#it's about vibes man. just enjoy the vibes

[yinyuedijun]

lock before I reply and thank u, I need u to know that when I saw u had reblogged this fic I screamed a little 😭😭😭 now I need to immortalize your tags on ch1 + ch2 if you don't mind - they just made me so happy T_T

AFLSHSKFJ "earn you a pulitzer" lock I'll literally cry you're so nice & funny HAHA!! but speaking seriously I'm so glad you're enjoying how I write mydei 😭😭😭 it was interesting trying to highlight his vulnerability/limitations (a necessity in any man I lust after) while at the same trying to maintain the canon that he is a mighty and undying warrior 💀 so I'm glad you felt that I struck a balance there effectively!!! ALSO IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKED THE PROPHECIES!!! greek tragedy is exactly the vibe that I've been aiming for with them 🙏🙏🙏

NOT THE WEDDING MEME 😭😭😭 again you are so sweet and so funny. "both mydei and I knew reader was about to pull some stunts" made me CACKLE also HAHAHA - I'm so glad you're enjoying watching how the two of them work within the boundaries of the kremnoan slavery system, because that's a huge part of the fic and I was super worried it would bore people!!!

ALSO IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKED THAT KNIFE SCENE!!!! I did put my whole writerussy into that moment 🫡 so I'm glad you enjoyed it !!! AND I'm also so glad you liked that music scene - it was so fun getting to research ancient greek music and incorporating that, so I'm glad you liked reading about all those little details :3c AND YES... their names being shared with the trojans... I shall not reveal anything but I'm kicking my feet bc you noticed :3ccc

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR READING and for writing such long and thoughtful comments 😭 I appreciate you endlessly and I hope you know that!!! MWAH MWAH!!!

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

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

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

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

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

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

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

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

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

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

“Dromases?” he inquires.

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

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

“Does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

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

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

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

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

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

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

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

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

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

And you panic.

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

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

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

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

“There's no need to be sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“Close enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then the fourth day comes.

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

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

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

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

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

But he's not saving her.

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

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

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

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

She screams in Aurelian.

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

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

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

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

It's exactly what you want.

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

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

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

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

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

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

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

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

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

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

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

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

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

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

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

Do you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

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

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

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

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

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

Not if, not when, but who.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have been—just not permanently.”

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

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

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

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

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

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes you into the city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that.”

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

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

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

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

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

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

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

Your composure shatters.

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

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

Keep up appearances.

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

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

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

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

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

Your heart drops.

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

How selfish.

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

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

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

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

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

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

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

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

Your time is up.

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

“Of course, Your Highness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

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

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

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

End Part II

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

some notes:

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

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

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

[nocturnebite]

Clickbait [+..••]

(is this real) - gamer! Ni-ki x fem! reader

synopsis: He wasn’t supposed to swipe back. But now you’re trading late-night calls with a too-perfect gamer, and it feels real—until his past comes crashing in. Was he genuine… or just another kind of clickbait? fic notes: dating apps... ew || banter || mild trust issues || fluff :3 wc: 4.87k

ash's notes: this idea has been in my head for so long and i really wanted to write it and now i'm finally done! i've got so many drafts i need to post it's unreal. but i hope you enjoy this little story :3 !!

“Okay, spill. How was it?”

You blink at your friend, the flickering glow of the café’s fairy lights reflecting in her eyes as she leans forward, resting her chin on her palm like she’s about to hear the juiciest gossip of the year. The table between you smells of burnt caramel and overpriced matcha, and you’ve barely touched your drink. You draw a slow breath, the kind that tastes like disappointment, and offer a flat smile.

“Just more clickbait,” you say.

Your friend groans like it physically hurts her. “No way.”

You nod, slouching in your chair as if gravity itself has finally gotten too heavy to resist. “He said he was six feet. He was five-seven, max. His pictures were from, like, 2018. And he talked about crypto for an hour straight. I didn’t even know people still did that.”

She winces. “Oof.”

You sigh again, softer this time, letting the frustration settle in your chest. “I’m so tired of people pretending to be someone they’re not. I get it—it’s a dating app. Everyone's performing. But why does it feel like I’m the only one actually showing up as me?”

Your friend plays with her straw, thoughtful. “So... you’re giving up?”

You shrug. “I think I’ve officially retired. I’ll knit. Adopt a cat. Maybe start writing angry Yelp reviews.”

“Oh, come on.” She bumps your arm. “You can’t just quit. I had a good date last week, remember? It’s not all trash.”

“Yeah, and I’m thrilled for you,” you say honestly. “But you’re, like, the one-in-a-million success story they use in the ads. I’m the cautionary tale.”

“Stop it,” she says, dragging out the last word like a scolding mom. “You’re gorgeous, funny, smart. You deserve something good.”

You smile, a bit tired around the edges, and tilt your head. “Tell that to the last guy who said ‘no thoughts, just vibes’ on his profile.”

She groans and grabs your phone from the table. “Let’s just look, okay? You don’t have to marry anyone tonight.”

You eye her skeptically. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re tragic. Come on.”

You sigh but relent, taking the phone back. The app lights up like a slot machine as you open it. Familiar profiles slide past your thumb: shirtless mirror selfies, vague bios with gym stats, a suspicious number of “entrepreneurs.”

Some match with you. You don’t swipe back. Some are clearly bots, or worse—people who look like they borrowed someone else’s face.

And then you see him.

Your thumb freezes.

Tall. Jet-black hair, slightly tousled like he just got up from a gaming chair but still looks model-ready. Hooded eyes. Full lips. That smirk—cocky, unreadable, like he knows something you don’t.

“Holy—” your friend leans over the screen. “Swipe. Now.”

“No,” you say immediately, locking the phone like it just burned you. “Absolutely not. He’s definitely fake.”

“Are you kidding me? That man looks like a Greek god and you’re not even curious?”

“He looks like trouble,” you mutter. “He’s hot. He knows it. Probably a Twitch streamer with a Discord full of girls who call him ‘daddy.’ I’m not signing up for that.”

Your friend laughs so hard she nearly spills her drink. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you insist, though your heart is pounding for reasons you can’t explain. “It’s written all over his face.”

“But what if it’s not? What if—plot twist��he’s the one that breaks the pattern?”

You hesitate.

“Just swipe,” she pleads. “Worst case, you don’t match and never see him again. Best case…”

You shake your head, but you can already feel yourself giving in. Still, before you can decide, your friend snatches the phone and swipes right with a dramatic flourish.

You gape at her. “Did you just—?!”

“No match,” she says, showing you the screen. “Happy?”

You exhale, weirdly deflated. “Honestly? Yeah. I mean, he’s probably got a million people trying to match with him.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it just wasn’t your moment.”

You nod, lips pressed together as you slide your phone into your bag. “Well, I’m done for the night. I’m going home, washing my face, and watching something stupid.”

She stands with you, grinning. “Good. You deserve to turn your brain off. But hey…” she pauses, her smile softening. “Don’t give up completely, okay? I’ve got a good feeling.”

You roll your eyes but give her a hug goodbye.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

That night, you toss your keys onto your desk, the screen of your phone lighting up just as you’re about to plug it in.

1 New Message - [Tinder]

You frown, opening it automatically, expecting another “hey cutie” from someone who can’t spell your name right.

But the screen shows something else entirely.

You matched with Riki.

Your heart stops.

Your hands go cold.

You blink at the message, then again—just to make sure your eyes aren’t playing tricks.

The same face. The same smirk. The guy who was too good to be true…

Matched with you.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

You don’t open the message right away.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re busy—brushing your teeth, feeding the dog, picking at dinner you don’t even taste—but deep down, you know it’s because you’re scared.

You already decided not to get your hopes up again. You’ve already been down this road before—the one where a hot guy matches, flirts, builds you up like you’re the only girl on earth, only to ghost you the second things feel real.

Still.

You tap the app. His message is waiting.

Riki: Thought I was imagining things for a sec. Didn’t expect the girl with the death-glare profile pic to swipe back 😅

Your nose scrunches. Death glare?

You flip to your own profile, stare at the photo your friend picked—half-smiling, eyes a little dead inside.

Okay, fair.

You: Yeah well. Didn’t expect the cocky gamer guy to swipe either. So I guess we’re both glitching tonight. Riki: I’m not cocky. I’m just... factually confident. And good with my thumbs.

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. You fail.

You: That’s exactly something a cocky guy would say. Riki: Damn. She’s clever too. I’m in trouble.

You don’t respond right away. Not because you don’t want to—but because something in your chest tightens at how easy it is. The flow. The banter. Like slipping into an old sweater you forgot still fit.

And somehow, it stays like that.

No “wyd” texts. No pressure. Just long, meandering conversations that start late and end later. You find out he streams sometimes, but only for fun. He has a little sister he’s protective over. He learned to cook because his mom works nights. His favorite genre is horror, but he’s a total baby when it comes to jump scares.

He doesn’t ask for selfies. Doesn’t hint at anything sketchy. In fact, half the time it feels like he genuinely just wants someone to talk to.

Which is kind of nice.

It turns into a rhythm: He messages. You reply. You laugh. You tease. You talk until your phone is warm in your hand and your eyes sting from lack of sleep.

Riki: You’re fun. You: You’re not what I expected. Riki: That’s either the best compliment or a red flag in disguise. You: I’ll let you know which later.

It’s two weeks in when he says it.

You’re half-asleep, curled in bed, squinting at his message through one heavy eyelid.

Riki: Random idea You should come visit sometime

You blink. Sit up a little.

You: …what? Riki: Like, no pressure. Just throwing it out there. I’ll even pay for the flight if it makes it easier.

You stare at your screen like it just called you by your middle name.

You: Uhh. Red flag alert. Guy offering to pay for your flight? That’s how true crime documentaries start. Riki: Rude. I don’t even own duct tape. You: That’s exactly what someone with duct tape would say. Riki: Touché.

You toss your phone onto the bed, pull the blanket over your face, and scream into it.

Then obviously you FaceTime your best friend.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

“You’re being dramatic,” she says, chewing a mouthful of chips. “You two have been talking nonstop for, what, three weeks?”

“Two and a half.”

“Exactly. That’s like, seven months in internet time. Honestly, if you were dating IRL, people would be asking when the wedding is.”

You throw your head back with a groan. “It’s not like that. We’re just… friends. Kind of. With... light sarcasm and subtle tension.”

“So... dating.”

“NO!”

She levels you with a look. “You like him.”

“I like the version of him that lives in my phone. That doesn’t mean he’s real.”

“Then FaceTime him.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re nervous he’s not who he says he is, video chat. If he’s a catfish, boom—case closed. If he’s real... then you’ll know.”

You sit with that for a second.

Then you do it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

The first FaceTime is awkward in a cute way. He’s lounging in a hoodie with messy hair and a controller in his lap. You’re in your worst pajama shirt, already regretting not putting on concealer.

But he smiles when he sees you—no hesitation, no filters, no pause.

“Yo,” he says like it’s no big deal.

“You’re real,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He laughs. “That’s what I was gonna say.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

One call turns into two.

Two turns into three.

Three turns into four—until it’s a quiet comfort, this unspoken ritual of being online together, even when you’re not talking.

You study. He games. Sometimes he curses under his breath. Sometimes you hum without realizing it. Neither of you hangs up first.

The screen just stays on.

And somewhere between late-night calls and sleepy “goodnights,” it stops feeling like a maybe.

It starts to feel like something real.

One night, while adjusting his mic and opening some game you don’t recognize, he says it again:

“You should come visit.”

This time, it sounds less like a joke.

And more like a hope.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

“You should come visit.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it. 

But this time… it’s different.

His voice is soft through your laptop speaker, his hoodie bunched up around his elbows as he clicks through some loading screen. You’re lying sideways on your bed, textbooks open, highlighter uncapped, but your focus vanished the second he said those four words.

You don’t answer right away. Just chew your lip and stare at the screen where he’s pretending not to look at you.

“That’s like the fifth time you’ve asked”

“I’m serious,” he says after a beat. “I mean… if you want to.”

There’s that voice again. Casual, light, no pressure. Like he’s talking about ordering takeout, not asking you to fly across the country and see if he’s actually the person you’ve been falling asleep on FaceTime with every night.

You close your textbook.

“Riki.”

He glances over. The game’s paused now. You can see the flicker of the screenlight reflected in his cheekbones. He looks tired. Warm. Real.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not like… secretly plotting to harvest my organs, right?”

He snorts. “I literally stream Minecraft, not organ trafficking.”

“Not a convincing alibi.”

He grins, then sobers. “I get it. It’s a big ask. But I meant it when I said I’d help. I’d book the flight. You’d stay at a hotel if you want, no pressure. I wouldn’t be weird.”

“That’s what all the weird ones say.”

“Okay,” he says, deadpan. “I’d be only a little weird. Like, manageable-weird. Charming-weird.”

You laugh, and that’s the problem.

Because you like him. More than you meant to.

You liked the idea of him at first. A distraction. A match your friend forced. But now… it’s not just the banter or the voice you’ve memorized or the ridiculous way he says “dude” when he’s excited.

It’s how he makes you feel like the only person in the room—even through a screen.

And that? That’s dangerous.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

The next day, you bring it up to your best friend over lunch.

Her response is immediate: “You have to go.”

You blink. “Okay, but what if he’s not—”

“You FaceTime him literally every night.”

