#someone has to write an AU with this title...

[lottieinrealife]

lottienat highschool!au, loser!nat & popular girl!lottie ᡣ𐭩ּ ּ ֶָ֢.⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑

Title: “At the End of the Corridor."

Genre: High School AU

Setting: American suburb, traditional high school, 2000s/2010s

Rating: +16

Plot:

— Natalie Scatorccio has always been the girl in the back of the class. The freak. The weirdo. The girl with the messy black hair, who smokes cigarettes hidden behind the gym, who wears ripped sneakers and a black t-shirt with a skull on it. Known for her sudden absences, her sharp comebacks and her “don’t-mess-with-me” expression. She grew up with absentee parents, and school is just another place where she learns to survive in silence.

Lottie Matthews, on the other hand, is high school royalty. Beautiful, wealthy, articulate, chairwoman of the event committee, and prom queen two years in a row (which is almost illegal). She surrounds herself with a group of girls with names like Jackie, Mari, and Taissa. She has an aura of angelic perfection, but everyone knows she's hiding something behind her calm smile and perfectly brushed hair. Maybe sadness. Maybe secrets.

The two shouldn't have anything in common. But then, by one of those ironic twists of fate, Natalie is forced to attend biology remedial classes — and who is her tutor?

Yes. Lady Popular herself: Lottie Matthews.

At first, Natalie hates everything about her. The brightly lit room. The smell of lavender in Lottie's binder. The way she says "mitochondria" like she's in an advertisement. Lottie, in turn, tries to pretend she doesn't notice how Natalie looks at her with contempt—or something else?

(Spoiler: it's both.)

But as their afternoons of forced study turn into increasingly personal conversations, Natalie realizes that Lottie isn't as perfect as she seems—and Lottie discovers that Natalie isn't as indifferent as she pretends to be.

— Natalie starts to notice how Lottie puts on lip gloss during class. How she smiles nicely at everyone, but never at her. And it irritates her—because no one should be that charming.

— Lottie finds herself laughing at Natalie's sarcastic jokes and starts thinking about her more than she should. She wonders what it would be like if someone saw her beyond the perfect facade she puts on every day.

— Rumors begin to circulate. The popular girl is said to be seeing the school freak alone. Lottie's friends put pressure on her. Natalie becomes the talk of the town.

— Natalie sabotages herself. She disappears for days, avoids meetings, says cruel things to push Lottie away. Because it's easier to be hated than to be left.

— Lottie confronts him. For the first time, she shows anger. She says she's tired of living a plastic life, that Natalie is the only one who makes her feel something real. But she can't carry her insecurities alone.

— It all culminates at a school dance where Natalie shows up unexpectedly, with flawless eyeliner and a vintage black dress. Lottie sees her at the entrance and smiles as if she's been waiting for her all her life.

— Natalie writes song lyrics in her biology notebook and Lottie starts reading them in secret.

— Lottie keeps a diary where she describes dreams about a girl she never names—but who has sad eyes and a lighter in her pocket.

— Natalie has a dog that no one knows about except Lottie, who sneaks in to visit her after school.

— Lottie teaches Natalie how to apply concealer, and Natalie teaches Lottie how to curse without guilt.

— Lottie calls Natalie "Scatorccio" just to tease her.

— The first time they kiss is during a stupid game of "Truth or Dare" that Natalie was reluctant to participate in. But the kiss won't leave either of their minds.

“She was chaos.

I was the perfect facade.

Deep down, they both just wanted to run away.”

but what if... highschool!au, loser!nat & popular girl!lottie

[mariacallous]

To all the female journalists hoping to score a big interview with Jameela Jamil, I regret to inform you that that ship has sailed. The actress-podcaster-presenter bid au revoir to women reporters in an extraordinarily long Substack post titled, “I think I’m done with being interviewed by women.” According to Jamil, her “trust has been broken” following a recent profile of her in the Sunday Timesby Liz Edwards that she thought “read like a cheap, bitchy, Daily Mail blog, written by a student desperate to get clicks to keep their job.”

Jamil, who is now perhaps more well-known as a vocal, body-positive feminist than as an actor, wrote that of the “hundreds of women” who have interviewed her over the course of her 17-year career, only three of them have written about her fairly. “The others turned up with a preconceived idea of who I was, having never met me, or even known anyone who knows me,” Jamil wrote, unknowingly describing the majority of all journalist–celebrity interactions. These women apparently came to Jamil with “an angle,” which was not “designed to actually uplift the audience, but to instead tear down or embarrass the woman trying and hoping to uplift the audience.” The issue here might be that Jamil is one of the few people in the world who clicks on a celebrity profile hoping to be “uplifted” by the opinions of a famous person.

To her credit, the offending Sunday Times profile does not paint Jamil in an amazing light. It has a headline meant to generate attention (“Jameela Jamil: ‘I stood up for Meghan long before I met her’”) and opens by rehashing some of her wildest tweets (which she did, in fact, write of her own free will). The story then lists all of the various medical issues she’s said she’s endured throughout her life, and when asked about the claims that she might have fabricated some of them in order to clarify, Jamil dodged, saying, “Foolishness is something we should discourage in the media.” It’s not until almost the end of the profile that you realize what she’s even promoting, an upcoming Pixar movie and a new podcast in which she and her guests discuss embarrassing moments.

Jamil’s argument is that when she is interviewed by women, they ask her to prove herself. “They want to interview me about feminism they say, but they rarely explore my actual thoughts and ideas about our collective experience, but more seek to interrogate my character, why I have a right to speak when I have privilege, why I care, hyper fixate on my fairly innocuous mistakes compared to most men in my industry, and force me to justify why anyone should take me seriously,” she wrote. She is upset that despite all of her “frankly prominent” work advocating for women, writers of her very same gender have the gall to drudge up her past and situate her within the context of her own past.

“I hate to say it, but male journalists have always given me a fair shot,” Jamil wrote. “Men do seem at large more interested in actually exploring and challenging my ideas, rather than demanding my credibility to have ideas in the first place.”

To all the young women currently in J-school, don’t worry! Jamil, who herself interviews people on her podcasts, has figured it out for you — she’s willing to share her wisdom. “As an interviewer I start with where someone is at now, how they arrived there, including the hairy moments, and then I end on what positive thing they have recycled that into that will nourish or help my audience,” she wrote, echoing David Frost, I believe. “I don’t just try to embarrass them, and guide the audience to start thinking of them as insufferable and then try to flimsily pull them back in with strategically unrelatable throw away lines and quips.”

Jamil goes on to say that when men are interviewed, they are not subjected to any scrutiny at all. “We don’t seek to humble or embarrass them from the jump. We don’t open articles with paragraph upon paragraph of their controversies. Even if there are illegal/violent allegations made about them.” This is, according to her, a problem that goes all the way back to Adam and Eve. “ADAM WAS A GROWN MAN WITH HAIR ON HIS BALLS WHO ATE THAT FUCKING APPLE,” she wrote, “STOP EMASCULATING ADAM. DAMN.”

Right on, sister. Jamil wraps up by saying that she will “never stop trying to uplift women.” That is, of course, unless they’re a bitch with a recorder. “I sometimes, more charitably wonder if female journalists hyper focus on my mistakes and flaws because they’re so constricted by their own, or fear of making some, that they can’t believe I dare still stand after breaking the rule of being perfect, liked, believed and approved of by everyone.” Ugh, damn, she got us.

Jamil is actually too self-actualized for all those pea-brained women journalists, who are mostly jealous of how free she is. It’s not that they think it’s funny that she once said she hoped her fellow celebs shit themselves from drinking detox tea, or that they’re trying to examine the self-aggrandizing and abrasive version of feminism she’s peddling.

In the comments of her post, Jamil provided a brief follow-up. “For whatever it’s worth. We contacted her,” she wrote, referring to Edwards, “Told her how I felt. No apology, no retraction. No action. Humanity is worth less than clicks bait [sic] I guess.” She may not want to talk to female journalists anymore, but maybe she could consider a female editor?

[latulla80]

Ok, we know that we are NOT the biggest lestappies around (i mean verstappen.com admin? Redbull admin? ) but this is coming from F1 official...

[lycankeyy]

I just realized I never posted these which gives me an opportunity to update Pico's design a little anyway. Yippeeee

[lovesickeros]

lord its so dark in here the sahara desert of tsaritsa content you are like a shining oasis. your characterisation of her compels me & mihoyo would be hard pressed to top it imo.!! caaaaan i humbly request yr thoughts on her first meeting w a reader of any kind, or maybe even multiple kinds (sagau, sagau god au, isekai, etc) if you so desire...

it really is like a desert here. being the fan of a character we aren't getting until the last damn nation is driving me up a wall but i will persevere bc if nothing else i support morally bankrupt women in media. we r in a severe drought over here but i do my best. unfortunately nothing i say is ever coherent so pull out your translation notes its abt 2 be messy

also this got out of hand but thats bc first meetings w the tsaritsa are tricky to write + a LOT of her characterization lies in deeper exploration then just surface level yknow...NOT A DIG AT YOU this is just my excuse for rambling. gently pats the tsaritsa she can hold so much complexity i do not have the word count to delve into it completely :]

gonna talk cult au for a bit here though because that's 99% of my content. and honestly? she thrives in sub au's of the cult au like villain au + imposter au. it's basically made for her. i mean, early days, the imposter au had been going around for a little while but one of the first few ideas was the Fatui taking reader in so like. it kinda technically actually was. pretty sure cult au Tsaritsa popped up because of the imposter au. a lot of it's writers kinda left though which. man am i getting old or.

anyway.

there isn't much of a chance her first impression is all that positive. at best it's usually neutral, imo, but rarely if ever positive. specifically because i view the Tsaritsa as someone who isn't as fanatical as most of the acolytes typically are towards the creator. she's not exactly going to worship the ground you walk on unlike a certain geo lizard. which is partially why i think she thrives in the sub au's i mentioned.

imposter au, for example. she meets you at your lowest. there's no gaudy extravagance or pampering from the acolytes waiting for you because your own acolytes have turned on you. for all intents and purposes you aren't a "god" at all. which is why i don't think she meshes well with normal cult au reader. the Fatui are made up of outcasts, basically, and imposter au slots right in just perfectly. you're weak, at your lowest, when you meet the Fatui in the imposter au. and the Fatui can help you, too.

a mutual exchange, really. the Tsaritsa sees a tool she can use to one up the rest of the nations and especially Archons, and she has no qualms about you using her and the Fatui in turn. you both want something out of it, after all. whether you just want to be safe from the rest of the acolytes, or you want revenge, or whatever else..she'll give you the power to fulfill it, and she gains the strongest piece on the chessboard when all is said and done.

the best way i can describe the first meeting is "practical", i suppose. she sees an opportunity in you. the ultimate gamble. because if she "saves" you, and you dont trust anyone else because they tried to kill you, well..she holds all the cards, doesn't she?

but the Tsaritsa, imo, is just as capable of being just as fanatical towards you as anyone else. she just won't worship you as the creator. but as yourself? clawing your way back to your divine power and taking back what belongs to you? the Tsaritsa is, to me, a character who's character flourishes in long-term fics more because she changes a LOT between "just met reader" and after having been with reader for some time. she's practically apathetic at the beginning but a lot of her character, in my characterization, shines through LONG after the first meeting.

[teh-nos]

this morning i started writing a thorki au and it has already committed the following sins: modern au; thor & loki not being related; blue-collar thor while loki is posh. but i don't care because the whole concept is stupid and tailored to my very specific demands and there is as ever a good chance i will never make any real progress on it anyway. ha ha. ha haha. so there.

[coldshrugs]

triple play

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau setting: modern au word count: 2.2k [divider credit]

February 7th - Estinien

The first baseball game of the season is fast approaching, and the Knights buzz with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

The locker room is louder than usual, but Estinien doesn't mind. He likes this part. It's the same every year: the giddy tension, the unconditional camaraderie before the finger-pointing starts, the desire to do well and, maybe, catch an eye or two in the process...

Only a week away now.

What he doesn't like is the feeling of Aymeric's glare boring into the back of his head.

"What?" he asks, trying his best to sound even, unbothered, as he puts away his gear.

Aymeric makes an evasive little sound. "Just thinking. Musing, if you will."

He punctuates this with the sharp sound of his locker closing.

Estinien sighs. This is bait. Somehow, this is bait, and he will take it and most likely regret it. He shuts his own locker with a metallic clang and drops to the bench between them.

"Fine. What's on your mind?"

Aymeric tosses a towel around his shoulders, beaming triumphantly and pausing for what Estinien can only guess is dramatic effect. "Did you ask her?"

If Aymeric's stare needled his skin, that is nothing compared to the itch caused by the sideways glances thrown at him now.

This is the same year after year, too—the whispered locker room gossip, all of them eager for some minor detail about so-and-so's tits or who the hookup of the month is. He's never been one to share that much; besides, there's nothing to tell.

Still… another kind of anticipation swells in his chest, similar to the usual pre-game nervousness, but one he doesn't share with the others. He wishes the 'her' in Ayms' question wasn't so readily implied. Anyone else would've needed a name, but after knowing her only a few months, Io is an assumption.

Most of the others are minding their business again, so he answers:

"Yeah." He keeps his voice low. "I asked her. She's coming." Then he adds, "She's bringing someone."

Aymeric leans against the row of lockers. "And? You brought me to her concert. Don't worry too much about it."

But he's not worried. There's nothing to worry about, is there? It's pretty cut and dry. "I keep telling you... me and Io, we're friends. That's all she wa—"

"Io?"

The voice comes from a few people away. Maybe he wasn't as quiet as he thought.

Haurchefant leans past a set of shoulders before pushing over to them. "You know Io? Laithe?"

"Might just be a common name," Ayms shrugs, but anyone can see he's already enjoying whatever this is.

Estinien shoots him a dark look—great, thanks, this is exactly a conversation I wanted to have—then nods to Haurchefant.

"Not super well or anything."

"Oh, come on." Aymeric laughs. "Hasn't known her long, but definitely knows her well."

Estinien wipes a hand over his face. "Don't say it like that. She's a friend from—" Hm, he doesn't want to put her life story out there to some guy on his baseball team. "—we're in a club, I guess, outside of school."

"Oh," Haurche glances between Estinien and Aymeric, and his tension fades when the latter doesn't react. "Sweet. We, uh, dated for a few months a while back, but I haven't heard from her in over a year. After the—" his voice breaks, and Estinien figures he doesn't want to drag her painful history up either. "Well, anyway... How is she?"

For the briefest moment, their eyes lock, and they have something else in common. Something outside of this team. The warmth he felt at the thought of sharing something more about himself with her, that almost pleasant anxiety, it starts to blister, flashing white-hot across his neck and climbing to his face.

His eyes narrow. He doesn't want to say anything.

Io trusts easily, even when she's hurting (especially when she's hurting). If she wanted Haurchefant to know how she was doing, she'd have talked to him by now. There must be a reason she hasn't.

His chest tingles again, fluttering with something tiny and warm—he is the person she talks to, confides in. Sure, they both have Haven, but outside of that... Well, maybe Aymeric isn't wrong for assuming.

Estinien stands from the bench and peels off his soiled shirt. Before he heads to the showers, he gives Haurchefant the only answer he thinks is warranted. "Doing better."

February 10th - Haurchefant

He met Io at a Spring Break party in freshman year, where he spent far too much of the night watching her quietly hold up the corners of some upperclassman's rented condo. He felt like he knew everything there was to know about her right away, a symptom of that bright melancholy distinctly found in art school girls, like she was only waiting on fate to catch up to her. Maybe the reality of her was less interesting than his half-baked conclusion, but god, her smile.

He was so nervous to talk to her.

They hit it off, in a careful way. Started dating, started kissing, fooled around a bit. But it was so... polite. Almost obligatory. Maybe they wouldn't have lasted anyway, but then, whether she wanted it or not, fate caught up to her. Her whole family was lost in the crash, and she ghosted him.

A slow fade.

Haurchefant has never had trouble with moving on. He finds the bright side and forgets the rest. No, this is unlike him, still thinking about something long in the past, even with such a hazy ending.

But Varlineau?

Seriously?

Haurchefant always found him tactless and a bit fumbling. And he had no right to pull his smug avoidance thing right after downplaying whatever point Aymeric was trying to make. A "club?"

Estinien Varlineau is not in a fucking club, extracurricular or not.

Whatever.

Haurchefant pulls out his phone and stares at the long-dead conversation thread between him and Io. He was the last to text, of course. Some cliche "I realize this is over, but I wish you the best" thing. He meant it. He still means it.

And that's why his unsure fingers dart across the keyboard now, typing and deleting the words until he has something fairly neutral.

He's surprised when she replies almost immediately.

HG: hey io. haven't heard from u in literally a year. i've been worried. u okay? IL: haurche, wow. it's actually really good to hear from you. IL: i'm not exactly okay, but i'm trying. getting help. HG: glad to hear it. i'm so sorry for ur loss. i don't think i can say it enough. IL: i think i've heard it enough for a lifetime, but thank you ♥ IL: and i'm really sorry for the way things went down. that was unfair. i think i knew that at the time, even in the depths of the pit. we were only together for a few months. it felt like putting too much on your plate HG: so u took away the plate. IL: so i took away the plate. like i said, unfair to you IL: i understand if there are hard feelings, but it means a lot that you're checking in. HG: no hard feelings, no grudges. i wish u would've let me be there for u, but i guess we won't know just how much my plate can handle. HG: unless... u want to grab coffee sometime? IL: lol, i'm deeply flattered you still consider me a viable dating option after witnessing me in a nearly catatonic state. IL: but i think i might be seeing someone? maybe? hard to say tbh. i've got valentine's plans tho, so we'll see. HG: yeah? we've got the same plans. i play baseball too, remember? HG: listen... just don't make too many assumptions with him. given the context, this sounds shitty, but he doesn't seem super into it IL: okay... thanks for your insight. and for the perspective on who you're actually worried about here. later.

