an entire event. “so, my beloved desires an elusive dish? very well. give me a moment.” cue him charming his way into exclusive restaurants, pulling strings with high-profile chefs, or even attempting to make it himself (which… well, let’s just say his skills lie outside the kitchen).

✧ no matter what, he refuses to let you go without the things you crave. “nothing is too extravagant for my wife,” he insists. “if she wants it, she shall have it.”

sampo

✧ sampo is the type to absolutely spoil you when you're craving something, even if it's something a little... unusual. he loves seeing you happy, and the thought of you having that big smile on your face when you get what you want? priceless.

✧ the minute you mention a craving, he's already brainstorming how to get it, and he won't take no for an answer. if it's something he doesn't have access to, well... prepare for a wild goose chase. he'll sweet-talk vendors, bribe people, or pull off the most ridiculous stunts just to get his hands on that weird combination of foods you’re desperate for.

✧ one time, you casually mentioned wanting a mix of sweet and salty—like peanut butter on pretzels with chocolate chips—and the next thing you knew, he had a whole banquet of different combinations lined up. there were different dips, chocolates, chips, nuts, and a few other things he thought you might like. it’s over-the-top, but it’s his way of making sure you feel cared for and, well, indulged.

✧ sometimes he’ll get the most outlandish things, especially if he finds out you want something quirky. “you want... a spicy banana with a side of vanilla ice cream?” he'd ask, grinning mischievously, clearly excited for the challenge. even if he finds it a little odd, he's all in for making sure your cravings are satisfied.

✧ when you're pregnant, sampo loves the idea of you being pampered and treated like royalty. he buys you all sorts of snacks, drinks, and little comforts to make sure you're always content. when he's busy, he'll bring you a stash of your favorite treats or send someone to deliver it, ensuring you never go without.

✧ though he's a bit playful and mischievous, when it comes to your cravings, he’s incredibly attentive. if you need him to grab something in the middle of the night, he’ll pull on his jacket without a second thought and head out, even if it’s something bizarre like kimchi-flavored cupcakes or a weirdly specific kind of sushi.

✧ sampo is honestly obsessed with making sure you’re taken care of, especially when it comes to cravings. as soon as you mention something—even if it’s just in passing—he’s on it. like, the minute the words leave your mouth, he’s already thinking of how he’s going to get it for you.

✧ one time, you half-jokingly mentioned wanting pineapple pizza with extra olives, and sampo didn’t even hesitate. you thought he was just humoring you at first, but nope, by the time you blinked, he was on his way out the door, calling a bunch of places to find one that would make that monstrosity of a pizza.

✧ he’s ridiculously resourceful, so if the craving is something that seems impossible, he’s more than willing to go to extreme lengths. you want blueberry-flavored potato chips? he’s already calling his contacts in different cities or bartering for them. at one point, you had a small shipment of weird snacks from different parts of the world just for you. it was honestly a lot, but the joy it brought you made it all worth it for him.

✧ despite his usually carefree, mischievous attitude, when it comes to satisfying your cravings, sampo becomes the most serious person. nothing else matters—nothing. it’s almost like a personal mission for him.

✧ and don’t get him started on your late-night cravings. there was one instance where you groggily mentioned wanting chocolate-covered pretzels with marshmallow fluff and coconut water (a combo you swore sounded amazing) at 2 AM. most people would groan at this, but not sampo. he simply flashed you a grin, grabbed his jacket, and was out the door, whispering, “leave it to me, darling. i’ll have it before you know it.”

✧ when he comes back, it’s always with a dramatic flair. whether it’s him showing up with a big bag of snacks or an entire custom-made meal just for you, he’ll present it like it’s the most important thing in the world. “look what i’ve brought you, my love,” he’ll say, “your cravings are my top priority.”

✧ he loves watching you enjoy whatever it is you’re craving. he’s that guy who will sit beside you, watching you devour your food, completely delighted. when you make a happy sound after taking a bite, he’ll do a little victory dance in his head. “it’s always worth it,” he’ll think, watching you savor the food.

✧ sometimes, when he’s really feeling it, he’ll even surprise you with a whole set of snacks or meals. if you mention anything at all—whether it’s flavored milk or a certain kind of fruit—you better believe sampo will get it, and he’ll make it fun.