“What if he’s different in person?”

“He watches K-dramas and talks to your dog through the phone. You already know him better than half the guys you’ve actually dated.”

You stare at your untouched sandwich.

“I just…” You swallow. “What if I go and it ruins it?”

She’s quiet for once.

Then: “What if you don’t… and it ruins you?”

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

That night, you don’t say yes.

You say, “I’m thinking about it.”

You say, “It’s a maybe.”

And he doesn’t push.

Instead, he smiles at you—gentle and slow, like he knows you’re a scared thing on the edge of something, and he’s not going to rush you off it.

“I can wait,” he says simply.

You believe him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

The next week, something shifts.

Not in a dramatic way—no confessions, no intense moment of clarity—but in all the quiet ways that matter more.

You fall asleep on call, and he whispers, “Goodnight,” like a secret. You wake up to a message from him with a screenshot of a dumb meme he swears “just felt like you.” He starts calling you by your name more, not just your username.

One night, in the middle of a game, he glances at his screen and says, out of nowhere: “Do you always look at me like that?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to.”

You don’t have an answer.

So you call again. And again.

By the time it’s the sixth night in a row, you’re not even nervous anymore. You’re just… used to it. Comfortable. You study, he plays. You breathe. He listens.

Sometimes you don’t talk for twenty minutes.

And it feels like home.

That night, he says it again—quieter this time.

“You should come visit.”

And this time… You don’t say no.

You just look at him—pixelated and beautiful—and whisper, “Maybe.”

And he smiles like maybe is everything.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

It starts with a ticket in your inbox.

No subject line. No message. Just an email that reads:

“Your flight to Seoul has been confirmed.”

You blink.

Then your phone buzzes.

Riki: Don’t panic. You can still say no. I’ll cancel it in a second if you’re uncomfortable. Just… wanted to make it real. In case you say yes.

Your heart is doing weird things.

You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard, your thoughts a loud chorus of what ifs and you’re crazy and this boy could be everything or nothing or both.

You: Give me three days. If I don’t back out by then… I’ll go.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

You don’t back out.

Your friend screams when you tell her. She helps you pack—overpacks, really—like you’re heading into battle instead of a long weekend. She even shoves a tiny pink can of pepper spray in your purse “just in case he’s secretly a weirdo.”

(You both know he’s not. But still. Pepper spray is ✨ aesthetic ✨.)

The night before the flight, you barely sleep. You FaceTime Riki and end up playing “21 questions” until 2am, your voices slow and sleepy.

“What if it’s weird?” you ask.

“What if it’s not?” he replies.

You hate that that makes you smile.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

At the airport, your nerves riot inside you. The terminal smells like pretzels and nerves and new beginnings.

By the time the plane lands, your hands are cold and your thoughts are loud.

You look around baggage claim, eyes darting.

Then—you see him.

He’s leaning against a pillar, hoodie half-zipped, hair tucked under a black cap. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s scrolling his phone, one hand in his pocket.

He doesn’t see you yet.

And in that second, you think—he looks like trouble. But the good kind.

Then he looks up.

And smiles.

Not the polite kind. Not the awkward oh-hi-nice-to-meet-you kind.

The I know you already kind.

And just like that— You’re not nervous anymore.

The first five minutes are weird.

Of course they are.

You both talk too fast. Or not at all. He goes in for a hug, and you kind of flinch, so he backs off and jokes, “Guess I deserved that.” And you say, “No, I’m just—processing,” and then neither of you talk for five minutes straight in the car.

But then he says, “You hungry?” And you say, “Always.”

And suddenly… you’re fine again.

The first night is a blur of fast food eaten in his car, music playing low, and a midnight walk through a neighborhood you don’t know but don’t mind getting lost in.

At one point, he bumps his shoulder into yours and says, “You’re taller than I expected.”

You deadpan, “You’re not.”

He laughs so hard he nearly drops his drink.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next day, you hang out at his place.

He’s more nervous than you’ve ever seen him—rambling about his cable setup, offering snacks every five seconds, adjusting his monitor like he’s auditioning for HGTV.

But you sit on his bed, cross-legged, and just watch.

And after a while, he calms down.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he mumbles.

You shrug. “You’re real.”

He gives you a look. “Still convinced I was a catfish?”

“No,” you say. “But this part still doesn’t feel real.”

He sits beside you. Not touching. Just close.

“Same.”

- - - - - - - - - - - -

At night, you fall asleep on his couch watching him game—your legs draped over his lap, your heart refusing to chill out. You pretend to be tired just to stay where you are.

He doesn’t move.

Just shifts the blanket higher over your knees, one hand resting lightly on your shin. You catch him glance at you once. Twice.

But he never says what you both know.

Not yet.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

And then—on the last night—you’re both lying side by side, watching some movie neither of you are really paying attention to. His fingers are brushing against yours on the bedspread. Barely. But enough.

He turns his head. “Hey.”

You look at him.

He looks nervous.

“Do you ever think… if we’d met in person first, it wouldn’t have worked?”

You blink. “Why?”

“I think I needed to know you before I liked you. Like, for real. The real you.”

You smile. “I was a mess when we met.”

He laughs. “You still are.”

You kick his leg. “Hey.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“Still the best kind of mess I’ve ever met.”

Your breath catches.

But before either of you can say anything else—your phone buzzes. Loud. Jarring.

You frown and reach for it, expecting your friend checking in.

It’s not.

It’s a direct message request.

From someone you don’t recognize.

And it says:

“You think you’re the only one he’s talking to?”

Your blood goes cold.

You look up.

And Riki—still smiling, still relaxed—doesn’t notice the shift in your face.

Yet.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

You read the message again.

“You think you’re the only one he’s talking to?”

The screen blurs. Your chest tightens. The room—warm and dim and full of the scent of Riki’s hoodie you’ve been curled in—suddenly feels foreign. Hollow.

Riki says something beside you. A dumb joke. You don’t hear it.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through. “You okay?”

You lock your phone and force a smile. “Yeah. Just my friend checking in.”

A lie.

You’ve never lied to him before.

It feels worse than the message.

You try to ignore it. Brush it off. A troll. A bot. A jealous girl with no life. Whatever.

But the message festers.

The next day, you wake up to another.

“I hope he told you about me. Or about our FaceTimes.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

You don’t know what to believe.

So instead, you test him.

“Hey,” you say casually, the next time you’re lying on the couch with him.

“Hmm?” he says, eyes on his screen.

“You ever… talk to other girls on here? Like, before me?”

He pauses. Glances at you. “You mean on Tinder?”

You shrug. “Or in general.”

He leans back. “I mean, yeah. Before you. But nothing like this. Nothing real.”

You nod. Try to smile. But the words loop in your head.

Before you. Before you. Before you.

But what if before never ended?

- - - - - - - - - - - -

By the third message, it’s not subtle anymore.

“He sent me the same flight email. I still have it.” [Attached: a screenshot]

Same subject line. Same dates. Different name.

You feel sick.

You don’t want to accuse him. You don’t want to need to.

So you ask.

“Riki… have you ever done this before?”

He blinks. “Done what?”

“This. Flying someone out. Meeting people from the app.”

There’s a beat.

Then: “Why are you asking?”

He doesn’t deny it.

And that hurts more than any answer.

You go silent.

The car ride back to the hotel is heavy.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Okay,” he says, pulling into the parking lot. “What’s going on?”

You don’t look at him. “Just tired.”

“You’re lying.”

You snap. “So are you.”

He goes quiet.

The kind of quiet that confirms everything.

You swallow. “Someone messaged me. Said you were FaceTiming them. Said you flew them out. Same message. Same dates.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not what you think.”

You laugh, sharp. “That’s funny, because it looks exactly like what I think.”

Then—softer: “I didn’t expect this to be perfect, Riki. I just didn’t want to be stupid for trusting you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

And that silence? It feels like betrayal.

You go inside the hotel alone.

The second the door closes behind you, you slide to the floor.

You don’t cry. Not yet. You’re not sure you’re allowed to. Not for someone who was never yours.

But your phone buzzes again.

Riki: I didn’t lie. Not about you. Can we talk?

And you don’t know if you’re ready.

But your heart?

It already misses him.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

You don’t answer his messages.

Not at first.

Not because you want to punish him—but because you’re scared that if you open the door, you’ll let him talk you back into something that maybe wasn’t even real.

You need space. He gives it to you. For about twelve hours.

Then your phone rings.

It’s your friend.

“You need to check Twitter,” she says.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“Just… look.”

- - - - - - - - - - - -

It’s a clip.

From one of Riki’s streams.

He’s laughing in it, leaned back in his chair, wearing a hoodie you recognize because you wore it two nights ago.

One of his friends says something off-screen:

“So you’re just gonna disappear for four days and not explain why?”

Riki shrugs. “I’m flying someone out.”

“A girl?”

He grins. “The girl.”

The chat explodes. Emojis. Screaming.

His friend hoots. “You’re in love.”

Riki doesn’t deny it.

Just goes quiet for a second. Then says, low and sure,

“She’s different. You’ll see.”

You stare at the screen.

Your breath stutters.

You scroll down. The comments are a storm. Most of them are pure chaos and ship names and thirsty fans screaming “SOFT LAUNCH???”

But some…

Some are ugly.

And one account keeps showing up.

One you recognize from the message requests.

@ KikiLuvsRiki: don’t fall for his act. i used to be “different” too. he just wants content. @ KikiLuvsRiki: bet he sent her the same flight confirmation template he used last year LMFAO.

Your hands shake.

Then a post from her, timestamped four hours ago:

“Imagine thinking you’re special to someone who rehearsed the same lines with me. He just swapped the name.”

There’s a screenshot attached.

Of a flight confirmation email.

But it’s dated last year.

Same airline. Different destination. Different name.

But the same tone.

You click the profile.

Scroll.

And what you find?

It’s not a random hater.

It’s his ex.

That night, your phone rings again.

Riki.

You don’t want to answer.

You do anyway.

“I should’ve told you,” he says, voice low, rough. “I just didn’t think she’d find out. I didn’t think it would matter.”

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, silent.

“I mentioned you on stream. I never do that. You know I don’t. And I didn’t even say your name—I was just… talking. I couldn’t help it. I was excited. I’m always careful, but this time I wasn’t.”

“Because of me?”

“Yeah,” he says, barely a whisper. “Because of you.”

Your heart twists.

“She saw the stream,” he adds. “And I guess she still had old screenshots or whatever. She’s not wrong—I flew her out once. A long time ago. We weren’t even a thing for more than a couple weeks, but she stuck around online. And when I stopped responding, she got weird.”

You exhale. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I was scared you’d think I was doing the same thing again. That I was collecting girls off the internet and making them fall for me or something.”

“And aren’t you?” you ask, voice quiet.

Silence.

Then:

“No.” “I wasn’t trying with anyone else.” “I didn’t even plan to swipe on your profile. I saw you, and it just—hit me. Harder than I expected. You weren’t just pretty. You looked real. Like someone I could ruin myself for if I wasn’t careful.”

You bite your lip.

He continues. “I didn’t swipe right first. But when we matched… I knew. I’ve never been like this with anyone else. Not even her.”

Your chest aches.

“But I should’ve told you,” he says. “That’s on me. I’ll make it up to you. Or I won’t. If this ruins it, I’ll live with that. But you deserved the truth.”

You let the silence sit.

It’s not that you don’t believe him.

It’s that you want to.

And maybe that scares you most of all.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The airport feels colder than it should.

Maybe it’s the early flight. Maybe it’s the sleep you didn’t get. Maybe it’s because you thought he’d fight harder.

You roll your suitcase forward.

Every step feels heavier than it should. Like maybe your heart stayed back at the hotel. Or in that voicemail you haven’t listened to yet.

“I get it if you’re done. But I’m not.” “Not with you.”

You clench your jaw. Shake your head. Keep walking.

You did what you were supposed to.

You gave him a chance to explain. You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t make a scene when your feelings got kicked around like some bonus level prize in his online world.

You let him talk.

You just didn’t stay.

Not this time.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Your gate is five minutes away.

You wrap your arms around yourself and try not to think.

The check-in lady takes your ID.

“Round trip?” she asks, typing.

You hesitate. Then shake your head.

“Just one way.”

She nods, unfazed. Prints your ticket.

You turn around—

And nearly crash into him.

Riki. Standing there. Breathless. Hoodie crooked. Hair messy. Like he ran.

And didn’t stop.

You freeze. “What—how did you—?”

“I tracked your flight.” His voice is hoarse. “Don’t be mad.”

You blink. “Are you serious right now?”

He swallows hard. “I wasn’t gonna let you leave thinking I didn’t mean it. That you were just some... random screen name.”

“Riki—”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “Let me talk. Please.”

Your heart races. Your throat tightens.

He exhales. “I don’t care who’s watching. I don’t care if this is pathetic. I’ve never wanted something like this before. Not like this. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

You don’t say anything.

He runs a hand through his hair.

“I messed up,” he says. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve known she'd try something the second I opened up. That’s on me. But don’t let her be the reason we don’t happen.”

You feel the tears sting before they fall.

He sees it.

Softens.

Steps forward like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“I’ve never had what we have,” he whispers. “The FaceTimes. The quiet. The way I don’t need to perform when I’m with you. You didn’t fall for the persona. You fell for me. And I—I need you to know I fell right back.”