His leg shakes hard enough to quake his bed. Fuck. That wasn't how he wanted this to go.

February 14th - Estinien

From his place in the outfield, Estinien can't make out the faces in the stands. It's something he always tries to avoid anyway. Easier to imagine the crowd as one rippling, noisy entity instead of hundreds of people there to watch them perform. Even better if he pretends they're not there at all.

But today he can't keep his eyes from darting around the stadium in his downtime, hoping to catch a flash of deep blue. It's a distracting task, one that oppresses the next crack of the bat and when he sees the ball going long it's almost too late.

Oh, shit.

Shit, fuck, shit.

He tears after it. Faster. Faster than that, until he's feet away from the wall.

One more look up. He dives with an outstretched glove…

He crashes into the padded wall and doesn’t give himself time to react to the sharp little aches burning through his muscles. The weight in his gloved hand is all he considers—it’s an out. He slings the ball to Haurchefant at third and they take a second.

Now there’s time to feel it. His lungs are on fire. There’s a dull throb in his shoulder that will show as a bruise tomorrow. This game is the same as any other, he reminds himself while he catches his breath, hands on his hips. Doesn’t matter who’s watching.

The next batter is their third out and they’re off to a decent start. They run in, and there she is, grinning brightly as she waves to him.

Io sits next to Thancred, hands cupped around his mouth so his cheers carry farther, and something like relief swells in Estinien’s chest (not that he has any reason to be relieved). Estinien’s met him once, decent guy. One of her close friends.

He smiles back, throws his hand up as he heads into the dugout.

The rest of the game feels too long, but his focus returns. They win by two runs and it feels good to start the season on a high.

Afterwards, Io waits on the other side of the chainlink fence. She’s wearing a red flannel over a black dress and boots up to her knees, her hair falls messily out of its bun. He walks to meet her, lungs burning like he’s running again.

“Hey,” she says with a smile, elbows against the fence as she leans into it. “You were awesome out there.”

Estinien shakes his head. “We did alright.”

“You don’t like compliments.” Not a question. Io pauses, eyes darting around the stadium for a moment before falling back to him. A strand of windblown hair catches between her lips (he doesn’t look at her lips), and she pulls it away. “Thanks for inviting me. This was fun.”

“Yeah, I liked seeing you here. Thanks for coming.” He shifts his weight, leans against the fence next to her. “Where’s Thancred?”

“No idea. Probably saw someone cute with no Valentine’s date and decided to shoot his shot.”

Oh, god. Today is…

Estinien reigns in his expression before glancing over to Io. She doesn’t seem any different than the other times they’ve hung out. Her smile is as soft and warm as ever. As usual, her presence is comfortingly familiar, and just looking at her causes the sudden spike in his anxiety to ebb away.

Then her eyes flit down. 

He doesn’t think about why.

He can’t assume anything. That’s not fair.

He opens his mouth to ask if she wants to get out of here, grab some food, let him show her around his campus—anything—but someone walks by. Too close. Close enough to be on purpose.

“Varlineau,” Haurchefant grunts as he passes, and Estinien ignores a flare of annoyance in favor of a nod. Then Haurchefant's gaze slides to Io and darkens. “Io.”

“Hi Haurche,” she sighs, watching him go. The mood shifts, like all the warmth has been sucked out of the air around them, but he can't figure out why. If personal interactions were as easy to call as baseball, he’d guess she just lost this one.

When Haurchefant is gone, she stands from the fence. “I think I need to get back across town. Just remembered I’ve got a quiz due by midnight.”

“Oh,” he whispers. “Yeah, sure. Don’t drop the GPA on my account. I’ll see you later this week?”

“For sure. And this weekend, too, if you want to catch that movie I told you about.”

“You said I’d hate it,” he laughs. 

Io shrugs, walking backwards. “And don’t you want to prove me wrong?”

He shakes his head again. “No, I know you’re right. But whatever, we can watch it.”

“Nice. I’ll text you.” She beams, and that tightens his chest too. “It’s… not a date, right?”

Estinien watches her go, and maybe the little rush he felt before Haurchefant passed by was a fluke. The adrenaline after his win tangling with the weird sense of contentment that comes from simply being around Io. Those things must conflict somehow.

“Right,” he says to himself, resting his head against the cold metal fence (and there’s no reason to be disappointed).

[breadandbees]

Snippet from hch4 ch. 6: “The Boy Battling With Everyone”

Bakugou’s snarl echoes down the hall. “Tch! Giving your opponent the cold shoulder?!” He can practically hear the malice dripping from his voice. He can definitely hear his boots clunking his way towards him. “What’s the big idea?! Get back here, you Icy bastard! I’m not—”

Thump.

Bakugou lets out a groan following the telltale sound of his body hitting the pavement after slipping on ice. Again.

Shouto lets out a hoarse, humorless huff. “Are you sure you didn’t want to discuss who will be on the ground? Because I have a good guess who I’d bet against.” A cold, crisp air slathers the hall, surrounding them both in a familiar phase: freezing point. “I could even put a few hundred-thousand yen on that, if I felt like it.”

The spikes of the white, zip-up boots from his own Hero costume crunch against the ice he left behind as he turns. He stands over a shivering, splayed Bakugou as he stares up at him with something other than fury incarnate—pupils dilated like someone who forgot to put their mask on right and realized too late. Like someone taken aback by being forced to listen to their survival instinct for once. Something Shouto knows how to respond to.

If his father ever taught him anything he could use, he’d learned that it’s safer to never be that someone—and Bakugou really, really seems to want to make Shouto that someone.

Shouto refuses to be that someone for Bakugou, too.

“You want a personal response,” suggests Shouto, monotonously. He drops the temperature around them sharply enough to gather information. “Fine.” And he reacts. He actually tries to stop himself from shivering only to shiver harder and look angry about all the shivering that’s happening. “I’m not interested in anything someone like you has to offer someone like me. I’m not interested in your declarations of war, your intimidation tactics, or the battles you want to pick.” But he doesn’t hunch in on himself or let his mask fall again. “I’ll never be interested.”

He breathes out a stream of white smoke that floats down into an ice fog he generates more of and manipulates to pool at his feet in and lap around Bakugou’s violently shivering form. Bakugou's defiant expression twists its way to replace abject fear fights a losing battle, and it's all on display for Shouto to watch blow-by-blow.

“You want to make me your rival,” Shouto states, voice shaped only through the thick fog, behaving like the fog that it is and the smoke that it isn’t. “Do it.” Distant. “They might even believe you.” Detached. “But know that I’ll never feel a thing.” Impersonal. “About any of it.” Cold. “About you.” Shouto lets each microscopic ice structure linger there in the various forms he demonstrated instead of deconstructing each microscopic crystal, turning to leave. “Whatever you were hoping to get from this, all it’s done is piss me off,” he calls out over his shoulder. “You say we’ll clash in the final round. I would bet against that match-up.”

Bakugou Katsuki—the source of every explosion and explosive argument within 1-A’s classroom walls—is a threat just as vicious, hostile, and self-centered as his attitude, mannerisms, and ego imply. But he’s a terrible liar and he lacks the secrets Shouto’s bled out for to achieve the ability of a perfectly crafted mask.

He hates that he remembers Bakugou standing out—that even thinking about it is enough. He hates that he’s going to unwillingly see more of Bakugou over the course of the next two years.

It’s dumb and unnecessary, but he can’t help but breathe out one last one-liner as he feels his ice melt under the warming, spring air and the staccato puffs he can hear coming from Bakugou’s mouth.

“See you in class, Extra” is what he goes with. Of course, it isn’t as good as “Ice Prince,” but it’s specific enough to hurt like Bakugou’s did.

[mononijikayu]

lovesick — ryomen sukuna.

"I'm serious about my girl." Sukuna retorted back, snickering at the white haired vice-captain. "I'm serious, if she calls me anything else, I'll be nothing. Just how it is." "I see, I see." Before Sukuna could fire back something at him, Gojo’s attention shifted to something—or someone—over Sukuna’s shoulder. Gojo started pointing at the doorway. “Oh, and here she is now, captain.” he said, smirking like a man who’d just lit a match in a fireworks factory. "Your beloved girlfriend!"

Genre: Alternate Universe — College! AU;

Warning/s: Short Fic, General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Babe, My Love, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Comfort/No Hurt, Established Relationship, Lovers, Dating, Feeling, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Swearing, Teasing, Volleyball, Volleyball Captain! Sukuna, Boyfriend! Sukuna, Girlfriend! Reader;

Words: 3.8k words.

Note: i wanted to see ryomen sukuna be someone that is pathetically in love with his lover, because i needed a break from my pattern of being angsty with sukuna, so here you go. that being said, i'm sorry this is shorter than what i usually write. i'm prepping a lot of things because im going to be back in uni soon and i need to make sure i fix the queue!!! that being said, i'll post tomorrow about the valentines special!!! thank you for reading!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

lovesick masterlist

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IF THERE WAS ONE THING ABOUT HIM, ITS THE FACT THAT HE IS A STRONG PERSONALITY. He knew that too well, everyone knew that just as much. Ryomen Sukuna was just easily the most incredible force to be reckoned with. Whether that be meeting him personally or whether that be hearing baout him in passing.

Everyone would say the same thing about him — it's hard to find out what to say about him without going on a tangent for hours on end. And that was just the easiest thing to do, rather than finding anything definite to say.

The one and only captain of the top ranking college varsity volleyball team in all of Japan, Ryomen Sukuna dominated the court like it was his personal kingdom with that iron fist. He has such a stellar record of existence, that was to be sure, wearing the crown.

All his opponents could only quiver at the sight of his one of a kind powerful line spike. All the teammates he'd have since junior high could only respect and fear him with almost military reverence, like he was their general.

Of course, all his coaches over the years swore he could crush concrete if he so much as clenched his fists mid-serve. That perhaps, it would be good to gentle parent him as much as possible, knowing he's already quite the fire cracker of a man.

Or that he could end up cussing out everyone at the court as easily as one does breathing. That's of course, why the coaches would find him to be the "Cursed King." It was an intimidating title that had followed him since junior high school.

One moment he's someone that you curse because you lost a game because of him, another time you curse him because your team got fined because he ended up causing a fight. And with a name like that, Sukuna relished the air of invincibility it gave him.

Everyone had a box for Sukuna to fit in, of course. That continued over time, to be something that people couldn't avoid making for him and only him. That was just how it was, when you have someone as enigmatic as him.

To some of his teammates, he was "Cap"—the iron-willed leader who demanded nothing less than perfection. The one that would force them to run miles on end until they fell from exhaustion. The one who forced them to do hundreds of spikes until it took out the bottles he prepared on the other side of the court.

The rival schools referred to him as "Demon Spike" but this was mostly because he left a trail of destruction (and bruises) every time he stepped onto the court. One moment that's from the fact that his serves were just dangerously low and one moment it's because he heard someone bad mouth his underclassman.

To the younger underclassmen, who unfortunately still looked at him with bright eyes under those filtered glasses on — he was a mix of "Sensei of True Discipline" and "Volleyball God".

He was to them, a figure of unadulterated awe and of course, that desire to hope, that perhaps they would end up like him too. After all, he was always a star in the court. But in a different way, in the good way. That's how they think.

Of course, even his many teachers and now his college professors had their own opinions for him one at a time over the many years. One of the most known nicknames for him by the professors in the college halls is “The GPA Crusher”.

But this was because Ryomen Sukuna spent more time perfecting his jump serves against his opponent than ever having effort in writing essays for submission. Ironically, even though he was quite a smart young man. The fact that he shows up to exams more than classes and still passes with flying colors is quite certain proof.

But to you, his beloved girlfriend, Ryomen Sukuna was none of these things. He didn’t live in a box and he never wished to do so, no. Instead, he lived eternally, forever, even in the next life — in your heart.

Though he’d never say something that cheesy out loud. That part is not easy for him, but you didn't mind that. You liked to keep him to yourself most of the time. And he was satisfied with that.

The most you could hear from him about you is in passing. Sometimes practice would finish and he, still full of sweat, would immediately pack his things into his gym bag, almost suddenly becoming ignorant of everything else.

His underclassman would invite him to eat something like yakuniku and he would say with a straight face — "I can't. My girfriend wants to cook some authentic pasta for me at her place. Bye."

He would leave almost instantly, much to the shock of the underclassman each year. But most of his teammates, who were also somehow his friends, were not surprised. He and you were dating early on during junior high school. And he would be the same way.

When he wasn't looking, people could only surmise what he looked like when he towered over your giddy figure at every practice, at every game — 'Ah, I see. He's lovesick. And in a good way.'

To Sukuna, you were perhaps the only thing that could triumph against volleyball. You were his number one. And he knew that you thought of him the same way too. And everyone knew that too.

That's why you only ever called him one thing: my love. And to Sukuna, that title was worth more than any championship trophy. But of course, no one knew that. It's not like you don't call him that in public. It's just that no one asks, what that nickname is.

The look in your eyes was more than enough when he makes a wink for you at each serve was enough, the smile on your lips when he comes to greet you at the bleachers was more than enough. No one needed to hear the nickname to know that there was something loving between the two of you.

He knew this truth as well as he knew how to spike a ball with a precise edge. He knew this as much as he knew what would get him a championship. But of course, that doesn't stop curiosity at times. At times he humors them, at times he does not. It was a hit and miss.

That’s why, during a post-practice break, when the Vice Captain of the Volleyball team, Gojo Satoru, decided to start stirring the pot as usual with his antics. And somehow, today, Ryomen Sukuna didn’t mind it. There was something in the air. They could feel it.

(He won't tell anyone about this, but he has very happy about something.

He was after all happy that his girlfriend was staying at his dorm tonight to spoon on his bed after your finals kept you apart for nearly two weeks —

But no one needs to know that.

Otherwise, they'd use it against him.

And he can't have that right now.

It will spoil these bastards and make them too relaxed before championships again.)

Gojo leaned against the bleachers with that signature cocky grin. “Hey, Sukuna.” he drawled, as he watched the captain drink from his water bottle. "You’ve got about a million nicknames floating around. But what are you to your girlfriend?”

Ryomen Sukuna didn’t miss a beat.

He put down his water bottle swiftly.

He glared at Gojo Satoru with a passion.

He tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded with that calm arrogance he wore so well. “Huh? My girl can only call me my love or nothing.” he said, his voice practically dripping with pride.

"Hehhhhh, really?"

“If she calls me anything else, I’ll disappear and leave no trace. Hell, I'll jump off a cliff and make sure I drown into the ocean and never be seen again."

Gojo barked out a laugh, his hands clapping together as if Sukuna had just told the world’s funniest joke. “Wow. Our captain sure is seriously whipped. Actually, that probably doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

"I'm serious about my girl." Sukuna retorted back, snickering at the white haired vice-captain. "I'm serious, if she calls me anything else, I'll be nothing. Just how it is."

"I see, I see."

Before Sukuna could fire back something at him, Gojo’s attention shifted to something—or someone—over Sukuna’s shoulder. Gojo started pointing at the doorway.

“Oh, and here she is now, captain.” he said, smirking like a man who’d just lit a match in a fireworks factory. "Your beloved girlfriend!"

Ryomen Sukuna turned slowly, his earlier bravado evaporating the second he saw you standing at the gym door. Your arms were crossed, your eyes sharp, and your posture practically screamed, You’re in trouble.

“Sukuna.” you called out, your tone cutting through the gym like a whistle signaling the end of a game.

His entire body could only stiffen. He didn’t just flinch—he practically short-circuited. The other players and members, the entire volleyball staff, sensing the shift in the air, immediately stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. All of their eyes were glued on this moment, more than anything.

“Ryomen Sukuna!” you said again, each syllable landing like the sound of a referee’s whistle before a penalty.

Sukuna’s brain scrambled for an escape route. “What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath, frozen in place.

“Ryomen Sukuna, come here.”

“No.” His voice cracked as he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over a water bottle.

His scarlet eyes were shaking as much as his body was. No one has ever seen this before. No one had ever seen the panic on his face before. Not even in a hard game to win. This was the very first time their formidable captain looked so defeated and horrified.

“No, no, my name is my love! It’s my love! What did I do?” he asked, practically sprinting toward you like a volleyball rolling out of bounds.

Gojo Satoru, thoroughly entertained, cackled so hard he nearly fell off the bleachers. “Man, even the Cursed King has a leash!” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. "This is how he is with her. That's interesting, isn't it?"

"He doesn't look like who he actually is in the moment, huh." Nanami Kento whispered under his breath, wiping the sweat with the towel over his shoulder. "We should have used this card when he refused to stop practice during last year's finals."

"Well now we can." Geto Suguru snickers, lounging on the floor as he watched the scene with mirth in his purple gaze. "Does anyone have objections?"

"None here!" The chorus of seniors and juniors retorted back at him.

"Someone save her phone number for speed dial!" Gojo said, pointing to one of the managers who nodded.

By the time Ryomen Sukuna reached you, he was a completely different man. The fearsome captain who dominated courts and crushed spirits was reduced to a panicked, apologetic mess. You continued to stand before him, rolling your eyes, his towering figure in tatters at what you called him.

“I swear I didn’t do anything! There's no girls or even guys! There isn't anything else. You can check my phone. Or you can ask everyone here too!"

"Sukuna—"

"Whatever it was, I’ll do everything fix it and make it right, babe—just don’t call me that again. Please!” he begged, his voice low enough that only you could hear the desperation in it.

"Calm down." You raised an eyebrow, letting him stew for a moment before finally speaking. “You forgot to text me that practice was running late. And I was concerned. I thought we were going to meet up at the cafe nearby so we can go to your dorm together!”

Sukuna blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” you said, though your tone suggested you might have a few more grievances stored up for later. "Well, I'm also hungry."

Sukuna exhaled so dramatically it was a wonder he didn’t collapse on the spot. “I’ll never forget again, okay?” he promised, his voice full of sincerity. “Babe, I’ll set an alarm—no, two alarms—just for you. And don't worry, we're gonna eat. Actually, take my card and buy something in the cafe while you wait for me.”

