#I'm doing my part dot gif

[balamist]

DID YOU KNOW Prince of Persia: The Lost Crown, one of the best metroidvanias out there, is currently 50% off on Steam?

TLC is stylish as hell, has a top-tier soundtrack, and plays incredibly smoothly. And there are accessibility options! (literally won an award for those) Please give it a try ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

ps: the DLC is also top-tier.

UPD: SWITCH VERSION IS ON SALE AS WELL

[tofupixel]

⭐ So you want to learn pixel art? ⭐

🔹 Part 1 of ??? - The Basics!

Edit: Now available in Google Doc format if you don't have a Tumblr account 🥰

Hello, my name is Tofu and I'm a professional pixel artist. I have been supporting myself with freelance pixel art since 2020, when I was let go from my job during the pandemic.

My progress, from 2017 to 2024. IMO the only thing that really matters is time and effort, not some kind of natural talent for art.

This guide will not be comprehensive, as nobody should be expected to read allat. Instead I will lean heavily on my own experience, and share what worked for me, so take everything with a grain of salt. This is a guide, not a tutorial. Cheers!

🔹 Do I need money?

NO!!! Pixel art is one of the most accessible mediums out there.

I still use a mouse because I prefer it to a tablet! You won't be at any disadvantage here if you can't afford the best hardware or software.

Because our canvases are typically very small, you don't need a good PC to run a good brush engine or anything like that.

✨Did you know? One of the most skilled and beloved pixel artists uses MS PAINT! Wow!!

🔹 What software should I use?

Here are some of the most popular programs I see my friends and peers using. Stars show how much I recommend the software for beginners! ⭐

💰 Paid options:

⭐⭐⭐ Aseprite (for PC) - $19.99

This is what I and many other pixel artists use. You may find when applying to jobs that they require some knowledge of Aseprite. Since it has become so popular, companies like that you can swap raw files between artists.

Aseprite is amazingly customizable, with custom skins, scripts and extensions on Itch.io, both free and paid.

If you have ever used any art software before, it has most of the same features and should feel fairly familiar to use. It features a robust animation suite and a tilemap feature, which have saved me thousands of hours of labour in my work. The software is also being updated all the time, and the developers listen to the users. I really recommend Aseprite!

⭐ Photoshop (for PC) - Monthly $$

A decent option for those who already are used to the PS interface. Requires some setup to get it ready for pixel-perfect art, but there are plenty of tutorials for doing so.

Animation is also much more tedious on PS which you may want to consider before investing time!

⭐⭐ ProMotion NG (for PC) - $19.00

An advanced and powerful software which has many features Aseprite does not, including Colour Cycling and animated tiles.

⭐⭐⭐ Pixquare (for iOS) - $7.99 - $19.99 (30% off with code 'tofu'!!)

Probably the best app available for iPad users, in active development, with new features added all the time.

Look! My buddy Jon recommends it highly, and uses it often.

One cool thing about Pixquare is that it takes Aseprite raw files! Many of my friends use it to work on the same project, both in their office and on the go.

⭐ Procreate (for iOS) - $12.99

If you have access to Procreate already, it's a decent option to get used to doing pixel art. It does however require some setup. Artist Pixebo is famously using Procreate, and they have tutorials of their own if you want to learn.

⭐⭐ ReSprite iOS and Android. (free trial, but:) $19.99 premium or $$ monthly

ReSprite is VERY similar in terms of UI to Aseprite, so I can recommend it. They just launched their Android release!

🆓 Free options:

⭐⭐⭐ Libresprite (for PC)

Libresprite is an alternative to Aseprite. It is very, very similar, to the point where documentation for Aseprite will be helpful to Libresprite users.

⭐⭐ Pixilart (for PC and mobile)

A free in-browser app, and also a mobile app! It is tied to the website Pixilart, where artists upload and share their work. A good option for those also looking to get involved in a community.

⭐⭐ Dotpict (for mobile)

Dotpict is similar to Pixilart, with a mobile app tied to a website, but it's a Japanese service. Did you know that in Japanese, pixel art is called 'Dot Art'? Dotpict can be a great way to connect with a different community of pixel artists! They also have prompts and challenges often.

🔹 So I got my software, now what?

◽Nice! Now it's time for the basics of pixel art.

❗ WAIT ❗ Before this section, I want to add a little disclaimer. All of these rules/guidelines can be broken at will, and some 'no-nos' can look amazing when done intentionally.

The pixel-art fundamentals can be exceedingly helpful to new artists, who may feel lost or overwhelmed by choice. But if you feel they restrict you too harshly, don't force yourself! At the end of the day it's your art, and you shouldn't try to contort yourself into what people think a pixel artist 'should be'. What matters is your own artistic expression. 💕👍

◽Phew! With that out of the way...

🔸"The Rules"

There are few hard 'rules' of pixel art, mostly about scaling and exporting. Some of these things will frequently trip up newbies if they aren't aware, and are easy to overlook.

🔹Scaling method

There are a couple ways of scaling your art. The default in most art programs, and the entire internet, is Bi-linear scaling, which usually works out fine for most purposes. But as pixel artists, we need a different method.

Both are scaled up x10. See the difference?

On the left is scaled using Bilinear, and on the right is using Nearest-Neighbor. We love seeing those pixels stay crisp and clean, so we use nearest-neighbor. 

(Most pixel-art programs have nearest-neighbor enabled by default! So this may not apply to you, but it's important to know.)

🔹Mixels

Mixels are when there are different (mixed) pixel sizes in the same image.

Here I have scaled up my art- the left is 200%, and the right is 150%. Yuck!

As we can see, the "pixel" sizes end up different. We generally try to scale our work by multiples of 100 - 200%, 300% etc. rather than 150%. At larger scales however, the minute differences in pixel sizes are hardly noticeable!

Mixels are also sometimes seen when an artist scales up their work, then continues drawing on it with a 1 pixel brush.

Many would say that this is not great looking! This type of pixels can be indicative of a beginner artist. But there are plenty of creative pixel artists out there who mixels intentionally, making something modern and cool.

🔹Saving Your Files

We usually save our still images as .PNGs as they don’t create any JPEG artifacts or loss of quality. It's a little hard to see here, but there are some artifacts, and it looks a little blurry. It also makes the art very hard to work with if we are importing a JPEG.

For animations .GIF is good, but be careful of the 256 colour limit. Try to avoid using too many blending mode layers or gradients when working with animations. If you aren’t careful, your animation could flash afterwards, as the .GIF tries to reduce colours wherever it can. It doesn’t look great!

Here's an old piece from 2021 where I experienced .GIF lossiness, because I used gradients and transparency, resulting in way too many colours.

🔹Pixel Art Fundamentals - Techniques and Jargon

❗❗Confused about Jaggies? Anti-Aliasing? Banding? Dithering? THIS THREAD is for you❗❗ << it's a link, click it!!

As far as I'm concerned, this is THE tutorial of all time for understanding pixel art. These are techniques created and named by the community of people who actually put the list together, some of the best pixel artists alive currently. Please read it!!

🔸How To Learn

Okay, so you have your software, and you're all ready to start. But maybe you need some more guidance? Try these tutorials and resources! It can be helpful to work along with a tutorial until you build your confidence up.

⭐⭐ Pixel Logic (A Digital Book) - $10 A very comprehensive visual guide book by a very skilled and established artist in the industry. I own a copy myself.

⭐⭐⭐ StudioMiniBoss - free A collection of visual tutorials, by the artist that worked on Celeste! When starting out, if I got stuck, I would go and scour his tutorials and see how he did it.

⭐ Lospec Tutorials - free A very large collection of various tutorials from all over the internet. There is a lot to sift through here if you have the time.

⭐⭐⭐ Cyangmou's Tutorials - free (tipping optional) Cyangmou is one of the most respected and accomplished modern pixel artists, and he has amassed a HUGE collection of free and incredibly well-educated visual tutorials. He also hosts an educational stream every week on Twitch called 'pixelart for beginners'.

⭐⭐⭐ Youtube Tutorials - free There are hundreds, if not thousands of tutorials on YouTube, but it can be tricky to find the good ones. My personal recommendations are MortMort, Brandon, and AdamCYounis- these guys really know what they're talking about!

🔸 How to choose a canvas size

When looking at pixel art turorials, we may see people suggest things like 16x16, 32x32 and 64x64. These are standard sizes for pixel art games with tiles. However, if you're just making a drawing, you don't necessarily need to use a standard canvas size like that.

What I like to think about when choosing a canvas size for my illustrations is 'what features do I think it is important to represent?' And make my canvas as small as possible, while still leaving room for my most important elements.

Imagine I have characters in a scene like this:

I made my canvas as small as possible (232 x 314), but just big enough to represent the features and have them be recognizable (it's Good Omens fanart 😤)!! If I had made it any bigger, I would be working on it for ever, due to how much more foliage I would have to render.

If you want to do an illustration and you're not sure, just start at somewhere around 100x100 - 200x200 and go from there.

It's perfectly okay to crop your canvas, or scale it up, or crunch your art down at any point if you think you need a different size. I do it all the time! It only takes a bit of cleanup to get you back to where you were.

🔸Where To Post

Outside of just regular socials, Twitter, Tumblr, Deviantart, Instagram etc, there are a few places that lean more towards pixel art that you might not have heard of.

⭐ Lospec Lospec is a low-res focused art website. Some pieces get given a 'monthly masterpiece' award. Not incredibly active, but I believe there are more features being added often.

⭐⭐ Pixilart Pixilart is a very popular pixel art community, with an app tied to it. The community tends to lean on the young side, so this is a low-pressure place to post with an relaxed vibe.

⭐⭐ Pixeljoint Pixeljoint is one of the big, old-school pixel art websites. You can only upload your art unscaled (1x) because there is a built-in zoom viewer. It has a bit of a reputation for being elitist (back in the 00s it was), but in my experience it's not like that any more. This is a fine place for a pixel artist to post if they are really interested in learning, and the history. The Hall of Fame has some of the most famous / impressive pixel art pieces that paved the way for the work we are doing today.

⭐⭐⭐ Cafe Dot Cafe Dot is my art server so I'm a little biased here. 🍵 It was created during the recent social media turbulence. We wanted a place to post art with no algorithms, and no NFT or AI chuds. We have a heavy no-self-promotion rule, and are more interested in community than skill or exclusivity. The other thing is that we have some kind of verification system- you must apply to be a Creator before you can post in the Art feed, or use voice. This helps combat the people who just want to self-promo and dip, or cause trouble, as well as weed out AI/NFT people. Until then, you are still welcome to post in any of the threads or channels. There is a lot to do in Cafe Dot. I host events weekly, so check the threads!

⭐⭐/r/pixelart The pixel art subreddit is pretty active! I've also heard some of my friends found work through posting here, so it's worth a try if you're looking. However, it is still Reddit- so if you're sensitive to rude people, or criticism you didn't ask for, you may want to avoid this one. Lol

🔸 Where To Find Work

You need money? I got you! As someone who mostly gets scouted on social media, I can share a few tips with you:

Put your email / portfolio in your bio Recruiters don't have all that much time to find artists, make it as easy as possible for someone to find your important information!

Clean up your profile If your profile feed is all full of memes, most people will just tab out rather than sift through. Doesn't apply as much to Tumblr if you have an art tag people can look at.

Post regularly, and repost Activity beats everything in the social media game. It's like rolling the dice, and the more you post the more chances you have. You have to have no shame, it's all business baby

Outside of just posting regularly and hoping people reach out to you, it can be hard to know where to look. Here are a few places you can sign up to and post around on.

/r/INAT INAT (I Need A Team) is a subreddit for finding a team to work with. You can post your portfolio here, or browse for people who need artists.

/r/GameDevClassifieds Same as above, but specifically for game-related projects.

Remote Game Jobs / Work With Indies Like Indeed but for game jobs. Browse them often, or get email notifications.

VGen VGen is a website specifically for commissions. You need a code from another verified artist before you can upgrade your account and sell, so ask around on social media or ask your friends. Once your account is upgraded, you can make a 'menu' of services people can purchase, and they send you an offer which you are able to accept, decline, or counter.

The evil websites of doom: Fiverr and Upwork I don't recommend them!! They take a big cut of your profit, and the sites are teeming with NFT and AI people hoping to make a quick buck. The site is also extremely oversaturated and competitive, resulting in a race to the bottom (the cheapest, the fastest, doing the most for the least). Imagine the kind of clients who go to these websites, looking for the cheapest option. But if you're really desperate...

🔸 Community

I do really recommend getting involved in a community. Finding like-minded friends can help you stay motivated to keep drawing. One day, those friends you met when you were just starting out may become your peers in the industry. Making friends is a game changer!

Discord servers Nowadays, the forums of old are mostly abandoned, and people split off into many different servers. Cafe Dot, Pixel Art Discord (PAD), and if you can stomach scrolling past all the AI slop, you can browse Discord servers here.

Twitch Streams Twitch has kind of a bad reputation for being home to some of the more edgy gamers online, but the pixel art community is extremely welcoming and inclusive. Some of the people I met on Twitch are my friends to this day, and we've even worked together on different projects! Browse pixel art streams here, or follow some I recommend: NickWoz, JDZombi, CupOhJoe, GrayLure, LumpyTouch, FrankiePixelShow, MortMort, Sodor, NateyCakes, NyuraKim, ShinySeabass, I could go on for ever really... There are a lot of good eggs on Pixel Art Twitch.

🔸 Other Helpful Websites

Palettes Lospec has a huge collection of user-made palettes, for any artist who has trouble choosing their colours, or just wants to try something fun. Rejected Palettes is full of palettes that didn't quite make it onto Lospec, ran by people who believe there are no bad colours.

The Spriters Resource TSR is an incredible website where users can upload spritesheets and tilesets from games. You can browse for your favourite childhood game, and see how they made it! This website has helped me so much in understanding how game assets come together in a scene.

VGMaps Similar to the above, except there are entire maps laid out how they would be played. This is incredible if you have to do level design, or for mocking up a scene for fun.

Game UI Database Not pixel-art specific, but UI is a very challenging part of graphics, so this site can be a game-changer for finding good references!

Retronator A digital newspaper for pixel-art lovers! New game releases, tutorials, and artworks!

Itch.io A website where people can upload, games, assets, tools... An amazing hub for game devs and game fans alike. A few of my favourite tools: Tiled, PICO-8, Pixel Composer, Juice FX, Magic Pencil for Aseprite

🔸 The End?

This is just part 1 for now, so please drop me a follow to see any more guides I release in the future. I plan on doing some writeups on how I choose colours, how to practise, and more!

I'm not an expert by any means, but everything I did to get to where I am is outlined in this guide. Pixel art is my passion, my job and my hobby! I want pixel art to be recognized everywhere as an art-form, a medium of its own outside of game-art or computer graphics!

This guide took me a long time, and took a lot of research and experience. Consider following me or supporting me if you are feeling generous.

And good luck to all the fledgling pixel artists, I hope you'll continue and have fun. I hope my guide helped you, and don't hesitate to send me an ask if you have any questions! 💕

My other tutorials (so far): How to draw Simple Grass for a game Hue Shifting

[cassiemaebarnes]

I Noticed

Bucky x reader

Summary: You and Bucky are good friends, but you didn't realize he knew practically everything about you...

Word Count: 4,779

The conference room was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon meeting. Everyone was already seated – Steve flipping through a tablet, Natasha sipping coffee, Sam looking like he was seconds away from falling asleep with his head propped on one hand.

You were seated toward the middle, elbow on the table, cheek in your palm, staring at the clock.

"Ugh," you groaned softly. "I'm already thirsty. I should've brought water."

Sam cracked one eye open. "Rookie mistake."

You gave him a half-hearted glare. "Thanks, Sam. So helpful."

Then your stomach growled and you sighed again. "I should've brought snacks, too. I have a bag of those garlic parmesan Dot’s pretzels in my room – they’re my favorite. I was gonna bring 'em but I forgot. They would've been perfect right now."

"Garlic pretzels in a closed room? Bold choice," Natasha quipped, smirking over her mug.

"They’re elite. You wouldn’t understand."

Just as you finished your sentence, the door opened and in walked Bucky, casual as ever, looking like he hadn’t rushed at all despite being a solid five minutes late.

"Hey," he said to the room before walking over to your seat.

Without saying anything else, he placed a bottle of water and a Ziploc bag full of garlic parmesan Dot’s pretzels in front of you, then sat down beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You blinked at the items.

So did everyone else.

Steve’s mouth parted. Natasha looked genuinely surprised. Sam sat up straighter, eyebrows raised. Even Tony, who’d just entered behind Bucky, paused mid-step.

You looked at the bag. Then the water. Then at Bucky.

"...You literally just brought me exactly what I said I wanted like ten seconds ago."

Bucky blinked at you. "Yeah? I figured you’d be thirsty – you never bring water to meetings. And you usually get hungry around this time, so I brought snacks."

There was a beat of silence.

And then it hit.

"Oh my God," Sam laughed, pointing dramatically. "They’re not even dating and he knows her snack schedule."

Steve covered a smile with his hand. "That’s...actually kind of impressive."

Natasha leaned forward. "You even brought her favorite flavor?"

Bucky frowned slightly, confused. "Well, yeah. She likes the garlic parmesan ones."

"HE KNOWS THE FLAVOR, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," Tony declared like a ring announcer. "WE’VE GOT A SOFTIE IN THE WILD."

You buried your face in your hands, cheeks burning. "Oh my God, you guys–"

Bucky just shrugged, annoyingly unbothered. "What? She gets grumpy when she’s hungry."

And somehow that only made it worse.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

You hadn’t even opened the bag of pretzels yet. They just sat there in front of you, taunting you while your face turned redder by the second.

And Bucky? Completely calm. Like being a walking encyclopedia on your habits was not wildly incriminating.

That is, until Sam leaned forward with a grin.

"Okay, Barnes. Pop quiz."

Bucky gave him a suspicious side-eye. "Why?"

"Because," Tony chimed in, "you just demonstrated an alarming level of girlfriend knowledge for someone who's allegedly not dating her."

"We're not–!" you started, but Natasha held up a finger to silence you.

"This is more fun."

She turned to Bucky. "Favorite coffee order. Go."

"Caramel iced latte, extra ice."

Your jaw dropped slightly. "That’s–"

"Correct," Sam cut in, smirking. "Alright, alright – shampoo and conditioner brand?"

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. "Pantene – the coconut scent."

You whipped around to stare at him. "How the hell do you know that?!"

He looked at you like it was obvious. "Because your bathroom always smells like coconut. And that one time you stayed at my place after a mission, you complained that I only had 2-in-1."

Natasha bit back a laugh. "We’re logging that for future teasing."

"Okay, okay," Tony leaned on the table like he was hosting a game show. "Let’s make this harder. Favorite snack that's not garlic parmesan pretzels?"

"Peanut M&M’s. But she picks out the brown ones and eats them last because she says they taste the most ‘chocolatey.’"

You slapped a hand over your mouth. "Are you keeping notes somewhere?!"

Bucky just shrugged like it was no big deal. “You talk a lot when we hang out.”

"My heart can’t take this," Steve said, dramatically clutching his chest.

"Mine either," Sam added. "This is some Hallmark level slow burn stuff and I didn’t even know I wanted it."

"Do you know her favorite hoodie too?" Natasha asked.

He glanced at you, then pointed without looking. "That light grey one she stole from me? Wears it three times a week, minimum."

You gaped at him. "...You let me steal that."

"You think I didn’t notice?" he said, and you caught the tiniest curve of a smirk on his lips.

The room collectively lost it.

"Okay, this is criminal," Tony declared. "I’ve seen actual married couples who know less about each other."

"You’re clearly in love with her," Sam added helpfully.

Bucky’s smirk dropped slightly, and for a split second, something unreadable flickered in his expression as he glanced at you – soft, unsure, and maybe a little too earnest.

You froze.

So did he.

And then Natasha cleared her throat. "Well, this meeting is officially a disaster, but I’m emotionally invested now."

Steve gave you both a look. "Anything either of you wanna share with the class?"

You made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, covering your face with your hands again.

Beside you, Bucky just leaned back in his chair and said, “Can we please talk about the mission now? Before they start planning our wedding?”

But even as he said it, you felt his knee brush against yours under the table.

--

The meeting finally wrapped up after an hour of mission briefings, supply checklists, and Tony trying to convince Steve to let him name the next Quinjet The Iron Bus. Everyone stood, gathering their things, but the tension in the room wasn’t about the mission at all – it was about you and Bucky.

You had barely pushed your chair back before Sam clapped his hands once and turned to Bucky with renewed mischief in his eyes.

"Alright, now that the boring stuff’s out of the way – round two."

Bucky blinked. "Seriously?"

"You thought we forgot? That whole time I was pretending to care about drone placements, I was building a list."

"I was also building a list," Natasha added, already pulling out her phone.

Steve sighed but didn’t stop them. “I mean…I am kind of curious now.”

Tony grinned. “This is the best part of my day.”

You groaned. “Oh my god, guys–”

“Nope,” Sam said. “Too late. Barnes, what’s her favorite candle scent?”

“Vanilla,” Bucky said without pause.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Okay, but how do you know that?”

“You lit one in my kitchen once. Said it was ‘elite cozy vibes.’”

Tony choked on a laugh. “He even quoted her. This is so real.”

Natasha stepped in next. “Alright – what color does she always pick for her nails?”

“Soft pink. Unless she’s in a mood, then it’s that dark reddish-purple color…what’s it called? ‘Black Cherry?’”

You squinted. “Okay, that’s either creepy or impressive–”

“Impressive,” Sam decided. “Definitely impressive.”

Steve raised a brow. “What about her go-to song when she’s in a bad mood?”

Bucky smiled a little. “idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish.”

You blinked. “Wait, how do you even know that?”

“You played it on repeat for like four days after that one mission with the HYDRA facility. I asked you if you were okay and you said, ‘I’m fine, I just need to cry and hydrate.’”

Natasha was actually laughing now. “He’s got quotes, too.”

Tony raised a finger like he was conducting an interview. “Okay, Bucky – final round. What’s her go-to breakfast when she’s had a rough night?”

Bucky leaned back casually. “Scrambled eggs with pepperjack cheese, hot sauce, two slices of toast, and coffee with oat milk and a tiny bit of cinnamon.”