You sniff. Wipe your eyes.

“And if that means I have to fly to every city you run to just to say it again, I will.”

You meet his eyes.

“I wanted to believe you,” you say. “I still do.”

“Then do,” he whispers. “Let me prove it.”

You pause.

Search his face.

And for the first time in days, the panic starts to melt. The ache eases.

Not completely. But enough.

You step closer.

And his shoulders drop—like he was holding his breath for too long.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He smiles.

“No you don’t.”

You shake your head. “I don’t.”

Then, softer: “You’re lucky I like dramatic airport gestures.”

And when you wrap your arms around him, burying your face into the hoodie you never gave back—he just holds you.

Not like he won.

Like he’s grateful you stayed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

BONUS :)

Later, after the flight you didn’t take…

You’re on his stream.

Just your voice.

He reads a question from chat:

“Are you guys together now?”

He looks at you off-camera.

Smiles.

Then to the chat: “She’s sitting right here, isn’t she?”

You groan. “You’re so annoying.”

He grins wider. “But you like me.”

And you don’t deny it.

Not this time.

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[lurkingshan]

Hi! I've been working through some of your bl show recommendations and am loving them.

This is kinda specific but do you have any good bl recommendations with great and supportive sibling relationships?

I just started Bad Buddy (love it so far) and really like the bond between Pat and Pa.

Thank you!!

Hello! I'm so glad you're enjoying the shows. I also really love sibling relationships in drama, so I am happy to share a list of shows I think have interesting sibling dynamics. Please note that this list is by no means every BL with a sibling character; instead it's the ones where I found the sibling relationship compelling, important to the narrative (beyond basic plot set up), and overall worth watching.

I hope you'll like some of these! In no particular order:

Bad Buddy

You've already found Pat and Pa, a great brother-sister duo who watch out for each other even as they annoy the hell out of each other as only siblings can. Their bond is one of the most important through lines of the story.

La Pluie

In La Pluie our main character has several siblings, but his closest and most important sibling relationship is with his next age brother Tien. This one is more a case of one brother watching out for the other relentlessly while the other needs to learn to return the favor.

Unknown 

The sibling dynamics in this one are complex, to say the least, as this found family goes through a lot of trials and tribulations figuring out their relationships. But the bond between the three members of this little family always hold firm no matter what else is happening.

Our Dining Table

This story of a lonely man bonding with two brothers through their love of food is one of my all time favorites, and the siblings are possibly the most endearing characters of all time.

Heesu in Class 2

The titular Heesu lives with his three older sisters, all of whom have their interesting quirks, and his relationships with them are hugely important to who he is and how he sees the world. This show really captured the vibe of a young boy raised by sisters perfectly.

I Cannot Reach You

Yamato's sister is one of the most important characters in this drama, as she sees and understands everything going on between her brother and his best friend and knows exactly when and how to nudge them in the right direction. She's also just really cool.

I Told Sunset About You

Teh's older brother Hoon is an important sounding board and support for him, and he appears at some crucial moments of the narrative to help his little brother figure himself out. Their relationship is touching without being overdramatized; Hoon feels exactly like a decent big brother who loves Teh but has his own life to deal with.

To Sir, With Love

Are Tian and Yang the best brother duo of all time?? Perhaps! Their unwavering love and support for each other--despite many people trying to pit them against each other--is one of the most touching aspects of this story.

The Untamed

And of course, we can't forget the Yunmeng Trio, iconic siblings whose love for each other was not ultimately enough to overcome their circumstances. They’re not the only siblings in this show but they’re the most important to the story. By far the most tragic siblings on this list.

[nicoline1998enilocin]

"I can hear you!" | Part 2 | Birthday Special ✨

PAIRING || Boyfriend! Tony Stark x Girlfriend! Avenger! Female! Reader

WORDCOUNT || 4.9K

SUMMARY || You've been away on a mission, but unexpectedly, you get to go home earlier than planned. This surprise is perfect because it’s the day before your birthday. However, what you don’t anticipate is finding Tony in a rather compromising situation. Luckily, you’re more than happy to return the favor after he walked in on you a few months ago.

RATING || Explicit (E)

TAGS + WARNINGS || Age gap romance | Established relationship | Avenger! Reader | Female! Reader | Descriptions of guns/use of a gun | Mentions of blood | Mentions of injuries

SMUT || Porn with a little plot | Soft! Dom/Sub vibes | Soft dom! Reader | Sub! Tony | Caught in the act | Voyeurism | Breeding kink | Stripping | Hair pulling | Dirty talk | Praise | Begging | Edging | Teasing | Male masturbation | Hand job | Oral – M receiving | Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!) | Belly bulge | Cowgirl position | Missionary | Mating press | Cream pie | Aftercare

A/N || In honor of my 27th birthday, I have written this deliciously filthy story based on this request for everyone to enjoy! Thank you to @ccbsrmsf1 for all your help and enthusiasm, too! Without you I wouldn't have been able to make this as amazing as it is, and I'm forever thankful for you 🤍

EVENTS @fandom-free-bingo Frosty Edition || Cuddled to sleep @fandom-free-bingo Gingerbread Edition || Breeding kink | "Remember me?" @fandom-free-bingo Maritime May Edition || 'It's all coming back to me' | "Did you replace me?" @fandom-free-bingo Pride Edition || Snowflakes @fandom-free-bingo Wild Edition || Caught having sex @sweetspicybingo Hurt/Comfort Edition || "Youre safe now."

GIF: @ccbsrmsf1 || All other graphics in this post are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark Masterlist || Part 1

“Remember me?” you whisper in the ear of one of your biggest enemies and target of your current mission – Alexander Pierce, one of HYDRA’s leaders – as you walk up behind him without making a single sound, the cool blade of your knife soon touching the warm, delicate skin of his throat. For the longest times, you have been working hard to bring the entire organization down, and tonight will be your biggest accomplishment yet if everything goes according to plan.

“How could I possibly forget someone as skilled as you? You’d still make a perfect addition to HYDRA if you decide to come over to our side. I might even forget about the times you have tried to take us down with your assassin-like precision,” he says calmly, and a shiver runs down your spine at the words. Despite this, your demeanor doesn’t shift for even a second, as the smallest sign of weakness might mean the end of the mission, and possibly your career as an Avenger.

“Don’t make me laugh, Pierce. You know damn well I would never work for someone as sick as you.” The last words are spit out like they’re poison, and the mere thought of working for someone as evil as him has your blood boiling. 

“Especially not after what you’ve done to my friend.” As you mention those words, the thoughts of Bucky as The Winter Soldier flash through your mind, though the man you’re currently holding a knife to isn’t fazed by the mention in the slightest. After a few more seconds of silence, you walk around him, your knife still digging into his skin as you come face to face with the man you loathe.

“Hmm, give him my best when you see him again-” is all he says before your knife is traded for your gun, and everything in your mind goes black as you hear a loud shot before he falls back, his sickening smile still on his face as he hits the floor. A trail of blood flows from the hole in his forehead, and you bolt out the same way you came into Pierce’s office as you hear a click behind you of the door unlocking.

Just as soon as you arrive, you’re gone again, the only trace of your presence being the lifeless body lying on the floor, and the thin, dark blood surrounding him. Your mission has been successful, and you’re now more than ever looking forward to being with your boyfriend, as there’s not a single place in the world you’d rather be than in his arms after a mission like this. Thankfully you have been able to complete your mission a week sooner than anticipated, meaning you will be home right on time before your birthday, making you want to go home even more than you already wanted to.

As soon as you’re back at the Avengers Compound, you’re making a beeline to the kitchen to get some much-needed food in your stomach, as it’s been heavily growling, but the food supply on the Quinjet has been running low for a while, and all the good snacks are always taken before you get a chance to get your hands on some of them. While you expected to be alone there, you’re greeted by your best friend, Natasha.

“Care for some mac & cheese?” she asks, and you immediately smile before nodding. It’s one of your favorite meals – has been since you were little – and it never fails to cheer you up after a mission, no matter what might have happened.

“I’d love some, thanks Nat,” you say before grabbing some water from the fridge and downing nearly the entire bottle. Not only were you nearing the territory of becoming extremely hungry – or hangry, as Tony sometimes calls it – but you were also parched, and the ice cold water is also a perfect way to stave the hunger for a bit. At least until Natasha is done preparing your dinner.

"So, how’d it go?”

“Well, let’s just say we don’t have to worry about Pierce anymore. I managed to sneak into his office without leaving a single trace, and I managed to get a clean shot. Couldn’t have been easier,” you tell her as you’re getting comfortable at the large kitchen island Tony had installed in the communal kitchen.

“Sounds like a good time then. Speaking of good times, I believe a certain someone has been missing you a lot while you were gone, and I don’t think he’ll let you go after seeing you’re home a week earlier than expected,” Natasha says, making you chuckle. She’s right, and this surprise will be the perfect start of your birthday, even though that’s not going to be for another day. From the moment Tony found out about the day you were born he has circled it on his calendar, not wanting to forget the one day that is all about you.

“I don’t want him to let me go, either. I’m looking forward to seeing him again, but I could really use some dinner before going to see Tony, that way I can last a little longer before I accidentally pass out because I haven’t eaten anything,” you say, making your best friend laugh heartily. There’s not a single thing you two do not share, and your sex life has been talked about in detail – just like you know all about her own with Bruce –, so she’s well aware about Tony’s stamina.

While Natasha keeps making dinner you switch your topic of conversation as, more and more Avengers trickle into the kitchen, and with each person coming in, the events of the evening fade further and further into the background as the laughter and conversation combined with Natasha’s cooking makes you feel like home, and like everything in life is going to be okay. Despite all of this, you can’t help but notice that someone’s been missing, and you’re more than ever before in need of being in his presence.

“Has anyone seen Tony? I miss him, and I’d like to go talk to him,” you say with a small smile, your heart beating faster at the foresight that you’ll be seeing him again soon.

“I suppose he’s in the penthouse - hasn’t been in the lab all day if I’m honest,” Bruce says with a shrug, and you’re immediately turning around towards the elevator, all of the others now left behind as they continue their conversations with each other. You cannot go towards Tony’s penthouse fast enough for your liking, and the entire time you’re watching the numbers rise on the small screen, your excitement slowly rises with it.

As soon as the metal doors open you rush into the penthouse – which you've practically moved into from the moment you and Tony officially started dating – and you’re met with nothing but silence. Until you’re walking closer to the bedroom, that is. Soft, muffled moans are drifting into the hallway, and you can’t help but smile as you hear your name falling from his lips.

Slowly but surely you hear his moans growing louder, and you’re met with a beautiful sight as you push open the bedroom door. Your boyfriend is completely bare as his back arches from the pleasure his fist is giving him, your name falling from his lips that have become puffy and raw from all the biting and holding back his moans. His light skin is flushed beautifully and his cheeks look like they’re on fire as his hand keeps working in a steady rhythm, every inch of his thick, veiny, leaking cock getting the attention it so desperately needs.

“Y/N-” he mutters, his eyes shut tightly as his free hand drags through his chocolatey brown locks, pulling them just enough to give him the pleasure he needs, but not so hard that he’ll push himself over the edge. He’s been edging himself for the better part of an hour already and he’s about to burst into one of the most satisfying orgasms he’s had by himself – though it will never compare to any of the ones you have given him with the skills of your mouth or the warmth of your pussy.

“Did you replace me with your hand?” you ask as you’re leaning against the doorframe, your panties drenched completely at the sight of your boyfriend masturbating. You can see the moment your voice registers with him as his eyes shoot open, the realization that he’s been caught having sex with himself making him even more flustered than before. Tony immediately lets go of his length, and it falls against his abdomen with a soft splat from all the pre-cum that has been leaking from it. The splotches of liquid almost resemble little snowflakes all over his skin, and all you can think about is licking it up.

“Fuck- give your boyfriend a head’s up next time before you give him a heart attack or something,” he says as he goes to sit upright, his chest, neck and cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he’s flustered from the fact that you caught him. Your bottom lip is pulled in between your teeth as you slowly walk over to him, each step building the anticipation between you two. He hasn’t made any moves to cover himself up, and you’re glad he’s more than happy to be seen naked.

“I do have to say, it’s nice to be the one catching you this time. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened when you walked in on me, and I’m very excited to return the favor tonight.” When you reach the bed, you have already shed your boots and your tactical jacket, leaving you in nothing more than a skin tight shirt and pants, but it’s still too many layers for your boyfriend.

“Hmm, I’m not sure I quite remember what happened last time, Cupcake. Maybe you should refresh my memory while you get undressed for me,” Tony says in a teasing, challenging tone, his smirk lighting up his flushed features. The realization of what just happened is slowly ebbing away with every second, and the embarrassment he was feeling mere moments ago is now being replaced with boldness, and you’re here for every second of it.

Slowly but surely, piece by piece, you’re undressing until you’re left in only your panties, which are entirely soaked from the little show you got to witness earlier. With every inch of bare skin you’re revealing, Tony gets more and more excited, his cock becoming even harder than it already was before you walked in.

"And? Have your memories been awakened yet, or are you just very excited to see me?” you ask him jokingly as you’re kneeling on the bed, your movements slow and deliberate as you crawl over to his spread legs. He widens them even further, allowing you to take your place in between them as you’re wanting a taste of what he was doing not too long ago. Under your gaze, his entire body feels like it’s on fire and he can’t get enough of it, the flushed skin burning as you’re bending down to the point where you’re almost touching him where he needs you most. Almost.