As he continued to rattle off promises, you couldn’t help but smile at him. Cursed King or not, to you, Sukuna was just your dorky loving boyfriend, forever trying to live up to his title of my love in your life. And if the rest of the gym wanted to watch him grovel? Well, that was just an added bonus. By the gods, you love him.

"I love you, my love." You whispered to him, taking his hand into yours. "I'm sorry I scared you like that."

"No, no, that was my fault." He grumbled under his breathe, taking a moment to settle in the warmth of your eyes, reserved just for him. "I should have noticed the time. I will never forget about it again, I promise."

"Hm, that's all that matters, my love."

"I'll make us dessert tonight as an apology." He says, moving closer to kiss your temple.

"That would be good, my love."

As Sukuna continued his frantic apologies, the rest of the gym erupted into poorly stifled snickers. Gojo Satoru, of course, was the loudest, slapping his knee like he’d just witnessed the greatest comedy set of the century.

“My love, huh? Big, bad Cursed King reduced to a golden retriever!” he teased, practically howling. “Hey, did you hear that, boys? If she calls him Ryomen Sukuna one more time, he might just cry.”

“Should we start calling him my love too, senpai? Y’know, in solidarity?” chimed Underclassman Itadori Yuuji, grinning as he leaned on his volleyball. The suggestion earned a chorus of laughs and a few enthusiastic nods.

“Yeah, Cap! Don’t worry, my love, we’ve got your back!” Underclassman Fushiguro Megumi deadpanned from the sidelines, his usual stoic face cracking into a rare smirk.

One of the first year underclassman, emboldened by the chaos, cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “We love you, my love! You’re our MVP for all seasons! With so much love, my love!”

Sukuna whipped his head around, his scarlet glare promising death, destruction, and possibly laps for everyone involved. “If anyone other than my girlfriend calls me that, I swear.” he growled, “I will personally make sure you regret it.”

“Sure, my love!” Gojo crowed, leaning back against the bleachers with a devilish grin. “Ooooh, should we get it printed on the back of your jersey? Cursed King on the front, My Love on the back—perfect balance, don’t you think?"

Geto laughs loudly. "You know what, I think we can make this happen. Coach! We got the budget for that, right?"

“Or maybe embroider it on the team banner!” someone else chimed in, sending the gym into another fit of laughter.

You couldn’t hold back anymore, doubling over as Sukuna turned a deeper shade of red than the volleyballs on the court. His sharp retorts and death glares only fueled the chaos, the once-commanding presence of the Cursed King now utterly eclipsed by the sheer hilarity of the moment.

Finally, Sukuna turned back to you, his expression a mix of betrayal and exasperation. “You’re supposed to defend me, babe.” he muttered, his voice low but desperate.

You reached up to pat his cheek, your grin as sweet as honey. “Oh, my love, I am defending you. I’m making sure they never forget how cute you are to me."

For the rest of practice, you sat down and watched everything unfold before you as you ate your croissant and drank your coffee from the cafe which you bought using your boyfriend's card, of course.

For a while, the gym echoed with the sound of volleyballs, laughter, and the occasional teasing chorus of “My love!” — especially when Sukuna found himself scoring a point, which of course led to him missing the next hit.

Every time someone said it later on, Ryomen Sukuna looked seconds away from snapping a net in half, but deep down, though he’d never admit it, he wouldn’t have traded his nickname or the teasing for anything in the world. Not when you were there, cheering it for him with that adorable voice of yours, loving him completely.

Maybe it wasn't so bad to be lovesick like that.

Not when it was you who loved him just like that.

That's just how he loved you too.

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epilogue

After what felt like the longest practice of his life, one that was just peppered with relentless teasing from his teammates and the volleyball team staff — Ryomen Sukuna was finally free to leave with you, to enjoy the weekend together.

He barely said goodbye to the others, grumbling something about “making them run that suicidal hill again on Monday” before grabbing his bag and leading you out of the gym.

“Unbelievable.” he muttered under his breath as you walked side by side. “Gojo’s gonna be insufferable for weeks.”

You stifled a laugh. “Weeks? You mean forever.”

He shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. Instead, he sighed and draped an arm over your shoulder as the two of you made your way to his car. “You’re lucky I love you, y’know. Otherwise, I might’ve disappeared on the spot after what you pulled, babe.”

“Oh, come on, my love.” you teased, leaning into him. “It was worth it to see the great Cursed King turn into a puddle in front of everyone. Especially because he loves me.”

“You’re cruel, babe." he grumbled, but there was a small, fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Can't believe I've loved you since we were in junior high."

You winked at him, smile on your lips growing wider. "And for forever too! You'll have to deal with it."

By the time you got back to Sukuna’s place, you immediately made the move to cook while he got into the shower. Soon enough, the air was thick with the scent of miso broth bubbling on the stove.

You’d planned this hotpot night earlier, since he was supposed to have gone home much earlier. But after the chaos at the gym and his long grueling practice, you just felt like it was even more well-earned.

Sukuna, finally emerging from the bedroom, rolled up his sleeves and helped you set the table, his mood softening with each step of the ritual as you hummed along the song playing on the radio.

“You got everything, babe?” he asked, peering over your shoulder as you arranged plates of thinly sliced meat, tofu, and an assortment of vegetables.

“Yup.” you replied, popping a piece of bok choy into your mouth. “And don’t even think about hogging all the meat this time.”

“Me? Hog it?” He snorted, grabbing the chopsticks and pointing them at you in mock accusation. “You’re the one who fishes out all the good stuff when I’m not looking.”

“That’s called strategy, my love.” you said, grinning as you threw his words from earlier back at him.

Sukuna groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Not you too…”

You waved your chopsticks at him. "Well, I say it more lovingly. You like it like that, you know!"

He grumbles under his breath, red appearing on his cheek. "You're lucky I love you like that."

"Hm, that's why I'm shameless!"

But any complaints were quickly forgotten as the two of you settled down around the simmering hotpot. The warmth of the broth, the crackling of the stove, and the quiet clink of chopsticks filled the room. Sukuna started to relax, his earlier frustrations melting away as he watched you happily dunk mushrooms and noodles into the pot.

“Okay, babe.” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ve decided.”

You raised an eyebrow, chewing on a piece of tofu. “Decided what?”

“Next time Gojo calls me ‘my love’ in front of everyone, instead of just you, it’s on sight,” Sukuna said, leaning forward with a wicked grin that promised destruction.

He jabbed his chopsticks into a slice of tofu like it was Gojo’s face. “I’m spiking a volleyball straight at his stupid face.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on the piece of fish cake you’d been chewing. “Good luck with that. He’ll just dodge it and make fun of you even more. You know how he is—Gojo thrives on chaos. The man’s immune to consequences.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, stabbing another piece of tofu with unnecessary aggression. “Then I’ll spike two balls. One after the other. And if that doesn’t work…”

You looked at him curiously, mirth in your eyes. "What will you do?"

He paused, his brow furrowing in mock concentration. “I’ll add laps. So many laps. He’ll be running until graduation.”

You snorted, wiping a tear from your eye. “Right, because Gojo would totally listen to your orders. He’d just turn it into a race and leave everyone else in the dust.”

Sukuna grumbled under his breath, his scowl deepening—but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. “Fine. If volleyball and laps don’t work, I’ll come up with something else. Something evil.”

“Evil?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What, like stealing his Bottega Veneta sunglasses?”

“Too easy. He’s got like fifty pairs, babe.” Sukuna muttered, resting his chin on his hand as he considered his options. “Maybe I’ll prank him during practice. Replace his water with vinegar. Or set his alarms an hour early every day.”

"I forgot he makes his password too easy for people to guess." You murmured, drinking from your cup. You sigh. "Well, I suppose that would work."

"Right? Fool-proof!"

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Hmm, as solid as that is, what if he gets revenge? Gojo’s the type to double down, you would know best."

He hummed. "I'm way better at being stubborn than he is."

"I know that. But he might start serenading you in the middle of practice. Like, full-on ‘My Love’ with a guitar and everything on campus like it's 10 Things I Hate About You."

Sukuna froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, he absolutely would.” you said, grinning. “And you’d never live it down. The Cursed King getting serenaded in front of the entire team? In front of the whole university? They’d be talking about it for years.”

He groaned, dropping his chopsticks and leaning back against the chair like he’d just been defeated in battle. “Why do I even put up with him? Or any of you, for that matter.”

“Because deep down, you love us.” you said, smiling sweetly as you plopped another piece of meat into the hotpot. “Even Gojo.”

“I do not love Gojo,” Sukuna snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Sure, sure, my love!” you teased, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “But admit it—you’d miss him if he wasn’t around to drive you insane.”

Sukuna gave you a flat look, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him again. “I’d miss you more.” he said gruffly, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip.

“Aww, my love.” you cooed, leaning closer to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry, you’re stuck with me.”

“Good to know, babe.” he said, turning back to the hotpot with a satisfied grunt. “At least you don’t call me my love in front of the team like that.”

You smirked, swirling your chopsticks through the broth. “Not yet, anyway.”

Sukuna froze mid-bite, glaring at you with wide eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

“No promises!” you said with a mischievous grin, earning a groan from him that was half exasperation, half affection.

"You're such a menace."

"Well, that's how you know I love you, my love!" You grinned, moving forward to steal his tonkatsu.

"Babe!" He groans, as he watches you eat the tonkatsu happily.

"I love you!"

Sukuna sighs, his eyes softening, watching you happily eat. "I love you too......"

[gojover]

ABOVE THE TIME.

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

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

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

There is a boy inside your room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You lit one on fire.”

He clears his throat. “Also an accident.”

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

“What’s your name?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

Phainon looks like he tumbled in from the wild.

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

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

“Not unless you snore.”

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

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

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

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

“What did you imagine, then?”

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

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “That was kind of you.”

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

“What do the barracks smell like?”

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

“Ugh.” You grimace.

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

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

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

“To where?”

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

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

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

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

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

Phainon mumbles something that sounds like a thank-you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swipes at it with a scowl and misses.

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

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

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

“Couldn’t sleep.”

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

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

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

“Okay,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phainon nods fervently, already sliding off the bed.

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

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

“Bring fewer leaves next time,” you say.

He grins.)

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

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

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

Phainon changes too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May we walk in the grounds today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest aches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. “More arrogant.”

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

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

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

“So have you.”

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

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

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

“That was once.”

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

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

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

“How do you know that?” you ask.

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

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

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

“Is it for a reason?” you ask.

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

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

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

“To stand outside my door?”

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

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

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

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

“Only because you told on me.”

“Because you blamed it on the cat.”

“That cat had it coming.”

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

“I mean it,” he says, quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“It would be improper,” you say.

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

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

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

He notices you before you speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you trust him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Fine?”

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

A small laugh escapes you. “Understood.”

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

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

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

“You remember!”

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

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

“Phainon,” you call, breathless.

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

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

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

“You did?”

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you say.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For me?” Phainon blinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Phainon.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Depends. Do you want to be inspected?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can ask me anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are. Pick a side, I say.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll stay until you do.”

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

He bows his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And a generous bosom, if I recall.”

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

“You’re a terrible liar,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you ever leave?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the severity?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

The king lifts a hand. “Speak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A royal match. A marriage.

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

“A marriage,” your father echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I’m not,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He might prefer it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

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

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

Phainon blinks. “For me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did it happen to you?”

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

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

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

Phainon notices it too. “We should—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m scared,” you say.

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only for the most insufferable guests.”

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

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

“More, probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Phainon,” you whisper.

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

“And then?” you ask, again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dawn comes cruel.

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

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

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

“We did,” Phainon says, not turning.

“For an hour.”

“Better than none.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More dangerous not to,” he quips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

“No,” he says softly. “You won’t.”

It hurts more than you expect, that simple truth.

“Princess!”

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

You straighten at once. “From the king?”

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

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

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

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

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

He bows. “Your Highness.”

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

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

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

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

You are not to delay. Your presence is required.

— By Order Of The Crown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him. “Is yours not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“He is probably right.”

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

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

“I suspected as much.” Mydeimos sounds resigned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been told that a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For not being angry.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he says. “I’m curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear someone clear their throat behind Phainon. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod slowly.

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

You blink. “You’re not going to—?”

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

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

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

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

“You can’t let him do that.”

“What?” you say, disoriented.

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to walk away?”

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

“Don’t put all this on me,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t been anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile softly. “But she chose him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was a long time ago.”

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

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

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

“Are you insane?” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phainon lowers his blade. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father…” you trail off, unsure.

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

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

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

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

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

“She did. And me, most of all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(“Is it always this loud when you win a fight?” he says.

You don’t look at him, but your smile answers for you.)

iv). Look at us, it’s like we’re one.

There is a man inside your room.

He has hair the colour of snow and eyes the colour of the sea before a storm, and he gazes at you with a smile you can only think to describe as terribly lovesick. The hour is late, and the moon spills silver through the open windows of your bedchamber, pooling in quiet puddles across the stone floor and the silken-smooth sheets. The hearth crackles low, casting flickering gold across the canopy above you. Outside, the castle sleeps. Inside, you don’t have to.

“Mistress Calypso is very proud of you, you know,” you murmur. “She would not stop raving about how the little boy who used to climb in through my window every night is now the captain of the royal guard, off to fight along with the prince of Castrum Kremnos two weeks from now.”

You turn your head, letting your nose nudge against Phainon’s jaw, where the faintest hint of stubble tickles your skin. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, legs hooked in between yours, and he smells like grass and leather and cedarwood. The shell on the necklace you’d bought for him, wrapped around his wrist, digs into your skin just slightly.

Phainon exhales a soft laugh, the sound low and warm against your temple. “I think Mistress Calypso just likes that she no longer has to pretend she doesn’t see me sneaking out of your window at dawn.”

“She always did turn a blind eye,” you agree. “But we were so young then, so what could she do about it?”

“Barred your windows, probably,” he answers solemnly. “But she is like a mother to you, and does not have the penchant for such cruelty.”

You stifle a laugh into his shoulder, fingers brushing over the fabric of his tunic where it’s wrinkled from your embrace. He shifts so you’re nestled even closer, his thumb drawing gentle patterns on your hip beneath the sheets. “Two weeks,” you whisper, quieter now. “That’s not very long.”

“No,” Phainon says. “But it’s long enough to kiss you a hundred times.”

“You speak like you don’t plan on coming back.”

“I do. But the north is cold, and war is colder. If I’m to leave, I’ll leave no words unsaid.”

You lift your head to look at him. His sea-storm eyes meet yours, steady and full of the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache. 

“I’ll return to you,” he promises. “If there is breath in my body and strength in my limbs, I will always return to you.”

You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the spot just below his eye. “I’ll be waiting. With the same window open, just in case you forget the door exists.”

He grins then, boyish, beautiful, and yours. “I might climb it anyway. For tradition.”

You laugh, and he kisses the sound from your lips. There is no rush now, no secret to keep. There is only the moonlight, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the quiet promise of love that spreads between you like an oath sworn in fire and sealed in starlight.

a/n: thanks for reading! comments are very much appreciated ♡ also thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her, and for being my biggest supporter ever! the first section’s title was taken from cardigan by taylor swift; the second was my own; the third was from emma by jane austen; and the fourth was taken from above the time by iu.

[pencil-n-pen]

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

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Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

[lottieinrealife]

romcom lottienat!au plot ✶⋆.˚

Title: "You're Not My Type (But Maybe You Are)"

Genre: romcom

Setting: California high school, early 2000s

Rating: +16

Soundtrack: Avril Lavigne, Michelle Branch, Britney Spears, Paramore emo romantic phase

Plot:

— Natalie Scatorccio is the girl in the back of the class: ripped jeans, old band t-shirt, smudged eyeliner, skateboard under her arm and an almost artistic disdain for everything and everyone. She grew up with an alcoholic father, lives with her grandmother and smokes in the parking lot before first class. No one tells her what to do, no one has tamed her.

Lottie Matthews, on the other hand, is the school sweetheart. Rich, always dressed in pastel colors, the queen of aesthetics before TikTok even existed. She has a mystical aura—the girl who carries crystals in her pocket, reads horoscopes during recess, and organizes spiritual retreats at the wellness club. But she’s also sharp, smart, and definitely more mischievous than she lets on.

When the two end up enrolled — against their will — in the school project “Friends of Destiny”, in which opposing students must live together and produce a work together, chaos ensues.

The teacher's plan? To bring the extremes of the school closer together.

The universe's plan? To make these two slowly fall in love while pretending to hate each other.

Over the course of the semester, Lottie and Natalie:

— There are philosophical discussions on the patio bench about "faith in the universe vs pure nihilism".

— They argue about absolutely everything — from which CD to put in the car to whether or not coarse salt works.

— They go to a party where Natalie shows up in a suit and tie hoping to irritate Lottie... who faints a little inside.

— They get caught in a almost-erotic pillow fight during an impromptu sleepover.

— They pretend they're not totally in love when they lean on each other's shoulders at the movies.

— They stare too much, they hate too much, they touch too little.

But the turning point comes when Lottie, tired of being seen as perfect, has a breakdown in the middle of school and Natalie is the only one who really sees it. And Natalie, who has always run away from feelings, finds herself trapped in a tangle of shiny hair, well-manicured nails and words too kind for someone who grew up being yelled at.

After several failed attempts to deny their feelings — and after a “running in the rain with a Vanessa Carlton song playing” style scene — they kiss. And the universe, full of irony, finally stops laughing and starts rooting for them.

— Natalie has had a secret crush on Lottie since freshman year, but hides it behind sarcasm.

— Lottie has a folder on her computer called “Aesthetic Stuff” where she has several black and white photos of Natalie (she swears it’s just aesthetic stuff).

— Natalie hates to admit it, but she starts using the crystals Lottie gives her as gifts.