✧ and don’t even get started on the weird cravings. when you randomly crave something odd like caviar and ice cream, he’ll be the one to ask, “is that really what you want?” but then, of course, he’ll follow through and go out and find it, all while making jokes about how only you could crave something so bizarre. “but you’re worth it, darling,” he’ll say with a wink, even if he thinks it's totally ridiculous.

✧ when you’re pregnant, sampo gets extra excited. there’s something about the idea of making sure you’re always happy and comfortable that makes him go all-in on the care and attention. you mention wanting a certain kind of food? he’s already planning his next move to make sure it gets to you—whether it’s food from a restaurant, a local shop, or a weird internet order.

✧ the best part? he’s not even embarrassed about the effort. he’s proud of it. he’ll happily boast about how he’s the one who got you exactly what you wanted, often bragging about how efficient he is at taking care of you. “no one does it like i do, darling.”

✧ sampo loves to live life on the edge, and that often leads him into all sorts of trouble. whether it’s a cheeky scheme gone wrong or him getting caught up in some questionable business deals, he’s not exactly a stranger to trouble. but when you scold him—especially with that concerned look on your face—it hits him harder than anything else.

✧ you’re his weakness, and the thought of his reckless actions affecting your baby’s future stings. when you point out how he’s putting the family in danger, he can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. you’ve got that motherly tone, and even though he’s used to being the troublemaker, something about you scolding him like that makes him pause.

✧ sampo never expected to feel this way. before, he was all about living in the moment, but now, with you carrying his child, things are different. he realizes that his impulsiveness can affect more than just him—it could affect your life, the baby’s life, and even the future you two are building. it’s a huge wake-up call for him.

✧ though he tries to laugh it off and shrug off your scolding, he can’t deny that it bothers him. he wants to be the best for you, to provide and protect, but sometimes his overconfidence and mischievous nature put him in situations he shouldn’t be in.

✧ after you scold him, he’s quiet for a while, just processing everything you said. he doesn’t like seeing you upset, and he definitely doesn’t like the idea of his actions potentially affecting the baby. so he really takes it to heart.

✧ eventually, he’ll come to you, genuinely apologizing. it’s not like him to be serious about these things, but the thought of his baby’s future shifts something in him. he’ll say something like, “you’re right. i can’t keep being reckless. i’ll tone it down, i promise. for you... and for the little one.”

✧ from then on, you’ll notice a shift. he’ll still be his playful, mischievous self, but there’s a little less of the risk-taking, and a bit more thought behind his actions. sampo may not be perfect, but he really wants to be better for the sake of his growing family.

✧ even though he might still slip up occasionally—because it’s just who he is—he tries harder, always making sure to check in with you and reassess how his choices could impact you both. and when you see him being more cautious, you can’t help but smile, knowing he’s trying his best.

✧ and of course, he’ll make it up to you in the sweetest way possible: with more gifts, more little surprises, and tons of affection. he might be reckless sometimes, but when it comes to you and your baby, he knows he has to change, even if it takes a bit of effort.

moze

✧ moze, being the quiet and secretive type, is surprisingly very attentive when it comes to your cravings. he’s not the type to joke around about it or make a big deal, but rest assured, he listens intently and takes note of every single thing you say.

✧ the second you mention a craving, even if it's something a little weird, he silently goes into action. if he doesn’t have it on hand, he will immediately find a way to acquire it, no matter how obscure or hard to find it is.

✧ when you crave something specific, he won’t make a show of it, but he will go out of his way to make sure you get it—whether it’s a rare ingredient or a dish from a different part of the world, moze finds it without fail. if you want a specific kind of fruit, he’ll find the best one, even if it means going to multiple stores or making a special trip somewhere.

✧ he enjoys seeing the soft smile on your face when you get what you’ve been wanting, and while he may not say much about it, there's this quiet satisfaction in his eyes.

✧ moze is also keenly aware of when you’re craving something. sometimes, he picks up on your hints without you even saying anything, noticing a small change in your mood, or when you absentmindedly mention wanting a snack, he’ll be right there to offer it to you.

✧ although he’s a man of few words, there’s a certain gentleness to the way he cares for you. when you’re restless and craving something comforting, he’ll get it, set it down beside you, and quietly say, “this should help.” he’ll never ask for recognition, but the satisfaction he gets from seeing you happy is more than enough for him.