“I- I may need a little extra help remembering-” Tony says until his words are cut off, by you sticking out your tongue, gliding it over his very sensitive tip as you lick up the pre-cum that has been slowly turning into a puddle in his little happy trail. His fists are holding tightly onto the sheets as his back arches, though his eyes don’t move from where you’re licking him for even a split second.

Without warning, you move down to glide your tongue from the base of his shaft, over the protruding light blue veins and over every sensitive inch of his thick cock, making him moan like a teenager who’s getting his first ever blowjob. When your lips seal around his soft tip he groans loudly, and your fingers gently dig into his thighs to keep him in his place, adding to his quickly heightening pleasure. For a few seconds you suck on it, drinking in his taste and the sounds he’s making, but just as soon as you wrap your lips around him, you’re also letting him go.

“Fuck, Cupcake, please-” his chest rises and falls faster with every second that you’re not doing as he asks, adding to your own pleasure as your arousal is leaking down your thighs at this point. Having someone as powerful and amazing as Tony begging for your touch, begging to have his cock sucked by no one else but you is a high you will never be able to explain to anyone, and you’re taking it in for as long as you can.

“Please, what?” you ask him between the kisses you’re trailing over his hips and thighs, soft nibbles on his inner thighs causing him to go wild as deep groans leave his lips. You’re driving him insane in the best way possible, and even though he appears to not be into you teasing him like this, nothing could be further from the truth. He has mentioned multiple times before how much he loves it when you’re in charge, when he’s only allowed to get what you’re willing to give him at this moment.

“Please, please, please suck my cock- I want- no- I need your lips, and your warm mouth and your perfect throat- I need you!” he says as his hips thrust in the when you’re dangerously close to his tip again, only for you to pull back at the very moment he does. He lets out a helpless whine as he reaches for you, and this time you’re more than happy to let him do what he wants, he deserved it after all.

“I love you so much, Y/N, you drive me insane in the best possible way,” he whispers as you’re leaning over his torso, his fingers gliding over your cheek as he looks at you like you’re his world – no, his entire universe. The love between the two of you nearly makes your heart leap out of your chest, and after whispering an ‘I love you’ to him you lean in for a few small kisses, making him moan softly as your fingers slide through his hair.

“Was that enough to jiggle your memory a little about what happened last time?” you ask playfully, referring to what he teased you about earlier, as you’re once again taking your position between his legs. Just as he’s about to answer, you grab the base of his almost painfully hard cock and you let your tongue glide over the tip a few more times before wrapping your lips around it and taking him deeper than you had a few minutes ago.

“It- It’s all coming – fuck! – back to me – you’re so- so good for me,” he groans as his hips thrust in tandem with your mouth, your hand taking care of the length you can’t reach quite yet. It’s always a stretch to take all of him, no matter how many times you’ve done it before, though you’re more than happy to take the time to get adjusted to him all over again.

The entire time you’re taking more and more of him, you’re listening to his cues – his breathing getting faster, his muscles in his thighs pulling taut, and his cursing increasing by the second – and it doesn’t take long for him to reach his first orgasm of the night, his hot seed coming in spurts over your tongue, and you’re happily swallowing every last drop of it before crawling over his body and kissing him deeply, a soft groan filling the air as he can still taste himself on your tongue.

“You’re being such a good boy for me tonight, maybe I should come home early from missions more often,” you say with a loving gaze, and he’s looking up at you as if you hung the stars and the moon just for him.

“I love it when you call me a good boy,” Tony whispers as his cheeks turn bright red, and the filter between his mind and mouth usually disappears completely after an orgasm or two, making you chuckle softly before kissing him on his cheek. His facial hair is thick and rough compared to the soft plumpness of your lips, and your mind wanders to what it’s like to feel him between your thighs again as he takes his time to make you fall apart on his tongue and fingers, his beard scratching your thighs deliciously, leaving the best form of beard burn you could wish for.

“Yeah? In that case I’m going to tell you how good of a boy you are more often,” you say with a wink, and his eyes widen with excitement at the thought of you doing that. He smiles widely before letting his fingers slip into your hair and pulling you closer, not wanting to be apart from you for any longer than he has to be. In order to get more comfortable you straddle him, and he moans in pleasure and overstimulation as your clothed, drenched pussy slides over his sensitive cock.

“God, I can’t wait to feel you inside me again, Tony. I missed you and your thick cock so much – I’ve thought about you splitting me open and fucking me raw so many times that I couldn’t help but end up pregnant in my fantasies. I want you to make my fantasy come true, Tony. Please fuck a baby into me tonight,” you tell him, a hint of desperation in your voice as you grind over his cock again, making him bite back another curse.

“Is that what you want, huh? You want me to split you open on my cock and fuck you until I cum so deep in your tight, hot pussy? You want me to give you all my cum and fuck it so deep into you there’s no other option than you getting pregnant with my baby? Oh, and when it drips out, I’ll be scooping up every last drop before fucking it right back in with my fingers, we’re not letting a single drop go to waste tonight.”

His words light a fire inside of you, and you’ve never been happier to be with someone who has an even bigger breeding kink than you do. You moan in response to his words, and before you know it, Tony has ripped your panties from your body, the fabric being discarded somewhere you will worry about later. Right now, all you can think about is you, Tony, and him fucking you raw until you’re carrying his baby, and the thought alone is enough to have you near the edge of an orgasm.

“Ready?” Tony asks before moving any further, needing to hear a verbal consent before continuing.

“I’m ready, Tony. I just need you to fuck me-”

As soon as the words leave your lips, he grabs his cock before getting it in the perfect position, allowing you to sink onto it with ease. Well, with as much ease as you can while adjusting to his thickness. Tony’s monster of a cock is by far the biggest you’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying, and you’ll happily stretch yourself to the max in order to take every single inch of him. Especially tonight, as you want nothing more than to end up pregnant with his baby.

Inch by slow inch you work yourself onto his cock, only guided by Tony’s hands on your hips as he allows you to take your time with it. You’re leaning forward slightly as your hands are on either side of his arc reactor, your eyebrows scrunched together with pleasure as your mouth hangs open, allowing every single moan, groan and whine to escape.

“That’s it, you’re doing so well for me, Cupcake. Taking my cock so well, it’s like you’re fucking made for it,” Tony groans, and you sink even further as his words cause another wave of arousal to run down his cock and onto the mattress. You’re already making a mess and he’s not even properly fucking you yet, just the way he likes it. He loves it when you’re dripping wet and messy for him, and he can’t get enough of seeing his cum dripping around his cock, too, as he fucks you until he’s so overstimulated he cannot take it another second.

A high pitched whine leaves your lips as you’re fully sitting down, your clit rubbing over the hair at the base of his cock as you do. It’s an unexpected surprise, but more than welcome as your high is constantly growing. For a moment, neither one of you makes a single move, but your gazes are locked onto one another the entire time to ensure the other person is doing okay.

The moment you first lift yourself and sink back down again, you’re already toeing the edge of your first orgasm, and with your boyfriend’s help, it only takes a few thrusts to feel your first wave of release. It’s been building the entire time, from the moment you heard Tony moan your name until the moment he fucked you so deep you can see his tip as it bulges your belly slightly. It’s quick, hard and very satisfying. But it’s nothing compared to what Tony has in mind for the rest of the night.

“Squeezin’ me so perfectly, god I’m so in love with you. You’re fucking made for me,” he groans before pulling you towards him and turning you both around at the same time, resulting in him being on top of you instead of the other way round. His hands hook behind your knees and he pushes them up towards your shoulders, allowing him to spread you open as far as you can possibly go, resulting in the best position to fuck you as deep and as hard as his horny heart desires.

“Ooooh fuck,” he growls as he starts fucking you in earnest, and you moan his name loudly at the change of the angle he has created. While you thought he was already fucking you deep before, he’s now hitting spots you didn’t even know existed as with every thrust it feels like you’re on cloud nine. Your back arches and your fingers are pulling on his hair just the way he loves, and before you know it, you’re screaming his name once again as your second orgasm washes over you.

He’s not sure why, but something inside him tells him to look at the alarm on your side of the bed, and it displays in bright red numbers that it’s just past midnight, and it’s officially your birthday now. This gives him an idea, and Tony leans in to whisper something in your ear.

“Happy birthday, Cupcake. Your first gift today is going to be my cum. I’m going to pump every single drop of it deep inside your tight little pussy, and you’re not going to let a single drop of it leak out of it, are you?” he asks, and you shout a quick, breathless yes in response to his words, and he knows he has you right where he wants you.

“I need you to give me one more, sweet girl. One more orgasm and then I’ll fill you up the way you want. Just- one- more!" he says, his hips thrusting deep and hard with every word, barreling you through your next orgasm, though this time Tony is falling over the edge with you as he pushes his forehead against yours, your bodies completely intertwined as you’re staring into his passionate gaze. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced, but you wouldn’t want it any other way as you feel his cum deep inside you, being fucked deeper and deeper as he rides out your shared orgasms.

“That’s it, milk me with your perfect pussy,” he pants, and you squeeze to the best of your abilities, though your entire body feels like it has turned into a bunch of cooked noodles. Your thoughts are only chanting ‘Tony! Tony! Tony!’, and you’re unable to talk as you’re coming down from everything that has happened. He has truly fucked you dumb, and the trust between you two is immeasurable as he takes care of your every need.

“Let’s get some sleep, okay? I’ll stay right here with you, but you need to get some sleep for me. Can you do that for me?” he asks softly as his fingers trace abstract figures over your back. You nod before closing your eyes and burying your head in his neck, allowing Tony to cuddle you to sleep.

“I love you so much, my sweet Cupcake. You’re safe now, and I promise I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he whispers against your hair before closing his own eyes and taking a nap, too, for just a little while. When Tony’s alarm goes off, you groan against his warm chest as you’re being pulled from your slumber, not wanting to leave your comfortable spot for even a second.

“How are you feeling?” It’s a simple question, but it does take you a moment to answer, as you’re still trying to comprehend the fact that you are, in fact, awake already, instead of sleeping the way you want to.

“Good, tired,” you say, and your words are confirmed as you yawn immediately after, making Tony chuckle before kissing your forehead.

“I do think it’s important that we take a shower before we go back to bed again. You’ve had a long mission, and we had a long night, too. After that, I’ll happily feed you a piece of the birthday cake I ordered for you.” Your eyes go wide at the mention of cake, as it’s one of your favorite treats to bake, as well as eat. As promised, Tony is feeding you pieces of the most decadent, rich chocolate cake you have ever tasted, before falling back asleep in his arms, making for the best start of your birthday ever.

The next morning, Tony wakes you up with an orgasm as he’s feasting himself on your pussy, ensuring your birthday starts off perfectly, before giving you a small necklace with a letter ‘T’ on it. While it’s a simple present, you’re very happy with it, and you can’t wait to wear it immediately. The rest of the day is spent doing all of your favorite things – from going to the bookstore to buy as many books as your heart desires to feeding the ducks in central park – and having a delicious dinner with all of the Avengers to top it all off.

“I wanted to say thank you for coming back so soon, Cupcake. I was a little sad at the thought of spending your birthday without you,” Tony whispers as you’re relaxing against his chest in the large hot tub he had installed for the two of you to enjoy. Around it are rose petals while the water itself is the perfect temperature to enjoy as you’re both entirely bare. You have a glass of champagne in one hand and a chocolate covered strawberry in the other, adding to the romantic atmosphere he created.

“I love you, Tony. Thank you for making today so special,” you say before turning around and kissing him deeply, signifying the start of yet another night of passion. The following months are a true rollercoaster of emotions, because not only do the Avengers officially contribute to the downfall of HYDRA once and for all, but you also find out that you indeed are carrying Tony’s baby, which is shortly followed by your dream proposal.

Nine months after your birthday, you’re holding your beautiful son in your arms, and he’s the spitting image of his dad. Dark hair, dark eyes, his nose and the same beautiful skin. Life couldn’t be more perfect as you reveal his name to your husband-to-be.

“I would like you to meet Howard Antonio Stark,” you tell him as you show Tony your baby. Even though he couldn’t be with you during the birth – your son was impatient and decided to come while Tony was on a mission – he flew home as fast as he could, and you couldn’t be happier to have him by your side now. Your fiancé’s eyes widen as the name sinks in, not only is he named after his grandpa, Howard, but he also has a nod to his grandma, Maria, with the fact that he has an Italian middle name.

“He’s perfect,” Tony whispers with tears in his eyes. He might have missed the birth of his son, but seeing this little bundle of pure happiness in your arms makes him realize he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else at this moment.

“Daddy’s loves you so much, you know that? It’s so nice to finally hold you in my arms, and to see the little feet that have been kicking your mama all those months.” At the sight in front of you you’re practically melting, as it shows a side of Tony that not many people get to see. From this moment on, Tony will be by your side as much as he can, and his duties as Iron Man will officially be in the past. The only thing more important than his job is his family, and he’s not planning on going anywhere without the two of you ever again.