— Lottie makes secret playlists of punk music just because she found out Natalie liked it — and when Natalie hears it, she says, “Wow, I didn’t know you had soul.”

— Lottie calls her "Scatorccio" instead of Natalie, just to see the expression on her face.

— Natalie always says she doesn't believe in love, but she writes songs about Lottie and pretends they're about "generic experiences."

— They have a “we have no chemistry” scene during a drama class, but the kiss in the play makes the entire school go silent for two days.

Final:

— At the prom, Natalie shows up late, with her hair up (a miracle) and a dress that Lottie picked out. To the sound of a romantic pop ballad, they dance for the first time without irony, without shouting, without shielding. Just two girls who pretended too much that they weren't in love — until they couldn't hide it anymore.

And when Lottie says, “You weren’t my type…”, Natalie responds with a wry smile: “Yeah. I had a type too. Now he wears lip gloss and believes in reincarnation.”

Fade out.

romcom lottienat!au

[beloveds-embrace]

masterpost || MDNI

Hi! You can call me Noona! I write whatever comes to my mind and atm, I am very much obsessed with CoD and Genshin/Capitano. I am very much open to hearing ideas and just yapping in general, but I also can’t promise that I will write every request.

What I don’t write: fully explicit smut, suicide

Masterlist has not been updated fully. Use the tag noona.writes to see everything I’ve written!

Masterlist:

POLY 141 X READER:

Goddess!reader x poly 141

2. Baker Reader x poly 141

part 1 + part 2

3. Sick!Reader x 141

4. Bunny Owner Reader x Poly 141: Matchmaking Buns

part 1 + part 2

5. Chubby Reader x Firefighters 141

6. Expiration Date Concept

7. Stage Manager Reader x Magic Mike 141

8. Chubby Reader x Monster 141

part one + part two

9. Lavender Marriage AU

part one + part two

10. Abused Reader x Poly 141

part one + part two

11. Dark Romance Reader

12. Haunted House Shenanigans

13. john catches you making out with one of his men

14. spoiling them when they return from missions

15. False Accusations Concept

16. going to them for safety + guard dogs

17. kittens named after their titles

18. Poly 141 x Farmer Reader

20. Poly 141 x Neighbor reader

21. Clubs and Oiled men

22. Vampire 141 x Blood Donor Reader

23. Bodyguards 141 x Sick Reader

24. Poly 141 x Protective Reader

25. Shared-Wife trope

26. food: no1 source of comfort

27. anasthasia

28. Dragon John Collecting Chubby Reader into His Hoard:

p1 + p2 + p3

29. arranged marriage

30. harpy 141 grooming harpy reader

31. Chubby Burlesque Reader x 141

32. Reader with a Terrible Past

33. Self-Sacrificial Reader

34. Vampire Poly 141 x Reader: Late Night Hunger

35. yandere 141: bro-zone edition

36. 141 x big, tall fem reader they mistake for a man at first

37. 141 x Hacker Reader

38. Scuba Divers 141 x Mermaid Reader + super lovely art by @grombs-blog <333

39. mafia 141 x singer reader

40. 141 x recluse reader

41. 141 x Protective Reader:

p1 + p2 + p3

42. Guards 141 x Princess Reader

OTHERS:

Bite kink with Soap

Yandere Capitano + part two

Bundad Simon

harpy Gaz x wingless reader concept + oneshot + more

moose Konig

rugby player simon x ballerina reader

divorced but obsessed simon x reader

Ghoap angst concept

simon x family traditions

Horrible konig concept

john price x single mom reader

simon and a certain someone grieving your loss

from simon's girl to his missus

johnny's supportive nature

you came/you called

lipstick testing

Big eater simon riley

house-trained Simon Riley + p2

bear price x chubby reader, winter day

Simon Riley x reader: non-sexual smell kink

Raven Hybrids Simon x Reader

"As beautiful as the day I lost you"

John Price x Soldier Reader who wants to be wife-d up

Dukedom 141 Masterlist

CoD Omegaverse

Roommate au masterlist

Until the Last Loop

Here Comes the Sun + p2

Witch of the Woods

Bakery/Coffee Shop au

Fae Duke(King)dom au \\ different take

ANONS

WIPS

[sweetinsaniiity]

Sore And Sick

► 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 - blackmail!owner!Hongjoong x shoplifter!reader◄ ► 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎/𝙰𝚄 - blackmailing trope, shoplifting au, 98% smut, crime, reader has kleptomaniac! tendencies, caught red-handed, blasphemy, mentions of therapy and roleplay, mafia? (can't resist with the new MV teehee), aftercare, fluff, sweet!but!psycho!Hongjoong agenda, actually sweet!Joong, plot twist ◄ ► 𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 - PG-18+ so MDNI!!!, CNC (dubcon), but I promise it's !conensual, softdom!Hongjoong, sexual petnames, blackmail for !sex, punish fuck, rough sex, bigdick!Joong ftw, cursing, daddy kink, manhandling, oral sex/fingering while on the phone, sneaky sex, semi-public, slight resistance, doggy, missionary, protection (at first,), removal of condom, creampie, no protection (DO NOT DO THIS!!!!), night terrors, mentions of guns and drugs (NOT TOWARDS YOU)◄ ► 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 - 13K+ words (this is the shortest fic I've done) ◄ ► 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 - Your sleight of hand gets you in trouble one day when you are caught stealing red-handed by the owner of the store you tried theft at.◄ ► 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 - This isn't my usual thing. I've always preferred plot-driven fics and I always prefer being the reader of smut rather than writing it. This is more of a filler until I publish my next one. Enjoy! Title from Motionless In White. ◄ ► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - @0rangemilk @ginger-mingi @ruubyrubes @oddracha @jaytheatiny @roxannecos @juicy-red @cheolliehugs (message me because I can't tag y'all) ◄ ► 𝙽𝚎𝚝s - @cultofdionysusnet @wonderlandnet @othersideoutlawsnetwork @whipped-kpop-creators @illusionnet @pirateeznet ◄

You had no idea when it started, but when it did, you just never knew how to stop. But you did remember how.

A small tug on the corner of your lips painted your face as you looked around conspicuously left and right to see if someone was watching. When you deemed the coast clear, you discreetly pocketed the small bag of chips.

How it didn't make a sound, you had no idea, but goddamn, it was more nerve-wracking than you thought it was.

At that time you didn't know what hit you and admittedly, you were a bit tipsy when it first happened. Company dinner. Go figure.

You always craved something extremely salty after you drink anything. Unfortunately for you - or maybe not - you were a lightweight; born to be one, unwillingly so.

The next time you did it again, you were stone-cold sober. This time, it was the makeup section of this department store. They were the high-end ones designed to lure in the arrogant elitists whose hobby was to throw money at the expense of overconsumption.

Ha! You're no different. That statement always rang in your head, and deep down your soul, you knew it was true. 

Your haul became bigger and bigger - literally and figuratively. You were able to get away with thousands of dollars of merchandise. You knew it was wrong, some poor employee was probably paying for it with their minimum wage salary.

So you tried to stop, but for the life of you, you just couldn't. When you were close to getting caught, all you had to do was bat your lashes and play the needy damsel in distress act, and then you were gone.

It became an addiction.

At first, you justified it by convincing yourself that you were 'saving' money, but slowly, it was the addicting feeling of getting away with something; the rush and the confidence that builds every single damn success.

And by God, that power was sweet.

Most of the things you swiped weren't even things you needed, heck, most of them never saw the light of day ever again afterwards.

The same department store was almost empty when you walked in through one of those automatic doors that opened when you got in front of it. You mentally rolled your eyes, because of course, it did.

"Hi," you greeted the first employee you saw with the brightest smile. "Would you happen to know where the women's clothes are?"

The way she smiled at you with a welcoming gesture almost made your stomach churn out of guilt from what you were about to do. Almost. 

"Right this way," she started to put her foot forward to lead you, but you quickly stopped her.

"No! No, please," you halted her, a little jumpier than you intended. You sheepishly offered her a small smile. "I would like to do it myself, if it's okay. Relaxation time, you know what I mean?"

Her mouth formed an O-shape and her face lit up in understanding. It took a lot in you not to sigh in relief in front of her. You opted to do it the moment you hit your next stop.

The moment you hit the aisles, the smirk on your lips didn't hold back. This was a gold mine for people like you - but hey, nobody was perfect. Everyone had their vices, yours just didn't involve illegal substances or the spirits in bottles, is all.

There were already pieces that caught your eye. You had a plan, something you've never tried before, but there's a first time for everything. However, all it took was that one bastard who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

You've been doing this for some time now, there was absolutely no way you were getting caught now. Losing wasn't part of your vocabulary. The game would be over by then and the fun would die.

Your brows widened when your hand hit a piece of fabric you weren't expecting. It was smooth, a contrast to all the silks you've had contact with.

You whistled when you took it out. It was a ruffled mini skirt, the classic type, the type that will compliment every body type. It was sure to turn heads towards your legs. And you wanted it.

If there was one thing about you, if you want it, then it's already yours.

With your usual glance to the left and on your right, you discreetly turned around away from the cameras and unzipped your jacket, bundling the skirt into a small ball and trying to tuck it inside.

You did that multiple times with more things and as people started to flock everywhere, you knew that you had to go.

Just one more thing and you will leave. As you made your way to the lingerie station, you envisioned which one you'd want to wear tonight as you celebrated yet again another success.

"Hmm," you hummed in concentration as you picked underwear after underwear whether they were slutty enough or just enough. "These suck."

In the end, you settled for this beautiful red, velvet teddy that was sure to hug every curve on your body. You couldn't help but giggle as you imagined yourself laying in bed with a glass of wine in hand.

Having no more space anywhere else, you opted to put it inside your purse. It was big enough to fit it. There was a rush in your veins, the sound of your purse zipper thrumming along with your excitement.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

You froze, in fact, everything froze, but the most remarkable thing was the beating of your heart. The way it stuttered out of beat, that terrified you more than the voice who had interrupted you.

You had hoped that it was just a passing customer or employee as you turned around. You could just put on your best charm, but you cursed under your breath when it wasn’t.

"It's not what you think," you blurted out, feeling dumb. Sue me, you thought. You had never been in a situation like this before.

The security guard squinted his eyes and tilted his head. "Sure doesn't look like it." 

He pointed at a certain corner of the clothing racks, and you significantly paled at the small, distinct, beeping light that signified a hidden camera. "He's been watching," he murmured, uninterested.

"Who is?"

"Who else? The owner."

There was a first time for everything, indeed. This was the first time you got caught, and for the first time, there was no getting away with it.

Fuck, you internally cursed. Where did you go wrong? 

You had never been more frightened than you were at that moment, especially when a large hand started pulling on your arm and started leading you somewhere.

"W-Where are you taking me? I didn't consent to this," you frowned.

Cold sweat started seeping out of your pores when the security guard's darted towards you. "The owner will want an explanation as to why you're shoplifting," he clicked his tongue. "He's not a particularly easy man to deal with so I would behave, really."

For a split second, you thought about struggling. You can't afford to go to jail for this, it would ruin your record. Another thing was that this man was jacked. Easily a hundred kilos of pure muscle.

You were pulled away, anyway, from the lingerie aisle to God-knows-where and you had to admit to yourself, this wasn't the dopamine rush you were looking for - this was the fear of the aftermath of what you've done.

It was what you would consider the walk of shame. The shame and embarrassment you felt each step you took felt worse than what would happen to you?

Would you go to jail? That was your worst option, it would ruin the little reputation that you have. Perhaps, you can bribe the owner? Nah. A person who owns an establishment like this had no need for the spare change you were going to offer.

A feeling of nausea suddenly overcame you as the security guard pushed the double doors that led to what you could only assume were the security rooms open.

"I got a little thief here," the security guard holding my arms smirks as he shoves me forward, rattling you and all the merchandise you tried to fit into your purse.

The sight that greeted you wasn't something that should've bothered you. It looked like a regular room, minus all the equipment and the cameras and monitors.

Your heart sank. They saw you doing what you were doing, most likely waiting until you got far enough where it would be considered robbery rather than petty theft.

"I'll deal with her. Call Jongho for me real quick."

The pit in your stomach was getting bigger and bigger until it threatened to swallow you whole. By far the one that made you utterly terrified was the man sitting on a swivel chair.

You couldn't see him - at least, not yet. The chair was turned against you and so, the only thing visible was its back and the back of the man's hair.

"Of course," the man that pushed me said. "Should I stay or--"

"No. You may go, San."

You stood still, stiffly, at your spot even when the door had closed behind you and you were left with this man. None of you had said anything, especially him. He stayed unmoving on his chair, minus the drumming of his fingers on his lap.

"What do you think should happen to a little thief, such as yourself?" I'm curious," the man spoke out, startling you out of your stupor. "What were you thinking?"

Before you could second-guess your decision to speak out, you stood straight, feigning modesty. "It wasn't my intention---"

"Cut the crap," the man rudely interrupted. He grabbed a nearby pen and tapped it on the monitor beside him. "I'm pretty sure my eyes aren't giving out on me yet."

"I-I know, I wasn't eluding towards that," you stammered. You weren't expecting someone strong-willed. "I-It's not what you think."

"Oh? Taking a black, lacey thong and shoving it deep in your purse wasn't what I thought it was?"

Embarrassment flooded your whole body and the tips of your toes all the way through your nose tingles and shivers, the bad kind. This man was bad news, and you knew it.

All of this over some underwear?

The door behind me had opened once again and another man had entered. He was also a guard, that you could tell, but what set this one apart was his incredible physique. He wasn't as muscular as the guard that dragged you here, but you wouldn't want to go against this one either.

"You called for me? I had to hurry," he said before looking me up and down. "So you're the swiper."

"I did. I'm leaving, tell Seonghwa he's in charge."

Everything happened in slow motion. Your world went into a passing blur when the chair swiveled forward until it was facing towards you. The purse you were holding had long fallen towards the floor.

The bulky guard picked your purse up for you before he walked away. "Roger that." 

The man sitting on the chair had a gleam in his eyes as he stared at you, albeit  being cold and calculating. His elbows were propped against the table and his hands were under his chin. He was attractive, definitely your type.

You had a feeling this man would swallow you whole the moment you were left alone with him.

"Jongho? Wait," the man stopped the other from walking away. A small smirk paints his plump lips. "Lock the door." 

Those three words. They were the beginning of your demise. All of this for a pair of underwear you knew you were never going to wear anyway.

You cleared your throat nervously. "What are you going to do to me? And who are you?"

You had made a point to emphasize the last question. You knew who he was, of course, there was a name plaque that was placed towards the front of the big wooden table. 

'Kim Hongjoong, CEO and Executive Owner'

The man stood up from his chair and began stalking towards you without blinking his eyes and averting them. You could do nothing but stare back at him, it was as if his stare was a weight that prevented you from trying to move from your spot.

He grabbed your purse and took out the thong from it using his index finger. The smirk on his face was borderline demonic. "You must really like these panties for you to potentially go to jail for them," Hongjoong chuckled. "I'm sure you'd look marvelous on them."

Hongjoong suddenly threw the purse on the table, the banging sound startling you, before he dumped its contents all over. "Hey," you protested. "You can't---"

"I can and I will," he side-eyed you, one brow raised. For a second, he calculatingly stared at you, slightly disappointed, before he sighed deeply.

There was no point in defending your case, the evidence was right in front of both of you. You internally cursed. Add this to your other firsts, because this was the first time you didn't know what to do or what to say to get yourself out of a sticky situation.

"I'd ask you if you have receipts for this," he poked his tongue on his cheek obnoxiously. "But you'd probably give me excuses you've told the others before. Tell me, how many?"

You balled your fists, the gesture not escaping Hongjoong's attention. It certainly made his cock twitch inside his pants.  "I-I don't know what you're talking about," you mumbled, your tongue twisting against your will.

He hummed before hopping up a bit to sit on top of the table. He swiped the name plaque off until it clattered on the floor. "Sweetheart, listen to me," he began. "The last thing you want right now is to be left in the same room as me."

You shook your head fervently before he continued. "You will do everything I say and I won't do anything to you, providing that you'll be a good girl for me."

You bowed your head and nodded, tears springing to your eyes not because of the underlying threat in Hongjoong's voice, but because of the shame of how his words had affected you and caused you to clench around nothing. You subconsciously pressed your thighs together to stop the tingling sensation that buzzed around your pussy.

Hongjoong smiled at your discomfort, and he knew that you knew what he was thinking based on how your hands shook as you clutched your shirt around your fists.

"Am I clear enough for you, my sweet?" Hongjoong mocked. "Or would you like me to reiterate?"

"No, no, please," you hiccupped. "I-I get it."

"Splendid. Come here."

You wanted to disobey him, to tell him that he can shove a stick up his ass and leave you alone, but deep inside, you weren't that stupid. You knew this would be the end of you if you did do so.

None of this would have happened, but of course, you knew you were already in a losing battle the moment he had turned his chair towards you and looked you straight in the eye.

"Sweetheart," he chuckled darkly, clicking his tongue in impatience. "Already defiant? I should just call the police."

Somehow, that idea was less appealing to you rather than being stuck in a room with a potential psychopathic liar who wouldn't hesitate to take you down if he chose to.

"Please don't do that," you swallowed thickly. You put your hands up directly in front of your chest in a pleading motion. He sees this and his smirk widens. "Look, I-I'm sorry, okay? I'll just put them back, I don't want them."

Hongjoong tilts his head playfully, yet dangerously. "Oh, you'll be sorry, alright," he sighed mockingly. "I'll make you sorry."

He puts his arm forward swiftly and you yelped when he grabbed your arms and pulled you hastily towards him. A small groan escapes your lips when your forehead hits his hard chest. 

"Easy there, sweetheart, don't hurt yourself," he whispered towards your ear. You could tell he has a smile on his face even when you can't see it.

You hadn't realized that you were positioned in between his legs, your hands on his thighs to cushion yourself from when he had pulled on you. You stiffened, looking at him slowly, tilting your head upwards, only to be met with the nastiest leering of your life.