✧ when it comes to very odd cravings, he’ll just give you a knowing look, grab his coat, and leave to get it—sometimes even with a hint of a chuckle, as if he secretly finds your requests amusing. but in his heart, he enjoys making you happy more than anything else.

✧ moze’s stealth skills are incredible. he’s so good at sneaking up on you that it’s become almost a reflex for him to appear out of nowhere, especially when he’s busy with his work. but when you’re pregnant and a little more sensitive, the sudden pop-up can be a bit much. he doesn’t mean to scare you—he really doesn’t—but sometimes, he forgets just how silent he is. ✧ the first time it happens, you let out a startled gasp, and moze immediately freezes, guilt washing over him. he’s used to appearing out of thin air and being the silent observer, but the thought of scaring you, especially with the baby on the way, sends a pang of worry through his chest. ✧ his usual nonchalant demeanor falters. "i'm sorry," he says, his voice almost too soft, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. "i didn’t mean to startle you." there’s something in his tone that sounds almost apologetic, more so than usual. ✧ you laugh it off, brushing it off as an accident, but moze is still visibly uneasy. later, when he’s alone, he keeps thinking about it—wondering if his unexpected entrances could potentially stress you out or, worse, harm the baby. he’s never been particularly affectionate in the traditional sense, but with you pregnant, he’s suddenly a lot more aware of everything. ✧ after that, every time he needs to come in or check on you, he makes it a point to announce his presence. it’s not like moze to do that—he’s always preferred moving in the shadows—but for you and the baby, he decides it’s best to make his approach a little less jarring. ✧ when you’re just relaxing, maybe reading or resting, you’ll hear him say something like, “it’s me, moze. i’m here.” he’ll even knock on the door sometimes before entering, something he’s never done before. it’s funny at first, but also endearing to see him adjust his behavior for you. ✧ moze starts being extra cautious, constantly checking on you but in a much gentler, less intrusive way. the last thing he wants is for you to feel uneasy because of him. he’ll still show up in his usual manner—quiet, reserved, but now with the added softness of his voice when he speaks to you. ✧ when you ask him if he’s okay, he’ll quietly admit that he’s worried about scaring you again, and maybe even causing some harm to the baby. you can see the genuine concern in his eyes, something he rarely lets slip. it’s strange for him to care this much, but when you’re carrying his child, his protective instincts are starting to kick in. ✧ when you reassure him, telling him that you’re okay, he seems to relax a little. but don’t be surprised if you catch him giving you a small smile in his usual quiet way, his fingers lightly brushing against yours in a rare display of affection. it’s subtle, but for moze, it’s a huge step forward.

✧ and the next time he appears out of nowhere? he’ll make sure to be extra careful, just to make sure you don’t get a shock again. it might not be his usual way of doing things, but with you, he’s willing to change—even in the smallest ways.

✧ moze's protectiveness reaches a whole new level once he finds out you’re pregnant. while he’s always been a careful and observant person, this new development has him acting in ways he never expected. the thought of you and his child growing inside you ignites a fierce, almost primal instinct to keep both of you safe at all costs.

✧ he becomes hyper-aware of your surroundings, always analyzing every situation to ensure there’s no danger nearby. if someone even looks at you wrong, he’s already on high alert. he’s never been one for confrontation, but when it comes to you and the baby, any potential threat—no matter how small—will make him react swiftly and decisively.

✧ if anyone dares to make a comment about your pregnancy—whether it’s an unintentional insult or even a curious question about your condition—moze is there, stepping in before you can even respond.

✧ he’ll be quick to intervene, his voice cold and firm. “is there a problem?” he’ll ask, his tone leaving no room for argument. he doesn’t care if it’s a stranger or a close friend, he’ll defend you without hesitation.

✧ sometimes, though, his protectiveness comes off as a bit much. when you’re out and about, he’s constantly by your side, his eyes scanning the area. if there’s a slight shift in the atmosphere, if someone moves too fast or too close to you, he’s immediately on guard, subtly stepping in front of you to shield you from whatever danger his sharp instincts are sensing.