[greatbananaboat]

sigh.

one:

they're not really bragging about blocking. they're completely free to talk about things on their own blog and put them in whatever tags they want. anyone upset with that can, yk, block them. not to mention that the majority of people they're talking about are already getting blocked by them which they literally said themselves.

two:

WHY do you keep bringing up blocking? i keep reading and rereading the original post thinking maybe somehow it'll start adding words that give the effect that op is talking about shipping. they're clearly not. they're talking about people who are simping over remmick, and quite obviously they mean people who are doing that instead of engaging with the other parts of the movie. and when 99% of the characters in the movie are poc, seeing a ton of white tumblr users simping over and woobifying the white assimilation allegory is irritating.

not to mention everything you're saying in this point is giving violent "i have Black friends!" vibes. you don't need to speak for them. if they care enough about this to be bothered, they can reblog themselves, but every reblog i'm seeing is very clear about the fact that they're not fans of how many people are obsessing over the ONE main white character in the movie.

this constant "you're hurting poc by talking about blocking folks who can't be bothered to care about any of the Black characters in this movie and only simp over the white guy!" is like. come on. you're making up all these strawman arguments to talk down to the ACTUAL POC TELLING YOU THIS IS RACISM. which. are you fucking joking? tbh i shouldn't be surprised. white person talking down to poc, fork found in kitchen i guess. why are you describing folks not liking straight up fandom racism as "moral panic"???

three:

you might need to sit down for this one, worstie. not every piece of media needs to have a shipping community. why is your argument here literally just "they can excuse racism but they draw the line at incest and if you don't like that they can excuse racism then you're the bad guy!" are you serious? you don't HAVE to ship! nobody is holding a gun to your head to find a gay ship to enjoy in every piece of media ever.

once again! you are literally constantly telling all the poc saying "hey this is racist and if you're actively ignoring all the poc in this movie so you can simp over the white guy, maybe consider that and introspect" that they're not thinking about every aspect of this situation. "have you guys really thought about this all the way?" you're so right! you, the white person, are uniquely capable of understanding all the nuance ever and never being racist, and we, the poc, are just yelling about nothing and being mean and oppressive! racism is solved.

blocking people is not stirring up a moral panic. talking about blocking people is not stirring up a moral panic. you are acting as if op is personally going into every remmick enjoyer's inbox and sending them death threats. if y'all are free to talk about how much you loooove racist white man of the day and want to suck his dick so bad, we're free to talk about how much we don't like that mindset.

Going through the Sinners tag and instantly blocking anybody simping for irish salad fingers

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Just finished watching “The Survivors” on Netflix. Mystery/crime stories are one of my favorite genres, plus it has our beloved Charlie Vickers as one of the main characters. I haven’t read the book, so I don’t know how faithful of a adaptation it is, mind you, and my opinion is merely as someone who has only watched the minisseries.

Highly recommend to anyone who enjoys mystery/thrillers. I think the show did a very job building tension, raising the stakes and throwing curveballs at the audience, keeping us guessing “what truly happened to Gabby? Who killed Bronte?”

The themes of grief and trauma (+ trauma bonding), were well handled with the complexity they deserve.

The performances are great. Both Charlie and Yerin were absolutely stellar in their roles, individually. The cast, overall, was pretty solid, acting-wise (again, can’t speak if they do their book counterpart justice or not).

For all the Charlie Vickers fans out there, there’s a lot of shirtless Charlie in this minisseries.

Overall, it’s a solid minisseries, with a good cast, amazing performances and breathtaking cinematography worth checking.

Spoilers below the cut.

Charlie ate this role; he looks at the brick of mental breakdown in almost every scene, and he handled very well the guilt and shame of being a “survivor”, as well as taking the role of the town’ scapegoat, who keeps being hated on because he’s there or because he wasn’t there.

His relationship with his parents was also very well portrayed. And while one is tempted to hate on his mother, she’s also suffering from trauma. And, (I don’t know if this is explored in the book or not), there seems to exist an underlining issue between Kieran and Verity? Even before the accident, it seems like Finn was her favorite? I don’t know, I got that vibe, because Kieran said his mother would have wanted for him to have died instead of his brother, and he asked why was it so hard for his mother to love him.

But, and don’t crucify me for saying this, Charlie and Yerin didn’t sold me into believing them as a couple. Kieran and Mia felt like best friends, not an actual in-love “ride or die”/“us vs. the world” couple they are supposed to be portrayed as? Charlie mentioned something about the lack of chemistry tests for the characters, and, yeah, the industry has them for a reason. But they were so good, on their own, it’s easy to overlook that.

This was the least hot kiss I’ve seen from two hot people in a while; there was no chemistry here.

Also, there should have been a bit more backstory on Kieran and Mia as a couple, instead of focusing on Kieran’s with Olivia and the threat of him cheating on Mia (the “will they, won’t they?” was kind of unnecessary when there’s already so many drama going on).

How long have these characters been together? Why did they got together in the first place? One line about university + “love at first sight” (when they already knew each other from their hometown) isn’t really believable, if you ask me (they are both hot and went for it?). Why are they together? Because it seems it’s because they were both outcasts in their hometown and have a baby together? If this is flesh-out in the book, it should have been present in the show.

Sean’s character should have been more developed throughout the minisseries for the reveal to have an actual impact. It came out of nowhere and “last man standing” approach. This is a very typical mystery formula, but it was anticlimactic, and fell flat. And how did Kieran knew that was the flashlight Sean borrowed Bronte when he was out of town for years? Don’t tell me this guy had the same flashlight for 15 years, or only owns one flashlight.

We are supposed to believe Sean has incel tendencies and hates women. But, at the very least, make him drop hints and red flags throughout the episodes for the reveal to actually feel like a pay off.

Also, I felt some plots were left a bit in the air, at the end. Did the reason why Kieran was in the caves became public knowledge or everyone kept hating on him and him protecting Olivia (that went so well with Mia, after all)? Did George Barlin face the consequences for his criminal behavior? We are told Marco followed Bronte to Evelyn Bay, and was a “violent misogynist”, but that’s it? There’s no need to elaborate on this, and the guy just goes away like it’s nothing.

[sugarplum217]

Hey my loves and to all my new followers and loyal readers,

First off, I owe y’all an apology. I know I’ve been MIA for a while and I truly appreciate your patience. The truth is, all the drama, constant back-and-forth, and messy gossip on here completely killed my vibe. It made me lose the spark for storytelling , like we forgot why we even came here in the first place. It messed with my creativity and honestly, it just wasn’t fun anymore.

Now, for the update….

I’ve officially decided to retire my Aaron Pierre/ Terry Richmond series for the time being. It’s not because he’s in a relationship, that’s that grown man’s business. It’s more so that I just don’t feel inspired writing about a taken man right now. It breaks the fantasy for me, and if I’m not feeling it, I can’t force it. That said …. this is NOT the end of my writing! I’m switching gears a bit. I want to throw it back to the early 2000s era and focus on the artists, crushes, and fantasies a lot of us grew up with. I recently saw someone on Wattpad talk about tapping into old-school celeb crushes and it lit a fire under me. I miss writing for fun, for vibes, for US.

Now, here’s where I need to be crystal clear:

I’m giving y’all this disclaimer with love but also with boundaries. If you don’t like who I write about, keep scrolling. I am well aware that some celebrities have major allegations, controversies, and real-life issues. I will never make light of that. But I’m not here to debate the personal lives of public figures. I’m here to write fiction. Stories. Escapism. If you can’t separate that, this page may not be for you.

If you come into my comments to bash, harass, or come at me sideways about my writing choices , I promise you will get blocked. No convo, no explanation. Just gone. I stand with women, always. But I also believe in artistic freedom and enjoying art separate from reality, especially in fanfiction.

Much love to everyone who’s still rocking with me.

I’m excited to tap into these new ideas and hopefully bring y’all some juicy, nostalgic, and heartfelt stories very soon. Let’s get back to the love. 💕

— Shuga

[cricketnationrise]

Oooh for your follower fictlet fest . . .

For RWRB/ First Prince

1 - a time stamp: 10:30 pm

2 - a location: Provincetown, MA ( during Pride?)

3- a POV character : Henry

4. - a song title/lyric for vibes: Ofenbach & Quarterhead - Head Shoulders Knees & Toes (HBz & Marv U Remix) - https://youtu.be/VsDE6Kwhqyc?si=qL0upy5us_x5Jdcz

5 - a rating (G, T, M, E): I’m not picky - whatever the muse brings you. I like em all.

another entry in the "songs cricket's never heard before but now is obsessed with" category. i hope you enjoy this lil AU in honor of pride happening in my city this weekend :)

want your own ficlet? rules are here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

10:30pm, provincetown

There’s an Adonis on the stage.

Henry’s pretty sure it’s not just drunk goggles; despite the heat of the day, the sunburn, and Henry’s general dehydration, he hasn’t had that much to drink. But even in Henry’s wildest dreams he could never have imagined the specific shade of warm brown skin, the delicate way his curls are falling across his forehead, the way the man’s voice seems to sink into Henry’s very bones as he sings over the noise of the bar. 

The man’s song floats above the crowd, slinks between bodies, drapes over Henry like a blanket. It’s clearly a cover—if the way people are singing along is any indication—but Henry’s so focused on how it makes him feel he can’t focus on the words. Somehow, the rasp of the man’s voice makes Henry feel like every cliche he’s ever read. He can hear his racing heartbeat in his ears, he feels like dancing, he wants to breathe this man in like air, he thinks every half-formed wish sent heavenward has just come true. Henry wouldn’t be surprised to find out the man is actually a siren, he’s that drawn to the singer.

Today’s been a series of fulfilled dreams: he got into grad school, Pez secured a major donor for the shelter they want to start, and he went to his first Pride. Just existing in a huge crowd of people who were also queer was such a balm—Henry hadn’t realized just how tense he’d been until being in the middle of the throng relaxed him. Every person around him, as far as the eye could see, was safe, was like him, was overflowing with love for each other. Henry’s made friends and kissed strangers out of general enthusiasm and spent the whole day grinning like a madman. He’s screamed and laughed and called Bea and let Pez almost drown him in glitter. It’s been an absolutely amazing day.

But all of that pales in comparison to the man behind the microphone. Henry just can’t help but stare, despite Pez teasing him for being so predictable. Nothing can bring him down today. 

“Thank you! I’m Alex, I’ll be back in five with another set!”

The crowd cheers and boos in equal measure, no one wanting the spell (apparently) Alex has woven to break. Henry can’t stop himself following Alex’s path through the crowd, drawing in a sharp breath as he realizes that Alex’s trajectory will bring him to the bar right next to Henry.

“‘Scuze me, sweetheart.” Oh bloody hell, Alex has an accent that makes Henry worry for the integrity of his skeleton. He moves aside as much as he can, letting Alex squish in without taking his eyes off the way the light catches each individual curl in Alex’s hair. He’s so busy cataloging the details of Alex’s appearance he misses Alex actually talking to him until Pez elbows him in the ribs.

“Ooof, Pezza, what?” They truly are a great friend, because all Pez does is not significantly to Henry’s other side where Alex is watching their byplay with a drink in hand and an amused quirk to his lips.

“Er…hello.”

“Friend of yours?” Alex asks.

“My best mate, for my sins.”

Alex beams. “And the Blond Bombshell has an accent! Careful, darlin’ I may swoon.”

“Oh.”

“You got a name? I’d hate to let any other blond in here think I was talking about them instead.” Christ, the man is lethal.

“H-Henry.”

Somehow, Alex’s grin widens. “Well, Henry. You might have heard that my name’s Alex.” Henry can only nod, all words, despite his degree in literature, completely deserting him. “I’m supposed to do another half-hour up there, but after that, I’d love to get to know you better.”

“Me? But you’re—”

“You. I could barely remember the lyrics to Call Me, Maybe up there when I spotted you.”

“Oh. Well then. Yes. I’ll be here when you’re done.” Henry’s voice is totally breathless and he can feel Pez sniggering against his back—he’ll get revenge later. Alex doesn’t seem to notice or care, just shifts and relaxes once Henry agrees. Amazingly, Henry realizes Alex had been nervous. Of Henry. Absolutely mad.

“Any requests? I wouldn’t want you to forget me while I’m gone.”

Henry’s sure he’s blushing. He will blame it on the sunburn, but he knows Pez will know the truth. “I’ve always been partial to Bowie.”

Alex, the absolute reprobate, winks at him before downing his drink and sauntering back to the stage.

“Did that just happen?” Henry asks faintly.

“Appears so, old bean.”

It’s ridiculous, some singing and two minutes of conversation shouldn’t make him so certain, but Henry’s sure he’s never going to feel alone ever again once Alex gets off stage.

Over the heads of the crowd, Alex grins at him before strumming his guitar and stepping close to the mic and closing his eyes as he starts singing again.

“Tonight…I’m gonna have myself a real good time…”

Henry’s sure his delighted smile could light an entire football pitch for a week.

[azialways]

hiii i saw ur ok with nsfw asks so can i request a fic or headcannons of reader making out with v from killer chat?? have a great day!! :3

you bet!

Making out with V! Headcanons

cw: making out? no full freak

- V is incredibly skilled with his hands, he uses them but only to touch you in the most reverent manner. His touch is gentle, holy, even.

- He definitely starts out gentle, before maybe getting more passionate with it. He’s not the aggressive type typically, unless he has some pent up energy.