You jumped a bit when you felt his fingers touch your chin. The touch was light, it could almost be mistaken for something welcoming. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured. "So fucking beautiful."

Instantly, butterflies started fluttering in your stomach. You were undeniably aroused, the air between the two of you was so charged that you could almost taste how electrifying it was.

"How beautiful?"

You bit your lip as soon as the question came out. Hongjoong's thumb pressed on your bottom lip and pulled it out between your teeth. The gesture was so intimate, it made me dizzy.

"I could just eat you up right now," he smirked, his tongue running over his bottom lip. "The question is, would you let me have you, love?"

As arousing this was, you knew that you didn't want this. At least, not like this. "You can't do this," you shook your head, pulling away from his touch.

"No, no, little sweetheart, hold on a second," Hongjoong grabbed your arm back with a cheeky smile. You frowned in response to his hold. "You were this close to giving in, I thought we had a genuine connection here."

This time, you couldn't resist rolling your eyes, completely dropping the damsel act since it clearly wasn’t working on him. Hongjoong's brows rise in intrigue at the obvious change of look in your eyes.

You'd play with him for now. It was better for the situation. A little pretending on your end would ease your tensions. You would roleplay for now.

"I don't think it's part of your job description to hold me against my will like this, you pervert," you sneered, pulling on your arm.

He held tight, however, much to your chagrin. He was definitely intrigued now. Intrigued and rock hard in his pants.

"Does this excite you?" Hongjoong grinned lasciviously.

"Is it supposed to? Especially since," you trailed off a little, making a point to look at him up and down. "I don't see anything that excites me."

Hongjoong tried to stifle his laugh before he completely burst out laughing. You tried not to notice how breathtaking he looked like this - the way his eyes crinkled, his mouth spread out in a wide smile, his cheeks reddened. You were already in control of his perverse nature.

"Oh, sweetheart," he chuckled after his laughter. "This is going to be the best night of our life."

"I only stole thongs."

"Ah, yes," he drawled. You were in for a whiplash when his eyes suddenly darkened. There was no other way to describe it but evil.

"Wait, what are you---"

A squeal escapes your lips when Hongjoong roughly lifts your top. True fear ran through your blood, and he didn't even break eye contact as he was doing it. When the clothes you tried to steal tumbled out of your top, a gruntled sigh can be heard from him.

"Well, what do we have here?" Hongjoong cackled, clearly pleased with how everything was going. "You naughty, naughty girl."

"I-I can explain, please," you stammered pathetically, putting your hands up to fix your top. Hongjoong stared at you expectantly with that mocking expression still on his face and against your better judgment, hot tears started to fill the corners of your eyes.

"And what if I don't want to hear them?" Hongjoong smirked. You weren't expecting it, especially when he started to pout sardonically. "Cry it out, love. You've been a very bad girl, after all."

The tears fell then and there, not because you were ashamed that he had caught you, but because of his very presence, itself. Hongjoong had invoked feelings inside you that overwhelmed you so much, you didn't know what to do with them. But most of all, you were just frightened.

Maybe a quick kick to his balls would distract him enough so you could run away. You weighed your options as you wept, closing your eyes to envision how you'd potentially do it.

Screw it, you thought impulsively. You were never one to ever go down without a fight, and you wouldn't start now.

You stepped back a bit to brace yourself and raised your leg, aiming at his groin to hopefully immobilize him. You saw his eyes widen every so slightly as he watched you try to do what you thought was best at the moment given the situation.

But your shoe didn't touch anything.

"Let me go, you bastard! Ugh! You're going to pay for this," you screeched so loud, your own voice threatened to burst your own eardrums, when Hongjoong held your leg with one hand, squeezing it painfully.

You tried to balance yourself with only one foot and it was hard, but it was better than leaning on Hongjoong again. He smirked before he unceremoniously pushed your leg off, making you lose your balance and completely falling into a heap on the cold, tiled floor on the security room.

"I'd like to see you try," he grinned, baring his teeth like a predator would before it attacked its chosen prey.

And attack he did. You cursed internally as you glared at him from where you were. For someone with a smaller stature, he sure was agile and quicker on his feet than you initially thought possible.

You held back a whimper, clamping your mouth shut, when he leapt from the table down to your level, leaning in with an even wider grin. "Now, this is what I'd like to see," he laughed. "You beneath me like this."

You flushed when his hand cupped his obviously hardened cock and groaned sensually. "It's enough to make a man want to burst right then and there. You want it?"

"You're disgusting," you spat as venomously as you could, even though the sound he made shot straight down your wetness.

"So, you don't think you deserve to be punished?"

Visible shock crossed your features before you could stop yourself. Hongjoong seemed to get immense pleasure from your confused face. Suddenly, he began to lean in closer, and closer, until his face was only a couple of inches away from yours.

"W-Wait, I don't want to k-kiss you," you whined, turning your head away in an attempt to block him from his advances.

He put a finger on your lips and it sent warning signals in your brain. "Silence," he whispered, his eyes drooping and darkened with lust. "Not a sound unless it's you begging for me to have you..."

"P-Please, seriously, I really cannot," another whine sounded from you when he tried to lean again.

This time, annoyance flickered on his face and you gulped when you realized that you had lit the fire in his eyes. "You're testing my patience, sweetheart. I only have so much," he clicked his tongue. "Kiss me. I'll make it good for you."

When you still didn't relent, a growl of anger reverberated around the room. "You're pissing me off," Hongjoong hissed, his crazed eyes widening in ire. "Don't you know that playing hard to get will only land you in more trouble? Get on the table, now."

You didn't dare move, but this time, it was out of fear versus the defiant streak you've been giving him since you arrived in the room. Hongjoong opted to stand beside the wooden table, his eyes intently watching you will your trembling legs to stop.

He's sick, you thought. The way he smiled to himself like he was currently on top of the world made you realize that he was definitely holding back from unleashing all his demons on you. The worst part was that an even sicker part of you wished that he would soon.

In the end, Hongjoong forcefully dragged you to the table, himself, because his impatience and your insubordination was killing him on the inside. The way you struggled against him brought him a horrid sense of satisfaction. He'd have fun breaking you, he'd make sure of it.

"Fuck, my sweet girl," he bit his lip to stop himself from groaning out loud. The way you were sprawled on the table below him made him shiver in delight. "You look so good like this."

"P-Please," you sniffled, struggling once more against his hold, especially against his hand that held your wrists above your head. "I won't do it again, you're scaring me."

"That's because I am trying to scare you," Hongjoong said in an as-a-matter-of-fact tone. He smirked, tightening his hold. "But, you're turned on, aren't you?"

You marveled at the way he stared at your body up and down, gazing upon you as if he was trying to commit your current form into his memory. The things he said had made you angry, but you couldn't deny that he was right - he did turn you on.

But you weren't going to admit it. "I don't know what you're talking about..."

He hummed before he let your wrists go so he could pull you closer to him by pulling you by your waist, your core nestled comfortably at his midsection. "I think you do."

You didn't know what terrified you more - the dangerous position you were in right now, or the way your fright had made his eyes go wild, wide, and crazy with lust and arousal. He resembled something akin to sin, but damn, everybody sins once in a while, don't they?

Shivers erupted on your skin when his hands started to trail all over your body. It got more and more difficult to suppress the sounds that your body wants to make, especially when his hand slowly started creeping higher and higher until it went up your skirt. 

You panicked and jumped. "Stop it! What are you doing?!"

"What does it look like? You can see for yourself, if you'd like," he cockily replied with a small chuckle.

"We can talk about thi---"

"Sure," he rudely interrupted with a wicked gleam in his eyes. You whined when he squeezed your inner thighs. "I'm also sure you'd have a lovely conversation with the police as well."

You looked at him, horrified at his blatant intention with you. "Just let me go," you pleaded. "I-I promise I won't tell anyone about this, Hongjoong, please."

He pushed you back down and you couldn't help but wince in surprise. "No," he grunted out. "My name sounds too good on your lips, baby. Why would I do that?"

You felt his hand reach the band of your underwear and he bit his lips. You unconsciously clench around nothing at the sight of his sinful mouth, your mind suddenly reeling at the thought of what that mouth can do to you. Good things, you bet.

"I'm going to do anything I want with you, think of it as your punishment," he shrugged. "What say you, Y/N?"

"Do I have any other choices? Because it seems like I do not," you frowned, cowering under his impertinent gaze.

"You do, you always will," he shrugged nonchalantly. "In fact, you can choose to leave right now. I'm just saying that staying is your 'get out of jail' card. Pick your poison."

Hongjoong grinned at your pale face. "And when you're in jail, sweetie, you're going to wish you were still with me," he purred.

"Y-You wouldn't dare," you shook your head in denial, your chest constricting at the possibility. "You wouldn't!"

You let out an actual scream when he slammed his palms on the table on either side of your head. He managed to lean down so close, you could feel how fast his heart was beating. You supposed you weren't the only one anxious - excited - at the prospect of what's going to happen.

"I'm sorry, I-I'll just pay for them," you mumbled, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment of how much his roughness was turning you on so much. Still, you had dignity to keep. "I have enough money to pay..."

It was true. It was what made your kleptomaniac tendencies all the more embarrassing. You couldn't take all the credit, however, your family had the money, not you. If you so choose, you could buy every single thing this department store had and you'd still have more money than the average person.

Hongjoong clicked his tongue as he stared down at you. "I know. I'm aware who you are, sweetheart."

You shook your head in denial. "Impossible."

He laughed, his chest vibrating against your own. It had certainly made the room even hotter. "Nothing is impossible, Song Y/N."

He wasn't supposed to know that. Time stood still as you stared at him. The maliciousness in his eyes deepened when he saw how stumped you were.

Your heart almost leapt out of your ribcage and landed itself plush on Hongjoong's hands when he thrust his hips against you. You had to stifle the moans that wanted to push past your lips, there was no way you were giving in to this man. Not like this.

You did, however, gasp when his hand started kneading your breast. "Here's what's going to happen," his voice thickened with impalpable lust. "You are going to call your brothers and tell them you're going to be late."

You whined, wiggling a bit to relieve the pleasurable sensation Hongjoong made you feel, but to no avail. "Stay put," he growled. A yelp resounded from you when he pinched your inner thigh hard. "Go on. Do as I say. I do not want to be interrupted once I start."

The danger that loomed over you terrified you to no end, but you weren't going to stop trying to do something as a last ditch effort. "I-I don't have brothers," you denied, stuttering as you felt his hand squeeze your breast harder while the other hand stoked your legs slowly.

He smiled, but instead of making you feel better, it terrified you even more. It wasn't the smile that was supposed to comfort you, it was the one where he knew you were lying through your teeth.

"A liar on top of being a thief, huh?" Hongjoong chuckled. His hand went higher and higher until he groaned when he felt your damp underwear. "Jeong Yunho and Song Mingi. Yunho, the oldest, was your father's son from his previous marriage, and Mingi is your fraternal twin brother."

You squint your eyes at him. Anger ran thick through your blood. Hongjoong faltered for a split second before he got his composure back. You supposed everyone kept their own secrets.

He leaned down until his lips were touching your ear. You were so taken aback by his knowledge that you couldn't even afford to feel pleasure in it. "And you," he whispered. "The mayor's well kept daughter. So well kept, in fact, that the majority of people don't even know you exist."

He wasn't supposed to know that. Your father kept you hidden not because he doesn't love you. In fact, he loved you too much. He didn't want you to find a man that only approached you as an extension of his position in politics. 

You were done for. If Hongjoong's earlier actions had scared you, you were now dead petrified of this man. "Who the hell are you? That's classified information," you couldn't help but say.

There was something about Hongjoong that made him especially fearful. It was an entirely different domain of dominance you had never seen in any other man you've encountered. One look was all it took for you to unravel yourself for him, and he knew that you knew this.

He ignored your question, opting to lean away from you and lifting both of his hands from your body temporarily. You breathe our a sigh of relief but it gets cut short when he hands you the receiver of his desk phone. He still wanted you to call your brothers.

The shift in his eyes when he held your hand and hastily placed the phone in your hands had you shutting your mouth. He looked absolutely insane and crazed, especially now that he has you where he wanted you. Kim Hongjoong reminded you of an A-Grade psychopath; an insatiably attractive psychopath.

You were definitely a moth to a flame.

"Hello. You have reached the Secretary to the Mayor, Jeong Yunho, and I am unfortunately not available to speak with you right now..."

The familiar voicemail of your older brother had you panicking on the inside. You cursed under your breath. When Yunho said he wasn't available, he meant it. He wasn't someone who you could call back.

"What's the hold up?" Hongjoong asked impatiently, his hands caressing the bands of your underwear, teasing little circles on them as if he was deciding if he should take them off or not.

You ignored him, along with the zings of pleasure down your wetness, and dialed your other brother's number while you imagined ways to smack his head if he didn't pick up the frantic phone call you were---

"Y/N? Are you okay?"

A sigh of relief escapes your mouth before you could stop it. Mingi's voice brought you immediate comfort. "Y-Yeah," you answered. "How'd you know it was me? This isn't my number."

There was a pause on the other line before a sigh resounds. "I-I had a feeling, I was actually going to call you in ten minutes," Mingi said.

Your heart warmed. There was no scientific backing about twin telepathy or something even remotely similar, but you and Mingi could swear that both of you always had that weight pressing on your chest whenever the other was in great distress. Today was one of those times.

Suddenly, Hongjoong leaned over the landline and pressed a particular button - the loudspeaker. You gulped and gave him a questioning look. "W-What are you doing?"

Once again, he ignored you. You would've been fine with it, but when he paused only to look up and smirk, you knew right then and there, that you were done for. He went from caressing to full-on massaging your hips and thighs.

You opted to put the receiver away from your ear and covered it with your palm. Your heart was beating a million miles per second. "I-I'm on the phone---"

"Shhh," Hongjoong hushed you, his stare becoming more and more devilish. "I'm not stopping you from talking, aren't I?"

My entire body was on fire. His entire hand disappeared under your skirt and the first contact he had that was remotely close to your snug heat, you yelped in utter surprise.

"Are you hurt, Y/N? What's the matter?"

You immediately fumbled and uncovered the phone to speak. "Y-Yeah," you covered up your nervousness with a small chuckle of uncertainty. "I-It's just a little hot over here, you know?"

Desire was slowly taking over your body, Hongjoong's gentle prod to spread your legs intensifying the intense craving. You could tell that his patience was slowly waning out, especially when he ripped your underwear clean in the middle.

You purse your lips to stop the moan that threatened to spill out of your lips. The cold air that he blew straight down there had you clutching the wooden table with your blunt fingernails. Your breathing became faster and faster as he started his onslaught.

"I could tell," Mingi laughed breathily. "I could hear your breathing. You've always been the one who sweated the most when the three of us were younger."

Your toes curled in on themselves when Hongjoong wasted no time slipping a finger inside your dripping sex. You couldn't help but hold onto his shoulder for support before you fell over. You blushed, not for the pleasure, but for the shame, not believing that you were getting fingered while on the phone with your brother, no less.

"S-Say, Min-Min," you began, clearing your throat. "I d-don't think I'm---oh!"

Oh, you were sure Mingi knew what was happening. Hongjoong curled his finger up and hit a particular spot that had you reeling from where you were lying. You kicked his shoulder in retaliation. He tilted his head towards you as a challenge.

Your eyes widened when he started thrusting his finger in and out of you without any mercy. The pleasure was eating you alive; a fire that swallowed you in its heat. Your back arched involuntarily at his ministrations as you twisted it to reach for the mute button on the phone, but your arm was grabbed and shoved away.

"You want to be a brat?" Hongjoong scoffed, bringing up his other hand to rub circles on your clit. "Keep talking, I didn't tell you to stop."

You shook your head repeatedly, your eyes begging him to stop. Without breaking eye contact, he turned his head to give you small love bites all over your lower legs. Eventually, he slowed down. He didn't stop, but you'd rather take this.

"You're worrying me, Y/N. I'm not fucking around anymore," Mingi's voice switched from that playful tone you knew to the tone he'd use on you when he's back in business. "Are you hurt or not? I'll come pick you up, where are you?"

Hongjoong laughed under his breath at that and you heard the distinct jingle of the car keys that you knew belonged to Mingi. "N-No! Wait!"

You bit your lip and reprimanded yourself internally. That sounded more defensive than you intended it to. "I'm fine, seriously," you squeaked. "You don't---"

"You know we're twins, right?" Mingi deadpanned. "I know when you're lying."

You released a heavy breath, your hand moving from Hongjoong's shoulder to his head, tangling your fingers in between his luscious hair strands. He buried his head on your inner thigh, giving it more tiny kisses and even tinier sucks, before you felt his tongue hit your wetness.

"B-But I'm n-not though." you whined. You just hoped it sounded like you were complaining rather than it sounding pleasure-filled.

You glanced down and almost combusted. Seeing Hongjoong's eyes closed as he lapped your pussy turned you on more than his mouth did. He explored you in your most intimate places as if he was memorizing the way you tasted in his tongue. You needed to come, and Hongjoong knew it.

"Y/N," Mingi sighed. "It's the heat, I get it, no need to be ashamed. Father won't be mad seeing you needing help once in a while. I don't want you to get hurt..."

You tuned out Mingi's voice, not by choice, however. Hongjoong's mouth was that good. He knew how to turn you on, as much as you hated to admit it, and he already figured out the areas that made you squirm under his hold.

You covered the phone again. "G-Gonna come," you whispered breathlessly. 

Hongjoong hummed, the vibrations making you squirm even more. He pulled away for a second and you almost whined from the loss. "Yeah? Hold it in, sweetheart," he whispered back. "I don't think you want to come right now."

You wanted to protest, to say that this was his fault and he started it, but you knew that he was right even though all you wanted to do right was squirt on his face.

"You know what, fuck this. You're not listening," Mingi's gruff voice snapped me out. "We didn't vouch for your independence only for you to get sick so---"

"Who's sick?"