✧ even in private, when you’re just relaxing or resting, he’s often hovering nearby, keeping a watchful eye. it’s not that he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that his protective nature has escalated to the point where he feels he can’t leave your side for too long. it’s almost as if being near you makes him feel like he has more control over your safety, as irrational as it may be.

✧ there are moments when you notice him getting anxious if you’re out of his sight for too long. whether you’re running errands or simply walking in another room, moze’s mind starts racing with worries about what could go wrong. he’ll quickly excuse himself from whatever he’s doing to make sure you’re okay, often without telling you beforehand.

✧ when you call him out on his behaviour—teasing him about how overprotective he’s become—he’ll brush it off, his usual calm demeanour faltering for just a moment. deep down, he knows he’s being a little too much, but he can’t help it. the thought of anything happening to you or the baby is unbearable to him. “I’m just making sure you’re safe,” he’ll say, his voice almost apologetic, but there’s an undeniable seriousness in his words.

✧ the most intense expression of his protectiveness comes when you’re asleep. when he knows you’re resting, moze will often sit beside you, his eyes flicking to the door, the window, anything that could pose a threat. it’s not out of a lack of trust in the people around you—it’s just that he can’t help but imagine all the worst-case scenarios.

✧ when he’s out on missions, he’ll always leave something behind for you: a note, a small gift, or even a piece of clothing with his scent on it. it’s his way of reassuring you that he’s thinking of you, even when he’s not physically present. but it’s also his way of ensuring you feel protected, even when he’s far away.

✧ he’s so protective that even the slightest health concern about you makes him panic. if you’re feeling a little tired or have a headache, he’s there, checking your temperature, demanding you rest, and refusing to leave until you’re fully recovered.

✧ moze’s protectiveness isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, too. when you’re dealing with the stress or uncertainty of pregnancy, he’s your steady rock. he’ll listen to every concern, soothe every worry, and make sure you know that you’re not alone. he’s already planning for the future, researching everything he can about raising a child, so he can be the best father possible.

✧ in quiet moments, when he’s just holding you or resting beside you, he might admit his fears. “i’m scared,” he’ll say softly, his usual stoic expression softening. “i don’t want anything to happen to you or the baby.” his vulnerability is rare, but it’s a testament to just how much he loves you both.

✧ his protectiveness never fades—it only grows stronger the closer you get to your due date. he’s constantly by your side, offering comfort, reassurance, and unspoken protection in every gesture, every word, and every action.

✧ moze is already extremely attentive to your cravings, and when you start to ask for something a bit more specific or unusual, he’s not one to shy away. but there's a catch—he’s not exactly a culinary expert. while he’s incredibly skilled in other areas, cooking is not his strong suit. so, naturally, when you have a craving, he’s quick to ask jiaoqiu to cook for you.

✧ at first, moze might be a bit embarrassed, but he genuinely wants you to feel comfortable and satisfied with whatever you’re craving. he might come to jiaoqiu with a sheepish smile, saying something along the lines of, "i’m afraid I’m not very good in the kitchen... could you help me?" his usual composed demeanor is a little shaken because he knows that jiaoqiu is probably a much better cook than he could ever hope to be.

✧ jiaoqiu, ever the understanding friend, is happy to oblige. he can’t resist helping out when moze comes to him with that rare moment of vulnerability. but knowing that moze is trying to be thoughtful and learn, jiaoqiu has a bit of fun with it. he doesn’t just cook the food—he starts teaching moze along the way, much to moze’s discomfort.

✧ “You need to do this carefully... and don’t forget the seasoning,” jiaoqiu will say, demonstrating how to chop ingredients just right or stir the pot at the perfect pace. moze, on the other hand, looks a bit lost, trying his best to follow along but occasionally making a mess. it’s clear he’s not exactly a natural, and jiaoqiu’s teasing makes it even more amusing. “i thought you were good at everything, moze? this looks like a disaster in the making.”

✧ moze, determined not to fail you, listens closely, even though he might grumble under his breath when jiaoqiu critiques his knife skills or the way he’s holding the pan. he’s doing it all to make sure you’re satisfied and happy, even if it means a little bit of embarrassment along the way.

✧ meanwhile, he’s still keeping a protective eye on you from the kitchen, glancing over to make sure you’re resting and not pushing yourself. “you’re doing okay?” he’ll ask, even if it’s just a quick glance. he doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of you as well as he does, and he’s constantly checking in.