Everyone turned to you like you’d just been caught in 4K.

You stared at him. “You remembered all of that?”

He shrugged. “I’ve made it for you before.”

Sam fake-fainted onto the conference table.

“I can’t take this,” Steve said, rubbing his temples. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s domestic,” Natasha corrected. “And I love it.”

You groaned again and dropped your head onto your crossed arms. “Can the floor swallow me now?”

Bucky leaned over and murmured, “I think they’re just jealous.”

You peeked up at him. “Of what?”

He gave you that tiny smirk again. “That I pay attention.”

You sat up and shoved the bag of pretzels toward Bucky with a flustered laugh. “Here. Take these back. You’ve earned them.”

Bucky just grinned and tossed one in his mouth. “They taste better when I’m right.”

--

Eventually, the room emptied out. Steve wrangled Tony into actually submitting a mission report, Nat headed to the gym, and Sam left muttering about needing a nap.

You lingered, still sitting in your chair, picking at the label on your water bottle while Bucky packed up his notes. The teasing had died down, but your heart hadn’t quite stopped doing somersaults.

He was halfway to the door when you said, softly, “Hey, Buck?”

He paused, looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

You motioned for him to come back. “Can I ask you something?”

His brows rose, but he came back over, folding his arms as he leaned against the edge of the table beside you. “You wanna quiz me now?”

“Maybe.” You tilted your head, watching him. “I just wanna see how far this weird��psychic Barnes ability goes.”

He gave a lazy grin. “Alright. Hit me.”

You took a breath. “Okay. Pads or tampons?”

He blinked once. “Both.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Details?”

He scratched his jaw, not missing a beat. “You use the regular tampons most days, but you always keep a pack of those thin pads with the wings in your bathroom drawer – orange wrapper, right? You said the combo makes you feel less paranoid about leaks when you’re out on missions.”

Your jaw dropped a little.

Bucky’s smirk faded, growing a little more serious when he saw your expression. “I wasn’t, like, digging through your stuff or anything. You asked me to grab painkillers once while you were curled up on the couch, and I saw the pack when I opened the drawer. And you mentioned the tampon thing that one time when we got stuck waiting in that safe house for hours and you were grumpy.”

You swallowed. “Okay…uh. Chocolate preference?”

“Milk chocolate when you’re just craving sugar, milk chocolate with caramel when you’re on your period.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t stop. “When I cry, what do I want someone to do?”

“Sit with you. Don’t talk unless you ask. You like quiet comfort.”

You were fully staring at him now, unable to find any words, so he filled the silence gently.

“I know you get really overwhelmed when you feel like someone’s watching too closely while you’re upset. You hate feeling...exposed. So I don’t stare. I just stay close.”

You blinked fast, chest tightening with something way bigger than embarrassment now.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “Why do you pay attention like that?”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder, not meeting your eyes at first. “Because you matter to me. And…when someone matters, you notice things. The important stuff. The things that make them feel seen.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, overwhelmed. “No one’s ever paid attention like that. No one’s ever noticed.”

Finally, he looked at you again. And this time, there was no smirk, no teasing grin – just something quiet and sure in his eyes.

“I noticed.”

After a moment, you smiled faintly. “What’s my favorite place to be when I’m sad?”

“Anywhere I am,” he said without missing a beat.

And this time, you didn’t even try to hide the way your heart skipped.

--

Later that evening, the compound was quieter – mission prep done, sparring sessions wrapped up, and the post-meeting teasing finally done.

You’d snuck off for a hot shower, hoping to wash away the lingering flush in your cheeks from earlier. The Avengers had been relentless, and even though Bucky hadn’t said anything else since the conference room, his words still echoed in your head.

I noticed.

You exhaled under the spray and tried not to think about it too hard.

Meanwhile, in the common room, the chaos was still quietly unfolding.

Tony strolled in with a tablet in hand, looking far too pleased with himself. “Alright, children, it’s that magical time – takeout vote. We've got Thai, Indian, tacos, pizza, sushi, and that weird little vegan place Bruce likes.”

“I swear to God, if you put seaweed bowls on the menu again–” Sam started.

“Focus,” Tony cut him off, tapping the screen. “We’ll tally up votes. Bucky, where’s your girl?”

Bucky, sprawled comfortably on the couch with one leg slung over the side, didn’t even flinch at the phrasing. “Showering.”

“Wow,” Natasha muttered. “Didn’t even blink at that.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “And you’re voting for her too, I assume?”

Bucky nodded, nonchalant. “Two for Indian.”

Steve looked up from his book. “Did she say that?”

“Nope.”

Sam smirked immediately. “So we’re guessing now?”

“I’m not guessing,” Bucky replied evenly. “She’s not in a pizza mood today.”

Tony looked at him like he was a contestant on a game show. “So you're locking in Indian for the both of you. No communication. No signals. No magic powers?”

Bucky shrugged. “Yep.”

“I’m starting a betting pool,” Sam announced, pulling out his phone.

“I want in,” Natasha said, crossing her arms.

“She loves pizza,” Steve reminded. “Are we sure about this?”

“She does love pizza,” Bucky agreed, arms folded behind his head. “But not tonight.”

Sam grinned wide. “Alright, let’s take some bets. Five says she picks pizza. Anyone else?”

Money and pride were quickly thrown around – half the team convinced Bucky’s luck had to run out eventually, the other half wary because…well. It was Bucky. And somehow he just knew things about you.

Five minutes later, you wandered into the common room in fresh clothes, hair damp and rubbing moisturizer into your face with zero awareness of the quiet, expectant tension in the air.

“Hey,” you said casually, “what’s going on?”

Tony cleared his throat, playing it cool. “Just figuring out dinner. Got a few options – Thai, Indian, tacos, pizza, sushi, and Bruce’s vegan sadness bowls. What sounds good?”

You made a face, thinking. “Hmm, not really in the mood for pizza today. Indian.”

The room exploded.

“NO WAY,” Nat yelled.

“Unbelievable,” Steve said.

Sam stood and threw his arms in the air. “THIS IS RIGGED.”

Tony shouted over the chaos, “I CALL WITCHCRAFT.”

You froze, blinking at everyone, confused.

“Did I miss something?” you asked slowly.

Bucky just sat there calmly, like he hadn’t just won the mind-reader Olympics. “Told them you’d want Indian.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Did you spy on me in the shower or something?”

“Nope,” he said, looking smug. “Just know you.”

The team descended into chaos again – some demanding their money back, others insisting on a rematch next week.

You just grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and chucked it at Bucky’s chest.

He caught it, laughed, and tossed it back. “I’m undefeated.”

--

The food arrived about twenty minutes later, the smell of warm spices and garlic naan instantly filling the common area. Tony called out a triumphant “Dinner’s here!” like he’d made it himself, and everyone swarmed the table to claim their orders.

You padded over a little slower, then Bucky turned from the table and held up a hand.

“I got your plate,” he said casually, already balancing two in his hands.

You paused. “Wait, I didn’t even tell you–”

“I know.” He handed it over without fanfare.

You looked down.

Your favorite combo – chicken tikka masala, a scoop of basmati rice (but not too much), a piece of garlic naan torn in half, some cucumber raita on the side, and a few spoonfuls of that tangy chickpea salad you always liked when you weren’t in the mood for something too heavy.

You stared at the plate like it had been conjured by sorcery.

He turned and headed for the couch like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just read your mind again. And behind you, the rest of the team was once more staring – some with mouths open, others quietly shaking their heads.

Sam muttered, “Alright, I’m starting to believe he’s just a very hot, brooding psychic.”

Natasha leaned toward Tony. “We should run a brain scan.”

Tony looked vaguely offended. “Trust me, I already tried. He’s just…annoying.”

You followed Bucky to the couch and sat beside him, setting your plate on the coffee table before sinking into the cushions.

“You keep doing that,” you said after a second, still looking at your dinner.

“Doing what?” he replied, tearing off a piece of naan without looking at you.

“Knowing what I want. Before I even know what I want.”

That made him glance over. His voice was quiet now, just between the two of you. “Is it weird?”

You thought about it. “It’s…not. I mean, it should be. But it’s not. It’s actually kinda–”

Your voice caught, the word sitting there, unsaid.

Comforting.

Bucky nodded like he already knew.

Then, like he wanted to shift the moment before it got too close to something you couldn’t take back, he leaned in a little with a smirk. “Don’t act too impressed. I just paid attention. And you’re kinda predictable.”

You nudged his arm with your elbow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” He bumped his knee gently against yours. “Still right, though.”

The rest of dinner passed in a cozy haze – soft laughter, shared food, everyone gradually settling into their usual spots. But the way Bucky’s knee stayed resting against yours, neither of you moving – it felt like something new.

--

A while later, plates were cleaned, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table, and stomachs full enough that no one was in the mood to move much – perfect conditions for the sacred Avengers tradition: movie night.

“Alright,” Tony called out from where he was already draped dramatically over the recliner. “What are our options tonight?”

Okay, we got The Godfather, Jaws, Tangled, Mission Impossible, 21 Jump Street, and John Wick,” Sam read off the screen.

You stood, stretching. “I’ll be right back. Don’t vote without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve said, even though everyone absolutely would.

The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Tony sat up like a meerkat. “Alright. Let’s go. What’s your pick, Barnes?”

“John Wick,” Bucky said, without even looking up from where he was idly spinning the empty naan container on the table.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Nat whipped her head around. “You’re not choosing Tangled?”

“Nope.”

“She just said the other day that she wanted to watch it,” Nat reminded him, pointing dramatically. “Like, word for word, ‘I wanna rewatch Tangled soon.’ You’re telling me you’re going against that?”

Bucky just shrugged, totally unbothered. “I know what she wants tonight.”

Tony looked at Sam, eyes narrowed. “This is the beginning of the fall of House Barnes. The man’s gotten cocky.”

“I give him one more round,” Sam muttered, already pulling out his wallet. “Five bucks says she picks Tangled.”

“Ten says 21 Jump Street,” Clint called from the kitchen. “I say she’s in a comedy mood.”

“I’m going full chaos,” Nat added, grinning. “Twenty on Jaws.”

Steve, ever neutral, just raised his eyebrows. “You really think she wants an action movie right now?”

Bucky finally looked up. “She’s tired. Mentally wiped. Tangled is comfort, yeah, but she wants to zone out, not cry over animated lanterns.”

Tony blinked. “You’re playing 4D chess.”

“She’s playing checkers,” Bucky replied calmly. “I just know the board.”

The room was a barely contained mess of betting and bickering by the time you reappeared.

You sat back down, cozying up with the blanket you’d left on the couch. “We vote yet?”

“We were just about to,” Steve said, way too quickly.

They went around the room, collecting votes with forced casualness.

Then, all eyes turned to you.

You paused, lips pursed in thought. “Hmm…”

The silence was deafening.

You tapped your chin. “Not really in the mood for Disney right now, actually…”

Someone gasped.

“…Let’s do John Wick.”

The room erupted.

“WHAT?!”

“No way – NO WAY–”

“Check her room for bugs!”

“ARE YOU TWO SECRETLY DATING?!”

Tony was pacing, Sam collapsed dramatically onto the rug, and Nat looked like she was genuinely questioning reality.

Meanwhile, Bucky just leaned back, arms crossed, as calm as ever.

You blinked at the chaos. “Did I…do something?”

“Oh, you did something,” Sam groaned, flopping backward.

“You broke them,” Bucky muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, his voice full of quiet amusement.

You looked over at him, fighting back a smile. “You knew I’d pick it.”

He met your gaze, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Course I did.”

And somehow, in the middle of popcorn-throwing accusations and Tony trying to demand a federal investigation, your heart started beating just a little faster.

--

The next morning started like any other: coffee, early training, then hitting the showers.

You stretched your arms behind your head, grimacing. “I’m starving. I want eggs. Like, five eggs.”

“Go shower, Egg Queen,” Sam called. “We’ll save you a spot.”

You flipped him off over your shoulder, already headed toward your room.

Once you disappeared around the corner, the rest of the group started trickling toward the kitchen. Bucky walked in with Steve, Nat, and Sam, still towel-drying his hair, when the teasing immediately resumed.

“So,” Nat said, leaning against the counter with a smirk, “you gonna make her eggs now, Barnes? Scrambled? Sunny side up? Whole omelet situation?”

Bucky gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Would. But she’s not gonna want eggs anymore.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “She literally said the word ‘eggs’ like two minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” Sam added. “Plural. With intention.”

“She’s gonna change her mind,” Bucky said calmly, reaching for the pancake mix.

There was a beat of silence.

“…You’re kidding,” Clint said, appearing behind them and already suspicious.

“Nope.”

Nat crossed her arms. “Alright. What is she gonna want?”

“Chocolate chip pancakes,” Bucky said, pulling ingredients from the cabinet. “Light layer of peanut butter on top. Not spread thick. Just enough.”

“And syrup?” Steve asked, deadpan.

“Just a little. Thin drizzle over the top, not drowning.”

“Drink?” Sam challenged, narrowing his eyes.

“Chocolate milk.”

At that, no one said anything for a second. They just stared. Nat was already pulling out her phone.

“I’m documenting this. If you’re wrong, I’m sending the video to every group chat we have.”

“Do it,” Bucky said, already whisking batter like a man with zero fear of failure.

Ten minutes passed. Pancakes were golden, peanut butter spread lightly, and the chocolate milk was already poured in your favorite mug.

And then, you walked in, hair damp and pulled back, hoodie sleeves half covering your hands. You opened the fridge, still blinking from the heat of the shower.

“Hey,” Bucky said without turning around. “Want me to make your eggs?”

You stared into the fridge for a beat. “Mm…no, actually. I think I want pancakes.”

The room went dead silent.

You didn’t notice. “Do we have chocolate chips?”

Still silence.

“Oh, and chocolate milk,” you added, pulling the fridge door closed. “You know, that sounds really good actually.”

You turned.

The plate was already sitting on the counter.

Your chocolate milk was already in your mug.

You blinked. “Wait. Did you–”

“Yeah.” Bucky slid the plate toward you with a casual smile. “Figured you’d want pancakes.”

You looked down at it, then back up. “Okay, that’s…insane.”

“I’m used to you changing your mind,” he said with a little shrug. “I listen.”

And then, the room exploded.

“NOPE – NOPE, I’M OUT!” Sam stormed out of the kitchen.

Nat was filming again. “I hate how calm he is. Like he didn’t just perform witchcraft again.”

“I’m convinced,” Clint muttered. “They’re telepathically bonded.”

Steve just looked vaguely disturbed. “I don’t even know my own favorite pancake setup that well.”

You blinked at Bucky again, who was completely unfazed, like this wasn’t the millionth time in twenty-four hours he’d rearranged reality by knowing you a little too well.

You took a bite of the pancake, still warm and soft and perfect.

“…Okay,” you mumbled with your mouth full. “This is actually kinda amazing.”

He leaned against the counter, smug as ever. “Told you.”

--

The others slowly trickled out of the kitchen after breakfast, muttering in stunned tones, still trying to recover. Nat was rewatching her own footage like it was evidence in a conspiracy theory. Tony was threatening to install surveillance.

But eventually, it was just you and Bucky, the clink of your fork on the plate and the hum of the fridge the only sounds left behind.

You took another bite, slower this time. It was still warm.

You glanced at him, leaning back on the counter across from you, arms crossed, looking completely at ease – like this wasn’t the weirdest thing in the world, like he hadn’t just predicted your entire breakfast down to the drizzle of syrup.

“…How do you do that?” you asked, finally, voice soft in the quiet.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

You gave him a look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Bucky.”

He smirked a little, then pushed off the counter and walked over to you, grabbing a clean mug and pouring himself some coffee. He didn’t answer right away.

“I just pay attention,” he said eventually, voice quieter now. “That’s all.”

You swallowed the last bite and leaned forward on your elbows. “Yeah, but…it’s more than that. You don’t just notice, like, big stuff. You know all these little things about me. Things most people don’t even think to remember.”

He looked over at you, gaze steady but warm. “Well, most people don’t really look at you the way I do.”

You blinked.

“Not in a creepy way,” he added quickly, a hint of a smile breaking through. “Just…I notice things.”

He sat across from you, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug. “You start craving chocolate when you're stressed. You say you want eggs, but if you’ve just showered, you usually go for something sweet instead. You hum when you’re thinking. And when you’re overwhelmed, you get really quiet – not annoyed, just kind of…floaty. Like your brain’s stuck buffering.”

Your breath caught a little, something fluttering deep in your chest.

“And you always drink chocolate milk when you feel safe,” he added, softer this time. “Not just when you’re hungry.”

You looked down at your mug. You hadn’t even realized that.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it felt heavier – comfortable, but with something unspoken stretched between you.

“…Why?” you asked, finally.

He looked up.

You met his eyes. “Why do you notice all that?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a moment, like he was deciding how honest to be.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper: “Because you make it easy to care.”

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

He took a breath, eyes flicking down to the table, then back up.

“I’ve had to watch my back for a long time. I notice things – it’s how I survive. But you…” He gave a quiet laugh, like it surprised even him. “You’re the first person who made me want to notice the good stuff. The small stuff. Just so I could take care of it.”

That flutter in your chest turned into a full-blown ache.

You stared at him, unsure what to say, heart pounding.

But before either of you could say another word, Sam’s voice yelled from the other room:

“Hey, Barnes! If you’re done being a walking love song, can you bring the remote?!”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Every time.”

You were still looking at him, a soft smile pulling at the corner of your lips. “You’re kind of a sap.”

He grinned at that, his eyes flicking to yours with a spark. “Only for you.”

And then he got up, grabbed the remote, and tossed a wink over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

Leaving you alone in the kitchen.

With your perfect pancakes.

And a heart that wouldn’t stop racing.

--

Masterlist

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd

[prettyngeto]

PROLOGUE || signed, sealed, delivered (i'm yours) - 18+

sukuna x f!reader - series

summary: one night (and one wine bottle in), you decide to sign up for an anonymous pen pal programme at uni. sukuna was given two options - a therapist or a pen pal. you can guess which one he chose. only problem? you hated each other's guts in real life.

content: uni au, anonymous pen pals, academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, bad boy sukuna x fed up reader, forensic sciences student! sukuna, mutual pining masked as academic warfare, sukuna lashes out at everyone except her because yes... he's still a little shit though, reader has a cute obsession with sea animals - specifically sharks, eventual smut 🌚

main masterlist || jjk masterlist

series masterlist ⌯⌲ prologue ⌯⌲ chapter one (tba)

Dr Yumi Takahashi’s office smelt like oranges and vanilla - sweet and serene. Ryomen Sukuna hated it with every fibre of his being.

He sat slouched in the annoyingly comfortable seat across her desk, arms folded tight across his broad chest. His gaze scanned the room in quiet disdain before honing in on her baby blue blazer. Then lower - to the enamel pin on her lapel that read: ‘catch vibes, not viruses’. God help him. He fought the urge to scoff, lips curling, tongue flicking over his lip ring - a nervous habit disguised as irritation. The fabric of his black compression shirt stretched over solid muscle and tattooed skin as he shifted, itching to bolt out the door at any given moment.

“So, Ryomen,” Dr Takahashi began, voice eerily soft, placing her mug of lavender tea down to put on her signature pair of lime-green rimmed glasses. “Let’s talk about what happened in Professor Kimura’s class.” 

“I didn’t do shit,” he snapped.

“Language.” She chimed, eyes peeking up at him over the frame of her glasses disapprovingly whilst pointing to the poster behind her that read ‘No vulgar vocabulary!!’, complete with a smiley face in the corner. She opened a purple polka dotted file, RYOMEN SUKUNA, printed out in bold across the front.  

“Let’s get back to the issue at hand. You slammed a textbook so hard you cracked the desk Ryomen.” She paused, hands folded as she leaned forward. “You wanna tell me why?”

He scoffed, irritation growing once more. “He said I was wrong just because I didn’t cite his paper. Sue me for not wanting to kiss his academic ass. Besides, it’s not my fault he wrote a whole load of bullshit. I cited three other papers - all peer-reviewed by the way - was that not good enough for him?” 

Dr Takahashi blinked slowly. Calmly. Deadly. “You have anger issues, love.” 

“Tch, no shit.” He mutters, rolling his eyes. 

She remained silent, ignoring his quiet jab. She simply opened her drawer to pull out a floral folder, sliding it across the desk with the air of someone offering a dessert menu. “Two options.” She hummed, pushing her glasses up her nose, holding up her index finger. “Option one: therapy. Weekly anger management sessions. No exceptions.” 

Sukuna paled, mouth parting slightly in horror. Sit in a room with some shrink and talk about his feelings for the better part of the day? Fuck no. 

“…What’s the other option?” He muttered, tongue flicking out to tap at his lip ring again. 

She smiled. Sweet. Slightly sadistic. There wasn’t much that could scare Sukuna. But Dr Takahashi’s smile? Yeah, that shit made the list. 

She slid across a bright yellow pamphlet, a cartoon envelope taking up most of the page. “Option two: you join the university’s anonymous pen pal programme.” Her smile widened. “Organised by yours truly”

He balked. His eyes flicked up at her. Then at the leaflet. Then, back at her, squinting like she’d just asked him to scale Everest with a fucking toothpick. Hell, at this rate, he’d rather do that.

“You want me to write? Letters? To some fuckass stranger? Like it's 1725?”

“Writing is a powerful emotional outlet, Ryomen.” She explained, with the patience of a monk. “And it’s anonymous, no names, no faces. Just pure communication. I think it could do you some good.” 

“I refuse.” 

Her smile sharpened - no more softness, just pure sadism.

Sukuna shivered.

“Shall I book your first therapy session then?” she hummed, voice sickly sweet.

His eyes flitted back to the therapy form. He imagined someone staring at him, asking him: ‘And how did that make you feel?’ with faux sympathy. It made him want to punch a wall. Or maybe someone. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, seething silently, crimson eyes fixed on the stupid pamphlet.

“....Fine,” he muttered. “Give me the damn pen.”

A FEW HOURS LATER - 2AM, THE GIRLS' DORMS

You sat cross-legged against the headboard of your bed, laptop perched on your thighs as you took another swig of your wine bottle. Yes, bottle - because somewhere around your fourth sip, you decided glasses were beneath you. 