You went rigid. Your entire body just froze immediately and you went so motionless all of a sudden that even Hongjoong had to stop and look up at you in confusion. You felt his hand rest on your thighs reassuringly. Just like that, your orgasm had completely died down.

"Hand me the phone," you heard your other brother deadpan. God, you could just imagine him with his palms out demandingly.

"Why?" Mingi asked apprehensively.

"Because I said so," the former supplied like it was a well-known fact. Mingi argued further in the background but was stopped immediately. "Need I remind you that you're not even supposed to be here right now? I could easily tell Father."

There was a shuffling sound on the other end before there was a sudden pause before a voice spoke out. "Y/N."

You gulped before answering. "Y-Yunho."

It wasn't as if you didn't like Yunho or you were scared of him. You loved him like you loved Mingi. He was just more rigid, more strict, and more emotionally absent since he was the oldest out of you three. Your father had raised him like this, but even so, and sometimes, you supposed that you were intimidated by him.

"This is not your number, where are you?" Yunho sounded exasperated and you couldn't help but bite your lip. "Are you not in the house?"

"N-No, I-I, uh, I went out for a bit and..."

You stared at Hongjoong, contemplating what to do. He sensed what you were thinking and pressed on your inner thighs. You had to bite your inner cheeks this time, because Mingi was easier to fool than Yunho. Your excuses would not work this time.

"Speak up, little one," Yunho scolded. "If Father found out you sounded like this, even I would not be able to stop him from bringing you back."

Right. As if he didn't sound even more intimidating. Your father wanted to hide you so much, but you felt suffocated in the house. Yunho might have been the way he is, but deep down, you knew he didn't want you to end up like he was raised.

Hongjoong stared at you with this unreadable expression on his face, but you ignored it, opting to clear your throat before speaking up again. "I'm not sick," you explained. "I lost my phone and I'm just having a bit of difficulty finding it."

It was a shitty excuse, and as Hongjoong smirked devilishly in your direction, you had hoped that it would work.

"When did you become so careless?" Yunho chided once more. "Fear not. I shall purchase you a new one immediately."

Hongjoong scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he didn't say anything. "I'm not, and no need," you frowned. "Never mind, I just wanted to let you guys know that I'm going to be home late. That phone had sentimental value to me."

You stared at the said phone that lay near the area where Hongjoong was. That part was truthful at least, and Yunho stayed silent this time. He did give you that phone, after all.

"I cannot stop you from doing what you want, so go ahead," he said. You frowned, heart stinging a little at his nonchalance.

"I'll let you know," you murmured.

As you were about to hang up, Yunho's voice filled the phone again. "Wait."

You raised a brow, a bit surprised, even more so when he said the next few words that'll lighten you up before he hung up. "Take care, little one."

It was short-lived, however. The moment Yunho had hung up, Hongjoong took this opportunity to pounce on you again like a starved animal that had waited too long for its meal to be served.

"W-Wait, you can't do this," you whined, pushing on him again when he resumed what he had started earlier.

"That phone call wasn't supposed to be that long," Hongjoong rolled his eyes, his fingers finding their place inside me again. "Your brothers are fucking weird. One's a potential asshole and the other one has a stick up his ass all the time."

You squint your eyes to contain the fire within them. "Don't talk about them like that!"

"Or what?" Hongjoong challenged. "You're dripping on my hand, sweetheart, I wouldn't talk if I were you. Because I could easily do this."

You shrieked when he went down on you again, but this time, he was sucking on your clit while his fingers still went in and out of you like a piston, his thumb specifically hitting your bud along with his tongue.

"Oh, God, mhm," you couldn't help but groan out, no matter how embarrassing.

"There is no God, Y/N. It's just you and me here," Hongjoong laughed against your pussy. "Finish what you started earlier. Come on my fucking face..."

Yeah, it was definitely embarrassing. You weren't someone who would orgasm fast, if anything, it was difficult to get there most of the time because your other partners just either weren't good, or you weren't that much attracted to them. Yeah, you were messed up from getting cross- eyed and screaming in pleasure.

"Fuck, yeah, give it to me, pretty," Hongjoong laughed maniacally as he stared at your fucked-out face, his fingers not relenting, though his tongue had long stopped from slurping your juices. He'd save it for later.

Frankly, it was the best orgasm of your life so far. You were never going to admit that to him, though. His ego would be the size of this room.

"S-Stop," you whined, pushing his head away weakly. "S-Sensitive..."

"Aww," he sniggered, his lips down turning tauntingly. His fingers went from going in and out to massaging your sweet spot. "But you look so fucking good like this."

"O-Oh," you sighed breathily. "I r-really can't, p-please stop..."

Hongjoong clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes, pulling his fingers out. He looked almost disappointed, but you didn't care.

You stared at the bright light up the ceiling, your chest rising up and down, the realization slowly sinking into you. Your cheeks rivaled the brightness of the light, not believing that you had just let him do whatever he wanted with you like this.

It wasn't like you didn't like it, but you wished it was in another circumstance.

You turned your head to look at Hongjoong, and whilst you were analyzing him, he couldn't help but falter a bit. 

He wasn't kidding when he said you looked pretty, he meant it. In fact, you looked a little too pretty for him just laying down his table, ready to be taken by the plucking. He wasn't impartial to the effect he does to you, he could see how you trembled the longer he stared.

He strode forward with a purpose. This wasn't part of his plan, but he needed to taste you. He just hoped his strides weren't  borderline desperate.

Your eyes widened when he snaked his hand on the back of your neck and lifted it towards his face, and before you could react, his eyes had already closed and his lips had already met yours.

His lips were pillowy soft, just the way you liked it, and it moved so well in sync with yours. It was undeniable how strong our chemistry was as our lips moved to fight for dominance. It ignited a fire within you that unfortunately, nobody else can ever put out anymore.

You could feel his smirk against yours, his tongue entangled with yours, as you tasted yourself from his lips. Combine that with Hongjoong's own taste, you were definitely screwed.

"So I guess this is payment enough," you murmured, pulling away from him just enough to get your point across.

"Think you can come for me again, sweetie?" Hongjoong asked, completely ignoring your statement. 

"W-What?"

To say that you were reeling was probably an understatement on your end. He pulled away momentarily, and you thought he was done, but then he dipped his head down your shoulder after he pushed your top aside. You whimpered when he gave your skin tiny, little kisses so gentle, you forgot what you were initially here for.

"Well?" Hongjoong whispered, his voice wavering. His lips made a small trail for your shoulder to your neck until he was dead set on one spot he knew you'd feel hot all over for. "You're gonna give it to me, right?"

"I-I'm not sure," you spoke in broken moans. 

"It's alright," he cooed. His hands were already back on your inner thighs. "Come on, baby, I'll make you feel so good..."

He didn't even give you a chance to reply. His fingers were already tracing your slit, his little groans of pleasure at the wet sounds your pussy was producing had your mind spinning. You were so lost into him; it was as if he had literally mesmerized you into his bidding.

"Ah, oh, that f-feels, ah," you stammered helplessly against his touch.  His fingers adeptly played with your pussy, alternating between pushing inside you ever so slightly and rubbing delicious circles on your clit.

"Yeah?" Hongjoong moaned softly, his kisses on your neck getting softer and softer as if he was making the sweetest love with it. "This cunt is mine, hmm?"

"Wait, I-I didn't say tha---"

"You will now," he gave your neck more sensual kisses. His warm breath hitting your skin made you extremely dizzy. His hand trails on your arm up and down even more sensually. "Ah, come on, baby, mmm, say it..."

Your groin was on fire, the tingling sensations that Hongjoong's coaxing was altering your brain chemistry all in all. You whined quietly, tilting your neck to meet his lips subconsciously. This was highly dangerous for you; exceedingly addicting.

His lips had migrated to your jawline, rendering you down to a slave to his desires. He doesn't put his fingers inside you, however, and you weren't sure if you liked that or not.

"I'll help you. Repeat after me, yeah?" Hongjoong whispered, his voice almost inaudible. "Say, 'I'm all yours,' it's easy enough."

You tried opening your mouth to say something, but nothing came out                                                                        when you tried to pry the words out of your mouth. He clicked his tongue, teasing you by slowly biting on your earlobes.

"Say it, don't be shy," he commanded softly. "I'm all yours."

"I-I'm all y-yours..."

Shame washed all over you the moment you said the words. He made a sound of approval, but he wasn't done yet.

"Good, good," he goaded, laughing breathily. "Say it again..."

"I'm all yours---"

"Daddy," he insisted, finally pulling away to look you straight in the eye. "Say you're mine, baby."

Goosebumps rose from your arms all the way to your shoulders, leaving you with shivers along their wake. "I'm all yours, d-daddy," you squeaked pathetically.

An animalistic grin stretches across his entire mouth. "That's right, you're going to give me my pussy, right?"

When he put it like that, you grasped how hypnotized you were with his words within a couple of minutes. Realization washed over you and your eye contact with him breaks, much to Hongjoong's chagrin. You both knew his spell was broken.

"Is this what you do to all the people who shoplift? Because this is wild," you frowned deeply, pushing away from him by holding onto his shoulders for support so you wouldn't fall off. 

He smirked, shaking his head. "No. Just you."

"Somehow, I find that difficult to believe," you chuckled without any humour in it. You were playing with fire by egging him but you couldn't help. You wanted to know.

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes on you, clearly annoyed with your accusations. "You seem to be following me willingly just fine earlier, sweetheart," he scoffed. "If I really wanted to, I'd make you do way more than this."

"Wasn't earlier enough? I don't believe this," you shook your head in disbelief.

"Well, you better believe it, because you still have to pay the price," he chuckled darkly. "Just not with money."

Hongjoong pushed your hands away from him and walked backwards from where you were sitting until his back hit the wall across from you so he could lean against it. Your jaw hung from his implication, the nerve of this bastard!

He nodded towards your forgotten purse. "You know what I've been thinking the whole time, sweets? I wonder how good you'd look with those on."

You blushed furiously, the scenarios of what he's implying playing through your head. The lingerie you stole was very skimpy. "Good, I'm sure," you mumbled thoughtlessly.

"Oh? Prove it."

It began to dawn on you what exactly he wanted you to do. You had hoped that you were wrong, but alas, this man in front of you was as dangerous as he was unpredictable.

You didn't respond. He stared at you with unfiltered lust, waiting to see what you were going to do.

"And if I chose not to do it?"

Hongjoong's brows drew together. "You know exactly what's going to happen," he sighed, irritated. "It's not going to be difficult, I already tore your panties off of you earlier, anyway."

His mouth was scandalous, too. However, this was a better alternative than the horrible life that was jail. It was a losing battle so you closed your eyes, and with a deep sigh, you started to unbutton your clothes until your top was completely off along with your skirt, leaving you only in your undergarments.

Since you had no panties anymore, your pussy was fully exposed in front of him. Redness covered your entire face and neck at your nudity, but this was a small price to pay so he wouldn't call the cops.

Hongjoong wanted to bust inside his pants right then and there. The sight of your shaved pussy filled his mind with animalistic urges. He held himself off, at least for now, to savour your nakedness. He'll take his time claiming you soon.

He crossed his arms as he watched you take your clothes off. There wasn't any expression on his face whatsoever and the only indication that he was enjoying this more than he was letting on was the growing tent in his pants.

"Do you want me to put them on for you?" Hongjoong raised a brow, the tone of his voice shifting from lighthearted to angry. You quickly shook your head. "Alright, hurry up before I do it myself."

You avoided eye contact, opting to look on the floor, and bit your lips in nervousness. Slowly, your hands went backwards to the hooks of your bra, but they were shaking with so much anxiety that even if you tried, unhooking them became challenging.

"Don't piss me off, sweetheart. I don't have all day," he warned, tone clipped and irate. "Take them off now."

You tried to open your mouth to reason with him, but all he did was glare at you so hard with an anger so intense, it almost disintegrated you from your spot.

"Take them off!" Hongjoong yelled. You jumped from your spot when he banged his fist on the wooden panel walls of the office. It effectively rattles the entire room and your insides.

After trying again, it finally unhooked and soon enough, your breasts were spilling out of your bra, but before they were fully exposed, you hastily grabbed the lingerie set and put on the bra that was included in it.

Next were the panties. You started putting them on quickly and that's when you noticed that they were crotchless. You paled, that would mean your hole would be fully exposed to Hongjoong's desires. You slowly craned your head towards his direction, heart beating fast.

His eyes were hooded, cloudy with the unmistakable need to completely dominate you. His breathing became laboured, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed down the saliva building up in his mouth with how delectable you looked.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath. He always knew you looked good, and he knew that you'd look even better with the lingerie on, but goddamn, was he not expecting you to look this good.

He needed to be inside you. He needed to have you. He needed you.

He cleared his throat loudly. "Come on, give daddy a little twirl, love," he coaxed, voice hoarse, as he twisted his index finger in a twirling motion. "I wanna see that perky ass."

"But I don't want to do it for you," you frowned, shaking your head to cover up the fact that you were getting insanely turned on from him making you call him daddy.

"That's just too bad, isn't it, sweetheart?"

You had no idea where he was getting his audacity, but you weren't going to question it any further. You reckon it was from owning this whole damn mall, but still.

It's an absolute mess, isn't it? There was no use denying it, a sick part of you was extremely attracted to the even sicker man that was Kim Hongjoong. Your mind was telling you to run away, your heart being the one to pull you back, but your pussy was telling you to please him with whatever you have.

Reluctantly, you turned around, twirling like a little doll, just like he wanted. You were beet red with embarrassment, and you heard his groan of approval from behind you as he stared at your plump behind.

"Been working out, huh?" Hongjoong teased, whistling salaciously to emphasize his point.

"Maybe," you murmured. "Are you going to let me go after? I-I just want to go home."

"Maybe," he bit back cryptically.

Despite yourself, you couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at how ridiculous this all was.

The mischief in that Cheshire-like smile that was bigger than anything else you've ever seen and it had almost given you the shivers. You were glad he was far away from you across the room, you didn’t want him in your face. 

He screamed authority - you weren't sure if you hated it down to hell or loved it towards the high heavens. 

You felt self-conscious all of a sudden, your hands moved themselves to cover what little skin you could. Hongjoong tilts his head in your peripheral vision, but chooses not to say anything as he watches you squirm from where you were standing.

Holes were the only thing missing on your body by how hard he was staring. Your almost nudity wasn't bothering you this time, though. He was probably staring at all your flaws and imperfections and it worried you more than anything else.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Hongjoong mumbled, his brow raised in question.

You frowned. "What?"

"You're fucking pretty," he clarified crudely without any ounce of shame, licking his bottom lip slowly, dragging the wet muscle seductively. "The prettiest girl I've ever seen in my entire life. You really are."

A laugh bubbles out of your chest with said chest jiggling unnecessarily and catching Hongjoong's sharp gaze. "Do you honestly expect me to believe anything that comes out of your mouth?"

"No," he shrugged nonchalantly. Your frown deepens when he gets to his feet and starts to walk forward. "Which is why I'm going to show you," he pauses to raise his hand. "Come to me, love."

It was a losing fight and deep down, you knew it. Still, you didn't move, not because you were trying to resist, but because this time, you felt genuine uncertainty for the first time since entering this room almost an hour ago by now.

You gulped. "A-Are you going to...?"

"Mhhm," he replied faster than you'd like. He makes grabbing motions by closing his fists and opening them. "I'm getting impatient."

You avoided eye contact with him. It was a mistake on your end because the moment your eyes left his, was the moment Hongjoong set out his attack and dug his claws onto your skin.

Your scream was cut off when he turned you around and pushed you down the table so now you were leaning against the edge of it, ass in air. You didn't mean to be that loud, you were just so surprised by the sudden jerk of your body.

"W-Wait---"

There was a shushing sound from behind you and you were about to turn your head to look but you felt his hand on the back of it and pushed down. "H-Hongjoong, hold on---"

You didn't mean to moan when he roughly pulled your panties all the way down to your feet in one motion, and just like that, your entire behind was exposed to him to do whatever he wanted with it. That just left you with your bra, which surprisingly, he didn't touch.

A whimper slips past your lips when you hear the telltale crinkling of a condom wrapper being opened before you see the wrapper being carelessly thrown away somewhere, of course without its contents. That, alone, was enough to make your heart beat out of tune.

You felt his clothed chest press onto your back when he leaned forward, his lips teasing the back of your ears. "O-Oh, ngh," your garbled moans sounded when you felt his wet fingers prod your empty hole, lubing it from the outside.

It suddenly reminded you of your deepest, darkest secret - you were always into the roleplay aspect of sex. It was something you've only told one person before and now that it's happening, you weren't sure on how to react.

"Show's over," his voice was harsh and laboured as he whispered from behind you. Your voice was caught in your throat when you felt the tip of his cock press onto its goal. "Or is it?"

You haven't even internalized what he said yet when he held your hips tightly and started to enter you, his lust evident with how firm his shove was. You both moaned in sync, especially when you accidentally squeezed him in. 

He was cursing under his each with each thrust forward and when he had finally burrowed deep inside you, he paused for a little so as to not overwhelm you. 

Try as he might, you just felt too good for him to preserve his self-control. You weren't faring any better, his cock hit you just right. If anything, you were worried that the pleasure might drive you into incoherence. You didn't want to embarrass yourself any further.

You felt completely stuffed, and you couldn't help but moan his name out loud. "H-Hongjoong..."

You heard him groan in pleasure. He pulled out a bit only for him to enter again carefully. It was almost agonizing, you could feel every inch of his cock creating the friction you were craving for since you had laid eyes on him.

"It's not so bad is it?" Hongjoong groaned, reaching underneath you to play with your swollen nipples. "Fuck, you feel my cock deep inside you, huh?"

You didn't respond, not giving him the satisfaction he wanted yet. Ripples of pleasure spreads from your core all throughout your body as Hongjoong impales you with his thick cock over and over again, not too fast, just enough for the both of you to be a sweaty, panting mess.