✧ when jiaoqiu hands over the finished dish, moze’s face lights up, but there's still a hint of guilt for not being able to do it himself. he insists on thanking jiaoqiu profusely, though deep down, he’s already planning his next attempt at cooking so he can surprise you one day.

✧ “i’ll get better at this... for you.” he’ll say to you later that evening, offering you a gentle smile. “next time, i’ll cook it myself.” and while jiaoqiu might snicker at his attempts, moze’s resolve is firm. after all, he’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy, even if it means learning how to cook your cravings—even if it takes more than a few lessons from jiaoqiu.

note: i'm obsessed with anaxa n mydei

taglist 🏷️:  @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @v4an @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls @yuri-is-silly @khoiyyu @daydreaming-paradies if im missing anyone please tell me because i have an inkling feeling i missed a few..

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[ariichive]

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he didn’t realize how many people yearned for you as much as he did. and now that he had, the thought sat heavy in his chest, unsettling in a way he didn’t quite know how to handle.

cw: gender neutral, fluff, lighthearted, jealousy, slight stalking, reader has a lot of fans, secret admirers, established relationships, creepy letter in phainon's part

in okhema, there’s an npc named myrion who has a bunch of admirers lined up for her, so this inspired me lmaoo! once again, mydei's is my favorite... love writing for him

mydei₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

when you and mydei had gone on a casual stroll through okhema, he wasn't expecting to discover how well-known you were around the city.

verax leo was a mouthy lion, one that overheard many conversations in its time in the holy city.

you, wanting to stop by and see if the lion had any new riddles, were not expecting for the verax to use this as an opportunity to tease the prince of kremnos.

"the beautiful muse of the mighty prince, [name]! an honor to see you! here for another riddle?"

mydei’s brow arched ever so slightly at the greeting, golden eyes flickering between you and verax leo with a quiet intensity.

“beautiful?” he echoed, tilting his head in that slow, calculating way of his.

you sighed, already sensing where this was going. “don’t start.”

verax leo let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. “oh? have i struck a nerve, mighty prince? or perhaps… have i simply voiced what many already whisper?”

mydei's perfect brow furrowed even deeper, "explain, annoying lion, what you mean by that."

verax leo, suddenly sensing the thick tension, voice wavered as he responded. "w-well, i would not live up to my name if i didn't put this in the form of a riddle!"

mydei didn't answer, only narrowing his eyes at the golden mount. "in the city of okhema, there are many beautiful antiques and valuables. often sought after. but, there's one that's unattainable, and can only be spoken of in whispers my lion ears can hear."

you blinked, glancing between mydei and verax leo, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

mydei’s expression remained unreadable, his golden eyes sharp as they bore into the lion. “go on.”

verax leo let out a nervous chuckle, but continued nonetheless. “this treasure is admired by all, longed for by many, yet it rests in the hands of one who walks among us.” the lion paused before continuing. “and oh, how the city wonders… will the one who holds it keep their grasp, or will another dare to reach?”

mydei let the silence stretch between them, his expression unreadable. then, with slow precision, he turned to you.

“is that true?” his voice was softer now, but laced with something deeper—something possessive.

you rolled your eyes, a hint of amusement in your voice. “it’s just a riddle, mydei. you don’t actually think—”

“but it is true,” he interrupted smoothly, gaze never leaving yours. “you are sought after. spoken of in whispers. desired. it would be foolish if people didn't see your beauty.”

you swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his attention. “mydei—”

he exhaled, then, a slow, quiet breath, before looking back at verax leo. “and tell me, lion, what happens to those who reach for the unattainable?”

verax leo hesitated before answering, voice lower this time. “they risk being burned.”

a small smirk ghosted across mydei’s lips, though there was no humor in it—only certainty. “then let them whisper.”

and with that, he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before leading you away from the lion’s watchful gaze, leaving nothing else to be said.

as you walked through the streets of okhema, the whispers verax spoke of suddenly felt louder—eyes flickering toward you, smiles offered, murmurs shared between passersby. you had never thought much of it before, but now, with mydei at your side, his grip firm around your hand, it was impossible to ignore.