10 Things I Hate About You was playing for what was probably the millionth time in the background, when your laptop pinged. A new email? Who in their right mind was sending campus-wide emails at two in the fucking morning? 

I regret to inform you that curiosity (and alcohol) won this time - you open it.

“Not therapy. Not journaling. But a little bit of both.” ‘Dr. Y. Takahashi’s new wellbeing initiative—connect through anonymous letters!’ 

Well fuck… that was poetic, (according to your wine-hazy brain.)

Naturally, you did what anyone halfway through a bottle of Chardonnay and going through a quarter life crisis would do right now. You signed up.

ᯓ★ notes from star: IM SO EXCITED FOR THIS SERIES GUYS i'm cooking so hard, trust. as always, comments and reblogs appreciated and let me know if you wanna be in the taglist!! mwah <3

PRETTYNGETO© 2025 - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. DO NOT PLAGIARISE, TRANSLATE OR REPOST MY WORKS ON ANY OTHER SOCIAL PLATFORMS

[shotmrmiller]

I'm your only situationship.

A/N : yall i stayed up til 324 am writing this. I felt like if i went to bed still only having it as a thought and not on 'paper' thats unacceptable. If i gotta think about this then so do yall! it was also supposed to be a small one shot but it got wildly out of hand im not sorry.

18+ MDNI

TW: typical smut, EXPLICIT mmkay im talkin clutch ur pearls explicit.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Simon had finally come home from a grueling 6-month mission. All he wanted was some Kentucky bourbon with you at your favorite seedy bar. 

Once he was home, Simon cleaned up, put on a black clinical mask, and sent a text to you to meet him there. As he finished his first glass of the night, a rather attractive young woman approached him, asking if she could buy him a drink. 

“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around, lovie?”

“Not at all. This is after all the 21st century. I’m simply asking— wouldn’t want any missus at home getting upset.”

“There’s no one at home for me, lass.”

“Well then, how about you get yourself another glass, my treat, and we’ll see where this night takes us?” 

He slightly nodded —he’d never say no to a free drink— and as she left to order a drink, he took his phone out to text you again.

“C’mon, pet. I’ll cover the tab. Too good f’me, now?”

His phone vibrated a minute later.

“I can’t today, Si.”

“Why not? I know you don’t go out on Sundays.”

As the young woman came back, drinks in hand, he lifted the screen to read your response.

“I’ve got a dick appointment~ It’s been a year and then some and I’m gonna claw at my walls if I don’t get a fix ASAP.”

Simon goes tense— soft blues hardening to a silver and he’s gripping his phone so hard it might crack. He pulls up your contact and calls you within seconds.

“Hiya, Si!” 

“What the fuck is a dick appointment?”

“Oh,” you giggle. “I forget you older folk don’t know ‘bout that. It’s just a one-night fling. No commitments or nothin'.’ Exactly what I need right now.” You don’t tell him that the reason you’ve practically regrown your hymen is that when you’re best friends with Simon, every other male in existence pales in comparison. 

“Anyway Si-, he’s getting here in like an hour-”

“No.” And hangs up. 

The young woman who’s casually rubbing his bicep and shoulder gets practically flung off of him, as he gets up off the bar stool so fast it’s falling back with a loud clang, and he’s yanking his leather jacket on and pulling on his leather gloves so hard they’re about to become fingerless—

“Hey! I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend?!”

One gloved hand gripping the front door, he turns his head slightly to her and says, “Pet, with how good I’m gonna fuck her, she won’t even have to ask to know she’s mine.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You’re standing in the bathroom with your liquid eyeliner in one hand and phone in the other, staring at the ended call screen. ‘Weird,’ you think, then shrug and put the phone down. ‘Maybe the call got dropped.’

You finally complete the look with your false lashes when there’s a very hard knock on your door. You frown as you look at your phone screen. ‘7:14 pm’. You know the guy said at 8 and you’re in one of Simon’s big shirts he always forgets and your hair is still tied up in an oversized pink and white polka dot scrunchie— The pink leopard print booty shorts you’ve got on will suffice. 

The second time there’s a knock it’s even louder. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m coming!” 

You open the door and say, “I’m sorry I took so long, I—”

Simon flies past you, with a rough shoulder bump and you turn to look at him and he’s almost sprinting to the bedroom, slamming the door open—

“Simon, what the fuck? What’re you doin—”

“Where is he?”, he snarls.

“Who?! Are you talking about my date? He’s not getting here til 8! And why’re you slamming doors in my apartment like you pay my rent?!”

You see Simon deflate immediately at the important part of your answer and chooses to ignore the rest as he takes off his jacket and walks to your hall closet to hang it. Closing your door and locking it, you growl out,

“You need to leave. I haven’t even finished getting ready. I promise I’ll—”

“No, pet.”

“Will you quit interrupting me! Simon, I swear—”

“Pet.” 

You’re holding a scream behind your teeth, about to rip the hair out of your scalp when you see Simon take one loop of his mask off from around his ear and then the other. You gape. You’ve seen Simon without his mask— that isn’t the reason you can no longer find your voice. It’s the way he put his gloved middle finger in between his teeth and pulled it off so sensually. You can feel your cheeks and ears radiate heat from just seeing the tip of his pink tongue. Christ, you’re down horrendously.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, to distract yourself from the fact that you’re getting wet over an interaction so chaste when Simon is touching your ass, giving it a hard squeeze, before moving down to the back of your thighs and lifting you up. You startle at the movement and throw your arms around his neck out of habit, hoping he won’t drop you in the move to your bedroom.

He presses you against the wall with his hips, then grabs both of your ankles from behind his lower back and hooks the back of your knees over his forearms. Simon noses your jaw and starts grinding his clothed erection deliciously hard over the definitely wet spot on your shorts and growls out, 

“If you think,” grind “that I’m gonna allow My,” grind “Girl,”  grind—and you whimper in his ear,  “get fucked by some little cock two pump chump,” he gives a forced chuckle, “you must be daft, pet. Or maybe you’re doing it on purpose, eh? Trying to get my attention? Well, you’ve got it now. “ 

He moves his face to hover his lips over yours— you can lightly smell the bourbon he drank earlier— and he whispers, “You ever like this and I’m around, you come to me. And if I’m away, you wait for me like a good girl and when I come back I’ll give this,” he taps your pussy over your shorts, “greedy little cunt all the cock it can take.”

With a shaky breath, you nod before he kisses you, his bourbon-flavored tongue curling against yours, and you’re moaning into it because you’ve wanted this for too long and he’s finally touching you. Curling your fingers into his ash-brown hair, you move your mouth to his neck, to the right of his adam’s apple, took a bit of skin between your teeth and sucked. 

Simon hisses, dips his fingertips into your flesh hard enough to bruise, and all but yanks you off the wall to toss you onto your bed. 

You yelp as you bounce from the force of his throw— you’re still bouncing on the bed when Simon grabs the waistband of your shorts and knickers to pull right off, which you’re grateful for because the grey knickers you got on aren’t what anyone would wear for a first, second nor third impression.

Simon grabs both of the back of your knees with one hand,  goddamn bear paws, you think, before you feel his tongue in between your lips— so warm and wet and fuck, you needed this, needed him— and he flicks his tongue up and down on your clit. He sticks his long middle finger into you and it goes in without resistance, you’re slippery, drooling over his wrist and finger that’s curled up into the rough patch of nerves against your gummy walls, that he’s pressing into, over and over. God you’re about to come, your legs shake in his one-handed hold and you’ve got a white knuckle grip on the forearm you’re sinking your nails into—

Simon pulls away. You were so close, your eyes start watering because he can’t possibly be this mean to you but then you see him shove his tongue in between his middle and ring finger, eating up your nectar when he says, “The first time I’m gonna make you come, it’ll be on my cock. I want to see the frothy white cream you're gonna leave at the base.” 

You’re nodding hysterically at this point, anything for him to make you come, anything for him.  With a twirl of his index, he’s telling you to get on all fours. Scrambling, you turn over and arch your back— resting your head on your forearms— and you feel his calloused palms run down from your spine to your ass cheeks before he gives it a spank. 

“You have a condom?” 

You shake your head and you mewl out, “No, but I’m clean.”

“Good. I don’t want anything between us.”

You arch your back further, pressing your ass further into his hips when you hear his belt buckle clank and zipper open. Simon brings his palm to your other cheek, reddening it. 

“Fuckin’ hell, pet. Look at you spread out for me.” 

You feel warm velvet over steel over your slit before he slowly pushes inside, not all the way but about a little over half of his length, remembering that your g-spot is a little closer to the front. Fast, relatively shallow thrusts hitting your spot with almost clinical precision have you reeling, your orgasm about to break you, mind and body. Hands tightening painfully, you shatter— loud, high-pitched whines, ringing in your ears and pussy pulsing around Simon’s thick girth— and god, Simon doesn’t stop thrusting. He keeps the same smooth rhythm and you’d think he’s unaffected by the tight vice your pussy has him in— but you hear him, low, deep groans and a tighter grip on your hips telling you otherwise. 

He pulls out to bend over your back, completely covering it, and he murmurs in your ear, “I hope you didn’t think we were done. My girl wanted a fuckin’, now she’s gonna get it.” 

He takes off your pink, silly scrunchy and you see it around his tattooed wrist before he grabs your hair into a makeshift ponytail and is leaning back up and forcing your back to arch under his pull. You feel his leg at the height of your hips— propped up, foot flat on the bed and knee bent and the other straight on the floor and all you can think of is how this man is gonna kill you with his cock. 

Simon snaps his hips forward, fist full of hair pulling back,  stretching and filling in one strong thrust, bottoming out. He gives you no reprieve, no time to get used to how fucking deep he is, and sets an intense, firm pace that has you feeling a pinch below the navel every time his hip bones slap against your ass, balls to the clit and you love it. Every pinch in your lower belly has your pussy making a squelching sound and you can’t help yourself— you reach underneath your body to feel how split open you are with two fingers, encasing his cock and feeling the skin drag with them as he pulls out.

That has him hissing air between his teeth, he’s about to come but doesn't want it to be over so he pulls out, and opens your cheeks to spit in your furled hole, before pressing in with the pad of his thumb, and you’re almost screaming. He moves back a bit further to spit in your pussy, not that you need it— you’re drenching the sheets underneath you— and now he’s spearing you with his tongue before curling it, getting your juices pooled on it before coming back up, lips smacking, and he grabs your hair in his ponytail and now he uses his other hand to curls his fingers and palm over the front of your throat and that's all it takes for your vision to darken and arms go limp but he’s again, fucking you through your orgasm and this time you leave a creamy white ring at the base of his length. 

“Oh, fuckin hell.” He groans out and it sounds desperate and you know he’s close.

“Come in me, Simon. Please fill me up, I promise I’ll keep it all in.”

He gives a strained chuckle and says, “Pet, I can barely pull out of a driveway much less this tight little cunt.” He squeezes your throat hard, strands of hair popping out of your scalp and his cock feels massive, the pinch in your stomach feels like a cramp from how deep he is and he lets out a low drawn out moan that lasts 3 thrusts— and then there’s warmth filling you up, so much so it leaks from the sides of where you two are connected. Simon lets go of your hair and you fall face-first onto the bed, exhausted. Defeated. Back properly broken. You officially know what it’s like to get fucked within an inch of your life and you love it. 

He pulls out slowly, with a hiss from both of you and with one hand on your left cheek, he spreads you to look at your stuffed hole.

“Fuck. I love seeing me drip out of you.” 

You’re about to tell him to sod off when the doorbell rings and the both of you stiffen and lock eyes. With a mean snarl, Simon grabs a towel from your bathroom and his mask before stomping his way to answer the door, pink obnoxious scrunchy still on his wrist.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

[hivemuthur]

Restless

viktorxgn!reader explicit. This is a request for my lovely artist friend @notoakay! The premise: Viktor keeps a dream diary that you accidentally discover. Guess what kind of dreams he keeps having :') warnings: depravity and blow jobs.

word count: 3,1K

author’s note: Hello on this beautiful Freakday, grab a Freaktor while I go out to socialize! Also, this is my small contribution to a gn!reader smut category, finally getting there. @notoakay thank you for all the lovely art for my fics, I can't believe I'm so lucky :') pre-read by @rennethen!

—

He wakes up with a deep, long sigh, a hand coming up to rub across his face. His back is damp, skin tacky with sweat from a night of tossing and turning, and between his legs, the heavy insistence of a morning erection presses against the sheets. Eyes still closed, mind still buried half in dreamland, since it’s so, so hard to let you go from the place his brain has conjured you into overnight. A place between his feet, cheek resting against the tender inside of his thigh, his hand curled at the crown of your head, a slow, loving press of fingers.

Lucid and pliant, Viktor sits up and reaches for the notebook on his bedstand. Shaking the sleep from his stiff fingers, he picks up a pen and writes down every detail before it fades, so he doesn’t forget, so he can keep at least this version of you. Like a letter, he starts with your name, scribbled in shaky letters. Then—

You’ve plagued me again, my beautiful friend.

It started with your hands in mine, warm and kind. You traced the lines of my palm as if you’d meant to memorize. You spoke, though I cannot recall the words, only the way they stirred at the base of my spine, a current running upward, catching at my throat. You knelt between my legs like it was inevitable. Like gravity, like breath.

The heat of your mouth—Gods, it was ruinous. You took me in slow, lips parting around me in something longing and cruel. My fingers found your scalp to ground myself, as it’s so easy to slip with you. Your tongue undid me, made me useless to reason, to logic, to anything beyond the wet slide of you hollowing your cheeks, sucking me further into the dark.

I do not know if I warned you before I came, only that I woke with my lips parted, your name a whisper into the ceiling.

And now, as always, I commit you to these pages, lest the memory slip from my grasp like you so often do.

Then, Viktor reads through it, again and again, eyes skimming and stopping on words, as if reliving before he has to brace through the day, in which you will be infuriatingly present, maddeningly impossible to place anywhere near the scenarios his mind keeps conjuring night after night.

With slow hands, he gets dressed—a mundane action, utterly mechanical. He packs his bag for lectures, journal wedged at the very bottom beneath textbooks, notebooks, and pens. The notebooks are all the same, a dull shade of red, the vermillion lost somewhere between a thousand sun-licks stolen through the glass of his windows. The secret one marked with a single dot on the spine, barely visible, as it’s only for Viktor to know which notes are to be seen by others and which are not.

It’s hard enough to be around you in public spaces—lecture hall, library, cantina, lab classes. Worse if you get a project together—that has prompted dreams that make Viktor question his own sanity, if merely as much as a brush of your fingers on his forearm is enough to give his imagination a kickstart, presenting him with images of you on top of him, nuzzling into his neck, thighs heavy against his hips.

Even worse if the said project requires after-hours engagement in spaces that are less public, more cramped, like, say, his couch. There, your ankles splayed across his lap, purely unbearable. He would stare then at the balls of your feet and your toes flexing, wondering how your Achilles tendon would feel between his thumb and index finger, what it would feel like to press the heel of his palm into your arch. What sound you would make for him. How soft your skin is there—the one that never touches the shoe.

Night after this, he had the worst time. His own feet, toes curled painfully, hips thrusting into the mattress, hands fisting the sheet as he woke up long before dawn, bathed in his own sweat, cum staining his boxers. The journal entry from that night particularly hasty, written in the dark, ink smeared with the damp sheen of his hand.

You ruin me.

Your back on the sheets, hair on the pillow. I pressed my mouth to your ankle first, I remember that, a stupid indulgence. Kissed the fragile bone there, let my teeth scrape. Your foot twitched. You laughed, soft, breathless, then—

Then I hit the mattress hard, your hands fisted in my shirt, dragging me down. Your legs, God, your legs, warm and eager, wrapping around my waist, heel hooking into my hip, pressing me closer. I was there, flush against you, drowning in the heat of you, the way your body fit to mine like it had always meant to.

You told me something—I don't know what. The words are lost, just a whisper against my cheek. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way you moved beneath me, the way your breath hitched when I rocked forward, the way your nails dragged over my shoulders as I pushed inside.

Tight, unbearable. You took me so well. I wanted to stop, to savour, but you wouldn’t let me, your hips meeting mine, guiding, demanding. My hands on your thighs, pushing them wider, my lips at your neck, your shoulder, your open mouth. You trembled. You clenched around me. I lost myself.

And then I woke up.

Again.

Zatraceně.

Tired, eyes weighed down by heavy bags, he rose at dawn and dragged himself to the library, hoping to steady his mind with engineering theory. Unaware of how bad it was going to get, he absentmindedly sketched the curve of your mouth into the corner of his notebook, drawn from memory.

Now, seated in the lecture hall, you three benches away, twirling a strand of hair around your finger, he taps his pen idly against his chin, trying to catch your gaze. A mistake. The moment he does, a daydream unspools, creeping in at the edges of his vision, so vivid that Heimerdinger’s voice announcing project pairs barely registers.

He writes it down, quick, hasty, barely a few words: I’d give anything to see your eyes roll while you moan out my name.

As if through osmosis, his brain absorbs the announcement, and oh—there are your eyes again, watching him, smiling, your head nodding in acknowledgment just as the information finally filters through his vacant ears and reaches his brain: you are doing a project together.

And there is his name—not moaned out, like he wishes, but spoken kindly when you approach his bench.

“So, Viktor,” you say, crouching by his seat, folding your arms on the study desk. “Ready to work together again?”

“Always,” he replies. “Start in the evening, as usual?” He hopes he doesn’t have to spell out the meeting point for you—the insistent blush on his cheeks is already hard enough to control.

“Perfect,” you hum. “I’ll swing by after dinner.”

It’s hard not to pace, even with the cane in his hand. He finds himself walking idly from one side of the room to the other, picking up random objects just to keep his hands busy. By the time you knock, he’s engrossed in a book on ship construction, of all things, standing halfway between the door and his bed. Tome wedged under his armpit, he walks up faster than he would like and swings the door open.

“Hi,” you say, giving him a small wave. “I’ve brought some notes.”

“Hi yourself.” His fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the doorframe before he steps aside to let you in. “And that’s perfect.”

The project is relatively simple—designing a spring-loaded prosthetic grip, a mechanism that mimics the natural flexion of fingers through tension cables and calibrated springs. It’s a study in biomechanics, balance, and precision, something Viktor has already taken notes on long before Heimerdinger’s assignment. His interest in assistive devices is not new, though he rarely shares the extent of it. The challenge isn’t in concept but in refinement: reducing mechanical lag, ensuring the grip has enough force to hold delicate objects without crushing them, making it adjustable for different users. Tonight’s task is to sketch a preliminary blueprint and compile research notes, but Viktor, always a step ahead, already has calculations scribbled in the margins of past lecture notes, waiting for a moment like this.

After a brief discussion, during which Viktor tries very hard not to stare at your lips too intently, you splay a large sheet of paper across his desk and begin jotting down major points. As you write, your waist brushes his shoulder, and you steal a long, secret inhale of his scent—mostly soap, but anything touched by his skin is worthy of such theft.

He shifts in his chair, eyes tracing the movement of your hand, his mind torn between the engineering task before him and your wrist. When the former wins—not without casualties, in the form of two lashes falling from his lids due to the effort of blinking the wrist away—Viktor picks up a pen and begins drafting.

At some point, he stops, staring at the page, sighing as he gathers his thoughts. Then, without looking, he gestures vaguely toward his bedside table. “Eh, grab that notebook, will you?”

“Can you read the marked page out loud?” he asks, unaware of the impending catastrophe.

“Of course,” you say, nodding, retrieving the notebook—only to freeze as you open it. Your name sits there, conjoined with beautiful in one sentence. Heat rises from your neck to the tips of your ears as you skim the passage, and you thank every force in the universe that Viktor is still looking down.

“Everything alright?” he asks, hunched over.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, one of the largest you’ve ever had to swallow, yet somehow, you manage to say, “Yes, just… are you sure?”

“Yes, I work better when dictated to,” Viktor replies, matter-of-fact.

You lick your lips. Blink. And then—“It started with your hands in mine, warm and kind—”

Be it his preoccupation with engineering or sheer denial of something so mortifying, Viktor doesn’t clock it at first when you say your name aloud. Gods, he doesn’t react fast enough when you read the phrase my beautiful friend.

It goes too far. Far enough that he’s suddenly on his feet, limping toward you, snapping the notebook shut in your hands. Panting, he stammers, “S-stop. Please.”

“Viktor—”

“How much have you read?” he cuts in, eyes hopeful in a way that’s almost foolish. Hope is all he has now.

“The marked page,” you murmur, not daring to meet his gaze.

“Oh, Gods,” he groans, sinking onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He doesn’t even bother to take the damning evidence of his depravity away from you.

“Wait,” you try, though you’re not sure what you’re stopping—his despair, his retreat? “Wait,” you say again, placing the notebook on your lap, mind scrambling for the right approach.

Throwing yourself at him is an option—one you entertain briefly—but it feels too blunt. Reading more is tempting, but you fear Viktor might dissolve into an irretrievable puddle of shame at your feet. Instead, you set the notebook aside and brush your knuckles against his.

“I dream of you too,” you say quietly, trying to coax his hands away from his ears. “I just can’t write about it as beautifully as you do.”

Viktor’s mouth parts as he finally looks at you. Eyes searching, brows drawn, he whispers, voice small, “Do not toy with me.”

You exhale, almost wounded by the accusation, but instead of reaching for words—already admitted to be not your strength—you take his hand, pressing his fingers to the pulse at your wrist. “I’m not lying,” you say, thumb brushing the heel of his palm.

And Viktor, your sweet friend, a poet apparently buried beneath layers of science, closes his eyes and feels out your heartbeat. You might call it treacherous, the way it flutters beneath his touch, but seeing his features smooth, relief softening the angles of his pretty face, you find yourself grateful instead.

Once he deems it the truth, his hand slides further, cradling the side of your neck as he presses his forehead to yours, sighing deep from the hollow of his chest. “Impossible,” he whispers. “So many nights I’ve spent wondering, restless.”

“Me too,” you breathe, cupping the hollows of his cheeks. “Maybe we’re not so smart after all.”