At this point, you couldn't care less if there were people who could hear from outside. The only sounds in the room were the table creaking from all the thrusting Hongjoong was doing in and out of you, the slapping of skin to skin, and the moans you let out as your pussy took all the beating from Hongjoong's insatiable lust.

"You just make me so fucking horny, sweetheart, ah," he growled, thrusting particularly deep this time. "I wanna stay in this pussy forever, what do you think?"

"F-Fuck, oh, s-stop doing t-that," you panted, not able to properly produce words from Hongjoong's unrelenting thrusts.

"What? This?"

His hips pistoned into you so hard, that the table edges were scratching your stomach from too much friction. You wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow your skin there would be so dry.

Hongjoong seemed to take notice of this. Reluctantly,  he pulled out of you and for a second, you almost whined at the sudden loss of his cock filling you, but then he started to carry you to another past of the room where a couch lay waiting.

He hastily took off his clothes after laying you down, and after sprawling on top of your body, he thrust back into you once more in one fluid motion. He growled at the sensation, the sound of it making you even wetter than you already were.

"Yeah, oh baby," he hissed, this time not holding back on his animalistic desires, as he fucked you onto the couch. "Kiss me."

Your lips found his and you didn't hesitate to scream into his mouth as he kept burying his cock deeper and deeper inside you, if that was possible. Your entire body was on fire and the only thing that could quench your growing heat was Hongjoong, himself.

"God, your tits look so fucking great in these," his mouth pulled away to latch on your soft flesh, eliciting the dirtiest noises from you that you weren't aware you could produce in the first place.

"Feels good," you couldn't help but let out. "A-Ah, Hongjoong..."

"Yeah?" Hongjoong breathed out. "Want me to go faster or slower?"

"I-I don't know," you moaned out truthfully. You weren't sure if that answer was for his question or an admission on your end. Sweat was starting to trail down from your temples down to your chin.

"It's okay," he shushed. "How about you close your eyes and let me do all the work?"

Suddenly, he was taken aback when he thrust forward. He could've sworn he felt you fuck back onto him . It was all the confirmation he needed. His hand meanders towards the back of your head then pulls it towards him so his lips were against your forehead.

The gesture was so intimate and you reigned yourself from giving in to him, but when he started whispering your name like a mantra, you failed in the attempt.

"Y/N, shit," he growled over and over again. "I stand corrected," he groaned lowly. "You look beautiful, prettier, taking my cock like this."

You surrendered to the pleasure and closed your eyes. His cock surging in and out of your pussy as his other hand cupped your face tenderly was a juxtaposition. Your body went from taking a fucking to lifting your hips up to meet his as you helplessly squirmed underneath him, soft moans of bliss escaping your lips.

Suddenly, his fingers prodded your lips open. On instinct, you opened your mouth to accommodate him. "Ah," he chuckled lazily. "There she is..."

He drew his cock back the same time his fingers in your mouth did, paused, and drove back - both his cock and fingers - inside your holes just as deeply. You met his eyes as he looked down on you. They burned, this whole room could burn and you still wouldn't look away.

"Just like that, sweetheart, keep looking at me while I'm fucking you," he grunted, his face getting faster, sloppier. "Fuck, look at you, taking me so well..."

You tried to moan a protest, but there was a sick satisfaction that overcame his features when he saw that you couldn't speak since he was plugging your mouth. "It's true though," he panted, sighing in intense pleasure. "You just take it so fucking well, sweetheart."

One angle in his thrusting made you bite on his fingers, your eyes widened, whimpering because you didn't want to hurt him, but all he did was shush you, whispering words of reassurance that of how you couldn't possibly hurt him.

"H-Hongjoong, a-ah, fuck, I-I wanna come," you practically begged, your hands moving to his shoulders and squeezing to make your point known.

"Not yet, sweetie, not yet," he grunts. He, then, moved his hands so now they were fully cupping your whole face. He aligns it to his and now that you were staring directly into his eyes, you couldn't help but let out a small smile.

You felt him twitch inside you and you couldn't help your giggle even though you bit your bottom lip to stop the sound. In turn, Hongjoong let out a mixture of his own laugh and his grunts as he plunged into you in long, deep strokes instead of the rapid, shallow ones he's used to doing.

"You okay?" Hongjoong voiced out after a while, trying to stop his smirk as he looked at your fucked out face.

"Mhhm," you moaned out. "I-I just---"

"You want to come?"

You nodded so hard, you felt your neck strain at the sudden force. "P-Please, Joongie?"

He almost busted at your small, whiny voice as you begged for your orgasm. God, if the image of you underneath him as your greedy pussy swallowed his cock wasn't enough, you just had to sound as equally good as you looked. You were definitely set to torture him. 

"Goddamn it, Y/N, how am I supposed to last like this?" Hongjoong's voice was borderline whiny as well, his climax creeping in on him. "Good girls don't come until I tell them to."

You could have cried in frustration. "I'll be good, I'll be so good, daddy," you hiccupped, your tears welling up in your eyes. Safe to say, you were into him just as much as he was into you - literally on his end.

"I know, you already are, my sweet girl," he said. "You're such a good girl, yes? Come on, say it."

"I'm d-daddy's good girl," a lone tear falls from your eye. "I'm y-your good girl, Joongie..."

The little grunts he let out almost sent your vision black as his strokes got faster, sloppier, his hips pistoning onto yours, the sound of skin slapping against each other echoey all over the room, in your ears. You were so deep in this, and the thing was, you never wanted to get out.

"I'm going to fuck you into this couch, baby, and then I'm going to fuck you some more after we're done..."

"Y-You have to make me come first," you pouted even when your sight was beginning to get hazy from all the pleasure that Hongjoong was willing to indulge you in. 

Hongjoong laughed, a real laugh, his chest bubbling with unspoken happiness despite all the lust that clouded his entire being. "Oh, I will," he leaned in, burying his face on your neck. "I'm going to count to three, I want you to come in one, can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded without hesitation and Hongjoong swore you never looked more beautiful than you did right now. He kissed your neck in acknowledgement before he completely let go of all his inhibitions and began to actually fuck you hard and fast.

"Three," he pounded away so forcefully, the couch began to move from its spot backwards inch by inch, and you loved every second of it. 

He grabbed your throat for a moment, squeezed, and suddenly let go. It cut off your screams as your oxygen paused for a second. He did that over and over again until you got lightheaded. Somehow, that intensified the pleasure his cock gave you.

"Ah! Joongie, fuck, oh, oh, fu---"

He kissed you passionately, the movement of his lips bruising yours, matching the way his hips moved to its pace. Both of your moans mixed in with one another, and it was nothing short of filthy.

"Two," he ground onto you, the number almost melting into nothingness. He continued to kiss you, as if he was pouring everything he couldn't tell you into the fiery sensation of him sucking your soul out through your mouth.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, moaning as his cock went impossibly deeper into you, and crossed them. Your nails repeatedly dragged across his skin, leaving angry marks on them that you'll, for sure, savour later. You were already proud of them.

"I'm such a w-whore for you, daddy," you let out, something you didn't intend on doing, but for some reason, it just slipped out of you.

Hongjoong moaned into your mouth, your lips drowning and swallowing the sounds. He was whining and whimpering wildly as his hips stuttered and chased his high, using your body as nothing more than a tool for his own pleasures.

Fuck it. There was no going back from this anyway. "Are you going to come inside me?"

"Yeah, I'm going to fucking fill you up," he growled, his sweat dripping onto my skin. He pressed his forehead with mine, forcing eye contact. "Do you want me to come inside you? Is that what you want?"

You bit your lip so hard, it almost bled, but you nodded regardless. "Y-Yeah..."

A growl sounds out from the back of his throat as he pulls out from you temporarily. He slips the condom off from his hard cock and tosses it at the nearby rubbish bin, and when he entered back inside you, he couldn't help the loud moan that resonated from his mouth.

"Fuck, baby," he whined like he was in pain. "You feel so fucking good, damn it, I should've fucked you raw like this from that start, fuck."

It didn't take long for either of you to get to that peak you were both chasing since the beginning. Your stomach tightened, your walls were beginning to constrict and flutter against Hongjoong's cock, and he felt it. Fuck, did he feel it.

"One. Come with me, baby, please," he pumped faster and harder until you couldn't take it anymore.

It triggered that delicious feeling that you've been suppressing all this time. It was slow, but when you reached it, the world around you exploded. Your own screams were all you heard, not even Hongjoong's loud growl as he erupted his thick release deep inside you.

"Y/N, fuck," he panted, thrusting a few more times until both of our orgasms had subsided. He grabbed your chin and squeezed hard as he demanded eye contact. "Look at me when you're coming, my love. Look at me."

It was over as soon as it started, but the sensation will last you for a while. You were thoroughly fucked - thoroughly used - and you liked it like that. But only because it was Hongjoong.

It felt right for him, there was nothing more in this moment that felt as right as letting go in you akin to an animal that just wanted to possess. One final pulsating from his cock has him reeling, and he wouldn't tell you just yet, but he was definitely more blown out than you were.

He pushed your hair out of your face and looked at you. "You okay, love?" Hongjoong asked with a small frown, a worried one. "I think that was the roughest we've done it so far---ah fuck, I came too much."

Your soft moan hits Hongjoong's ears as he pulls out. Thick, sticky cum immediately oozes out from your stretched out pussy and Hongjoong could feel himself salivating at the tempting scene in front of him.

You giggled as you stared at him, and even though he literally just rocked your world, you gave him a wide smile despite the haze. "Like what you see?"

Hongjoong nodded wordlessly and you couldn't help but lightly smack him back into coherence. "What? I do," he defended himself with a small pout. "You look so good covered in my cum, sweetie."

You bit your lips when he dipped a finger in your pussy, covering them in his own release, and started writing something on your stomach as if your skin was the canvas and his cum was the paint.

You soon realized that he was writing his own name. When he ran out of 'writing material,' he would dip back in for some more. Redness coated your entire neck and creeped up all the to your scalp.

"Mine," he murmured, kissing the dried up cum on your tummy that had his name. "Property of Kim Hongjoong."

He sits straighter and beckons you to do the same. You did as told without missing and beat. He grabbed your hand and gave it a small kiss before he grabbed his dress shirt and put you in it, careful when he started looping your arms on the sleeves and buttoning it until you were completely covered, your torso, at least.

He pulled you close until you were sitting on his lap, your head plush onto his chest. Aftercare with your boyfriend was always better than the sex, itself, every single time. "Thanks, Joongie," you smiled.

"Did you have fun? Was it everything you wanted?" Hongjoong asked sheepishly. "I didn't know if I was too mean or something."

"No, no, it was good," you hummed softly as his fingers played with your hair. "I suppose we need to talk."

There were a lot of things you wanted to talk about, starting from this whole ordeal. Hongjoong and you had never really explored the idea of sex outside the bedroom, much less the idea of incorporating roleplaying in it to spice things up.

Hongjoong could say the same thing. He didn't mean for it to go that far. He saw the way you twitched when you entered the room for the first time, and he couldn't help the surprise that flickered in his eyes. 

You stared at your underwear, one that Hongjoong had actually gifted you a while back, that lay next to the thongs you wanted to take home. You were about to say something, when the door jiggled, signifying that someone was trying to open it.

Hongjoong tightened his hold on your waist as the sound of keys jingling the doorknob. He held your head down until it was completely leaning on his chest as he parted your hair to cover the rest of your face.

"Hey, boss, I got the package secured---oh? Am I interrupting something?"

Even though your face was obscured, you could still see through them. A man not much taller than Hongjoong close the door behind him. He had this briefcase with him, but that's not what scared you.

"Wipe the fucking blood off your face, Woo. It's very unsightly," Hongjoong ordered, his hand massaging your tense shoulders. "You're scaring her. And stop eyeing her legs before I shoot you between the eyes."

Wooyoung's features twisted in amusement before it morphed into realization. "Ah, that's her," he chuckled, lifting a briefcase into the air, one you didn't notice he had. "Well, anywho, I'll leave this here, then."

He places the said briefcase on the floor near Hongjoong's feet before he sauntered out from where he entered from. "And tell her everything before you pussy out again," Wooyoung chuckled, holding the door.

"Get the fuck out," Hongjoong deadpanned. 

The door finally closes as a cackling laughter sounded from behind it. You finally lifted your head up and gave him a very curious look. "What's in the briefcase, Joong? W-What are you doing?"

You had so many questions and it just further confused you the more you spent time here. Hongjoong stared at you for a moment before he got you off his lap to grab the briefcase.

"Weapons," he murmured, snapping the lock open before lifting it to reveal, indeed, weapons of various kinds and sizes. You weren't privy to what they were, after all, you needed to use these to protect yourself from Yunho and your father's political enemies.

"And you're smart, sweetie, I think you can gather what's happening," he continued. He held your hand tightly in his, eyes filled with worry. "I didn't want you to find out this way, honey. I was going to tell you."

Indeed, he was right. Wooyoung calling him boss, the blood on said man's face, a briefcase full of weapons - they were all telltale signs of mafia activity. 

You didn’t want further details, but you couldn’t help but ask. “A-Are those things you handle on a daily basis?”

Hongjoong hesitated before he took a deep breath. “No,” he shook his head. “We do the usual drugs route as well. Listen, my sweet love, I-I’m sorry I never told you. I just want to have to excuse my absence a lot, and I know that’s shitty, so I’m sorry again.”

It all made sense. You genuinely loved him, but there were times where you were curious about him. There were many things he never told you, many times that he'd never tell you where he'd been. You felt a weight lift off your shoulders at the revelation.

"There's a lot of things I don't know, Joongie," you sighed. "I didn't even know my own boyfriend owned a mall, first of all."

His hold on your hand tightened. "A-Are you mad?"

You looked at him in confusion. "No, I'm not," you said, lifting your hands to kiss them. He visibly relaxes in your touch. "I was just wondering why you, my boyfriend of almost a year now, never told me, that's all."

"The same reason why you gave me a fake last name and never told me that you were the mayor's daughter," he shrugged. 

It made a lot of sense, but you weren't even mad at him to begin with, and you wanted him to know that. "About that," you chuckled sheepishly. "How did you even know about that? And since when? Mingi did a fantastic job covering my tracks."

"He did. If he weren't your father's son, I'd actually recruit him," he laughed. "And I found out by accident."

You urged him to go on. "I was going to give you this mall as a surprise, actually," he murmured. "I had Jongho look up if you had assets that would clash with the ownership, and I guess that's how."

You couldn't hold back your surprise. "You were going to do that for me?"

"Yeah, I was," he said. He paused, gathering the words he needed to say to you. "So you'd stop shoplifting."

You paled, fumbling for an excuse to tell him because as good as this all ended, it was still embarrassing for Hongjoong to actually find out this way. "I-I can explain."

"No need," he chuckled, kissing you on the forehead. "I already knew. Why do you think you've never been arrested? Your charm can only go so far, sweetheart. And your stealth is questionable."

You lightly smacked him on the chest and he took this opportunity to grab you and wrap his arms around you. "I've been bribing people for months now, for you," he mumbled. "But you need therapy, sweetie. I can't cover your ass the entire time, and I don't ever want to see you behind bars."

"I-I know, Joong," you murmured in embarrassment and pure shame. You didn't think he'd found out, and now that he does, you were so ashamed of your own skin. A question sticks out in your head. "D-Did you plan today?"

"No," he denied. "I wasn't supposed to be here. Seonghwa decided to oversee that deal we had that involved this," he tapped the briefcase. "So I stayed. Imagine my surprise when I saw you targeted my mall."

"I see," you muttered under your breath. Still, your curiosity wasn't satiated. "But why a mall, though? You're literally head mafia, you could have everything you want."

He chuckled at your question. "Because," he grabbed something from the nearby table, a small remote, then pointed it at the wall behind his office desk. "Nobody would ever suspect a mall to be another hideout."

A small 'click' could be heard and your mouth dropped when a hidden door revealed itself across you. "Holy shit, Kim Hongjoong, you're so fucking hot for this," you said without thinking. He laughed out loud at your statement. "But knowing all this, do you still want to be with me?"

Hongjoong's brows furrowed, distress clear on his face. "Of course, I do," he confirmed, voice laced with confusion. "Why?"

"Because I'm the mayor's daughter," you frowned, sighing deeply. "My dad's literally your enemy."

His face lit up in recognition with the thought and you thought that was going to mull over it, but then he leaned in and pulled you into a tender hug. "We'll figure it out, love, don't worry," was all he said before his hand smooths out the back of your hair gently. "I've known for a while, and I'm still here."

"I suppose so," you hugged back. "And for the record, I'm not mad. Not at all, so don't worry. I just want to go home right now, I'm tired."

"About that therapy," he said, still hugging you like he won't ever hug you again. It was endearing. "We have a resident doctor, Dr. Kang Yeosang. I trust him and he's a good friend of mine, would you like to consult him?"

"Do you think that would help?"

"Yes. But it's up to you, love. I can't force you if you don't want to, but I would feel better if you did. Promise me you won't do it again?"

"I promise," you said truthfully. You did need to change, after all, this wasn't morally good to begin with.

"Thank you, my love," he murmured. "So you'll do it?"

"I'll do it," you agreed, pulling away to look at him. "I'll do it for you."

He smiled, gently cupping your face. He had a thing for doing that. "Good girl," he whispered. "But do it for you, not for me. I'd still love you even if you robbed a whole damn store. After all, you already stole my heart." 

"My God, Joong, that was so dry," you giggled loudly. "I'm going to get dressed so we can go now, okay? I really need to shower."

He smirked, burying his face on your neck. "You know I meant what I said earlier."

You were confused. "What?"

He licked a stripe up your neck and it sent shivers through you. "That I want to fuck you some more after we were done here, my sweet girl. We have all night..."

You were already imagining all the things you and him would do the entire day, maybe you'd give him something in return after today.