“you’re really letting that riddle get to you, huh?” you finally said, glancing at him.

mydei didn’t answer immediately. instead, his golden eyes stayed forward, scanning the streets, his expression unreadable. when he finally spoke.

“it isn’t the riddle that bothers me,” he said. “it’s the fact that it isn’t just a riddle.”

you sighed for the hundredth time. “it's—”

“how many?” he asked suddenly.

you blinked. “...how many what?”

his gaze flickered to yours, sharp and calculating. “how many people have whispered about you? how many have longed for something they will never have?”

heat crept up your neck, but you scoffed, shaking your head. “do you hear yourself right now?”

“i hear the city.” his thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “and i hear verax leo. neither of them are wrong.”

you stopped walking, tugging his hand to make him face you fully. “and? does it matter?”

his jaw tightened for the briefest moment before he exhaled, as if weighing his words. “no,” he said. then, softer, more certain: “not when the whispers mean nothing to you.”

your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he lifted your joined hands, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your fingers.

“let them whisper,” he repeated, gaze locked onto yours. “as long as they know who you belong to.”

you gave his hand a small squeeze before pulling him forward. “come on, prince of kremnos. we’ve wasted enough time indulging a silly lion.”

he let you pull him along, but his grip remained firm, unwavering. “hm. i suppose. though, next time, i may indulge verax leo myself.”

you raised a brow. “oh?”

his golden eyes glimmered. “yes. i’d like to hear what else the city whispers—so i know exactly what to silence.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

but as the two of you walked away, hand in hand, the city’s whispers no longer mattered. after all, there was no need for speculation when the truth was already clear—mydei had already won the prize they all longed for. and he had no intention of ever letting go.

phainon₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

phainon was a man that took pride in his relationship with you, always taking the initiative to show you off. he knew you were gorgeous, and was extremely lucky to have you before anyone else.

he'd often hear praise of your name throughout okhema, be it the older lady that worked the market or a young kid.

but there was an extent to how much he could take, especially when it became borderline crazy.

phainon, call him petty, often discarded the various love letters that were made for you. he would read through them and laugh at their contents. these men knew nothing about you, and it almost made him feel bad.

almost.

there was no room in his heart for men that overstepped many boundaries; and the letter in his hand was a prime example of this.

'Dear [Name],

you have caught my attention, which is an honor not many can achieve. I see the way you interact with the people of the Holy City, but I cannot help but be curious; when will it be my turn? To see your beautiful eyes gaze at me? Must I do something extravagant? I watch you, the way your eyes light up when the infamous Chrysos Heir greets you. Tell me, is it that simple? There's no way you're impressed by his-'

phainon stopped reading the letter there, irritation already seeping deep into his veins. not only was the letter addressed to his quarters, but now he had the nerve to diss him?

phainon was so lost in thought, he didn't notice you enter the bedroom.

you tilted your head, watching him with mild curiosity. it wasn’t often that he was this distracted, his fingers curled tightly around a piece of parchment, blue eyes narrowed in what could only be irritation.

"what's wrong?" you asked, stepping closer.

phainon blinked, finally registering your presence. his expression smoothed almost instantly, slipping into something more composed—too composed.

"nothing of importance," he said, rolling the letter between his fingers before tossing it onto the desk. "just another fool with more confidence than sense."

your gaze flickered to the discarded parchment. "another love letter?"

he exhaled, crossing his arms. "unfortunately."

curious, you reached for the letter. phainon's hand twitched as if debating whether to snatch it away, but he let you take it. as you scanned its contents, amusement tugged at your lips—until you got further down.

"just a creep," you muttered, throwing the letter somewhere of no importance.

"perhaps i should respond," he mused. "it would be a shame if our dear admirer thought their words went unread."

"phainon."

"oh, come now, you should know me well enough by now." his grin was all mischief and indulgence. "i wouldn't be cruel. i'd simply... clarify a few things."

"by 'clarify,' you mean gloat."

"semantics."

you sighed again, running a hand down your face. "you're crazy."

"and yet," he echoed, mirth dancing in his voice, "people still test me."

he leaned in then, voice a quiet hum against your ear. "but if you truly wish for me to ignore them, all you have to do is say so. you know i'm weak for your word."

"i'm well aware," you giggled softly which made his cheeks warm in delight.