- Obviously calls you pet names: eg. my love, dear, but enjoys the way you say his name breathlessly after a passionate kiss

- Mans is strong and will hold you against a wall, hold you by the hips against a counter, pin you to the bed etc. He has a FIRM grip.

- He's easy to tease and fluster, you can whisper compliments and romantic quotes, and he will BLUSH and clear his throat nervously.

- However, it goes both ways, he knows how to charm a person properly, as a high class British man. He knows his way around charm and courting

- On that topic, V knows how to dance and play piano for sure. Not on topic but he def serenades you with Mozart.

- If it’s not him playing, he plays classical music around the house. He thinks it sets a very intimate vibe for making out or even making love.

- He worships you, every single damn part of you. Especially parts you vocalize you’re insecure about? Man will pay SPECIAL attention to those parts to make you feel loved and beautiful.

- Super tender and sweet, his version of “dirty talk” is just formal poetic nonsense. He’s very high class, and even when he’s aroused, he speaks like an english gentleman.

[ladylaviniya]

FIRST OF ALL. IM GONNA FINISH MY GREEN MINT TEA CAUSE I DESRVE IT SO I FEEL HEALTHY, AND PEACEFUL CONSIDERING WHAT YOU ARE PUTTING ME THROUGH.

Cardi and her mom beefing lightly over her burnt hand was SOOO MOTHER-DAUGHTER CORE. Her mom poking her wound and Cardi being like “OWWW” and her mom deadpan stirring grits like 👩‍🍳🧂 UNBOTHERED QUEEN ENERGY. And Cardi going "I need to get back to work to see what he’s been up to"??? girl BE SO FR. WE KNOW WHO HE IS 😌.

And the way Janice popped off about Superman like “He risked your life!” and Cardi was DEFENDING HIM LIKE HER LIFE DEPENDED ON IT?? NOT Y’ALL ARGUING LIKE HE’S THE BOYFRIEND YOU BROUGHT HOME 😭. “WHAT WOULD BATMAN HAVE DONE??” PLEASE, I SPIT OUT MY DRINK. And mama Janice talking smack about Batman too. MA’AM NOT EVEN BRUCE WAYNE WAS SAFE LMFAOOO.

Cardi having to PEACE OUT and head back to the Daily Planet with her wrist held together by vibes and antibiotics? ICONIC. 🫡

AND THENNNNN SHE PULLS UP LIKE SHE NEVER LEFT 😎🚗💨. Girl really stood outside the building like "I’m HER." And the valet boy Terrance out there fangirling like “OMG HI MISS LANE”. KING SUPPORTING A QUEEN 🫶.

BUT WAIT. THE OFFICE SCENE??? NAH. THEY REALLY GAVE HER A WHOLE STANDING OVATION 😭👏. LIKE LEGIT HERO HOMECOMING ENERGY. I got SO EMOTIONAL when she was soaking it all in, trying not to cry but then LOOKING STRAIGHT AT CLARK. WHO WAS LOWKEY THE LOUDEST CLAPPER I BET 💅.

AND CLARK?? CLARK WITH THE FLIRTY EYE CONTACT AND THE "WELCOME BACK"?? NOOOOOO STOP. HER STARING AT HIS FLAWLESS KEN DOLL SKIN AND HIM FIXING HIS GLASSES ALL NERVOUS??? I WAS BOUNCING IN MY SEAT. NOT ME ACTUALLY KICKING MY FEET LIKE A TEEN 😩🦶.

AND THE WAYYYYY she got caught up STARING??? GIRL SAME. SAME. ME TOO. CLARK, PLS. PUT THOSE ARM FOLDS AWAY. IT’S TOO MUCH. And then he had the NERVE. the AUDACITY. to say “Had that been the case, you would’ve been hard to forget.” 😳😳😳 SIR. THAT’S ILLEGAL. MY JAW DROPPED. “How could someone forget a smile like yours”. BYE. BURY ME NOW.

BUT WAIT. IT GETS WORSE. THE CARNIVAL TICKETS. 😭😭😭😭 NOOOOO STOP IT THIS IS ACTUALLY FANFICTION LEVEL SOFTNESS. “Since you like running into burning buildings I figured you might like something safer that gives you a rush” CLARK YOU CHEESY PERFECT MAN. MARRY ME INSTEAD.

AND CARDI’S FLIRTY "YOU ASKIN' ME ON A DATE??" WITH THE LITTLE LEG CROSS AND SMIRK? ICONIC. SHOWSTOPPING. HISTORIC.

CUT TO 👏 CARNIVAL NIGHT 👏

THE WAY CARDI’S PARENTS DID CLARK SO DIRTY 😭😭 Clarence grilling him like “You gonna marry my daughter?” WHILE CLARK’S CHOKING ON WATER?? BRO WAS FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE 💀💀. AND JANICE GIVING HIM A HUG BEFORE HE EVEN SITS DOWN??? MOTHER-IN-LAW OF THE YEAR. 🤝

AND THENNNNNNN CARDI COMING OUT IN THAT DRESS? CLARK WASN’T READY. I WASN’T READY. HE WAS LOOKING AT HER LIKE A MAN STARING AT THE SUN. ☀️ His brain just STOPPED WORKING he was so in love 😭🫠.

FAST FORWARD TO THE CARNIVAL. YALL. THE ROLLERCOASTER SCENE??? Cardierre screaming, throwing her hands up, trusting Clark's grip??? That’s PEAK ROM-COM ENERGY RIGHT THERE. AND WHEN SHE STUMBLED AFTER GETTING OFF AND FELL STRAIGHT INTO HIS ARMS??? LITERALLY HALLMARK MOVIE MOMENT. 🥹💕

ALSO. WHEN CLARK WON HER THE UNICORN??? HER LITTLE TAP DANCE OF EXCITEMENT??? PLSSSS I AM WHEEZING. NOT ME HOLDING MY CHEST LIKE I’M 80 YEARS OLD. 😭 I was surprised it wasn’t a jelly fish tho…

AND THE COTTON CANDY MOMENT. “I’D FOLLOW YOU ANYWHERE”. SIR??? THAT’S TOO LOUD, CALM DOWN 😭😭.

AND THEN HER HESITATION TO HOLD HIS HAND??? AND THEN SHE TAKES IT??? AND HE’S GENTLE WITH HER INJURED PALM???? NOOOOO STOP I’M GONNA EXPLODE. ❤️‍🔥 THE SOFTNESS. THE HEALING. THE TRUST. I CAN'T.

CUT TO THEM STUFFING THEIR FACES WITH ALL THE CARNIVAL JUNK FOOD 😭 LMAO #CoupleGoals EATING FRIED OREOS AND LOOKING CUTE. Clark winning the strongman contest like it's NOTHING?? KING BEHAVIOR. 👑 Cardi being all starry-eyed??? ME TOO BESTIE ME TOO.

AND WHEN SHE STOLE THE KEYS AND WAS LIKE “Enjoy the ride, pretty boy”??? HELLO?? FLIRT LEVEL: 1000%. He was out there giggling and kicking rocks like a whole schoolboy after that 🥴.

Believer

I do not give permission to anyone to copy or repost my work!!

Warnings 18+: Slight Angst , Flirting , Mentions of Sex , Fluff 💕💗

Pairing: Clark Kent x Cardíerre James (black!plus size female)

Description: Clark decides to welcome Cardí back to the daily planet in a special way.

Side Note: This is a part one. I wrote way too much to keep anyone's attention I feel. Part two's link will be at the bottom.

Word Count: 5.7K

Song: Happy Feelings by Maze & Frankie Beverly

Chapter 3: Moment for life

‘Wait you’re seriously going to go back to work?! What about your hand girl?!’ Her mother asked in a worrisome tone.

‘What about it? It’s fine— Aah!’ She whimpered out as her mom snatched up her hand and pressed her thumb into the wound gently. Even with such a gentle brush over the damaged flesh, it still hurts like hell.

‘Hmph.’ Her mother scoffed with a smirk before letting go of her hand and turning back towards the stove.

‘That’s not funny, mom.’ Cardi mumbled holding her wrist in her free palm, ‘You know the antibiotics only work so fast. Besides, it’s a lot better than it was when I was in the hospital.’

Janice didn’t say anything else, she just stirred at the grits in the pot.

‘Mom, look I need this. Since the fire and the hospital and being stuck here, I have been miserable!’

‘Oh!? I’m making you miserable?!’ Her mother’s head popped up and she turned to fully face her daughter.

‘No. I never said that but you know my job— my career is everything to me. I have to get back out there… see what’s been going on— see what he’s been up to.’

‘Oh Jesus Christ, not him again!’ Janice laughed and threw her hand up and rolled her eyes. She walked over to the sink to gather some water in a cup.

‘What do you mean “not him again”?! He solidified my career! He saved my life!’

‘And had he been there much sooner, you wouldn’t have had to worry about missing work because you would’ve been going! But instead you ended up in the hospital, barely breathing and choking to death because you were doing his job! He risked your life!’

Cardierre rolled her eyes and burst out in hysterical laughter, ‘Wow! You are so cynical! Have you thought for a single second that I went into that building on my own?! I told you this a hundred times! I wasn’t looking for a savior mama. But he did and you should be grateful he did! What would Batman have done?!’

Janice raised a brow as she continued stirring, ‘Don’t bring that fool into this. He ain’t no saint either.’ She paused for a second, ‘Probably would’ve—broken your legs for attempting something so idiotic.’ She snickered.

Cardi’s head fell forward as she tried to hide that laugh but instead, it showed in her bouncing shoulders.

‘Yeah, that guy is a piece of work.’ She sighed out as she pushed her feathery hair out of her face. Cardi then took a step closer to her mother, placing her hand on her arm reassuringly, ‘Look mom. I know you worry for my health. But this is what I want! I’m ready.’

Janice sighed and looked up at her daughter for a long moment, ‘Well you’re grown hell! You can do what you want!’ She said as she brushed her daughter’s shoulders then her chest. ‘I just thought I was doing what was best for ya… that’s all.’ She said softly.

‘I understand but only I know what’s best for me, mama. I flew from the nest years ago, you gotta let me live my life.’

Janice sighed and nodded, ‘I know it. Just— be careful alright? And if you run across that fool in the red cape, tell him I owe him my foot in his ass.’

Cardierre giggled and nodded, ‘I’ll be sure to tell him, ma. I’ll see you and dad later.’ She said as she pressed a kiss against her cheek and scooped her purse up off of the kitchen counter.

***

Cardi had parked in front of the building, gathered her belongings and stepped out of her car. She stared up at the slowly rotating globe with a gentle smile curling on her lips. It felt like years but in reality, it had only been about a month and a half.

‘Ms. Lane!’

She snapped out of her gaze and looked over at the valet, ‘Terrance! Hi!’ She grinned as she shut her door and walked around her car to meet him.

‘Welcome back, Ms. Lane! I heard about the fire and I just want to say you are really brave. I personally wouldn't have done it.’ He chuckled as he placed his hand over his chest.

Cardierre chuckled and placed her keys in his palm as he reached out for them, ‘Well that’s why we’re two different people. Behave out here.’ She said as she walked past him and towards the double glass doors.

‘Yes ma’am!’ He called out.

***

No one expected her to be back so soon. So she found herself laughing at the stunned reactions of her coworkers and members from other departments down in the lobby.

She stood in the elevator, taking a deep breath. She was starting to feel so anxious about being back. Maybe she was afraid that no one missed her. Or she’d been replaced with someone who was more dependable. No, no— Perry wasn’t like that. If he was going to fire her, he would’ve told her already. She knew better than that.

When the elevator dinged and the large metal doors tore apart, Cardierre stepped out into the busy, bustling office. Her ears throbbed at the sound of phones ringing, papers printing, conversations amongst her peers and typing. She left it just like this.

‘H-hey! Look everybody! Cardierre’s back!’ Someone said aloud.

Everyone in the office space had snapped their heads towards the lady in baby blue. Mumbles and whispers filled the room, seconds before everyone stood to their feet and applauded her.

Cardi wasn’t big on attention. Oddly enough with her career choice, she tried to stray away from being the center of it. But now and then, it did feel nice to be recognized for her efforts.

She looked around the room, taking in all the familiar faces and took note of those who called to check up on her and sent her get well soon gifts.

She had given her peers a sweet grin before her wandering eyes landed on Clark who had just stood up and joined in on the celebration. He had this ecstatic grin spread across his lips.

She felt her heart squeeze in her chest, pleased to see his handsome face.

When the clapping had died down, she placed a hand on her chest, ‘Thank you… for the warm welcome back everyone. If only you all knew the things I’ve endured while being away. Recovering wasn’t the hardest part of it all… but my mother is back in town—‘ the room echoed with laughter.

Cardierre chuckled and pushed her hair behind her ear, ‘But on a more serious note, thank you guys so much for not burning this place down and making this my second home to come back to.’

‘Welcome Back Cardii!’ Steve called out before the office clapped once again.

A brighter smile curled on her lips before she looked over to see Clark adjusting his glasses, then running his fingers through his hair. Was he– was he grooming himself?

Clearing her throat, she walked over to her desk where Clark stood. He wore a dark plaid shirt that was tucked into his khaki slacks. The color really brought out the brightness in his ocean blue hues. His sleeves were rolled up his forearms and he donned a dark gray g-shock on his left wrist. What he wore was simple but he filled it out real nice.