It definitely wasn't what a sweet, good girl would do.

Dividers from: @cafekitsune ❤️❤️❤️

[rechvlle]

۶ৎ sticky like lipgloss ₊˚♡

ᝰ.ᐟ synopsis ── after a particularly intense fight with your boyfriend, thanos, you seek out the comfort of his best friend, nam-gyu, which, not only is wrong—at least to thanos—but it ends up wrong, too.

♡ featuring ── thanos/choi su-bong (player 230) x female!reader x nam-gyu (player 124) ♡ word count ── 3.4k ♡ content warnings ── college au (they have money and aren't in debt, not as bad, anyway) ◞ established relationship ◞ cheating ◞ soft!namgyu ◞ desperate!needy!reader ◞ slight (more implied) emotional abuse ◞ manipulation ◞ toxic relationship(s) ◞ impulsive decisions ◞ kissing ◞ mentions of make-up sex ◞ vaginal fingering ◞ vaginal penetration ◞ pet names (baby, sugar, etc.) ◞ praying mantis position ◞ downward doggy position ◞ safe sex ◞ slight praise kink ◞ lowkey vanilla ◞ spanking ◞ mentions of anal ◞ coincidental creampie ♡ author note ── me after finishing fanfic after months of deleting and rewriting over ten…? i mean, this is a one-shot so… anyway tho, the title has kinda no correlation to the fic, i just needed a title guys, don't sue me :-( anyway, had fun writing this ^_^ tell me if I missed any tags…

What could—no, what is worse: being held at gunpoint, fearing for your life, or having an argument with your boyfriend? Being held at gunpoint; the choice is obvious and it isn’t arguable, it’s quite objective. Whilst fearing for your life is truly terrifying and will, most certainly, cause trauma to one another, your body simply cannot tell the difference between such.

It’s pitiful, truly. In a way, you’re too attached to your drugged-up, junkie-ass boyfriend, so due to the amount of love you have for him, whenever the two of you argue, it’s as if you—and your body—cannot tell the difference in a near-death experience versus arguing or being yelled at by your boyfriend. You are truly pathetic.

It’s sickening at how easily you and Su-bong, or well, Thanos, fight.

Oddly enough, not too soon after he started his rapping career, he wanted you to call him Thanos. You two fought about that—except, he started the fight. He thought that you didn’t love him because you weren’t going to familiarly call him Thanos instead of Su-bong. You obliged in the end, though; you didn’t want him to think the worst of you.

You were addicted to his touch, his love, his affection—anything and everything that he would be willing to give you—so whenever he’s upset, you need to make him happy, to resolve things as quickly as possible. So, sex was common after fights. Su-bong never rejected the offer, he wanted it, too—almost always, anyway.

Except, this time, he wasn’t going to fold so easily.

“Come on, baby! We both know what happened,” Su-bong said, gripping your forearm tightly with his left arm.

His nails dug into your skin, leaving small crescent marks; expression guarded, angry, almost hateful. Su-bong slightly shook you, not hard enough or just enough to make you dizzy, but the right amount to make you annoyed.

“Su-bong, I didn’t—“

The hand that held your arm shot up to your face, interrupting you with his index finger to your lips.

“Ah-ah, not my name,” Su-bong spoke in a sing-song voice, almost mocking.

“Thanos,” you started—his face turned towards more approving, but you could still see (and sense) his anger. “I wasn’t flirting with anyone.”

Right. He’s upset, no, furious, at you for “cheating on him,” because you “flirted” with someone else (you asked for a pen during class). And of course, like the “professional accuser” that he is—and due to you and him having that class together—he took your words as flirting.

Because 1) why would you need anything else from anyone other than him? Is he not good enough for you? 2) you don’t need to talk to anyone else other than him, let alone ask for something. It’s disrespectful, you’re cheating, a liar.

“Don’t lie, now. You didn’t need to ask him,” Su-bong—no, Thanos—whined. He pulled his hand away from your face, rolling his eyes in the process.

“It was just for a pen. You know I’m not like that!” You almost screamed, you were already breathing pretty hard; you were overwhelmed, overstimulated.

Thanos is high, of course, so there’s no telling how extreme his reactions will be. Once, he slammed you against the wall, even smacked you, but nothing too fatal or hurtful. Maybe.

“Y/N, I’m bein’ pretty fuckin’ lenient with you right now,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes, yet again.

“Thanos, I’m sorry, really! It didn't mean anything!” You pleaded with him, your hands coming to grasp his arms, biting your lip.

You gave Thanos your signature look: seductive eyes, bitten bottom lip, the touches—oh, he loved it all. Yet, to him, at this moment, he doesn't feel any sort of sympathy for you, he doesn't feel aroused or turned on by this. He finds it too serious—especially when he’s high out of his mind, much like how he is now.

“Nuh-uh, baby, that isn't going to work on me right now.”

You could, in a way, feel your heart drop. What did he mean it wasn't going to work? Doesn't he see how stressed out you are right now? How needy—in a way—that you are right now?

“Thanos, please, let me make it up to you!” You could feel the tears brimming in your eyes, the pouty, desperate look you had on your face.

“Nah, I know what you’re trying to do. Cheat me out like a whore, huh?” He pulled away from your touch, shoving you in the process.

“Why don’t you go to that bitch you asked to borrow from?” He looked at you, almost crazed, gripping your arms now, hard, his nails, yet again, digging into your skin. It was painful.

Your mouth was agape as he continued to yell at you, hurling a few insults your way: “Fuckin’ whore,” “dumb bitch,” would be a few.

You couldn't take it. You were borderline hyperventilating, stressed, and hurt. Why would Thanos think of you as a cheater? You’ve never done anything that could prove you to be one; never cheated or lied to do something with another. He has, yet you trust him.

As soon as you got out of Thanos’ grip, you bolted out of your guy’s dormitory. You could smell the weed on him, the redness in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Normally, you didn't care if he was high or got high, as long as it wasn't hardcore drugs—although, he lied every time you asked, always saying it was weed. You knew better, you’re smarter than that, yet you still trusted him.

Now, though? You’re upset and hurt, and who was the first person that came to your mind? Nam-gyu. Every time you and Thanos fought, he was always there for you to cheer you up, make you feel better, and reassure you when Thanos didn't (or wouldn’t).

The knocks against Nam-gyu’s door were insistent; your knuckles rasped against the wood of it. You stood outside for a few seconds, waiting, your arms slightly crossed, your hands holding onto your elbows.

Nam-gyu opened the door, rubbing his eyes for a moment, his gaze focusing on you.

“Y/N? What’re you doin’ here?” He asked, grabbing one of your arms, and pulling you inside.

“It—he…” You couldn't get your words out, just shaking your head. Nam-gyu understood, though.

“‘Ey, it’s okay, c’mere,” he pulled you in for a hug, nothing tight, though. “Just tell me what happened.”

Of course, you did, through a series of sobs and pauses, but he gave his advice.

“It’ll be okay, Y/N. Look, I’m sure he didn't mean to hurt your feelings,” he held you against his chest, sitting down on the couch in his living area.

You sniffle, nodding, your hands draped around his neck. He could feel your cold hands against his warm neck. Nam-gyu always smelt of some sort of musk and drugs, dirty. In a way, it was a very comforting smell to you.

He rubbed your lower back before patting your head, running his hands through your hair, rubbing your scalp, too. It was always so comforting to you: his touches, the way he softly kisses your head, rubs your body, makes you feel so good.

“Nam-gyu, can you…?” You stopped yourself before you could finish your sentence, a bit unsure of how to word your question.

“Yeah? What is it?”

You stayed silent for a moment before looking up at him. You spoke softly to him, “Make me feel better, please.”

Nam-gyu was a bit stunned; you’re Thanos’ girl, not his, not Nam-gyu’s. Yet ever since Thanos introduced you two, Nam-gyu has always had a thing for you: checking you out, those subtle touches and “platonic,” “reassuring” kisses that he’d give you, the soft and sweet way he’d talk to you.

In a way, he wanted to take you as his own. He knows that Thanos would be upset, angry, really fucking angry. Yet he can’t help himself to these thoughts, these sick, dirty thoughts.

Nam-gyu quickly recovered, though, a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, baby, just let me take care of you,” his voice was sickeningly sweet, twisted, a little.

Nam-gyu cradled you, picking you up in one swing, your hands still wrapped around his neck, his hands holding you by your waist and your butt. He kept you close, walking you to his bedroom. (His dorm mates were out, no need to worry.)

He sat you down on the edge of his bed, just your feet sticking out. His sheets were rough, nothing like the silk you sleep on in your room. You didn't mind it, though.

You know it’s wrong; just before leaving, you told Thanos that you’d never cheat, yet here you are. Although, a part of you didn't care. Thanos was being a dick, a complete douche. Maybe all you need is a little break from his toxic cock, maybe you need to try his friend’s.

Nam-gyu pulled your shirt up and over your head, the cute, lace, pink bra you normally wear fully exposed to him. He smirked in response, wrapping one of his arms around your upper back, pushing your body up just enough to unclasp your bra, pulling the straps of your bra down, and pulling it off of you.

You felt fully exposed. You’ve only ever been this close to Thanos and an ex from high school. Nam-gyu would be the third person to ever be this close, this intimate.

He let go of her body, letting her body hit the bed.

“You know, you’re beautiful, Y/N,” he spoke, leaning into your neck, peppering kisses down your neck, collarbone, and then to your chest. His mouth found the areola of your breast, licking and sucking on your nipple. His right-hand kneaded at her breast, sending stimulants.

You softly moaned at the sensation. It wasn't as intense as rubbing your clit would be or penetration, but it was still stimulating to get you wet (and ready).

Nam-gyu continued to suck at your breast while his left-hand unbuttoned your jean shorts, slipping his hand through the rough fabric of the denim and the same, lace fabric—of your matching bra—of your panties.

You sucked in a breath, your corresponding hand coming to grab at the one inside your pants.

“Nam-gyu, wait—”

His mouth retracted from your breast, his hands still their movement. He thought you wanted this.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

Your lips twitched. You wanted to tell him to stop, that this would be wrong. You asked for it, though, and truly you wanted it, so you retracted your hand. Nam-gyu didn't let your hesitant expression slip his interest.

“You want me to stop?”

You quickly shook your head. Nam-gyu smirked, muttering an “okay,” before slipping your denim shorts off. His eyes stayed on the lace fabric of your panties, he could see the damp spot, your wetness, your arousal.

His fingers went to massage the area, swirling the fabric around with his fingers.

“Man, look at that…” His tone was almost mocking, it made you whimper, almost reminding you of Thanos’ toxic words. “You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

His words made you clench, around nothing, too. That didn’t go unnoticed by Nam-gyu, he could just feel your desperation through your panties. He pulled his fingers away, slipping them off of you.

Your breath hitched at his actions. You could feel the cold air of Nam-gyu’s dorm against your core. He noticed and took advantage of that: moving his hand in a way that would blow air toward you. He noticed your slightly erotic reaction and slathered himself in the success of pleasing you, even just slightly.

You whined, “Don’t tease, please,” your voice was almost angelic to him, the neediness in it just spoke to him like a siren to a sailor.

Nam-gyu obliged, of course. He didn’t want to put any more stress on you than there already is. He dove right in: his middle and ring finger rubbing at your already-wet clit.

“You wanted this, baby?”

You eagerly nodded at Nam-gyu’s words, softly whimpering at his actions. He reveled in the fact that he could pleasure you, maybe even better so than Thanos. His fingers continued their ministrations on your clit, rubbing you just the right way; you moaned at such, almost wanting to beg for more.

Nam-gyu took your whimpers, moans, and gasps as a sign to go further. His fingers moved away from your clit to the inside of your cunny. It was a fast movement, it made you gasp a bit louder, but you enjoyed it nonetheless.

He pumped his fingers in and out of you, your hands found themselves clawing at his sheets. He kept his fingers at a steady pace, curling them up at just the right spot.

“Oh-oh, Nam-gyu…” You whined out the last vowel in his name, feeling his fingers curl up at your g-spot.

“Yeah? Wha’d’ya want, sugar?” He continued to speak with a mocking yet also prideful tone.

You couldn't respond, as you could barely form a coherent thought. The only thing that you are thinking of right now: is Nam-gyu, and the damn-good way that he’s fingering you.

Except, something clicked in your mind. Sugar. He called you “sugar.” Thanos would often use that nickname on you whenever he was doting on you, loving on you—overall, just being a good boyfriend. Except for the fact that his emotions can change like a flipped switch…

That didn't matter to you, though, you quickly blocked it out of your mind. You didn't want to focus on your piece of shit boyfriend.

Just as quickly as the thought occurred to you and as quickly as you pushed it out, you came; your orgasm crashing down on you. Nam-gyu certainly knows how to work with his hands, and you loved that. (Maybe his work was better than Thanos’.)

He pulled his fingers out of you, looking at the sticky substance that coated them, a thin line that connected between his ring and middle finger. He rubbed his hand back onto your pussy.

“Come on, sugar, time for the real show.”

Nam-gyu shrugged his sweatpants and boxers off in a blink, his thick cock springing out. He was already leaking pre-cum.

“Condom?” He asked you, his eyes darting away from your wetness.

Your eyes met his, nodding. If you were going to cheat, you didn't want to be an absolute bitch and get pregnant by his best friend. Just “casual,” “I need some stress relief,” fucking (because of your boyfriend’s douchebag ways.)

Nam-gyu sat up and off of his bed, he grabbed a condom off of a random shelf in his room. You didn't question it.

“Scoot up a bit.”

You did as he asked, moving your body up until your head felt the (very slight) comfort of his pillows. He smiled at the action, moving over and on top of you. He lined his manhood up to your wet entrance.

“You ready, baby?” He asked, his hands coming to rub on your sides, you nodded.

Nam-gyu almost immediately enveloped himself inside of you. You scream-moaned. He was thick, nothing like Thanos—not to say he wasn’t, but the difference was transparent.

“Fuck, fuck…” You breathed heavily, and your hands went to grab at his shoulders, feeling the pain of being stretched out.

Nam-gyu was a patient man, though (sometimes, not really), he didn't want to rush you.

“Too much?”

You shook your head at his question, almost whining. You didn't want him to stop. The stretch was fucking intense, but good God did it feel good.

Nam-gyu nodded, moving slowly at first, just to test the waters.

“Oh-Ah!” Your nails dug into his shoulders, fuck, it felt good.

Nam-gyu halted his movements, his eyes making contact with yours as you moaned. He gave you a look (as if) to ask: “Keep going?” or “Are you okay?” You nodded when you two made eye contact. You wanted this.

Nam-gyu did so. He started sluggish, sensual as if to memorize the feeling of your insides. You were tight, perfect. God, he loved the way that you felt.

It was almost teasing at how slow his movements were. Of course, he wanted to prolong the moment, but you needed this release.

“Nam-gyu, please, just go a bit faster, because shit, I—”

Almost as on cue, he heard you say “faster,” he did. His hips moved at a swift pace, you could hear the lewd sounds of his balls slapping against your skin.

He moved his right hand from your side, using it to grab your leg, throwing it over his shoulder. His cock went deeper inside you.

“Aah—Nam-gyu!” You couldn't help but moan, your head leaning back into the pillow, your hands marking up his back, now.

He grunted at your sounds, not letting up his pace. After such a toxic night with your boyfriend, how could he not give you what you want, what you need?

Your legs twitched at his movements, God, you loved it. His cock hit your cervix a few times, and his movements became a bit more rough. With the new angle, his balls were slapping against your ass.

He kept up, his hand roughly smacking against the thigh that he held up. He knows that you're close, and he wants you to feel that pleasure, yet at the same time, he also wants to prolong this moment as long as possible. He needs this pussy, your pussy.

Just as he felt your walls clench around him, he pulled out—not like he was about to cum.

“Flip over for me, sugar,” He said, patting your thigh before letting it go.

You knew where this was going, and you wanted to entertain that, so you obliged. Your head was in the pillow, ass up.

Nam-gyu held onto your hips as he pushed his dick back inside you.

“Shit, I’m never letting you go after this.”

Nam-gyu knew how upset Thanos would be if he knew that he was fucking his girlfriend right now, but she came onto him. Not his fault (even if he did like her first.) In a way, though, he didn't care about his reaction, all he was focusing on was the pretty pussy that he was fucking right now.

You moaned at the sensations, loud and slutty; like a whore. In which, you were one, but you didn't care about that at the moment.

“So good for me, sugar. Just the way I like it,” Nam-gyu picked up on the fact you liked being praised.

You couldn't help the moan of pleasure and need that came out of your mouth from his words. Good God, how much you like being praised, being told how good you are, it’s pathetic; makes you go completely weak, like a helpless puppy.

You moved your hips against him, in a way so you could feel more of him, get him as deeply inside you as possible.

Nam-gyu smirked at your actions, one of his hands smacking your ass.

“Shh, c’mon. Let me do the work,” He sounded so confident, so sure of himself that he could please you, and you loved it.

The way his thrusts were almost rhythmic yet rough. His cock was thick and just perfect for you, the move of his hips was perfect, too.

“Nam-gyu, fuck…” You couldn't help but moan out his name, it felt so good on your tongue.

He smacked your ass again, speaking to you with a bit more authority, “Yeah, ‘atta girl. Who do you belong to?”

“You! You, Nam-gyu!”

You couldn't help the words that just rolled out of your mouth. Thanos would always ask you that question during sex, while his dick was deep inside your cunny or your ass, you’d always say that you belong to him.

Nam-gyu continued his assault on your pussy, his movements becoming more ragged and uncontrolled. He knew he was close. You were, too; the way your gummy, little walls were clenching around his dick.

With a final thrust of his hips, he came inside the condom inside of you. Your orgasm came washing down over you at the same time he did. You breathed heavily, feeling his cock leave you empty. Yet, at the same time that he pulled out, so did another substance.

©2025 rechvlle do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on any other sites.

[bubblegum-blackwood]

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