“Oh, I’m most definitely a fool,” Viktor says, rubbing his nose along your cheek. His breath comes hot, his stubble scraping your chin. Now you can smell him properly, and indeed, the soap-washed warmth of his skin drills itself into your memory as the finest scent ever to enter your airways.

“I’m certain none of my dreams have done you proper tribute,” he mutters, so close to your lips they brush against each other.

“Would you like to check,” you ask, voice barely there, hands slipping to his belt, “how far off you were?”

“I cannot say no to you, my dear. Ever,” he breathes, stomach hollowing under your touch as you press him onto his back.

Your hands are steady as you undo the buckle, fingers slipping the leather through the loop, the click of metal swallowed in the hush of the room. Viktor lies back, half-propped on his elbows, watching you with an expression that wavers between disbelief and the sharp edge of anticipation. His lips part, breath drawing slow and deep as if he's forcing himself not to rush, not to tremble, not to let this moment slip into some fevered imagining that will dissolve when he blinks.

You press your lips to the taut plane of his stomach, right above the waistband, and he shifts beneath you, muscles flexing, a shiver rippling outward. A slow drag of your fingers down his hips, then the fabric slides past his thighs, pooling uselessly at his knees. He’s flushed everywhere—his chest, his throat, the fine skin stretching across his cheekbones.

He swallows hard. “I—” He stops himself, breath catching, his knuckles whitening where they grip the sheets.

You don’t make him finish. Instead, you lower your head, pressing a kiss to the crease of his thigh, right where the heat of him pulses, where his skin is sensitive and soft, the kind of place untouched by anything but accident or necessity. He makes a sound—barely there, a choked thing trapped in his throat. His hips twitch, like he wants to move but doesn’t dare.

You let your tongue trace the line of muscle, tasting the salt of his skin, pressing your lips there until his breath turns uneven, his chest rising and falling like he’s run a long way. His thighs tense, his hands flex where they rest beside him, helpless with restraint.

Then your mouth moves, and he keens—head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut. A shudder rolls through him, his body caught between wanting to stay still and the instinct to chase more. His fingers dig into the sheets, gripping, like he’s afraid to touch, afraid to break something delicate and impossible.

His voice comes wrecked, roughened at the edges. “Oh—”

You hum against him, and he makes another sound, weak and breathless, one hand flying to his mouth to bite down on his own knuckle, trying to swallow whatever unguarded thing is threatening to spill free. His free hand finds your shoulder, fingertips ghosting there like he wants to pull you closer, anchor himself to something, someone. You.

His whole body is warm, fevered, getting too close to undone. You, real and here, not scrawled into the margins of his journal, not buried in the dark corners of his mind where want festers and never sees light. No, you are right here, with him, taking him apart piece by piece, and Viktor—brilliant, dreaming Viktor—does not know how to bear it.

He twitches in your mouth, hard and heavy, skin sliding slick through the corners of your lips until you reach the tip and pause, pressing your tongue against the prominent vein of his underside. “I’m a terrible writer,” he chuckles out a wet sound, lifting back onto his elbows. “I was never able to capture the reality of this, ah—” He tries again but falters when you hum at the praise.

Your hands travel up, up from the harsh angle of his hips to his stomach, to his ribs, and Viktor reaches out to meet the tips of your fingers with his. A spark flashes between your damp skin and his when your palms entwine on his belly. You lift your gaze to look at him, and he’s so gorgeous—lips reddened and parted, lids hooded, hiding the dark of his eyes, hair dishevelled. You can almost see the breath leaving his mouth, your name following, a warning, then—

“I’m so close,” he whispers, squeezing your hand tighter. You shut your eyes and take all of him in, trapping his cock until the spasm travels wide, spreading from his stomach down to his abdomen, finally spilling hot and salty on your tongue. A drop squeezes past the prison of your lips, and Viktor wipes it away with his thumb, dazed and blissed beyond anything he’s ever put into writing.

The soft sounds he makes—low and strangled—curl in the air around you, a mix of pleasure and disbelief, as if he can’t quite conceive the feeling overtaking him. His throat expands sharply, breath catching between each exhale, and for a moment, the world narrows to nothing but the sound of his voice and the pulse of his heartbeat.

It thunders in his ears when you kiss the skin around his base, leaving a burning trace of your lips upward along his body until you reach his chin and hesitate. Arms folded on his chest, you wait—not even for a second before Viktor pulls you closer, mouth sealing over yours in a long, languid kiss. Then he says, “No dream of mine was ever fair to you,” affection seeping from every word. “Stay with me.”

You stay, nuzzled into him, the notebook—the awkward catalyst of your connection—resting on the bedstand. And for Viktor, it’s the first dreamless night in ages.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Chickenpox

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You get the chickenpox

"Is...Is she wearing oven gloves?"

Millie's the one that asks.

It's the question that's been on everyone's mind since your family arrived at training this morning.

You don't look too different than usual.

You're wearing a little pair of shorts - not teams shorts, just generic shorts that Pernille probably bought while out shopping because she thought they would look cute on you. The shorts are paired with a cute little green shirt with an even cuter cartoon frog on it.

That's normal for you.

It's a cute look and if it wasn't for the spots on your face and the weird oven mitt things on your hands, nothing would have looked out of place.

But you are wearing weird oven mitts and there are spots dotted all over your face.

"Huh?" Pernille looks up from where she's tying her laces," Oh, no. Not oven gloves. They're meant to stop her from scratching. She's got chickenpox."

"No! I don't!" You interrupt before Millie can speak, stamping you foot and puffing out your cheeks defiantly.

Pernille rolls her eyes. "Yes, you do."

"I don't!"

"You see what I've been dealing with? She's just as stubborn as Magda sometimes."

Millie chuckles. "That does not surprise me."

You stamp your foot again. "I'm not talking to you! Meanies!"

Pernille chuckles. "Okay, princesse. Have fun."

You huff. Clearly, you didn't expect that reaction but you still turn on your heel and storm off. You don't get very far, both with your little legs and your small attention span.

You end up standing in front of Jessie, arms already up and she lifts you without even thinking about.

"Jessie," You say," Scratch me."

"What?"

Jessie turns to look at you, properly look at you. She'd been moving on auto-pilot before. She hadn't even realised that you were infested with the pox.

"Oh, you don't look so good, princesse."

"I need scratches," You say," Jessie, scratch me please."

For a moment, it looks like Jessie's going to do as you say. That's why you chose her after all, you knew she would be the most likely to cave to your demands.

For a moment, you're allowed to hope.

But then the unthinkable happens.

Magda appears.

Magda appears and she plucks you from Jessie's arms and takes you away.

You go limp instantly, hoping to make her see you as completely dead weight. You hope she'll put you down but Magda's wise to your tricks now and she holds on tight.

Then you pull out the second trick in your arsenal.

You whine and you cry and you kick and you scream.

The Not-Wolfsburg girls have the decency to vacate the locker room very quickly so it's just you, Morsa and Momma.

"No! Itchy! Itchy!" You insist as Magda holds you despite your flailing.

"Well, if you're itchy, we've got your lotion."

"Noooo! No lotion! No!"

But Pernille's already reaching into her bag for your calamine lotion and some cotton balls.

"Momma, no! No, Momma!"

"I thought you were itchy?" Pernille teases," We'll put on some lotion and there'll be no more itchiness for a little while."

You answer by shrieking and trying to escape Magda's grasp. She holds strong though.

"I know you don't want your lotion," Magda says, calm and collected like she always is," But it'll make you feel better. It's lotion or your medicine. You can choose but you need to choose one."

Your bottom lip quivers as you tilt your head back to look at her.

"Don't give me those crocodile tears, princesse," She warns," I don't care if you're sick, if you continue like this then it's the naughty step when you get home."

You huff dramatically, mumbling something under your breath.

"What was that?"

"Lotion...My lotion, please. No medicine."

Magda and Pernille exchange a smile as Pernille dabs the lotion onto a cotton ball and Magda sets you down onto your feet.

You glance over at the door, wondering if you could bolt out of it as quickly as your little legs will carry you.

But you don't because Magda fixes you with a pointed look and you shuffle glumly over to Pernille, who helps you take your top off and dabs the lotion all over your itchy patches.

You don't want to admit that it helps so you keep your mouth shut as Pernille helps you back into your shirt and Magda retightens your mittens so you can't scratch when you get itchy again.

You kick at the bench in frustration.

"When is it over?"

"Your chickenpox? It'll be over when it's over."

"That's not an answer, Morsa."

Pernille chuckles as she swings you up into her arms and carries you out of the locker room.

"Another week or two, princesse," She says," Just another week or two."

You groan, dramatically resting your forehead on her shoulder. "But that's ages."

"Plenty of time for you to get used to your lotion."

[captain-huggy-bear]

Little Moments

Pairing: Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Jack occasionally making more mature jokes cause he's just a silly guy

Summary: Jack finds out he's going to be a dad for the first time, maybe he's a little overexcited aka a collection of snapshots throughout your pregnancy.

Notes: Nonnie gave me the confidence to try writing Jack, I'm hoping it's okay...also the jelly cat mentioned is here

Nappies = diapers

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

When they ask you to take a pregnancy test at the hospital because you've been violently sick for 2 weeks, you scoff. You can't be pregnant because Jack and you haven't been trying and you've been using two forms of contraception. It's nigh on impossible for you to be pregnant, statistically speaking it's just not going to happen.

It's not that either of you don't want children, god knows you do, but you're recently married and you wanted some time to settle into that role and dynamic, the new house as well, without an additional person...especially because you knew without a doubt that once you had one, Jack would want another baby, and another, and another. You'd never be just Mr and Mrs Hughes again, it would be Mr and Mrs Hughes and their children.

It's the amount of care that you've both put in to avoiding pregnancy that makes you so certain you're not. So you expect the test to come back negative.

But, there you are...sat on the edge of a hospital bed, slippers almost falling off your feet because Jack couldn't find yours so he brought you his, staring at a pregnancy test with two clear, solid lines.

Pregnant.

Pregnant when statistically it should be improbably, nigh on impossible. Pregnant when you've been married a month...pregnant because your husband is clearly ridiculously fertile. Of course Jack would be, the amount he wants kids and family, it was probably some genetic advantage. Of course you'd marry the one guy who could knock you up when actively trying not to do so.

You don't look up when he enters your hospital room, arms full of snacks and drinks, cap on backwards keeping his hair out of his baby blue eyes. He looks far too cozy and far too sweet for a man who's about to put your body through some extreme changes.

"So, I got you some M&Ms and a orange juice..." Jack trails off noticing the way you're sat, hunched over, staring at your hands, "You okay, baby?"

"Um, I..."

"What's wrong?" Jack's quick to drop everything on the hospital bed, moving between your legs, hands smoothing up and down your thighs. His eyes dip down to the test in your hands, the two strong lines he can see, so strong that there's very little doubt what the result is. The dots starting to connect for him, you being sick for 2 weeks straight, you being tired all the time, wanting to eat foods you normally wouldn't...the ridiculous amount of sex you had on your honeymoon even though you both were using protection, "Are...are you..."

"Yeah..." You finally meet his eyes, the hopefully little look on his face makes you feel mildly better because you can see how hard he's trying to contain his excitement. It's clear from the way he bites his bottom lip, from the way Jack's fingers grip your thighs to stabilise himself.

"Well, fuck..." Even as he says it there's a little smile starting at the corners of his mouth, teeth starting to show, eyes starting to crinkle.

"Yeah,"

There's a beat of silence. You processing the fact that right now there is a human being growing inside you, part you, part Jack and him watching you for your reaction. Jack can't say he's not nervous, not when you don't look overjoyed and it's that apprehension that has him trying to get a laugh out of you.

"Guess I have strong swimmers, huh?"

"Jack!" You whack his shoulder with your hand and he catches it, thumb stroking over your wedding band even as you glare at him. He can't help but stand a little closer, your legs pushing further apart so he can fit.

"What? C'mon, that's impressive right? Condoms, the pill and you still got pregnant?" He's grinning at you proudly, like it's a badge of honour to have managed to knock you up despite trying to avoid that happening at all costs.

You groan out loud, head falling to Jack's chest, forehead pressing into the centre of his hoodie. His hands come up to the back of your head, stroking over your hair soothingly before trailing over your shoulders, down your back. He's gentle, soft with it and had you been able to see you would have seen his expression shift to one of anxious worry, apprehension at your less than excited reaction.

"A...are you...are you not happy, baby?" He's scared that you'll turn around and tell him you don't want the baby, that this isn't what you want. Sure you've talked about the possibility of kids in the future, but neither of you were expecting to have this happen right now. It's a lot for anyone, especially for the person who's body is doing all the hard work. He'd understand if you weren't happy, even though he desperately wants you to be.

"I...I'm just shocked. I want a baby with you, of course I do, you'd be such a good dad...but, I guess I wasn't planning on it right now and I'm..." You're mumbling into his chest as he strokes down your back, your arms wrapping around his waist tight to give you some sense of comfort as your entire world is turned upside down by the reality that you're going to be a mum sooner rather than later.

"You're?"

"Scared...what if I do something wrong? What if I'm a bad mum?"

"Angel, look at me," You finally look up at him, chin resting on his sternum and he looks down at you like you're talking crazy, big blue eyes wide and honest, "You are going to be amazing. You're going to be the best mum...and we're going to have a baby!"

It's his excitement, the grin that reaches Jack's eyes that has you finally cracking a smile up at him. That familiar giddy sensation of joy filling your chest because you're having a baby with Jack...with your husband and yeah, maybe this is sooner than you would have liked, but you still wanted a baby with him and...and he's so excited and he's so good with kids and you'd give him an entire hockey team of babies if he asked.

"Yeah, I hope they have your eyes." You smile up at him and suddenly all that fear, all that apprehension that you weren't going to be happy about this goes, suddenly he knows that it's going to be all good, all okay.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Mmm, you have such pretty eyes."

"Well, I hope they look like you...my pretty wife....and I'll teach them how to skate, and how to play hockey, oh and take them out on the lake in the summer!"

Suddenly it doesn't feel quite so scary, with Jack rambling about all the things he's going to do with your child and how he can't wait to tell his parents and his brothers. Leaning against him, just looking up and watching how excited he is, puts to bed any fear because you're not doing this alone, you've got your husband and it'll be okay.

Jack's got you. Both of you.

"What's that?"

"The results..." The envelope shakes in your hands as Jack comes in from the cold, taking his hat off and throwing his puffer jacket over the back of a chair.

"The...the sex of the baby?" You'd done a blood test 2 weeks ago to find out the sex of the baby, too eager to wait another 2 months for the ultrasound to be able to tell.

"Mmhmmm...I'm too nervous, you open it!" You shove the envelope into Jack's hands. Even though you'll be happy with a boy or a girl, there's something about the anticipation that has your stomach in knots. Were you going to be like Ellen and have a million baby boys or would you be the exact opposite and only have girls or would you end up having both at some point?

You watch him carefully, hands at your mouth, nervously biting on a nail as he rips open the envelope and pulls out the letter. His eyes scan the text quickly, giving very little away until...until there's a shift, a raising of his eyebrows followed by a bright grin as he looks at you.

"We're...we're having a girl..."

"A girl?"

"A girl!" He's so excited that the letter is dropped to the floor almost as quickly as his own knees fall to the ground in front of you with such a resounding smack that you wince on his behalf. He's pressing his cheek to your tummy in an instant, even though it's not very large yet at all, barely a noticeable bump.

"Hey, baby girl..." You can't help the tears that start to form as Jack starts to talk to your belly, to the baby, to your baby girl, "It's your daddy here...I'm going to teach you how to play hockey and we're going to get you in the NHL, show all those boys what for, right?" Your hands find their way to Jack's hair, stroking through it as he talks to your belly, his arms wrapped tight around your hips.

"Not the PWHL?"

"Uh, we're a family of record breakers, angel. She's going to the NHL like Manon Rheaume and she's going to be there until she retires." He grins up at you, teeth showing as you brush a strand of hair off his forehead and back out of the way.

"What if she doesn't want to play hockey?"

"Then I'll love her anyway..." He turns back to your belly, talking in a soft, sweet tone, "don't worry, baby girl, you can do whatever you want. I don't care if you hate hockey, as long as you're happy..."

You can't help the tear that slides down your cheek because how lucky are you? How lucky is your baby girl? To have a dad who doesn't care if she hate everything he loves, as long as she's happy, as long as she's healthy...god, she's so loved already.

"Okay, don't look, close your eyes!" You roll your eyes underneath Jack's palms.

"You're covering them, why would I need to close them?!"

"Just do it, angel!"

"Fine!" You close your eyes beneath his palms, trusting him to keep you from walking into a wall as he guides you through the house from the living room all the way to wherever his final destination is.

"Lift your foot, baby." He helps guide you up the staircase, hands on your hips that had started to grow wider as you progressed through your pregnancy. He always had a hand on you these days. He was trusting that your eyes were still closed as he ushered you up each step.

When you reach the top of the stairs his hands return to covering your eyes and you shuffle down the corridor until he tells you to stop. You listen to Jack opening a door, probably propping it open before his hands find yours, tugging you forward and to the threshold.

"Okay, open your eyes, baby." You practically gasp when you do, Jack standing proudly in the centre of a nursery. A nursery that was empty all of one week ago, as if he'd somehow clicked his fingers and filled it in an instant.

The walls are a soft pink, stereotypically girlie but you like it, you like that he was willing to make the nursery feminine for your baby girl, just as much as you know he'd change it if your girl decided she hated pink.

The crib is set up by the window, soft curtains diming the sunshine outside just enough. The walls have photos of you and Jack, a few from the start of your pregnancy, your wedding. There are photos of the rest of the family and some empty frames clearly waiting for photos of your baby girl when she arrives. He's even put a few copies of your first ultrasound up.

There's a rocking chair in the corner next to a small bookshelf already filled with books, a space for you to sit with your baby when you're nursing or to read her to sleep when she's being testy. A changing table is already stocked with nappies, baby wipes and powder.

It's sweet and girlish and so so lovely because Jack knows you've been worried about having the nursery done even though you have like 6 months until the baby comes. He knows you've been worried it would get put off because he's away a lot for the season. You'd been stressed that the baby might come without having a space to properly stay.

"How did you..."

"I got the guys to help, last weekend when you went out with my mom. That was a distraction!" He grins at you proud of himself, "Nico, Dawson, Luke, Timo and Jesper came round, we got it all sorted. I didn't want you to be worrying about it anymore, baby."

"Is that...is that why you wouldn't let me in here?" You're feeling teary already, hormones running high and emotions always on a knife's edge. It's so so sweet that he did it, even with months left, the fact he knew it was bothering you and decided to fix it even with his busy schedule? You didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with him, but it seems he's proven you wrong again.

"Yeah, didn't want to ruin the surprise and I had a few more bits to get so it was perfect."

"Jack..." You sigh out at him, face scrunching as you try to contain your tears. His proud little grin drops, Jack thinking he's upset you and maybe he's just made you hate the entire room. Maybe it's too pink? Or not pink enough? Or do you hate the crib?

"...Oh...you hate it?"

"No, no! I love it! I love you!" You step forward quickly, wrapping your arms around him as you start to cry into his chest because how could he think you hate it? It's the best nursery in the world and he's the sweetest husband in the world. You really can't stop the tears and Jack should be used to them by now, you've been such a cry baby since you found out you were pregnant, hormones doing a number on you and making you even more sensitive.

"Oh, okay! Oh, don't cry, baby!" He's smoothing your hair down, trying to calm you, but once the waterworks start it's seemingly impossible to stop.

"It's...it's the...hormones...'m sorry..." You sob into his chest, Jack pulling you tight against him and rocking you side to side to try and soothe you.

"Hey, it's okay, angel," He can't help but laugh because he knows you're not sad now and he knows how easily you've been brought to tears as of late. Jack presses a kiss to the top of your head, staying there for a moment to breathe in the smell of your shampoo.

At least he knows you like the nursery, he thinks, enough that it made you cry.

"God, I love you, baby..." He sighs into your hair and his words only seem to make you cry just a little harder because how did you get this lucky?

"Jack..." You waddle into the nursery, now feeling so much larger than before. Quite positively and obviously pregnant and finding moving harder each month. Even simply things are harder because you have a beach ball in the way, Jack tells you it's cute and that's the only thing keep you from crying about it.

"What?" He looks up from where he's arranging some toys in the corner. He's developed an obsession with picking up any adorable toy he finds out and about to add to the collection. There's even a cuddly Fin the Orca from Quinn sitting on top of the toy box.

"Why is there a demon in the crib?" You're staring at the bright red plushie, with big elflike ears, horns, pointy teeth and a curly q tail. Trying to figure out why it's there in the first place because it certainly wasn't there yesterday.

You rest a hand on your stomach and the other on the small of your back, watching as Jack picks the weird little plushie up and makes it wave at you with its little arm.

"It's not a demon, it's our baby girl's first jelly cat!"

"Why is it a devil? A gremlin?" You're not entirely sure what it's supposed to be, definitely some sort of monster or creature and obscenely bright in it's colouring. You have to admit it is kind of cute...in it's own way...

"Uh, because of the New Jersey Devils, obviously? Why would I get our special girl something boring like a bunny?" He places the little plush back in the crib gently, patting it on the head in a way that is so endearingly sweet that you can't help but smile at him.

"She's going to be a weird kid, y'know that? You're going to make our baby a weird kid." You joke knowing fully well that you weren't actually popular or cool in school. Jack closes the distances between the two of you, leaning down to talk to your belly, like he's been doing since day one. He yaps at your baby girl none stop, whether she can understand a single word he says or not.

"Don't listen to your mother, you're going to be amazing and awesome and totally popular." He whispers to your belly, hands coming to rest on either side gently stroking your stomach over your t-shirt.

"You want our baby to be a popular girl?" You raise your eyebrows at him and he looks at you in horror like that might be the worst fate imaginable, to have a stereotypical mean popular girl for a daughter. You think it's impossible for her to turn out that way with Jack as a dad, with Quinn and Luke as uncles and Ellen and Jim as grandparents. She's going to be surrounded by so many amazing, kind people that if she turns out mean you'll be shocked. If she's popular you know it'll be because she's kind.