‘Hey Cardi, Welcome back!’

‘Thank You, Clark. It feels good to be back.’ She smiled up at him, her big brown orbs studying his features. His skin! He probably had the most perfect skin she’d ever seen! Almost like glass, it was smooth all the way across. Practically like a porcelain doll but so lively. But aside from that, she’d noticed how familiar he was- but she couldn’t exactly pinpoint it.

‘Cardi? Cardi? Cardierre–’ he waved his hand in her face before she had finally blinked her way back to reality.

‘Oh-oh!’

‘Back to Earth now?’ he chuckled as he folded broad arms across his chest.

She chuckled, shaking her head before feeling her face and neck grow warm. She wasn’t exactly the type to be embarrassed about checking someone out but, this was her hot ass coworker. The one who she had caught staring at her a few times before her absence. ‘You good?’ he asked kindly.

‘Yeah, I’m cool. It’s just… I know this is super dumb and maybe it’s all the medication I was taking in the hospital but– Clark have we met before? Y’know like outside of work?’

Clark raised a brow as he cleared his throat, ‘Uh,’ Then he proceeded to rub the back of his neck, ‘What do you mean like–’

‘Like I mean have we interacted or worked together… I just get the feeling that I know you from somewhere or at least, seen you.’

Clark looked down at her as he dropped his hands and shoved them in his pockets.

It grew quiet between the both of them before– ‘Had that been the case Cardierre, you would’ve been hard to forget.’

A smirk curled on Cardi’s lightly glossed lips, ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means how could someone possibly forget a smile like yours.’

She laughed and playfully slapped his arm. She allowed her hand to linger there for a moment too long. He was firm beneath his thick plaid long sleeve. She was almost tempted to ask him if he worked out but her attention was stricken by how Perry’s blinds were closed. ‘Where’s Perry?’ she asked, dropping her hand; placing her purse down on her desk.

‘Oh, He had to leave work a little early today. He thinks he got food poisoning.’ Clark gritted his teeth together as he inhaled deeply, then let out a deep breath.

‘Aw no,’ she said in a slight whine, ‘I was hoping to see him today.’ She pulled out her desk chair and sat down, noticing all the “Get Well Soon” trinkets and cards. ‘Aaw,’ she giggled softly and looked up at him for a second before carefully unpinning the card with the tacks.

Clark smiled down at her as he folded his arms over his chest, ‘Mine is on the top. You should look at that one first.’ He seemed a bit more confident than usual.

Cardi looked up at him with a smirk and raised a brow, ‘What are you up to mister?’ she giggled as she gently tugged the light pink ribbon that was wrapped around the card all cute and delicate like.

She then opened up the card and two rectangular cut cards fell in her lap. ‘What’s this?’ She gently placed the card on the desktop and picked up what had appeared to be tickets.

‘Those are tickets to the carnival. I thought it would be a nice welcome back gift… Since you like running into burning buildings – I figured you may enjoy something that would give you an adrenaline rush while being safer.’

Cardierre laughed and spun around in her seat to look up at him, ‘You got jokes huh?’

Clark chuckled and shrugged, ‘Just a few… so,’ he pressed his lips together, ‘What do ya say?’

Her head fell to the side as she crossed a leg over the other, lacing her fingers together and resting them on her knee.

‘You askin’ me on a date?’

Clark was taken back by the question, his whole entire face flushing bright pink at the question. ‘Uh–’

‘You are asking me on a date…’ she smiled up at him.

‘It would be whatever you want it to be… Or," he said, standing up straight. There he was again, scratching the back of his neck and then rubbing his chest in a nervous manner, ‘Maybe you can just take the tickets and go with another frie–’

‘Clark…’ she raised a brow, ‘I told Steve no, on many occasions and on many fun outings…’ she looked away at the word, trying to avoid the term for the moment since it wasn’t official. ‘What kind of person would I be if I told you yes and rejected him all those times?’

Clark glanced off to the side and swallowed his spit. She was right. What was he thinking? She was out of his league! Gorgeous, smart, funny, career driven… he wasn’t her type or –

Cardi laughed out, ‘Oh my gosh, if you could see how you look right now!’

Clark was thrown off by the remark, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable since he felt like she was teasing him.

‘I’m only kidding! Lighten up, man!’ She said as she tried to recover from her giggly state, ‘I would love to go on a carnival date with you.’ Her big humorous grin had softened and eventually faded into a subtle, approving smile. But she never took her eyes off of his face.

He then chuckled and placed his hand over his chest, ‘Well, that’s a relief!’ He said as he adjusted his glasses again, hiding his face. trying his damndest to hide that blush that just burned against his flesh.

She smirked as she spun back around to face her desk and the rest of the cards.

The pair sat in that space in a comfortable silence. Clark just watched her, analyzing. He thought it was cute how when she laughed, she did so with her soul. The sound was delightful to his ears. He’d make her laugh all day if it meant he got to hear it.

Her shoulders would bounce effortlessly, her eyes would shut and her head would fall back carelessly since she just didn’t know what to do with herself.

He liked when a woman could simply let go and be herself; carefree, spontaneous and adventurous.

Perhaps she’d fit perfectly in his complicated world after all.

‘So, you wanna go tonight or—‘

‘I’m down. I kinda—‘ she glanced to the side, ‘Need to get away from my parents for a few hours anyway.’ She sounded annoyed. And that was an understatement. It was nice having her parents around to help her since the fire but now she felt like they were overstaying their welcome. Her mother particularly.

‘Oh. Well at least it’s nice that your parents were around to help. How was your healing?’ He asked a bit concerned, noticing how she balled up her fist as tight as she possibly could.

She let out a whimper so soft, only she and he could hear it. It was itchy. Sore. And sometimes it burned when the wind blew the wrong way.

‘As helpful as they’ve been— they were pretty intolerable.’ She scoffed and shook her head. Then she looked at her balled up fist, ‘It hurts sometimes… too much pressure makes it feel like my skin is cracking but it’s better than what it was.’ She gave him a soft smile.

‘Oh,’ he hissed as she described her healing, ‘I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, it’s fine… I mean— it’s best that the guy who’s taking me on a date tonight,’ she hinted, ‘Gets to know me and how I’m feeling anyway, right?’ She smirked.

An enlarged grin curled up on his handsome face, ‘Well if he’s smart enough he would.’ He chuckled, ‘What time should I come get you? Or… should we just meet there?’

‘I can pick you up.’ She said softly before reaching down beneath her desk and pressing the power button.

Clark was a little taken back by the request, ‘no, no— it’s fine! I’ll come get you.’ He chuckled.

She smiled softly, ‘you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘OK, well— there’s somewhere I wanna go when we’re done. Is that cool?’ She asked softly with a smile.

‘We can go wherever you’d like.’ He said as he rested his body against the short cubicle wall.

***

‘Whose this boy you’re going out with Cardi?’ A deep voice boomed throughout the condo.

Cardi rolled her eyes as she blended her contour into her cheeks. ‘He’s no boy papa. He is a man,’ she tried to hide the smirk on her lips, ‘a rather, good looking man.’ She murmured.

‘Oh leave that girl alone! When was the last time she went out with a guy?’

Clarence walked into the bathroom, ‘What happened to that handsome fella?! What was his name?’ He pinched and smooth at his salt and peppered beard, looking up as if an answer was going to appear above his head, ‘oh,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘Lee! That’s his name! What happened to Lee!’

Cardierre scoffed and turned around to look at her father, ‘Oh you mean that douchebag that worked under Bruce?!’

‘He was well off!’ He argued back.

‘Pfffft!’ She rolled her eyes as her mother walked in the bathroom.

‘Lee was a selfish prick and I would never go out with him again.’

Janice pressed her lips together and looked over at her husband, ‘She has her mother’s values.’ She shrugged and leaned against the counter, ‘Anyway, who is this guy?’ She asked curiously.

Cardi sighed dreamily as she placed her sponge down on the counter, ‘His name is Clark. He’s so sweet, and funny, and tall, and handsome, and—‘

‘Ugh! OK OK, he’s the whole package.’ Her father interrupted.

She snapped her neck back at her father with this less than amused glare written on her face. Her pretty features, appearing more dramatic than before.

‘Clarence,’ her mother stood up straight and pushed him out of the bathroom, ‘Gone! Gone, GIT! Get out, you ain’t no damn help!’

‘What?! What did I do?!’ He exclaimed.

She slammed the door and locked it. Then she turned around to face her daughter, ‘Unlike your good for nothing papi—‘

Cardierre giggled as she shook her head.

‘I am very happy for you baby. Now, where’d y’all meet?’

‘Well,’ she sighed out, ‘We met a few months ago. He was at the Planet before I was transferred there apparently but he was away…’ she trailed off, ‘But I can’t help but feel like he and I met somewhere before.’ She raised a brow and turned back towards the mirror and applied some setting dust.

‘Hmmm… maybe a passerby? You know your mind is capable of remembering someone you’ve only glanced at.’

‘Yeah…I mean…’ she paused for a second and shrugged, ‘I don’t know. It’s just been 3 years since I’ve been with someone … romantically—‘ she gritted the next word, ‘sexually.’

‘Whoa, whoa— hey I don’t wanna hear about that missy. I’m still ya mama.’ Janice waved her hands in defense.

‘Sorry maaa.’ Cardi trailed off.

Then, the doorbell sounded throughout the condo. ‘He’s here! Oh my god! He’s here! I’m not even done! I’m not even dressed!’ She began to panic! Her heart rammed hard in her rib cage, she began to hyperventilate.

‘Cardi! Cardierre, look!’ Janice grabbed her daughter by her arms, ‘You’re gonna be fine. If he’s anything like you say— he will wait for you.’

Cardi’s full lips trembled, ‘For real? You mean that for real ma?!’

‘Of course sweetie. Lemme go get the door!’

‘OK…’ she said.

***

Clark pressed the blue ring light on the door and stood up straight. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the soft feathers out of his face. He then dust off his free hand and held a dozen long stem roses in the other. ‘Alright, Clark. Be cool. It’s cool.’ He cleared his throat before he focused his hearing when he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. That wasn’t Cardierre. Then he remembered…

He gasped.

‘CLAARK!’

Her parents.

Her mother exclaimed and quickly wrapped him up in a hug quicker than he could have imagined. ‘Ooh! Uh—‘ he stood there with his arms open wide, glancing down at the much smaller woman. ‘You must be—‘

‘Janice,’ she pulled away and clasped her hands together happily, ‘Cardierre’s mom! Here are those for her?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Lemme take those! Wow these are beautiful, Clark. Come on! Come in!’ She grabbed his hand and tugged him inside.

Clark swallowed his spit before scoffing nervously and adjusted his leather coat.

‘Make yourself at home honey!’ She waved her hand about as she searched in the kitchen for a tall vase.

‘Yeah… thank you.’ He then noticed the other heartbeat in the room. It caused him to turn his head to the right. A man, who appeared to be her father, sat in the recliner, rocking back and forward slowly as he smoked on a perfectly polished wooden pipe.

‘Hi sir!’ Clark said as he lifted his hand in a respectful manner.

Clarence just kept rocking with his thick glasses sitting at the tip of his nose. He gave him a gentle jerk of the head as he watched Clark sit down on the sofa across from him.

The space grew eerily quiet. Clark could hear everything at this point. The resting heart rates of the elders in the apartment space, the cars riding on the asphalt several floors down from where they were. But then he heard whispering. Her whispering… he felt at ease for a moment.

It’s alright. It’s only a date. You haven’t been with a man in a few years but you haven’t lost your flare. Maybe if it goes well enough tonight you’ll probably give him some ass… no. No, he’ll probably think you’re a certified slut. Lord, I just hope everything goes smooth tonight… Heaven knows I just want that man to wrap those arms that he so desperately hides from everyone, around me… am I asking for too much?

‘So where y’all headed tonight?’ A deep voice filled the silent void.

The gentle smile Clark had written on his lips had faltered only a bit to focus on her father, ‘Uh, we’re— I'm taking her to the festival. I figured she deserved to have a bit of fun…’ and to get away from you wackos too.

‘Hmph.’

‘Awww,’ her mother cooed as she walked into the living room with a glass of water, ‘How romantic! That was me and Clarence’s first date! He was terrified of roller coasters,’ she giggled aloud as she placed the glass on a coaster in front of him. ‘Poor thing. Do you like that kind of stuff?’

Did he? The man flew around for fun. It was almost second nature to be up in the air. ‘Umm… if you’re asking if I’m afraid of heights, no ma’am I’m not.’ He reached over and wrapped his hand around the glass of water to take a sip.

‘Alright, enough of this small talk shit— are you gonna marry my daughter?!’ Clarence exclaimed, sitting at the edge of his seat.

Clark choked on his water at the sudden outburst.

‘CLARENCE!’

‘It’s a serious question, Janice hush! I’m trying to have a serious conversation with my future son in law— now,’ he turned his attention back to Clark, ‘You gone break my daughter’s heart?’

Clark had just finished recovering from damn near choking to death when he glared at her father, ‘I—I guess! If she wants to marry me, I mean—‘

‘Good answer boy. Good answer.’ Clarence sat back as he took a long drag of his pipe.

Clark then looked at her mother with confusion written in his crystal blue hues.