"though i do wonder, would a ring around your finger put an end to this cruelty?" he put a hand over his heart in faux pain. though he was teasing, you couldn't help but notice the truth in his words.

"only one way to find out."

anaxa₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

you were perfect, it was a fact any being with senses knew. more importantly, you were his perfect assistant. always there to assist him when he was busy with a student or to find his favorite pen.

it was these little things that mattered most to him, and he made sure your help never went unrecognized.

you watched anaxa busy himself helping his students with their research, the stack of thesis' on his desk going unlooked at.

"anaxa," your voice sweetly cut through the academic chatter of the classroom.

“i assume you’re here to remind me of some terribly dull obligation? my neglected paperwork, perhaps?”

you crossed your arms, unimpressed. “i was going to suggest taking a break, but clearly, your self-awareness is intact.”

his smirk deepened as he placed his hands on his hips. “why, of course. i am nothing if not entirely conscious of my own habits—though I do wonder how I managed before you.”

“poorly,” you deadpanned. “misplaced notes, forgotten meals, and a truly tragic reliance on last-minute efforts.”

he hummed in response, glancing at his student who wouldn't stop looking at you.

"i can help your students, you should use this time to look at the tablets and papers on your desk."

anaxa tilted his head, regarding you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something more inscrutable. “how generous of you,” he murmured, fingers idly tapping against the untouched stack of work. “but tell me, dear, are you implying that my guidance is somehow… lacking?”

his tone was smooth, laced with that ever-present air of self-assuredness, but you knew him well enough to catch the teasing edge beneath it.

you merely raised a brow. “i’m implying that your penchant for procrastination is as legendary as your intellect. i don't wish to wake from slumber to you scribbling and muttering to yourself. ”

he exhaled a dramatic sigh, finally deigning to glance at the tablets and papers before him. “so cruel, yet so efficient,” he mused. “very well, if only to spare you the tragedy of watching me scramble at the last moment.”

anaxa retreated to his paperwork, leaving you with the student he was previously helping. you glanced down at his report, seeing unique sketches of chimeras.

"oh!" you exclaimed in excitement, leaning over the scholar's shoulder. "chimeras, i know a decent amount about them. i used to frequent the garden of life," before meeting anaxa, you wanted to add on, knowing he hated whenever you mentioned okhema.

the student perked up at your enthusiasm, eyes wide with curiosity. “you’ve been to the garden of life?” he asked, glancing between you and his sketches. “i’ve only read about it in records. is it true that some of the creatures there can work for hours?”

you nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “some can, yes. their adaptability is remarkable, and they are super friendly!”

watching the student scribble things down, you continued. "even though they have a small and cute appearance, chimeras are very intelligent, understanding human speech despite not speaking it themselves."

anaxa smiled gently as he overheard your conversation, finding comfort in your voice. until he overheard another, more annoying conversation.

"[name] really is smart, no wonder professor keeps her to himself."

"yeah, it's a shame, if i had someone like [name]-"

anaxa stood up abruptly from his desk, the chair making a loud screech against the floor.

the sudden noise startled both you and the student, cutting your conversation short. you turned to see anaxa standing with an air of composed irritation, his pretty eyes sharp as they swept over the room.

“fascinating,” he drawled, his voice carrying just enough bite to make the offending students stiffen. “i wasn’t aware my assistant’s intelligence was up for public discussion—nor that any of you had the credentials to make such evaluations.”

a tense silence fell over the room. the scholars in question looked away, suddenly engrossed in their own work.

anaxa hummed, satisfied, before adjusting his cuffs with deliberate elegance. “i’d suggest you redirect your academic curiosity to something more productive. unless, of course, you believe gossip will earn you a place in my lectures?”

you sighed, rubbing your temples. this wasn’t the first time anaxa had taken offense on your behalf, though his methods were as dramatic as ever.

“professor,” you said, voice edged with both exasperation and amusement, “i believe your paperwork still requires your attention."

he hummed, completely ignoring you.

as he returned to his desk, you exhaled, shaking your head before refocusing on the student’s report.

still, you could feel anaxa’s gaze lingering—not on his paperwork or the students, but on you.

“professor,” you murmured without looking up, “if you’re going to stare at me all afternoon, at least pretend to be grading.”