"On second thoughts, be a weird kid, baby girl. Be into taxidermy or something." You feel her kick his hand in response and can't help but laugh at the pair because you already know they're going to be trouble. Your kid is going to be just like Jack, you have no doubt, and you're certain you're going to be constantly amazed by them.

"You're ridiculous."

You're sighing heavily, hands firmly on your lower back at the ache there as you look in the kitchen cupboard for something to eat. You feel so uncomfortable, so heavy, so big, so achy. Everything hurts, your belly is so heavy that it forces your back to arch and as much as you love your baby girl, you really hate how she's making you feel. Even most food isn't appetising at the moment.

"You okay, baby?" Jack watches you from the kitchen doorway, leaning deliciously against the doorframe. How does he manage to look so good all the time? It only makes you feel worse because you want him but don't feel like acting on it.

"No...back hurts, belly is heavy, I can't get comfy and I feel ugly and gross..."

"First off, you've never been more beautiful," Jack frowns at you, hating that you don't like yourself at the moment. He's certain you've never been more gorgeous than now when you're carrying his baby, your baby. But, he can see it, the way you stand uncomfortable and in pain, how that must weigh down on you as your body constantly changes. "Secondly, c'mere."

Jack moves to you, standing behind your back with his head on your shoulder. His arms come around your front, hands resting underneath your belly securely and in one slow move, he lifts and suddenly everything feels better, lighter.

"Oh, fuck..." It's like he's taken 10 pounds off your spine and you can't help but sigh and lean back into him, eyes closing at the feeling because you haven't felt this comfortable in a while.

"That feel good?" Jack grins into your shoulder, happy that he's helping, happy to feel the way you relax into him as he takes the entire weight of your belly into his palms. It's heavy and he knows his baby girl has been giving you a world of aches and pains.

"Mmhmmm..." You hum, sighing deeply with each breath as he just holds you like that, letting you lean your weight back into him and feel free for a moment, feel more like yourself.

"Well, let's stay like this for a little then, yeah?" He doesn't try to move away, not after a minute, not after 3 or 5. He holds your belly for near 20 minutes until your feet hurt from standing and even then he's considering when he can do it again, when he can help make this whole pregnancy just a tiny bit easier for you.

"What are those?" You point at the tiny little outfits that Jack is currently folding on the changing table in the nursery. The clothes you doubt are going to fit into the drawers you have because he keeps buying more baby outfits, what seems like every single day.

"These?" He holds a little onesie up innocently, grey, red and black, with a little New Jersey logo in the corner.

"Yeah, those? You do know she's going to grow out of them within a few weeks, right?" You keep telling him not to buy so many baby clothes because she's going to grow quicker than she can wear them, but he seems unable to resist.

"Then I'll just buy more..." He mutters continuing to fold the next item he'd brought.

"Jack..."

"But, they're cute! Look! It's a little New Jersey Devils snowsuit!" He holds up a big puffy snowsuit and you can't help but shake your head at him because the baby is due in June and there's no way she's going to be small enough by the time it snows to even wear it.

"She's going to be too big by the time it snows!"

"But, angel!" He pouts at you so badly that you can't help but laugh. Jack's handome, pretty, adorable, always, but there's something about fatherhood, about his excitement to provide for his growing family that makes him even more adorable.

"Okay, okay...they're cute and if it makes you happy you can keep buying them..." You concede, even as you know half the clothes aren't going to be worn by your baby girl.

"Thank you, beside, if it doesn't fit her it might fit the next one." His comment has you letting out a shocked laugh and you move closer to lean into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and holding your belly.

"How many babies do you want me to pop out?"

"Mmm, like a whole hockey team? Call the Hughes' Hockey Club? The Hughes Hornets? The Hughes Harlequins?"

"You're planning on killing me with babies?" You're already imagining how exhausting it would be to grow and birth that many babies...you'd do it for him, but...maybe stopping at 3 or 4 or 5 would be better.

"No, sex, obviously." Jack frowns at you and you gasp at his commentary, whacking his chest with a free arm until he grasps it and pulls you close.

"You're such a dick!"

"Hey, you love this dick." He smirks down at you, pressing a kiss to your hand.

"Jack!"

You're exhausted, 24 hours of labour has made it's mark on you. Your skin is ashy and sallow, dark bags under your eyes and sweat wetting your hair and skin to such a moistness it almost seems like you've just come out of a shower. But, you're beautiful to him, laying there with your baby girl in your arms, letting her nurse from you like that.

He's in awe of the way you shift her so naturally against your chest, the way you gentle rub the small tuft of dark hair on top of her head.

"You did so good, baby...look at her, look at you..." Jack is sat next to you on the hospital bed, he's been here for the entire labour, holding your hand and giving you water to drink. He's been amazing, and you know he'll continue to be as you face the challenges of post-birth.

He's gentle as he smooths the hair away from your sweaty face, getting the small strands out of your way as you smile tiredly down at your baby girl before looking up at him once she unlatches from your breast.

"You wanna...wanna hold her?" Your voice is raw, exhausted but no less sweet for it and Jack can't help his enthusiastic nod, arms already in position to take her like he practiced at home. His mum and dad giving him a run down with a teddy bear on how to properly hold a new born. At the time it had felt silly, now he's glad for the confidence it has given him.

You transfer your perfect little girl into his arms, sitting up a little more and shifting so he can sit with her more directly next to you. Your head leaning against his shoulder while he cradles her carefully in his arms like the most precious cargo he's ever had.

"Hey, baby girl...it's me, your daddy...God, I've been so excited to meet you. You're so perfect, just like your mommy..." Jack's finger carefully traces her cheek down to her little palm and she grips his finger tightly, trapping it in that notorious baby grip that has his eyes filling with tears, "I love you so much, both of you," He smiles over at you, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead before returning his gaze back to his daughter.

She doesn't even have a name yet, but he loves her so much already. He knows he'd do anything for you, for her and that's both terrifying and uplifting. To love someone so much you'd risk it all, do anything to keep them safe and happy and healthy.

"She has your eyes," You smile up at him, comparing his baby blues with your daughter's own as she yawns in his arms.

"She has your nose, angel."

"You think?" You squint at her, trying to tell if that really is your nose developing or Jack's more button one...it's hard to tell when she's this small, this young.

"Mmm, poor kid." Jack teases you, grinning, full of excitement, happiness, contentment. His wife leaning against him, his new baby girl in his arms, a sense of humour coming back now you're not constantly carrying around an extra weight.

"Hey!"

"I'm joking, she's beautiful just like her mommy." He presses a kiss to your forehead and you sigh into it, letting the tiredness take you knowing that Jack's got you, he's got you both.

[imtryingbuck]

Unwanted pt two

~ gif not mine credit to owner ~

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!fem!Reader

Summary: having a mate but you not being theirs is rare, very rare. Y/n is that unfortunate omega. Could she still find love and happiness?

Word count: 5,128

Warnings: angst. unrequited love. Omegaverse. swearing. homeless reader. money issues. Steve’s a bit of a dick. fluff. 

Part 1

Masterlist

He watched as her body got smaller and smaller as she made her way through the crowd until he couldn’t see her anymore or even catch her scent carrying in the wind.

As he made his way back to the tower all he could think about was her, his mate that couldn't possibly be his mate, he knew that they only get one mate in their lifetime and he already had his. Due to what Hydra did to him he know longer remembered what his mate smelt like or felt or how she sounded, and for the longest time he couldn’t even remember what the feeling felt like when he first laid eyes on his mate but then he met Y/n, then he felt it, the tingly yet burning sensation coursing through his whole body, the way his brain turned to mush as she stood in front of him, the overwhelming need to protect her and show her that he would be the best Alpha.

The sun had long gone down as Bucky stared at himself in the mirror, his shirt off and his eyes burned a hole in his scars where flesh meets metal, it wasn’t often that he would look at himself in the mirror but when he did he would silently call himself horrible names, yet tonight he was wondering how Y/n would react to them, would she be disgusted? would she run away and never want to talk to him again? or would she be kind? tell him pretty lies about how the scars are beautiful?

Having had enough of seeing his reflection, he threw on a shirt and made his way to the gym as sleeping was the last thing on his mind, he lost track of time as he took all his frustration out on the punching bag.

"Buck? Hey what are you doing in the gym at... three in the morning? Bucky?"

Steves voice startled him. “Shit sorry, what did you say?" Even when the blond repeats his question Bucky doesn't register his words, his mind was still on Y/n and everything that came with her. Her smile was embedded within in mind, the slight bounce she had when she was waiting for the shop owner to come behind the counter to get the trolley off her, her laugh, her eyes, her nose, her lips... just her. She had completely consumed his every thought the moment he laid eyes on her and spending the day by her side didn't help either. "I think I found my mate" unceremoniously cutting his best friend off, Bucky frowned at waiting for some form of response.

"Buck, Dot was your mate and she's gone.”

"I know okay I do but-but this girl I mean she's taken over my mind man!"

Steve lips pulled sideways as he nibbled on his inner cheek trying to think of the best way to respond to his best friend. "We only get one mate and sadly ours are gone, I wish we had that chance in this life but it doesn't happen like that.”

"B-but what if the moon goddess was wrong? Or what if Sharon's your ma-"

"Don't be ridiculous Buck." Steve barked out a laugh. "She's just someone I'm sleeping with.”

"She doesn't think that..."

"She knows that.”

"No she doesn't and you know that, she actually believes you're mates and that's why she's always begging you to bond with her.”

"Look, what's between me and Sharon or all the other women I'm seeing has nothing to do with you.” The blond snapped.

Rolling his eyes he sighed. "I know and I'm not bothered about that but maybe this omega could be mine I might be luck-"

"Bucky there's no way that it could possibly happen okay. We only get one mate.”

He knew that, of course he knew that, but he wanted it to be wrong. "Peggy bonded with Dan-"

"Don't say his name James!” For the second time in five minutes Steve snapped at him. “He wasn't her mate they just bonded because they were both lonely.”

"But maybe, right?" He had to admit that he was embarrassed himself by hearing the desperation in his voice but he just couldn't help it. He wanted his longest friend, his confidant, the only person he trusted to run in to battle with without being told what or why they were fighting to tell him that maybe just maybe he was lucky enough to get a second chance at happiness. But seeing the bored expression on said man's face and the slow motion of his head shaking made Bucky's heart sink.

Of course out of the two of them he wasn't going to be the who got that happiness or that sense of completion that came with having a mate. He was the bad one, the assassin, the former Winter Soldier and Steve was the good one, the one who jumped on a grenade at boot camp, Americas golden boy.

Wishful thinking that he could be lucky.

"You should tell Sharon that your just stringing her on before it's too late." he mumbled before leaving the gym going to his room and having a shower, getting into his bed once cleaned and dried.

Finally falling to sleep he allowed himself to dream of the woman who he wished he was lucky enough to call his mate.

At the end of every month Y/n went to all of her jobs and waited patiently to be paid, smiling thankfully, saying her thanks before doing her job. Finishing her last job of that day she sat in an empty alleyway counting the money she made from that month, she sighed at seeing how little she had left after paying Bucky back for the meal and a little extra for his help with her paper rounds.

She knew that he said he wasn't expecting or wanting anything in return but she didn't want him thinking that she was using him. He didn't need to be worrying about her or wasting his money on her, she wasn't anything to him, she wasn't his responsibility or omega. She was no one. A nobody in the eyes of the world.

And that's how it had been for most of her life.

Making her way to the hotel knowing that Jenny was on, she ran in to ask for an envelope she placed the money inside before running back out the building and made the trek to the tower making herself smaller and less visible to the crowd around her.

Finding herself finally outside the doors of the tower she slid her shoes off ignoring the questioning looks she got from those around her she made her way over to the reception desk. "H-hi, can you pass o-or make sure that Mr Bucky gets this, please?"

"Sure or you could take-" Y/n cuts off the young woman sitting just behind the large welcome sign.

"No. Sorry, c-can you just do it please?"

"Okay, sure I'll make sure he gets it."

"T-thank you"

"Do you want to leave your name?"

"No, thank you. Bye"

Rushing back out as the judgemental stares got too much for her, she made her way back to the alleyway she had been calling home for the last few nights.

Bucky was sat listening to Sam's rambling about something he wasn't paying attention to when a soft voice called his name from the doorway to the common room. "Yeah?"

"I was asked to bring this to you" she said handing over the envelope before nodding politely and leaving.

"What is it?" Sam questions eying the envelope.

"I don't know" his frown deepens when he pulls open the top flap and sees money. No note to suggest who had sent it. "It's-" and that's when it hits him. His - not his - omega had not only come to the tower where he was but had also paid him back even when he told her he didn't expect anything back.

"It's what?"

"N-nothing, be back in a minute" Sam sat puzzled but shrugged and turned his attention to the screen trying to figure out what was happening in the scene.

Bucky rushed down the stairs as the elevator was taking too long for his liking, stepping out into the lobby his insides tingled with excitement and familiarity when he caught the remnants of her scent still lingering the air. He knew it was a long shot when he looked outside in hopes of finding her still at the compound but he still went and checked. He headed straight to the hotel where she worked out in hopes of finding her there.

"Hello welcome to the Kingsmill Hotel how many hours or days do you-"

"Do you know Y/n?" He interrupted the beta sitting behind the desk filling in a crossword puzzle, looking rather bored as she did so.

Jenny's head snapped up at hearing her friends name coming from a strangers mouth. "How do you know her?”

"We met at the tower-"

"She really was there?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. What do you want with Y/n?"

"She gave me some money when I told her I didn't want it"

"Right" Jenny said slowly.

"And I would like to give it back to her, is she working?"

"No." Checking the time on her watch "she'll be finished with her jobs for the day, it's Thursday isn't it? She'll be in the alleyway between Smiths and that bike shop, do you know the one?"

"Yeah, yeah I think so.”

"She'll be there for the night.”

"Okay, thank you" his knuckles taps against the desk in two quick successions making his way to the sliding doors when his name was called behind him. "Yeah?"

"Be good to her, please" Bucky's feet falter slightly hearing her words, he manages to nod his head giving her a half smile and leaves.

Pulling out the dinted tin of baked beans from her dark green backpack that probably only had a few more months to a year left in it until it would finally make its way into the dustbin, she opened the lid with a sigh at the idea of having to have cold baked beans once again but she couldn't exactly waste her money on a warm meal. She needed all the money she had.

Wiping down the plastic spoon she had, she begin to dig in when she smelt the familiar scent coming from down the end of the alley.

"Y/n?" Bucky's soft voice sounded as his footsteps grew closer.

"Bucky? Wh-what are you doing here?"

"I told you that I didn't want anything in return, so please take this back.” He said as he handed over the envelope. "Please take it back Y/n.”

"I can't.”

"Why can't you?"

"Because I'm not your responsibility.”

"What?” Yes she was right, she wasn’t, much to his disappointment. “Y/n please stop being a pain in my ass and take the money.”

"Fine!" Taking back the envelope with a huff, stuffing it in her backpack.

"Now come on, you're coming with me.”

"Excuse me? No I'm no-"

"You are, there's plenty of room in the tower and Tony wouldn't care.”

"I-I can't. Okay I can't, I'm fine where I am.”

Bucky sighs at how stubborn she's being, first the money and now refusing to let him give her a roof over her head, a warm soft bed to sleep in and hot food in her belly even if it was only just for a few nights and then him trying to convince her to stay longer after that. Crouching down to her level, putting his left hand on the ground so he didn't fall. "Why can't you?"

"It-it doesn't matter."

"Please Y/n, let me help you please.” He practically begged.

"Why? I'm a nobody. I'm not your friend. I'm not your omega. I'm nothing so why bother helping me? There's plenty of other lost souls out there if you're so desperate to help someone, go and help them!"

He frowned. He knew she was right about her not being his omega despite him wanting that fact to be true and she wasn't a nobody, she mattered to him and to Jenny. "I... why do you have to be so stubborn for?"

"Why do you?” It’s not the first time that he’s been asked why he’s stubborn, maybe that’s why she’s his mate. “Why can't you just let me be? I've been doing just fine on my own"

"You're homeless!" He snapped, instantly releasing a stuttering breath once he let those words slip out.

"Yeah because I was kicked out of my community because of your friend." She snaps back quickly. "Blond, blue eyes?" Y/n explains seeing his confused look.

"Steve? What's Steve got to do with this?"

"He's my alpha, but l'm not his omega so when I was sixteen I was kicked out of the community for being unloveable. Him and his beta will be at the tower right? So I can't-I just can't go there with you Bucky. Look I'm sorry for snapping at you l'm tired and hungry and I just wish to be left alone.”

That loud cracking sound wasn’t thunder, no it was his heart. Of course her mate is Steve, good ol’ Steve, the one that everyone loves and trusts, the one that can kick a woman out of his bed as soon as he’s finished and they come crawling back again when he wants them, the one who is sleeping with his dead mates niece. Of course her mate just has to be his best friend, his brother. Of course the Gods are punishing him for what he did, for what he had no control over, of course. Yet, just like she is, he’s stubborn so therefore he isn’t backing down so easily.

"I have an apartment you can stay at, it's not much but it's better than this alleyway or the tower. An-and before you say no, just know that I only stay there when Tony is being a dick with me, it's somewhere safe for you to stay and it's warm and you don't have to worry about payments or anything because Tony pays for all of the apartments and we don't have to pay him back.” He rambles, trying to say anything in hopes of convincing her to stay at the apartment he hardly stays at. 

"I... I can't-"

"You can, doll you can. It's either the apartment or the tower but it has to be one of them because I'm not leaving you here.”

Mulling over his proposal for a few minutes weighing out the pros and cons, yes it would nice to finally be out of the cold even if just for a day or two and the idea of being able to get a nice shower was very appealing but then she would be having to rely on Bucky once again, he's already helped her out twice - helping her with her paper rounds and then buying her some food - but this was too much, she would never be able to pay him back. "I-I can't Bucky, I'm okay I promise.”

"You’re not okay Y/n, it's getting colder at nights now.”

"I-Bucky I won't be able to pay you back.”

"I don't want you to pay me back, as long as you're safe that's all that matters to me."

"B-but... okay but only for a couple of days.”

"A couple of days" he repeated whilst trying to force the large smile off his face.

Showing her around the small place he was glad that he had brought some food for the place a few days before and cleaned up the takeaway boxes that he, Steve and Sam left from the weekend prior. He told her that she could sleep on the bed and that he had never slept in it before admitting he chose to sleep on the floor.

Y/n moved slowly around the apartment, the last time she stepped foot inside of one was two years ago when Jenny and Opal made her stay with them for a week when New York had a bad snow storm and even then she stayed in the corner of their apartment to scared to disturb or touch anything. "A-are you sure about this Bucky?"

"Of course I am.”

"What do you want in return?" She asked sceptically, even though he already told her he didn't want anything from her most alphas didn't do anything for omegas that wasn't theirs for free and especially not out of the goodness of their hearts.

"Just a friend, that's all.” His lips curved upwards just slightly.

"A friend? Nothing more, right?"

“Nothing more I promise. Plus you have all them deadly diseases so.” Both laughing at the reminder of her failed attempt to scare him away.

"Nasty ones remember!"

"Super deadly ones that you don't remember the names of.”

"That's very true.” Smiling softly at him she whispers. “But I-I would like to be your friend Bucky.”

After a couple of days of Y/n being at Bucky's apartment and him showing up both days just like she made him promise he would, a couple of days turned into a week, a week turned into two and now four months after that evening in the alleyway where he had begged her to come with him, they were both living together. Bucky 'moved' back in after Y/n said that the only way she would continue to live there is if he moved back in so obviously he agreed.

In those four months Bucky found himself excited to go home, home, he couldn’t recall the last time he ever called the place that or even if he ever did, but that’s what it was now, it once was cold and dull with the bare minimum of furniture then after two weeks of Y/n living there he went out and got everything they would need to make the place homely, even getting candles that reminded him of her scent.

They both took it in turns to care for the other at night when their sleep had been interrupted by nightmares, both embarrassed the first time it happened and woke up to find the other one sitting in front of them coaxing them to wake up and promising that everything was fine.

The first time Y/n saw Bucky’s scars he couldn’t tell whose cheeks were redder, his or hers, he’d gone on a run and when he came back he didn’t think twice when he removed his shirt as he made his way towards the bathroom, literally bumping into her as she was coming out of the room. He apologised profusely, worried that he had scared her in some way, whilst she tried so hard to tear her eyes away from his chest and abs, and became what he thought was a stuttering mess. He saw her eyes flick to his scars quickly but he saw no sign of disgust or pity, he couldn’t tell exactly or even if she had any thoughts of them.

One night around about two months into them living together he had gained the courage to ask her about how she came to be homeless, and to his surprise she told him. He sat there feeling all types of emotions, mainly anger, anger at the Gods for giving her a mate that wouldn’t be hers, anger at her father, anger at her community for kicking out a sixteen year old with nothing to her name and a poxy ‘good luck’. He listened to her every word as she retold the story of how she first met Steve, he wanted to be sick, he couldn’t fathom the feeling that she must of felt knowing that her mate had been right there, right there with another woman, a woman who to Bucky had nothing on Y/n.

On the same night she asked him if he had ever found his mate, and he found himself telling her everything from how he met her, her name, how the feeling felt when their souls connected, how she went to bed one night and passed away as she slept - he told her that he ran all the way to her home, waking up her parents and barging into the home and ran up the stairs to her bedroom, he was the one that found her, he felt their bond break and couldn’t understand why she would break it, but he knew, he knew that something wasn’t right, and so he ran, he ran as fast as he could despite being in agony which only got worse as he got closer to her home.

He didn’t know why, because it wasn’t like she asked, but that same night he kept talking, and telling her about Hydra and the things that they did to him and what he did for them. Trying so hard to explain that he didn’t want to do it but that he had no choice, he didn’t want her to hate him or to be scared of him. When she apologised, his heart stopped, he thought she was apologising and then going to say that she couldn’t live with him anymore, but she didn’t say that, no she apologised and gave him a hug which Bucky swore he was going to melt if she kept her arms around him any longer yet finding himself clinging to her when she tried to pull back.