‘Clark! Are you there?’ Cardi called out from down the hall.

Thank God.

‘Yeah! I’m here!’ He stood up from his spot as he held his glass of water in his hand.

‘OK! I’m coming now!’

Clark took a long, final sip before placing the glass back down on the coaster.

Finally, she emerged from the long hallway. And he was completely mesmerized by her. She wore a gray body con dress that was scrunched up from her thighs to her hips; with two elastic strings tied at her silky smooth thighs. She filled out that dress so nicely; taking up all the room it had to offer.

She donned a silver anklet with a dangling letter “C” on it. And she wore shiny black Tory Burch sandals that brought out the brightness of her White toenail polish. Infatuation wasn’t even the word he’d use for how he felt about her at this moment. Fondness? Adoration.

‘Wow… Cardierre you look—‘ he let out a shudder of a sigh. He never really got to see her outside of lady suits, long skirts and slacks. But he could tell she was much more comfortable in casual clothing than business professional. Which made her all the more gorgeous. ‘Stunning.’

Cardi grinned, her head falling to the side as she clutched her purse strap in her healthy palm, ‘Thanks. Are you ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ He smiled softly.

‘Alright! Well you two have fun now.’ Janice said as she walked over to grab her daughter and practically pushed them towards the front door.

‘Have my daughter home by 9!’ Her father called out.

Clark looked down at his watch and raised a brow, ‘But it’s 9:01?’ It was more of a question than it was a statement.

‘Well have her home by 10!’ Clarence shouted.

Cardierre rolled her eyes as the pair walked out of the door.

‘Oh please. Don’t pay that man any mind, Clark. Y’all come back when ya done. Have a good time babies.’ Her mother said softly, waving her hand happily before she shut the door.

Cardierre let out an embarrassed chuckle before looking up at Clark, ‘Shit. I apologize for my parents. They are…’ she sighed, shaking her head, ‘Overbearing. I hope I didn’t leave you stranded out there like that.’

Clark chuckled and shook his head, ‘It’s alright. I’m not expecting everyone to like me.’ He shrugged, ‘Besides, your father is kind of funny.’ He added as he pushed his thick locs out of his face.

She let out an embarrassed scoff, ‘You think he’s funny now. Give him a while… he’ll annoy you eventually.’ She rolled her eyes.

***

The drive on the way to the carnival was entertaining. It did start out a little awkward since they couldn’t find anything to talk about. So Clark turned on the radio. They sang everything they possibly could under the moon the station could’ve possibly offered.

When they made it to the carnival, Cardi sat in the car until he got out and came to get her door. She thanked him as she placed her hand in his and stepped out of the truck.

Once they made it inside of the carnival, Clark looked down at Cardi who had this look of endearment on her face. She was taking in all of the lights and rides and the games. He was glad he’d chosen to bring her here tonight. ‘So, what do you wanna do first? Wanna catch some rides?’

‘Rides? I never took you to be a roller coaster kind of guy Clark!’ She grinned as they walked side by side.

Clark smirked, ‘Everyone says that. Listen, I may be a nerd but— I know how to have fun too. Come on. Let’s go on that big one over there.’ He grabbed her hand and they walked over to the line hand in hand.

Luckily, the line was short and they were able to get on and experience the tallest rollercoaster at the carnival. With all the loops and sharp turns, Cardi felt like she was going to fall out of that old thing. But the grip that Clark had on her, she just had the blissful feeling of being safe. So when the ride did its second rotation, she was a bit more comfortable now and even found herself screaming and throwing her hands up with her partner.

When they got off that ride, she did her best to stand up straight but her legs grew wobbly. She eventually lost the little balance she had and landed in his arms.

‘Whup!—‘ Clark exclaimed in a bit of a laughing fit as he caught her just in time so she wouldn’t eat the dirt they stood on, ‘You alright?!’

Cardi laughed and stood up straight, ‘I’m good! I just haven’t been on a rollercoaster in ages!’ She cleared her throat and smoothed out her dress. ‘That was so fun.’ She giggled a bit as she looked up at Clark.

Clark looked down at her, his oceanic blue eyes gazing into her pools of honey. He just couldn’t help when he was around her. She was just so pretty. Then he cleared his throat, looking away for a second before he caught a glimpse of a little girl walking past with this big cone of cotton candy.

‘Hey! You down for some cotton candy? I haven’t had any since I was a kid!’

She gazed into his eyes, pressing her full glossy lips together. ‘I’d follow you anywhere… just take the lead.’ Once Cardi realized what she had said, she placed her hand on her chest. That was awfully bold of her.

He then smirked and held his left hand out towards her. Waiting for her to place her hand in his.

She then looked down at his palm; kind of skeptical about this. What if she was just damaged goods? Cardierre wasn’t perfect and had a lot of baggage that hadn't been exactly resolved yet. She was just afraid to scare him away and ruin her chance at a happy life. She knew that Clark was a good man. There was no denying that.

But the other half of her wanted to jump into the deep end! Let go and be completely free with him. He may help heal her in all the right places. But she wouldn’t know, if she didn’t try.

So she smiled up at him and placed her small right hand in his much larger one. And with that, Clark immediately wrapped her hand up in a warm embrace. She braced herself from the searing pain in her palm, but his touch was so gentle— it was almost as if there was no burn there in the first place.

‘Just let me know if it hurts too bad.’ He said softly as they both turned to walk towards the food truck.

‘I will.’

***

The night consisted of them eating a ton of crap that would clog up their arteries. Foot long corn dogs, cotton candy, caramel popcorn, and Fried Oreos. It was a miracle they weren’t hugging the toilets! Between their snack times, they had been on 3 more roller coasters and wreaked havoc with the bumper cars.

‘It’s too bad the Ferris wheel is down! It’s such a gorgeous night!’ Clark said as he wrapped his heavy arm around her shoulders.

‘That’s cool! I have another place in mind though.’ She smiled up at him before looking ahead at the guy trying to lure people in for a game of “Hit The Bell!” He had enormous bears, unicorns, and bananas. Her eyes twinkled at the sight. She wanted one! But before she could say something he spoke up.

‘Hey! Check this out!’ He let go of her hand and walked towards the guy, asking him how much for a game.

‘It’ll be $10 for 3 swings! $18 for 6!’

Little did he know, it would only take one swing.

‘Cool! Let’s do the 3!’ He paid the guy in cash and then took off his leather coat and handed it off to Cardi.

Her eyes slightly grew at the sight before her. Beneath that thick leather coat, he donned a dark blue long sleeved thermal that just hugged his body.

It hugged and outlined his chiseled muscles; defining those curves and cuts. Cardi was flabbergasted!

‘Thank you sir.’ Clark said as the man handed him off the large hammer. Typically, these were heavy, which made the swings a bit tougher. But he lifted it like it was light work.

Cardi held their coats close to her chest, squeezing them as her eyes glassed over with amazement. She was heavily invested.

Clark held the hammer in his fists for a moment before bringing it up and down against the black stump. The black knob quickly flew up and Cardi’s eyes followed it all the way up. When the knob touched the bell, Clark grinned in such a knowing way. Of course he’d win.

‘Alright! Can you do that two more times? Win that pretty lady over there one of these big ole’ teddies!’ The older male said.

‘Too easy.’ Clark shrugged before swinging it once more and again after that.

To say that Cardierre was impressed was an understatement! She was ecstatic! She found herself just smiling out of control.

‘Which one do you want, Cardi?!’ He called out to her.

‘The Unicorn! I want the Unicorn!’ She squealed out happily.

Clark chuckled and gave the gentleman a nod before he watched him grab the metal stick and bring it down from the rack. When the man placed the prize in Clark’s arms, he thanked him and walked over to his date who was dancing happily.

Her tap dancing had stopped and clapped joyfully.

‘Oh it’s so cute! I love it!’

He chuckled before swapping their coats out with the plush pink gift. ‘Yeah. Now, you gotta promise to keep it safe for me.’ He said softly.

She hugged its neck, snuggling the toy with the brightest grin on her lips, ‘I’ll protect it with my life!’ She giggled before they walked off, hand in hand again.

It was now 11:45 pm and they were finally walking out to Clark’s truck. Cardi released her hand from Clark’s and walked to the driver's side. Clark stopped in his tracks, ‘What are you doing missy? I’m supposed to be driving— I’m the gentleman!’

Cardi opened up the back door, throwing the pink unicorn there.

‘Truuue but— I don’t wanna ruin the surprise by giving you the directions,’ she shut the door and stepped to the driver’s door, ‘Just give me the keys and enjoy the ride pretty boy.’ She said as she shot him a wink, stepped on the step and hopped inside of the vehicle.

He chuckled before shaking his head and walking to the other side of the vehicle.

Part II 👇🏾👇🏾👇🏾

[johaerys-writes]

I see people hating Achilles for what he did to Hector's body bc they love Hector and forgetting that…hmm checks notes Hector want to give Patroclus' body to the dogs? A considerable part of the Trojan army was happy to comply if it meant rewards and he didn't stop doing it because he benevolently changed his mind it was bc he didn't get the body 🤔🤔🤔

And then I see someone who sympathizes with Alexander complaining about Agamemnon bc of Kassandra but hmmm checks notes Alexander in certain versions literally kidnap Helen? And then they say like "lol Achilles and Agamemnon fighting over Briseis and Chryseis as if there were no other girls" and yeah…Alexander also didn't want to give Helen back even though his city was falling apart and the Trojans were asking him to give her back...and with him being a handsome prince I'm SURE there were other women for him imao

I've even seen people complain about versions where the Achaeans blame Helen and talk about how she should have stayed in Troy…guys did you skip the part where she says very obviously that only Hector and Priam were good to her? And the sources where the Trojans literally blame Helen? Or talking about infidelity as if they thought that all of Priam's children are Hekabe's (and that all of Hekabe's are always Priam's too) and Hector absolutely does NOT have concubines in ANY source of the myths (spoiler: he does)

And let's not even talk about characters from past generations (like... there are versions that the Trojan princess Hesione was almost sacrificed by the Trojans themselves lol)

Like guuuuuys neither the Achaeans nor the Trojans are saints 😭😭😭when did this narrative of dichotomy between good and evil begin for God's sake

My friend Baejax made a really good post explaining why and how Hector and the Trojans are constantly being portrayed as beacons of civilization and selflessness while Achilles has been hated on for centuries, and I think she says it much better than I could lol, but basically yeah I agree that the dichotomy that exists currently is a load of BS and not how Homer intended these two cultures to be perceived. If anything, their similarities are highlighted over and over in the epic, instead of their differences. The Iliad is NOT a story about good vs evil, nobility and selflessness vs barbarity. Exalting the Trojans and condemning the Greeks (or vice versa) completely misses the overarching tragedy of it all: that their lives and deaths, their love and pain and misery and struggle are nothing but a spectacle for the gods, and that their fates are something they have no control over. (Frankly, whoever reads it that way just isn't doing a very good job thinking critically about the text, and instead focuses on proving their own biases right by trying to bend the original text and its meaning to their will while thoroughly ignoring the context. Which is incredibly unfortunate, if you ask me)

What the Iliad is is a work that shows the gruesome reality and futility of war, and how there are no winners! None!! It begins with an argument between a shitty, incompetent leader and his best (albeit extremely tired and fed up) soldier, and it ends with not one, not two, but three funerals (Patroclus, Hector but also Achilles, whose funeral is heavily foreshadowed by Hector's). For me, the beauty and tragedy of the work is in realising that both the Achaeans and the Trojans are doomed no matter the war's outcome. And this is something that is confirmed by the Odyssey, where we learn that Troy was sacked and razed, and that the Achaeans, the victors, either returned to broken homes and broken people or got lost or died trying to get back. There is no glory to be had for literally anyone.

[screwpinecaprice]

Oh oof I slipped and hit them with dark and serious beam. 😣

[black-and-yellow]

[katabay]

PAGLUIB

way back in like. march?? I took a stab at writing some kind of kabitserye type of story but it was a mess: it kept veering off into murder mystery drama territory because I was reading a lot of murder mystery novels around then and it Wasn't Good because I hadn't tried writing mysteries, let alone murder mysteries, before lmao

I did write a handful of short mystery stories since then, so next year I might take a stab at this idea again now that I'm no longer jumping head first into a genre pool I don't know how to swim in :)

[valewritessss]

This fandom is so nit-picky that I’ve seen more criticism on every little thing about wottg (a book that came out 2 days ago) than people saying things they liked about it

Edit: someone has already gotten mad so I repeat this is a joke and not that deep❤️

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

In my own personal post-canon world I like to think Theo ends up doing some sort of Search and Rescue work, maybe still in Beacon Hills, maybe not, probably wherever Liam ends up going because I don’t necessarily ship it (I’m not anti them either, just not my personal cup of tea) but I will be going insane about these two as a duo until the end of time.

But I fully believe this kid who spent a decade doing who knows what under the Doctors instructions, we can assume helping with their experiments in one way or another, most likely running schemes just like the one he ran with Scott’s pack because that was Not booboo’s first time playing the game, this kid who spent a decade hurting people getting a taste for saving them - see: the entirety of S6 - and figuring out, once he’s figured himself out, that actually that felt good and it’s something I can be good at.

Also werewolves/chimeras in any sort of tracking job is an absolutely under-utilised idea those fuckers would be insanely good at it.