Three months in, Y/n came home crying, the second Bucky heard her sniffling he dropped his phone on the floor and jumped up off the new and comfortable sofa he had recently brought and ran over to her watching as she struggled to get her shoes off. The feeling to protect her was overwhelming as he pulled her into his arms after he asked “who hurt you?” but she didn’t respond, she just fell into his strong chest and soaked his freshly cleaned shirt with her tears. After nearly twenty minutes she began to calm herself down and explained that she bumped into her oldest sister, they cried and held on to each other, her sister told her that their father had died and that their mum hadn’t stopped trying to find her, she told him that her sister had begged for her to come back to the community even if it was for a few hours so she could be reunited with their mum. Y/n explained that she couldn’t, and promised that they’d see each other again. Bucky just held her as she spoke, his heart aching for his omega, and when her words started to slur he picked her up and carried her to bed.

He sat on the sofa wondering what he could do to help his omega when her phone that Tony had brought her started ringing, answering it before his brain could even catch up with his actions. The next day he told Y/n that she wasn’t going to work and that she was finally having a much needed rest, he actually frowned as she just said “okay.” because normally she would argue with him. She had noticed that he kept checking his watch every couple of minutes before eyeing up the door, at eleven there was a soft knock at the door which Bucky told her to answer, and when she did her mum and sisters were standing there.

He watched as his omega was reunited with her family with a sense of pride and happiness, after introducing himself to them and getting them drinks he offered to leave them alone for a bit but found himself stuck when Y/n’s hand grabbed his and begged him to stay. He listened as Y/n told her family how she had been - noticing that she wasn’t telling the whole truth but he understood in a way why she didn’t, he laughed when her mum told him stories of a young Y/n - laughing more when he noticed her cheeks getting redder and redder.

When it was time for them to leave but not before promising that they would see each other again, Bucky was in the kitchen cleaning the dishes from dinner he turned around to find Y/n standing there pulling at the sleeve of her - his old - jumper, before he could say anything she ran over to him and wrapped her arms around his torso, thanking him for everything then standing on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to his cheek.

He stood there for nearly half an hour with a dopey smile on his face.

"Doll can you get the door please?"

"Of course" opening the door she sees Steve and Sam standing there. "H-hi."

"Hey, is Bucky here?" Sam asks smiling.

"Yeah, come in. Bucky you've got visitors.”

Bucky pops his head around the corner and sees his friends, he notices the way Steve looks Y/n up and down and instantly hates it. He knows that Steve and Sharon haven't been seeing each other anymore since the latter walked in on him with an omega she introduced him to, having sex. And the worst part about it for him is that the real alpha to his doll is his best and oldest friend and the way said man is looking at her makes him want to attack him. "Hi guys."

"Hey. Hi pretty girl, I'm Steve" Steve greets Y/n, Sam's the only one that notices the twitch in the brunettes cheek.

"I know who you are.” She says with a hint of sarcasm in the voice, turning to the brunette she smiles causing his heart to squeeze. “Bucky I'm going to work, I'll see you later.”

Bucky bites on his bottom lip to stop him from smiling at her reaction to Steve's clear attempt at flirting. Instead of responding to her he nods and tells the guys to get comfortable before following Y/n outside in the hallway. "How are you? I know it can’t be easy to be around him.”

"He may have been my fated mate but he isn't my chosen one.” She shrugs as she pulls her new backpack that he brought her when her other one succumbed to its early death, up on to her shoulders.

"Oh… w-who is then?"

"You. See you later Bucky.”

It was only until she was outside where she realised what she had admitted. Her cheeks turning bright red instantly.

Kicking a stone lightly down the street she shook her head feeling stupid for what she had said, she had grown used to having a place to call home - a place with him, a place where she feels safe and comfortable and now she ruined it. She's ruined the only good thing she had in her life all becu- "Y/n! Doll! Y/n.” Turning around she sees Bucky running towards her. "D-did you mean that? Y-you really want me to be your chosen mate?"

"I-I'll move my stuff out toni-"

"No no no, did you mean it? Be-because you're mine.”

"R-really?"

"Yes, l've known since the day I met you in the tower.”

"You're my chosen mate Bucky, I don't feel anything for blon-“ Bucky cuts her off by pressing his soft plumb lips against hers. Both signing in content at the feeling of their lips connecting.

Reluctantly pulling away from her, he leans his forehead against hers both sharing shy smiles. "I'll see you after work, I'll pick you up and I'll do us dinner a-and we can watch a movie? How does that sound?"

"T-that will be perfect Bucky, I'll see you later.” Only leaving after Bucky kisses her one, two, three more times.

The two alphas smirk at the third when he gets back into the apartment that once was bare and cold turned into a full and warm home that he was proud to share with his omega, he has a love-struck expression on his face, and he doesn't even bat an eye at their teasing.

True to his word Bucky goes to pick her up from her from work where he shyly admits that he burnt the dinner he was trying to cook, he promised her that he would take her to a restaurant, he understood why she tensed up at the idea of going to a restaurant so he quickly says that maybe they could get a pizza instead.

And that's exactly what they did.

Sitting on the couch they laughed at what the actors on the screen were saying, the rain starting to come down heavily batting rhythmically off the windows, sharing delicious pizza - both thought that nothing could possibly make that night any better than it already was.

"Y/n...” He starts to say but finding him tongue tied when she looks up at him, taking a deep breath before whispering. “I-I love you, y-you don’t have to say it back if you d-don’t fe-“

"I love you too" she smiles up to him, and though his heart soared at hearing those words coming from her lips he couldn't help but chuckle.

"What?"

"You've got tomato sauce on your cheek.”

After the confession everyone noticed that Bucky had a skip in his step, he no longer gave people his infamous death stare, he was happier than they had ever seen him before. “Steve what’s up with him?” Nat whispered as the team watched Bucky help Wanda bake cookies.

“I… I don’t know.”

“It might be that omega we met.” Sam commented, watching in fascination as Bucky sang along with Wanda.

“What omega?” Tony asked.

“The one that was here at the tower, you know the one that Pepper chased after?”

“Y/n?”

“Yeah I think so.”

Steve started chuckling softly and shook his head. “The last time I saw him this happy was when he met Dot, she was his mate.”

“But-“

“I know, I know.” The blond cut Nat off. “But he’s gotten lucky, he’s been given another chance at happiness.”

“If anyone deserves it, it’s him.” Tony mumbled. “What? Don’t look at me like that. Though if anyone tells him I said that I’ll just deny it.”

When the team met Y/n Bucky was nervous because Steve was going to be there, she reassured him that nothing or nobody was going to take her away from him, and she was right, she shook hands with the blond and felt absolutely nothing, she didn’t get that feeling or heard her insides screaming ‘mate’ as she walked into the room.

It wasn't long after that the team met the sole source of Bucky’s happiness that they both wore the mark on the left side of their necks showing the world that he was hers and she was his.

Tags: @imcinnamoons | @pigeonmama | @capsbestgirl77 | @buckitostan | @casa-boiardi

[cryoculus]

— WORLD ALONE ⟢

when you make a living in the bowels of the eternal holy city, nothing is ever personal. until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that kremnoan prince actually bears.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 40.6k words (i'm sorry.....)

★ tags; canon compliant, red light district, prostitution, doomed relationship, yearning, heavy angst (like,,, this is not an exaggeration i swear), implied/referenced past abuse, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ notes; the very first mydei fic i've written, coming to you on tumblr dot com! i was wondering if the character limit is going to permit the existence of a monster wall of text like this, but surprisingly, it did! on ao3, this is actually a trilogy of fics, but part of me thought it really would have been better if it was posted in one go AJSJDHFSHD so here we are!!!! the title is also from lorde's world alone <3

★ header art cr; chongguolyb on x

READ ON AO3

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), come eating, emotional sex, wall sex, really every smut scene is just so tender and melancholic

Despite its reputation as the city dearly loved by the sun, Okhema has its own share of misgivings.  You’ve known since you first set foot within the borders of the Holy City that you have no place here.  Even if it prides itself as a sanctuary for those whose homes were ravaged by the Black Tide, the reception for refugees offers none of the hospitality once promised to you.  Perhaps those born and raised in the capital—far from the city states that have fallen prey to the eternal night—would rather not involve themselves with people like you. People that have seen the worst of what the impending calamity has in store. People who only wish to find some place to call home. But you don’t condemn them from feeling the way they do. Okhemans treat all outsiders with an equal amount of disdain: the Kremnoans, the Dolosians, even the Aidonians. Then again, if your hometown suddenly has an influx of strangers pouring in from every part of the world, you would be alarmed by it as well. That’s why you try your best to stay in their good graces. Always. “Big Sis Thalia? Someone’s looking for you.” Your session of early morning tea is quietly interrupted by a child named Nikolas. He peeks through the curtain of seashells separating your quarters from the rest of The House, eyes closed just to make sure he’s not intruding on anything. The boy’s discretion makes you laugh.  “Nik, it’s alright. Come in,” you insist and ever-so shyly, he does. Nikolas has been inside here before, but the bedazzled look in his eyes whenever he takes in the trinkets you’ve decorated your space with is nothing short of amusing. You give him some time to gawk around as you finish the rest of your tea.  “Sorry,” he mumbles once he snaps out of it. “Mother wanted me to tell you that the swordsman is here again. The one with the white hair?”  You shake your head. “Nik, Lord Phainon has done enough for the undercity that you should at least remember his name.”  “Y-Yes, him! Lord Phainon.”  “Okay, did Elena tell you what he wants?” you ask, despite already hazarding a couple of reasons for his visit. “I doubt he’s here to avail of my services.”  Unlike most boys his age, Nikolas doesn’t get flustered by casual mentions of your line of work. After all, he was born in this very brothel. His mother raised him to treat all his big sisters with love and respect, and it’s hard not to dote on him because of it. “She didn’t say,” he sighs. “Should I tell the other big sisters to let him up here?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Shortly after, another person parts the curtain of glittering shells by the entryway. Phainon lets himself inside with a polite look on his face, as if he’s walking into the Pantheon’s grand hall and not some common whore’s quarters.  “Lord Phainon,” you address him with an inquisitive smile. “What brings you here?”

Phainon’s lips crack into a handsome smile. “Lady Thalia—”

That makes you groan. “Please, you don’t have to address me with that name. You’re a friend.” 

“But it’s only proper if I’m here on the prospect of business, isn’t it?” 

“...Forgive me, but the mere idea of doing business with you feels horrendously wrong. I’m afraid I must decline—”

Phainon says your real name as a matter of throwing you off, and your face contorts with mild vexation. But now that he has your attention, he says, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not here to seek the paradise that The House offers to all willing patrons. It’s more like…a referral of sorts.” You take in his words slowly, making sure there’s no underlying wordplay. But you suppose the man is as direct as he can be with what he’s trying to say. 

“A referral?” you echo with a snort. “Now, who could a Chrysos Heir like you be referring to a shoddy place like this? Your mere presence here is already enough to send Lady Aglaea into a fit of rage, you know. What more if you endorse our services to someone else?”

“If that's the case, then I’m afraid that you gravely misunderstand her,” Phainon chuckles softly. “But I digress. I think it would be best for you to meet this person face-to-face rather than have me put in a word for him.”

“So you’re basically asking if I’m willing to accommodate whoever this is?” is your deadpan retort. “Lord Phainon, when you work here in the undercity, making ends meet is difficult if you don’t pull enough strings. Someone like me has no business refusing clients—”

“Yet you refused me?” he sighs dramatically.

“You just said you’re not here for that! Can you please make up your mind?”

Phainon lets out a laugh he pulls straight from the pit of his stomach, and it makes you think that maybe you would have fallen for someone like him if your life had been more different, if fate had been kinder to you. But this is the reality you live in; a reality where you’d rather drown in the Black Tide than put your friendship with Phainon to the test.  “Anyway,” he interjects once he’s done guffawing. “I take it that you’re agreeing to meet this friend of mine? I don’t usually bring up The House to just anyone, but I think he might need the distraction. And the company.” Heaving a sigh, you fold your arms together. “I take it that you have no plans to even tell me your friend’s name?”

“If I did that, you would probably decline in an instant,” Phainon laughs again, “which is perfectly fine in any case. I just want you to give him a chance first.”

“...Your description alone is already making me second guess.”

Placing a hand over his chest, he bows. “I swear on Kephale’s name that this man will bring neither you nor the other residents of The House any harm. If he does, I’ll personally end him for you.”

That makes you arch an eyebrow. “So you’re saying he has the capacity to do that?”

“Yes, but apart from free will, intellect is another one of Kephale’s greatest gifts to mankind.” Phainon rises back to his full height, eyes brimming with optimism as usual. “Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. Amphoreus is past the age of barbaric violence, after all.” 

There’s something infuriating in how cheeky Phainon’s reasoning is, but he’s always been gifted with words. You suppose it’s alright to do him this favor, given that he’s the reason The House has yet to be cracked down on by the Council of Elders. If it weren’t for Phainon, you and the other girls would have been forced back into the streets of the Holy City, with those Okhemans who seem to despise foreigners more than the Black Tide itself. 

“...Fine. When is he coming?” you relent eventually, much to your dismay. “I don’t have any patrons to accommodate this evening, so your timing is actually impeccable—suspiciously so.”

The subtle jab does not go unnoticed. “Why, I have nothing to do with that at all. But I’ll let him know. Thank you for your kind consideration, Lady Thalia.”

“If you call me that one more time…”

Phainon eventually bids his farewell, not just to you but the rest of the girls in The House. Of course, they practically swoon from his unintentional charm. Everyone here loves that man to varying degrees, after all. 

“Big Sister, should I help draw a bath for you?” 

The third person who crosses your seashell curtain today is a girl named Iris. Her voice is meek, as is her countenance, and you’re convinced that, whatever hell she escaped from, she must not be used to being able to speak as freely as she does now. “Iris,” you sigh. “I’m not your master or anything like that. You don’t have to draw me a bath.”

“B-But Lady Elena mentioned you were accommodating someone tonight,” she squeaks, embarrassment coloring her cheeks with warmth. “I just wanted to help you out, just like you did for me back then…” Her thoughtfulness makes you smile candidly. “Alright. If you insist.”

The straight affirmation makes her face light up, and the sight warms your heart. Iris constantly stammers with her words as she helps you prepare for the arrival of Phainon’s friend, but her nervousness is compensated for by her sincerity—something you’ve come to enjoy as a staple ever since you started living at The House. Why live amongst the vicious Okhemans when not even the Dawn Device can light up their obscured view of foreigners like you? It’s much better to stay with your newfound sisters here in the shadows. Even if you’re lifetimes away from the vast ocean you once called home, what you found here is the closest thing.

You’d be a fool to trade it for anything else.

Evenings have always been long in Okhema’s red light district. 

It’s a place devoid of the usual rules they follow up there on the surface. Absolutely anything goes in the undercity, and the promise of secrecy is enticing enough even for the overworlders to come crawling down into the darkness. You know it’s hypocritical of those Okhemans to shun outsiders whenever they feel like riding their moral high horses, only to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh when it’s convenient for them. But it’s even more hypocritical of you to despise them in equal measure, just for you to accept their money as if it’s your only lifeline. Debauchery is only second to the stench of hypocrisy that lingers in the stale air of the undercity. But the only way to survive here is to never take anything to heart.

Much like the fact that Phainon’s friend still hasn’t shown up past midnight. 

You’re no stranger to missed appointments—if you can even call them that to begin with. While there are some depraved men who would do anything for a minute of your time, there are also others who don’t think you’re worth a moment of theirs. At the end of the day, you’re just some prostitute they can do as they please with.  Iris waits with you out of courtesy. Even if the poor girl is better off resting in bed—given that her last client did quite a number on her—she insisted on keeping you company. But when the fourth hour ticks past with no sign of Phainon’s friend, she gives up and obeys when you plead with her to get some sleep. 

Eventually, the ruckus you’ve grown accustomed to hearing around The House dulls into shared whispers between your sisters who are thoughtful enough to keep their voices down. The location of the red light district allows for the illusion of night without the threat of the Black Tide. Here, anyone can fall into a deep sleep without the sun razing their eyes.

“I didn’t think you would agree.”

Elena’s voice is soft like thunder rumbling in the distance, strangely comforting to hear. She joins you in the room you’ve reserved for tonight’s tryst. Titans know you’d never bring patrons to your own quarters. Still, as the head of The House, it’s only natural for her to make a place meant for sinners to feel like home for girls with nowhere else to go. “To what?” you ask, deciding to play along.

She smiles before taking a seat next to you on the bed. “To Lord Phainon’s outrageous request. You seem like you’d do anything but take anyone associated with him as a patron.” 

“That’s what I thought, too. But you know how convincing he can be.”

“Very much so.” The two of you share a laugh in the dim lights of the lanterns. If there are any people who know how much Phainon has helped The House, it’s you and Elena. 

“That boy is a bit of a gray character, isn’t he? A hero of the people, telling his friend to relieve some tension at a place like this?” Elena shakes her head in disbelief. “I’d understand why that friend of his is a no-show. Phainon is the only overworlder crazy enough to not have a bone to pick with us bottom dwellers.”

You hum. “Not so sure about that. I heard that Penelope’s client for tonight is a wealthy merchant that has no problem with her dominating him into oblivion.” 

“Do me a favor and exclude the nymphomaniacs from the conversation, please?”

Despite his status as both an overworlder and a Chrysos Heir, the main reason why Phainon even involves himself with the undercity is Elena. The two of them came from the same small village at the edge of the world—long forgotten, long burned to ashes.  Aedes Elysiae is a place you’ve only learned about when Elena took you in. While you don’t bother with the specifics, it’s comforting to know that Phainon is well aware of the gripes that come with being a foreigner. You’d call him a hypocrite too, for cozying up to the overworlders, but he’s much too kind to everyone he encounters. Coupled with the fact that he helped save you and Elena from the clutches of the old master of The House, you suppose he deserves your respect. “Did he tell you who it is though?” To be fair, curiosity is starting to eat at you. “I can’t think of a single soul that would even consider Phainon’s suggestion. It’s as you said: no one is as crazy as he is.”  Though Elena is good at masking her thoughts from the others, you can read her like an open book. Even if she only hums in response, that’s already an answer on its own. “Fine. Keep your secrets then,” you grumble. “So can I wash off my makeup now? Though I feel a bit bad since Iris helped out. She even did my nails.”  “You know, that girl has taken a liking to you the same way you did with me back in the day.” “You wish.”  Elena shakes her head endearingly. “No need to wish for something that’s already true. Oh, but I suggest you wait just a while longer.” That warrants an immediate groan. “Why? The entire district’s asleep by now.” “Exactly.” Like she always does, Elena gets up without elaborating further. She makes a beeline toward the entrance with a knowing look on her face and, without so much as another word, the head of The House leaves you to your own devices. Great. Speaking with Elena isn’t so different from speaking with Phainon. You wonder if they have a shared trait where they can rile you up without trying. Is it something exclusive to Aedes Elysians? Thank Titans, her son Nikolas hasn’t manifested anything similar. You wouldn’t be able to handle three troublemakers.  In the midst of your musing, you hear the sound of footsteps down the hall. You typically wouldn’t mind the noise, given that this brothel houses about a dozen and a half of your sisters. But each step sounds deliberate—strong and sure, like a person who knows the value of their presence. You initially assume it’s Elena, but have an inkling that the footsteps are much too heavy to be hers. Just when you decide to get up and check who it is, you come face-to-face with the perpetrator the moment you parted the velvet curtains. The man that stands before you is more of a legend than anything else. You’ve heard about him from tall tales that Kremnoan patrons have shared out of the blue. The Last Prince. The Immortal Lion. While the reputation of those who hail from Castrum Kremnos precedes them, you didn’t think they’d be so devoted to their Prince until that day. Your patron spoke about him as if he was a Titan himself. But now that you’re faced with none other than Mydeimos in the flesh, everything has started to make sense.  He towers over you with ease, his presence effortlessly domineering. The placid look on his face as he sizes you up makes you feel like you’re on opposite sides of the battlefield, and you’d rather not fight a seasoned warrior who’s nearly twice your size— “Hello,” he greets surprisingly…normally. “My name is Mydeimos, but I’d rather you call me Mydei. You are?”  His directness makes you blink up at him. You didn’t think he was the type to introduce himself. He seems like someone who expects every person he crosses paths with to know his name. After all, Mydeimos made waves when he brought the Kremnoan Detachment in Okhema and helped defend the city against the mad Titan, Nikador, among other feats. “Thalia,” you tell him your working name while keeping a straight face, trying not to let him see just how befuddled you are. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The Deliverer has told me about you a couple of times in passing,” he tells you, all while taking in the interior of the dimly lit room. “While I was initially against his proposal, one thing led to another and I’ve found myself right where he wants me.” It takes you a moment to figure out who this Deliverer is. “Oh. Lord Phainon can be quite persuasive.”  “Persuasive is an understatement,” the blond huffs before affixing you with that golden-eyed stare. “So, how will this go? I’m afraid I am wholly unfamiliar with how you operate in the undercity. I…don’t want to overstep any boundaries.” That only serves to confuse you even more. You’ve been in the business long enough to know that men are disgusting scoundrels one way or another. Most of them would just pay to use your body and not even say a word when they’re done. They’d never even think twice about you since you’re working for them at that moment, after all.  It’s a lifestyle you’re not proud of. You’ve never felt more empty than when a man pumps you full of his seed with no regard for your wellbeing. But this is all you know. All you’re good for. And you love Elena and your sisters too much to leave The House behind. Then this man walks into the room with overstepping boundaries as his main concern instead of getting impatient to fuck you against the closest solid surface. Still, you tread carefully.  “Before anything else, I’d like to clarify what exactly it is you came here for,” you say, proud of how firm you sound in spite of how anxious you are. “We can’t work on anything if I don’t know where to start, Lord Mydeimos.”  He sighs. “As I said, just Mydei is fine. And didn't the Deliverer already tell you?” You cast him a pointed look. “Lo— Mydei, we both know Lord Phainon well enough to know that he tends to exaggerate certain details. He’s not the one paying for my services—you are. So I ask you again…” In a show of confidence, you step closer to him, eyes drifting to the ornate necklace sitting across his throat. It was a band of dark metal inlaid with gilded sapphires gleaming in the waning light. You muster enough courage to curl your fingers around it and tug. He yields disarmingly easily, grunting in contempt but with no signs of protest. For some reason, it fills you with a strange sense of accomplishment.

“What are you here for?” you say, voice barely above a whisper.  His jaw clenches for a moment, as if biting something down. Though you try your best to keep your eyes focused on his gaze of molten fire, you can’t help but notice the way his posture shifts to accommodate the compromising position you forced him into.  Mydei’s body is as flawless as people say it is—not a single scar denting his strong, rippled flesh. This is the physique of a man who has gone to war far more times than you can imagine. There is no blade in the world sharp enough to cut him down, and you quietly revel in the detail that Kephale personally took to mold this statue of a man.  “I…”  He starts, but hesitates still. Feeling emboldened, you caress Mydei’s face gently—tracing the bright red marks that bleed from his right eye before swirling in deliberate patterns across the rest of his body. He shudders at your touch and you flash him a lopsided smile.  Then and there, you pull up a mental catalogue of every single thing you’ve heard about Mydei in passing. What the people love about him, what they hate, what they wish they could emulate for themselves—all of it. Because your line of work requires you to deduce what will make your patrons unravel at the seams in a mere glance. That’s how you decide to play your cards: out of a plethora of guesses about their character. From the way Mydei has acted in the five minutes you’ve been together, it’s painstakingly obvious that he bears the weight of a crown he does not even want. Which makes things much easier for you.  “Go on,” you murmur, letting your breath fan across his face. “There’s no need for hesitation here. When you’re with me… “You don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  While it always works on your more eager patrons, saying something so intrepid to a Chrysos Heir is near-unthinkable. A shot in the dark. You aren’t even sure if Mydei is into being addressed that way by a complete stranger, but you see it again—that not-so subtle click of his jaw, which tells you more than enough. The tension hangs heavy in the air. You can barely breathe without feeling your heart race erratically. There’s an unspoken fervor in Mydei’s gaze as his lips quiver like he has something to say.

But you quickly realize that there is little need for words when it comes to someone like him. Mydei’s intentions translate much better when he puts them into action. He barely gives you any time to process what was happening. All you know is that there’s nothing sweeter than the moment the distance between you disappears, and his warm lips slant across yours. The kiss catches you off-guard for only a moment. Most of your patrons don’t bother. In the red light district, kissing is far too intimate for most of them. Yet Mydei doesn’t even think twice about it. His warmth permeates into you as Mydei holds you as close as he can—pressing you flush against his rigid body. It’s a dizzying feeling, but one you can’t dwell on for long when you feel his tongue prodding at your lips. You grant Mydei entrance far too easily, letting him map the cavern of your mouth with the slick appendage. He pulls a moan out of you, and in turn, you feel a strong hand firmly pushing your head further into the kiss.  The feel of his cold gauntlet in your hair should have scared you, or at least, made you wary. But his armor is of little consequence when Mydei holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world. You don’t recall the last time you’ve felt so lightheaded from a patron’s kiss. You don’t even remember the last time any of them even kissed you. That’s how you know that this encounter with Mydei will cement itself into your memory whether or not you want it to. Not just because he’s a Prince, but because he makes it a point to remind you that things like this are supposed to feel good. You gasp his name against his lips, but Mydei devours the words before you can get them out. That simple show of dominance already has you clenching your thighs—a reaction that isn’t lost on the perpetrator himself. In another attempt to catch you completely by surprise, Mydei’s armor-clad hands travel to your thighs, where the high slits of your skirt conveniently part to accommodate the intrusion. Your doughy flesh is hot against his gauntlets and you nearly whimper when he grabs the meat of your ass—the sharp tips digging into your sensitive skin.  Despite your mind being thrown into a haze, you still catch on to what he wants. You curl one of your thighs around his hips—lips still melded together as Mydei helps hoist you up. Once he’s balanced your weight sufficiently, you’re able to cage him between your legs. Still, the both of you know who truly holds the reins. Mydei traces a path of flames along the hollow of your throat, murmuring words in a language you can’t understand. When he presses you against the nearest wall and takes full advantage of the leverage, you can’t ever hope to resist. He doesn’t say anything more, content with swathing your skin in reds and blues from each bruising kiss. The man hasn’t even done much, but you’re already this willing to let him do as he pleases. It’s difficult to miss just how much slick has pooled between your thighs, and the anticipation makes you shiver. When was the last time you were this eager to let a patron have his way with you? “Hold on,” he whispers before gently nibbling on your bottom lip. “I need to feel you.” Head still fuzzy from his ministrations, you barely notice when Mydei maneuvers you to the bed, setting you down as gently as he can. The cool sheets are a stark contrast to your fever-pitched skin. But you barely pay attention when you notice Mydei pressing a knee onto the bed, molten gold irises entirely transfixed on you as he unlatches the gauntlets from his arms. 

His words only begin to dawn on you then.  I need to feel you.  Did you excite a reaction so intense that Mydei felt such a carnal need to touch you with his bare hands—skin to skin, and nothing in between? You don’t care if his armor clatters uselessly onto the floor. Not when Mydei surges forward to capture your lips again and nudges your legs apart. Saliva trickles past the corner of your mouth as another moan is lost to his fervent kiss.   Contrary to your initial beliefs, Mydei is not the legend many think he is. In fact, he is just as human as anyone else—those large, hot hands of his are proof of that. Mydei spreads you apart before him like he wants to take in every inch of you—to devour you with his gaze.

He’s not much of a talker, which poses no problem, as you’ve been with enough men who think far too much of themselves. Fools often compensate for their poor performance with senseless talk. But there’s none of that with Mydei, whose gaze alone can melt you into nothingness.  (You hope he knows that you're all too willing to surrender all that you have for a taste of him.) When Mydei leans closer, you expect another kiss—even pucker up in sheer anticipation. But his first display of petulance comes in a small smirk that plays at his lips. The Prince quickly evades you to nose at your collarbone, licking at the motley of bruises he left in his wake. Almost like a quiet apology despite himself. His discretion makes you squirm, and it distracts you from the fact that he’s undoing the laces holding your dress together. When the fabric comes apart, he’s granted a generous view of your breasts, and the noise that escapes him would make you think he’s unearthed some holy relic from a past gone by. Mydei wastes no time peppering your chest with the degree of affection he’s lathered along the column of your neck. It’s like he means for every biting kiss to leave a mark, a lasting reminder of your time with him for days to come. The moment he takes one of your pert nipples into his mouth, you barely contain your own sounds, and you wonder if you’ll lose yourself completely once he’s gone all the way. Unlike the cold bite of his gauntlets, Mydei’s bare hands are warmer than the unsetting sun on the surface. He touches you with the intention of committing each dip and crevice of your body to memory. You feel him pawing at your breasts, his nails digging into the curve of your ass, and when those wandering hands settle along the curve of your hips, you involuntarily buck up into him. It’s a reaction that makes him pause, those golden eyes like gilded lanterns in the night flickering to yours in a heartbeat. Your breath hitches as your gazes meet. Strange enough, you find the eye contact much more intimate than whatever he’s doing to your body. Wordlessly, Mydei stops suckling at your breasts to sink lower on the bed. The man doesn’t even bother removing your skirt, content with nudging it out of the way before settling himself between your lovely thighs.

When you realize what he’s trying to do, you tense up for all the wrong reasons. You know what people say about the whores of The House. No matter how many times you cleanse yourselves with Phagousa’s blessing of the stream, your bodies will remain tainted by the touch of all the men you’ve let inside of you. You should know better. The Titan of the Sea is much closer to you than meets the eye, but if you stay in Okhema for far too long, you start to forget what you’ve been taught at home—your real home. “Your mind is wandering.” Mydei’s quiet voice snaps you out of your reverie, making your face flush. But he quickly dispels the lingering shame when his soft fingers prod at your mound. He spreads your lips apart with caution, like he doesn’t wish to hurt you. And when he has a firsthand look of how drenched you are, he barely stifles a groan. He doesn’t comment on your momentary distraction again, thank Titans. However, he momentarily robs you of your capacity to speak when he hoists your thighs up his broad shoulders, not even thinking twice before licking a long, deliberate stripe across your dripping cunt. Your nerves are set alight every which way. Mydei repeats the motions of his tongue in dizzying succession, even taking the time to trace tight circles around your sensitive nub. It has you gushing in an instant, and Mydei is all too eager to lap up every drop of your essence.  So tender in the way he pleases you, you can’t help but tangle your fingers into his fiery blond hair—pressing his face even closer to your sopping heat. Mydei licks and slurps at you cunt like some mere mortal gifted ambrosia for the first time. Nothing makes sense about the passion he’s exhibiting for a complete stranger, but you’re too intoxicated from pleasure to deny yourself his devotion.  You know you’re doomed the moment those thick fingers start to gather the slick that’s collected along your seam—working in tandem with his sinful tongue as he presses the lone digit inside your tight cunt. Your toes curl at the blissful intrusion, and you’re certain you’ve pulled at his hair enough for it to hurt. Mydei doesn’t exhibit any signs that he particularly minds. In fact, he even moans into your wet heat, making come hither motions with his finger that stimulates your walls in all the right ways. The premise of foreplay has been lost on you for a long time, and getting someone like him to do all of this without a second thought makes you wonder if this is all a dream. But then the Prince slides in another of his thick digits inside you, anchoring you to the shores of reality as he fucks you on his fingers and feasts on you with his mouth. The way he grips harshly onto your thighs ought to hurt, but the only thing that spills from your lips is pure ecstasy. Mydei doesn’t lick between your folds with reckless abandon. He makes sure each flick of his tongue is slow, dragging, purposeful—enough to render you squirming beneath his touch.  He builds up that steady burn flickering in the pit of your stomach. The more he tongues at your clit, fishes for that patch of spongy flesh that makes you keen just right, the closer he brings you to the precipice. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, but when you start feeling that blissful release starting to boil beneath your skin, Mydei noticeably amps up the effort.  His fingers barely retract from your cunt, in favor of driving those thick digits even deeper into you. That unfairly talented mouth latches onto your nub and Mydei concentrates all his attention to helping you reach that high you don’t always see with most patrons. The stimulation is too good, too much.

You’re not used to this, not used to him.  You thought that the stars had left Amphoreus when Aquila closed their eyes. But all you see are a dozen constellations dancing across your blurry vision when you come apart on Mydei’s tongue. He holds your hips down as you ride out that blissful high—making sure you feel it course through your veins and shoot straight through your skull. From his hedonistic stare alone, you would know he’s far from done with you. When the dust settles, you catch your breath in short gasps, pulse thundering in the confine of your ribs. You don’t immediately realize that Mydei is in the process of taking off the rest of his armor. Though you can’t help the soft giggle you make when you hear him curse out the offending garments when they refuse to yield to him. So, despite having little to no feeling in your legs, you scoot closer to the edge of the bed—undoing the latches that hold his belt and leg plates in place. Mydei awkwardly steps out of them, and you try your best to stifle your laughter; really, you do! “I don’t understand why this is so amusing for you,” he grumbles. All you can offer him is a grin. “You’re just not…the person I expected.” “Hm? Care to elaborate?”  “I think you would enjoy it more if we pick up where we left off.” The Prince doesn’t protest. Instead, he lets you pull him back to the bed not without stealing another kiss that grows more heated, more desperate with each passing second. Even if you’re still feeling the tingling sensation in the wake of your last orgasm, you’re eager to return the favor. Mydei doesn’t object when you undo the clasp of his trousers. The fabric feels expensive—befitting of a man of royal lineage. But the way he sheds the rest of his clothes makes their value feel inconsequential when he has eyes on one thing only. You. There’s a teasing edge to the way you kiss him as you grasp his throbbing length. He feels hot and heavy in your hand, thick veins jutting along the underside. The girth of him troubles you for a moment, making you consider retrieving that jar of lubricant safety stashed in one of the nearby drawers.  Before you can voice out the suggestion, however, Mydei rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily as you pump his cock in your feeble little hands. The show of vulnerability startles you a bit. Is he so deprived of relief that he crumbles the moment it’s given to him? Normally, this is when you would crawl between a patron’s legs and suck him off before letting him fuck you. But this entire session with Mydei is anything but normal. No man has ever gone down on you the way he has, and from the way he shudders so adorably from your hands alone tells you he needs release much more than he lets on. So, you plant both of your knees on either side of his hips to straddle him comfortably, and with all the strength you can muster, you push the Prince onto his back. Although you do fail to account for the man’s rapid reflexes. The moment he feels the extra force, his hand is quick to seize your wrist—tight enough that it actually hurts.  “M-Mydei…?”  The hint of fear in your voice seems to snap him out of it, and his ironclad grip loosens. Mydei stares up at you apologetically. “Forgive me. It’s…a force of habit.”

Oh, right. First and foremost, he is a warrior. A Kremnoan Prince. And though he has no business floating inside of your head at the moment, the conversation you had with Phainon earlier resurfaces in your head.  Even if my friend is free to hurt others, it doesn't mean he will. The dissonance between what you know about the battle-hungry spirit of Kremnoans and the tenderness that Mydei has shown you so far only serves to puzzle you even more. Phainon was right to assume you would turn him down if he told you that the friend in question is Mydeimos of all people.  Because…what else would you expect from a man who’s known war more than he’s ever known love? You’ve lied with warriors before, and soldiers, and even some city guards. None of the people who have tasted what it’s like to stand on the battlefield have ever been kind to someone they only think of as a hole to fuck—a source of relief and none else. But Mydei? In the short time you’ve known him, he’s convinced you that no harm will come to you as long as you’re in his company. Instead of fearing for your life, you feel…safe. Something you consider a luxury for someone in your line of work. You feel like there’s something twisted in the fact that you’re relieved just from the thought that he isn’t here to kill you. But too many of your sisters have lost their lives to pigs who want to silence them for good. Unfaithful husbands that didn’t want their wives to find out about their infidelity. Important societal figures that wanted no trace of their illicit activities. After all, anything goes in the undercity. Even the death of a prostitute—a foreigner, at that.  “You’re thinking too deeply again.” Count on Mydei to catch on to your little tells. Another thing you didn’t expect about him is how easily he can read you. Or maybe you’ve always been an open book. It’s just that your patrons don’t usually give as much of a damn as Mydei does.  “It’s nothing,” you chuckle, mentally chiding yourself for being so distracted today. “You’re just… I can’t even put it into words. I might just be a bit overwhelmed is all.” You can’t tell him that you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you’re servicing a Chrysos Heir. It feels all sorts of inappropriate. Mydei studies you for only a moment before he rises back into a sitting position. You’re about to protest—to let him let you please him this time. But he doesn’t seem interested in heeding your quiet request. 

He manhandles you in a way that swiftly switches your positions and you find yourself back beneath him. The lanterns cast a faint halo around his muscular glory. Even in the dim light, the red marks on Mydei’s skin glow like veins of fire beneath the earth. He pins you in place not only with his strong hands, but also with eyes like liquid sunlight. “It’s as you said before,” he murmurs quietly before leaning closer to your ear. The warmth of his breath tickles your neck, and you shudder as he presses a soft, chaste kiss on your temple.  “When you’re with me, you don’t have to be anything else but mine.”  The fact that he just used your words against you makes heat shoot straight to your core. Mydei makes the crude yet attractive motion of spitting into his hand before lathering his cock with saliva. Your mind whispers a reminder about that lubricant you were just thinking about, but there’s something more carnal in the thought that he’s going to loosen you up with his spit alone. Yet despite the need burning in his eyes, each movement he makes is weighted with caution. You feel as if he’s compensating for that knee-jerk reaction from earlier—something you’d tell him is past you, and that he doesn’t have to treat you like fragile glass. But again, the words evaporate on your tongue when you feel the head of his thick cock by your entrance.  Mydei lets out another shuddering breath, nudging your knees apart before rubbing his length along the seam of your cunt. It glistens with spit and slick, and you pull him even closer to let him know what it is that you want. The abrupt tug you make on his arm disrupts his center of gravity, and Mydei nearly topples into you. But of course his reflexes work in time yet again and suddenly your faces are but a hair’s breadth apart. You’ve said it before and you’ll say it again: eye contact is a thousand times more intimate than the act of sex itself.  He breathes out a word from that unfamiliar language yet again. The way it rolls off his tongue is soft, tender in a way that it almost hurts. Like something meant to be heard by a person close to his heart—not some whore he’ll probably never see again. You close your eyes and his lips find yours. Ever-so gently, he pushes himself in.  Everything about Mydei is difficult to process. From his presence to his attitude to the sheer girth of him—you had to take a moment to recalibrate yourself to every single one. You clutch the sheets tight enough that they start to pull off the edge of the bed.  The intrusion is sharp, but not uncomfortable. Not when he eases inch by delicious inch into you with the patience of a saint. While he doesn’t coo and coddle you, his eyes are expressive enough to let you know of his concern. You even feel him start to withdraw, possibly out of fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, but you hold on to his forearm to keep him in place.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” Mydei whispers. You shake your head vigorously. “You’re doing everything but.” That doesn’t immediately quell the doubt on his face, but Mydei presses forward—slowly, slowly until his hips are flush against yours.  All of a sudden, you forget how to breathe. He’s… huge inside you. Spreading your walls so far apart, you wonder how you were even able to accommodate his size. You’ve never been so filled to the brim that tears nearly well in your eyes because of how good he feels— “Fuck…” Hearing him voice his own blissed out delight and seeing the euphoric look on his face makes you involuntarily clench around him. It’s a reaction met with a snarl from the man currently eclipsing your smaller frame. Mydei makes the motions to pull out slowly, only to buck his hips with unforgiving force. The switch-up blindsides you for a moment, lips gaping from a soundless moan. When the Prince catches on to how much you like it, he hammers into you relentlessly—pushing his fat cock desperately deeper into your slick sex.  Your arms curl around his broad shoulders, fingers seeking purchase along the rippling flesh of his muscles. The sinew of his back shifts with each thrust, making you mewl his name pathetically as Mydei drowns you in the heat of him. There are no words shared between you. Only gasps and moans lost in the wet squelch of flesh. You’re mindful enough to keep it down, and so is he. But even if the red light district is fast asleep, you and Mydei are only getting started.  He doesn’t quite fuck into you the way you’re used to. The intensity is there, but so is the unbridled passion. It feels like something that isn't yours, but Mydei gives it to you again and again and again until you have no choice but to claim it as your own.  To take him as yours. (Even just for tonight.)

Your nails dig in sharply into his rigid skin, but the fact that he has an indestructible body makes you throw all caution to the wind. Where other men would bleed, he would only use it as a means to push ever-so deeply. As if Mydei isn’t already pounding you into the bed, he grasps your chin and meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He spreads you on his cock like he was made for you, and you alone. You can feel him so far inside of you that you fear it’ll take days to sweat him out.  The nature of your work requires you to never get too attached to any of your clients, which used to be as easy as breathing. None of the men you encounter are worth remembering and you thought that none of them ever will be. But when it’s a prince who kisses you like a lover and holds you like his queen, how are you supposed to put up a fight? Mydei’s pace eventually starts to lose its sound rhythm. From the sharp breaths he takes to the fact that his eyes seem to be going in and out of focus, you can tell that he’s close to the edge. Who are you to deny him that? Your fingers tangle in his hair yet again and you whisper every sort of expletive in the book. You fuck me so good. Can feel you throbbing inside me. Come on, Mydeimos, I know you’re almost there. Please, please, please— That does just the trick. Mydei reaches the apex of bliss with a sharp hiss. But instead of finishing inside you, he musters up the strength to pull out and lets his white hot emission coat the sheets instead. You don't realize right away, but when you see the pearlescent essence of his cum on the sheets, your heart sinks.  “W-Why did you…?” 

You don’t know why you sound so miserable at the idea of his seed not being deep inside of you. The mere thought of a man’s spend dripping from your cunt repulsed you to no end. But Mydei has a knack for being the sole exception to many things. He’s quick to wipe the tears that trickle across your face, thumb swiping gently across your soft cheek. “I… I do not wish to burden you with having to bear my child. And I have my own reasons for not wanting to sire an heir at this point in time.” “But…” Mydei continues, having not heard you protest. “Kremnoan children are also difficult to bear, according to many mothers I’ve spoken to before. The last thing I want is for you to—” “Mydeimos,” you sigh in exasperation, grabbing his face so that he would pay attention. “I’ve been sterilized long before I met you, so you needn’t fret about any children growing inside me.”  The silence that follows is deafening, and it makes you want to bury your head in sand. Mydei is too baffled to speak right away, and you don't fault him for it. The rumors about women at The House have been floating around for a while, but none of you didn't want to sow any more conflicts than there already are. Instinctively, you trail your fingers along your navel. Though the scars have long been healed by Phagousa’s blessing, you remember what you lost like it was just yesterday.  “We can’t bear any children because the previous head of The House took that away from us,” you murmur—memories, old but still painful flashing in the forefront of your mind. “So please don’t concern yourself with trivial things like that. I only want to provide the most out of your experience.” Your chest aches at your own words. It’s not that you’re dying to have children of your own. Nikolas being the first and last child to be born here is more than enough for you. Children should never have to grow up in the darkness anyways. Mydei frowns. “Why do you speak of yourself like you’re nothing but an object made for my enjoyment?” “Am I not?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls you upright—anger glowing in his golden eyes. It doesn’t scare you. Somehow, you know the ire in his gaze is not directed at you.  But despite the obvious shift in his mood, Mydei kisses you again with nothing but passion imbued in his lips. He quickly melts away the bitterness dredged up by those memories he unknowingly dug up into the surface. The faith you’ve put in him tonight is phenomenal, especially when you allow him back between your thighs despite what you just discussed. You don’t understand how he’s still hard after releasing so much of his emission earlier. But if there’s one thing you know about Kremnoans, it’s that their stamina is unparalleled. Unlike the first time, Mydei doesn’t rut into you hard and fast. Everything about this is slow and sensual, as if he wants to mold your cunt into the shape of him. He presses your thighs into your chest, tilting your body at just the right angle so he can let his cock hit even deeper.  “Mydei…” His name sounds strained, like you’re choking on your own voice. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for. You don’t know what you even want at this point. But Mydei heeds your unspoken wishes anyway. He folds you further into the bed in a way that makes you feel like his desire for you is inescapable. The position you’re in is meant for lovers trying for a child, to make sure the seed takes and bears fruit. You two are nothing but strangers basking in each other’s bodies deep in the darkness of the undercity. 

But even if you can never have children of your own, there’s something oddly comforting in the fact that Mydei fucks into you like this anyway. Like you’re worth more than a bottom dweller lost to the shadows.  Your orgasm crests without much bravado either. It’s straightforward, having been exacerbated by the Prince rubbing your clit as he nearly breaches a place inside of you that has never been reached by anyone else. It feels intrusive at first, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand in instinctive wariness. But as the head of his cock continues to drag along your spongy flesh, as he keeps hitting that sinfully sweet spot, your caution begins to fray at the seams. You embrace him with a quiet sob, tight walls squeezing his cock for all he’s worth.  And then you fall off the edge of ecstasy itself. It’s much different from when you came undone from his mouth. That felt like you were reaching for stars that burst in the back of your eyelids. This feels like coming back home.

Mydei murmurs yet another string of words that are beyond your range of understanding, each one sounding more vulnerable than the last. And with one last, stuttering thrust, he bursts—coating your walls in the warmth of his release.  He fills you to the brim, pumping you full of his seed until it drips out of your cunt with his cock still flush inside you. The sensation is filthy but not in a way that you despise. You even move your hips to let him fuck his cum deeper inside you. When Mydei notices, he lets out a sharp laugh. “I didn’t think…you’d still be this eager.” You don’t say anything in return—or more like, you can’t. The sensation of him filling you up has rendered you into a mindless deviant. Only his cock can stoke the fire still raging inside you. So you do your best to entice him. While you loathe the idea at first, you slip his cock out of your soiled cunt. Mydei watches your every move with rapt attention and a growl nearly tears through his chest when you get on your knees, facing away from him before presenting your ass for the taking. His seed trickles out of you and onto the sheets. No man would be sane enough to resist the same display of seduction. “Are you sure you want to provoke me like this?” he warns. “The woman in charge of this place told me I should be gone by sunrise.”  Your mind doesn’t quite register the fact that Elena herself imposed that restriction—too desperate to be speared on his cock once more. The sun doesn’t even rise in a place like this.  “I don’t care,” you whimper, tugging him closer to you. “Mydei, fuck me more.”  Mydei looks up at the ceiling, as if praying for some sort of deliverance. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fortunately for you, the Prince surrenders far too easily to the desires of the flesh. The two of you go at it with no end in sight. Mydei proves to live up to the Kremnoan stamina that’s grown recently popular amongst your sisters. And despite the room smelling of sex and depravity alike, he doesn’t relent—committed to fulfilling your desires until you’re completely spent.  You’re the first one to tap out, as expected. Mydei didn’t seem finished with you at first, but when he finally notices the mess he’s made of your body, his rationality comes back to the surface.  He lays your head on the pillow gently, positioning the rest of your body upright once he’s done wiping down the evidence of his time with you. Mydei knows you’re not quite asleep when your eyes slowly flutter in confusion, and he sighs before leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Can I ask something?” “Hmm…?” Hopefully, that translates to a yes. “What’s your name? Your real name.”  “Mmmh…” On a regular day, you would think twice before giving that information out so freely. Your line of work is more dangerous than it seems, and the most basic precaution is to never give patrons your real name. But you don’t usually get your brains fucked into mush on regular days either, so you suppose Elena can forgive you for the lapse in judgement.  Mydei repeats your name with a hint of fondness in his voice. You don’t quite hear it, given that you’re halfway to the land of slumber.

“Thank you… Your… has been… splendid.” What was that…? You’re too far gone to give his words another conscious thought.  Instead, you dream of a man with eyes hewn from pure starlight. Of a life you could have with him if only you hadn’t been born with the lives you had.  But like all dreams do, they cease to exist the moment you open your eyes. 

“B-Big Sister, how do you make this much in one night?” This is the first thing Iris asks when you step into the pavilion. Well, you’re not sure if it’s even morning. It’s difficult to tell here in the undercity. Still feeling the lasting throb of a headache, you gaze at Iris with a befuddled look. “What are you talking about?”  It’s only then that you realize a handful of your other sisters have gathered around the large table in the middle of the room, where bags upon bags of gold overflow on the marble surface. You stare at them with a nonplussed expression, not sure why they think all this finery belongs to you— Mydei. “Alright, girls, give poor Thalia some space.” Sometimes, you’re grateful for Elena’s timely interventions. While some of your sisters bemoan the lack of an explanation for this…massive influx of currency, they all have enough courtesy to step out when it’s needed. Shortly after, you enjoy a meal that Elena already prepared for you beforehand—one glass of pomegranate juice and a plate of golden honeycakes.  “I’ve never seen you that spent before,” the head of The House snickers to herself. “That man did a number on you now, did he?”  You would have glared at her, if only her cooking wasn’t so good. “Elena, shouldn’t we practice the art of minding our own business?” “Technically, you’re working for my business, yes?” This woman can really be insufferable sometimes. 

Thankfully, Elena gives you enough grace for the next several minutes. You get to finish your food without so much as a quip on her end. But just when you think she’s let you off the hook, she has the gall to ask: “And you’re sure you haven’t fallen in love with that Prince?” Elena’s preposterous words nearly make you choke on your drink. “If I start falling for every man that shows me an ounce of kindness, then I would’ve been long dead, Elena. You know that men who mask their intentions are worse than those who are outright scoundrels.” “But is he?” “...What?” “A man who masks his intentions?” Her question is met with a puzzled stare. “Of course not—” “Then why not let yourself fall for the kind man?” Elena chuckles. 

“Because he’s a Chrysos Heir? He has much more pressing concerns than some random woman in the red light district. If the lesser men that have had me never even thought twice about me, why would he?” Elena shrugs. “Only you can answer that, I’m afraid.” Eventually, one of your sisters ends up calling Elena for an urgent matter. You don’t quite hear what it’s about, but the head of The House steps out of the pavilion to leave you to your devices… Or to your heaps of gold, in this case.  You still don’t know what you’re supposed to do with all of this, but you might give half of the money to Elena to help with the much needed repairs around The House, and the other half to Phainon so he can give it to the less fortunate citizens up on the surface. Though you immediately scratch the latter off the list since the chance of Mydei finding out is fairly high. The moment your thoughts drift back to him, your face heats up with embarrassment.

You were not yourself last night. You don’t know what drove you to go such lengths just to please him, and where you even got the courage to keep going. But when you recall the warmth of Mydei’s golden eyes, the tenderness weighted beneath his touch, and the fire that seemed to burn behind those marks on his body… You spend the rest of your day ruminating about your time with Mydei. Hell, you even consider reaching out to Phainon to ask all your pressing questions just to sate your biting curiosity. Why did he come here? Did he need reprieve from his princely duties so badly?  No. You shouldn’t think of him anymore.  Mydei is nothing but a client. You’ve rendered your services. He’s paid his dues. That should be the end of the transaction, and nothing else. Time and time again, you tell yourself the same thing: When you make a living in the bowels of the Eternal Holy City, nothing is ever personal. Until you catch yourself wondering just how heavy of a crown that Kremnoan Prince actually bears. “Big Sister? A customer is asking for you.” Nikolas peeks through the curtain of seashells dangling by the entrance of your room again. He doesn’t wait long for your answer because the speed in which you burst into a sprint is somewhat embarrassing. “Who is it?” you ask, eyes wide and pulse roaring in your ears. “Did you see?” “Umm, I think it’s just one of the bartenders working down the street. Why?” You visibly deflate at the news, and you know that despite being fairly young, Nikolas doesn’t miss the disappointment on your face.

In the end, you decline to see any potential clients for the next few days. Your official statement is that you’re still recuperating from your last session. The only reason your sisters don’t nose in on the matter is the fact that you brought so much revenue to The House in just one session, they’re fully convinced that you deserve all the rest you can get. But the truth is that you spend most of your time lost in thought, daydreaming of a man with fiery hair and molten gold eyes.  You wonder if he’ll ever come back.

In the seaside state of Lethe, it’s fairly easy to forget about one’s problems.

Wine and song filled every street and back-alley, as the land is loved by the Titan of honey brews and banquets. Tales of the neverending festivities reached far and wide in Amphoreus, and that word-of-mouth alone was enough to attract visitors from across the land. 

It’s for this reason that Lethians are as hospitable as they are. Phagousa taught them how to cultivate the sweetest wine from mere grapes; taught them the art of music and how it brings life to the darkest of nights. 

For thousands of years, your people simply dedicated their toasts and sang their shanties to honor the Ocean Mother’s kindness. When others hailing from places near and far started to gravitate towards such a profound relationship between a Titan and their people, you welcomed them with open arms. 

After all, Phagousa’s benevolence is meant to be shared, not kept. 

Your mother has been bringing you into the jovial streets since you were ten years old—singing and dancing amongst drunken sailors and tourists who wanted a quick getaway. It was easy to let loose in a place meant for you to forget about life’s worries. But on some days, you preferred basking in the comfort of waves lapping gently across the shore. The stars were much easier to see along the coastline, far from the entertainment district that robbed a person’s attention of the vast sky that stretched above their heads. Though Phagousa exists in every goblet overflowing with drink, Their presence is most captivating when you’re out here at sea. 

The spot you’ve chosen was a ways away from the wharf that received and sent off ships. Which is why one bothers to encroach on this safe haven of yours. Not even your own mother. But apart from the privacy the secluded shore offered, there was another reason why you liked to sit here and observe in your lonesome. 

A reason that might get you in trouble. 

Several miles east of Lethe is the stronghold of the Titan of Death: the city state of Styxia. Legend has it, Lethians used to live there a long time ago—before the end of Era Chrysea, when Thanatos was born. The god’s presence was a plague that spread throughout the land. Not even Phagousa could protect Their people from Death’s inviting fingertips.

But since the lost city state isn’t too far from here, sometimes, fragments of the Nether Realm end up leaking into the open sea.

There, you often see things that others would deem impossible. 

Souls—by the hundreds, sometimes even by the thousands. They all drift aimlessly across the ocean like luminescent creatures you’d normally find deep underwater. The first time you witnessed this happening, you simply thought that it was migration season for the crystal jellyfish. Lethians even have a festival dedicated to that specific phenomenon.

But that only ever happens during the Month of Joy, which was over five months ago. 

Instead of spiraling into a panic and alerting the entire island of what you saw, you chose to linger—observing as each soul meandered across the moonlit ocean and into the unknown. The sight reminded you of a tale about the Sea of Souls, and how you would inevitably make the journey towards it once you pass.  You wondered if these souls have simply lost their way to their supposed destination. Though you’ve never heard of this happening before, it wasn’t such a farfetched ordeal. Perhaps even the dead long for Phagousa’s promise of gratification and delight.

Every day since the first, you began visiting the secluded shore in hopes of getting a glimpse of that literal sea of souls. Sometimes, they light up the sea like specters bathed in moonlight, but most of the time, it’s just you. 

Always just you. 

“Big Sister? You’re dozing off again.”

You’re not sure how exactly your mind managed to register the fact that you’re being scolded, but you jolt awake anyways. Eyes darting around, you grasp at the information available—who are you with, what are you doing, what’s going on—and visibly relax when you remember that you’re with your sisters in the pavilion, feasting on today’s breakfast after a rather long night.

Iris stares at you with a concerned look. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“Of course not!” you insist before shoveling a spoonful of eggs into your mouth and biting down on a piece of flatbread. “Breakfast is especially appetizing when you’re the one making it for me.”

“So it’s not the case if I’m the one cooking?” 

At the sound of Elena's sulking, you have to stifle a groan. The head of the House could be such a child at times, despite already being a mother herself. But then again her petulance knows no bounds. Elena joins you and the rest of your sisters at the dining table, depositing some of Iris’ cooking onto a plate before taking a seat. Though you try your best to avoid her gaze, it’s a bit difficult when the person in question is quite literally next to you.

You’ve been with Elena for so long that you don’t even have to look at her to know whenever she’s scheming something. 

“I’ll be heading up to the overworld today,” she imparts the information casually before popping a blueberry into her mouth. “Nikolas has been meaning to join the Academy that trains the Holy City’s guards. Unfortunately, those scoundrels have rubbed off on my boy.” 

Despite your caution, you let slip a soft laugh. “Well, whenever we take some guards as clients, they have no one to talk to in the lobby apart from other patrons and Nik. You trained him to be too good of a conversationalist for a fourteen year-old.” 

“This is what we get for those god-awful waiting times we subject them to,” Penelope chuckles. “But look at the bright side: the city guards are the least rotten of the bunch. Nik at least chooses his heroes wisely.”

“I wouldn’t call Officer Theodorus a hero,” snorts Alexandria. “He has a wife and two children yet he goes down here to ask for me at least once a fortnight! Men are all the same, no matter what job they have.”

You don’t blame your sisters for feeling the way they do. Working as prostitutes in the underground had little benefits. But people with nowhere else to go don’t have much of a choice. It’s just nice to be able to air all these frustrations out as freely as you all do now. 

Unlike before…

All of a sudden, Lyra pops into the discussion, snapping her fingers. “Remember that man who pretended to be an envoy from the Grove? I still wonder why he thought doing that to curry Elena’s favor would give him any discounts. Not even Chrysos Heirs can haggle with her.” 

At the mere mention of that title, you feel several eyes on you at once. Just great.

“I thought we all agreed not to bring him up again?” you groan.

“Bring who up?” Elena muses with a whimsical tone that annoys you a little. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about that fake scholar, Thalia.”

You know damn well it’s not about that impostor!

“U-Um, would you like some more juice, Big Sister?” Iris, ever the last to play the devil’s advocate, offers with a wobbly smile. You nod all too quickly before she refills your cup with enough pomegranate juice to last you until the end of your meal. Still, the sweet drink doesn’t stop you from glaring daggers at Elena and your other sniveling sisters. 

After breakfast, you all do your share of the housework. Elena wasn’t very strict, but she did have a rule that you should all have at least one designated chore for each day.

Today, you’re in charge of the dishes.

For some reason, it’s everyone’s least favorite. Most of your sisters didn’t like it when their fingers pruned up after washing over twenty sets of plates and silverware after every meal. But fortunately for you, you grew up in a place that requires more than just your hands to get wet for prolonged periods of time. 

“Are you coming along?”

Cue Elena’s timely entrance once again. Sighing, you cast her a sidelong glance as you finish up rinsing the cups you all used for breakfast. “Do I want to know what this is about?” 

“I already told you this morning.” She smiles. “I’m enrolling Nikolas into the Academy. I haven’t been to that part of the city, so I would appreciate some company.”

“Elena, you know I don’t like coming up to the surface,” you grumble. 

“Yes, and I also know it’s high time we broke you out of that shell of yours,” the older woman encourages. “The Okhemans aren’t as bad as you think they are, Thalia—”

“Maybe to you, they aren’t,” you snip back curtly. “But me? They know where I’m from, Elena. They know the face of the girl that Agamemnon stole from the Island of Debauchery.” 

Your voice still trembles with each word, but you find peace in the fact that uttering that man’s name no longer strikes fear into your heart. From the soft set of Elena’s brow, you know she notices this as well. The faucet creaks when you twist it to turn off the water. You hear nothing over the sound over your heart pounding in your ears. 

“But Agamemnon is no longer with us,” Elena reminds you quietly. “I’m not telling you to forgive the man who ruined our lives, but you shouldn’t let the ghost of him dictate the course of your life. If he found out how much of a hold he still has on you, that monster would be coming in his own grave.” 

As twisted as it is, you find comfort in the way she speaks of the old head of The House with as much disdain as you do. It’s been a while since he’s been taken care of, but the scars he left will never really fade. 

No matter how badly you want them to.

“Nik and I will leave in half an hour,” she continues after a few moments of silence. “Come with us to the surface, please? I promise that if your experience is anything less than stellar, I’ll never ask you the same thing again.”

The sincerity in her plea is far from Elena’s usual cheekiness, which makes you think that she might be getting a bit desperate to get you to agree. At that moment, you parse through dozens of possibilities as to why Elena thinks it’s such a good idea to bring you to the surface on such short notice. The other girls might be more amiable to the idea, whereas you are perfectly content with your life here in the undercity with other outcasts just trying to make a living. 

…Sure, you kind of want to visit the cafes at the Marmoreal Palace that Phainon told you about whenever he visits, but that’s besides the point!

When you first set foot in Okhema as the newest addition to Agamemnon’s collection, you weren’t gazed at with disgust because you were a prostitute. It was because you were Lethian—people widely known as swindlers who used Phagousa in their blasphemous schemes to sap people of their hard-earned money. Those revolted stares haunted you well into your dreams for months. So even if the person who dragged you across the ocean under the false pretense of protection is gone, there are some things that you cannot move past so easily.

“Big Sis Thalia? Are you— oh! Mother, hello.” 

Just your luck, Nikolas chose the perfect time to pop into the kitchen. You notice that he’s all dressed up—robes all pinned in place, brass wrist bands and other pieces of jewelry glinting in the light of the lanterns. You can’t help but gush about how proper he looks. 

“Stop,” he groans, cheeks all dusted pink as you ruffle his hair. “Mother told me to make myself presentable…whatever that means. I must’ve done a good job if you’re doting on me like this.”

“You sure did,” you coo. 

“So you’re coming along with us then?” Nikolas segues with raised brows. “Mother said she’ll try her best to convince you to go to the surface. Did she?”

From the expectant twinkle in the boy’s eyes, you figure that he must’ve been really looking forward to you chaperoning them to the Academy. You heave a deep sigh before your gaze flickers to Elena, who simply grins at you like the angel she is. 

Hook. Line. Sinker. 

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get ready.” You force out a smile of your own before pinching the tip of Nikolas’ nose. “I might need some sunlight after all this scuttling in the dark.”

Nikolas stares at you with his mouth agape, then at his mother, and back at you again in mere seconds. “W-What? Really?”

“ Really ,” you say, hoping you sound as sure as you hoped. “I’ll see you in half an hour, okay?”

The grin that stretches across his chubby little face is so wide, it makes your heart hurt. How in the world are you supposed to say no to him? 

When you head up to your quarters, the curtain of seashells parts at your entrance with a characteristic clinking sound. You don’t usually rush inside this fast, but time is of the essence when you agree to go to the surface even if you only planned on finishing a novel today.  You’ve never been as particular with what you wanted to wear as you are now. Most of the dresses in your wardrobe are meant for work—meaning, they’re far too revealing to wear in the streets of the Eternal Holy City. The last thing you want is to get arrested for public indecency.

Thankfully, you manage to spot some rather pristine robes that probably won’t get you kicked out of the Academy in the back of your closet. You try it on without another thought, smiling to yourself in the mirror when you find that it’s still a perfect fit. The rest follows swiftly after. Minimal makeup. Nothing too extravagant for jewelry. Comfortable sandals. You’re pretty much all set. 

But then you make the mistake of thinking, I wonder if I’ll run into Phainon today, which then makes you think about him. 

Mydeimos.

Truth be told, the thought of that name incites an even more volatile reaction out of you than that of Agamemnon’s. Even if he’s a prince, he should be nothing but another name on your neverending list of clientele. 

Before meeting him, you never quite understood prostitutes who hanker for certain patrons more than others, who even go as far as to fall in love with them. The next thing you know, their rooms in The House have been emptied and news of them being bought out by said patrons starts to spread. You’re happy for them, of course. But the thought of having any sort of affection for a man who only used you for your body was near-unfathomable for you for a long, long time. 

Until you met Mydei. 

“Big Sis, are you ready?” 

The sound of Nikolas calling out for you down the hall dispels any and all thoughts of a certain Kremonan Prince. You shake your head, staring at yourself hard in the mirror as if wanting to remind you of your place. What’s done is done. They say you need countless lifetimes of fate to meet a person even once in this life. If you miss it when it brushes past, that's the end.

Right?

“I’ll be down in a minute!” you shout back. “Sorry for the wait!”

With that, you set off for your first excursion to the surface in a good while—praying to the heavens above. You’re not even asking for a good day. You just need to be able to get through this without getting traumatized into hiding again.

Please. Just this once. 

There are no gods left that would heed your plea, but it costs nothing to hope. 

The air in Okhema feels different today. 

Maybe because it’s been months, maybe longer, since you last walked these streets. Yet the weight of it all—the towering marble spires, the golden banners, the bustling crowds—clings to you like a second skin. You feel alien in a place that should have welcomed you. But instead, it’s the echo of past insults, cold stares, and harsh judgment that rises to the surface. It threatens to choke you, but you do your best to overcome it. You can’t afford to lose face where Nikolas can see. 

As you walk through the city’s grand streets, the young boy skips ahead, eagerly pointing out the towering buildings and guards marching in formation. Elena walks beside him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him grounded as she smiles proudly at her son. There’s a quiet confidence in Elena’s step, the kind of strength that you find yourself envying. Despite claiming otherwise, she knows this city well, knows how to navigate it, and how to move among the people. But for you, every step feels foreign, like an outsider trying to be something she’s not.

You eventually reach the Academy without much spoken word. Nikolas is excited, tugging Elena’s arm, eager to begin his training, while his mother smiles, giving him a gentle nudge toward the entrance. You linger a few paces behind, staring at the stone-carved doors before feeling a slight knot in your stomach as the reality sets in. This is where Nikolas will learn to become something great, something noble. And here you are, a shadow in the background, caught between worlds.

Elena turns to you, her smile faltering slightly. “Thalia,” she says, voice soft but firm, “Are you all right?”

You blink, as if snapping out of a daze and before attempting to force a smile that only feels hollow. The words you’re looking for stick in your throat, tangled with the memories of your time in Okhema—the judgment, the whispers, the pain of feeling like you didn’t belong here, like you were nothing more than an outcast.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though the words feel like a lie. You can’t bring yourself to say more. 

The city around you feels suffocating, its beauty just a façade for all the ugly truths beneath. Your gaze drifts toward the golden banners fluttering in the wind, the bright, polished marble reflecting the sun. It all feels too perfect, too pristine. But there’s no life in it, no warmth. Just cold, glittering stone.

Nikolas notices the quiet tension between you. His youthful face scrunches in confusion, then concern. “Big Sis Thalia, you look sad.”

You’re quick to shake your head, as if to push the feeling away. “It’s nothing, Nikolas. Just…” A pause. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Elena watches you for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she can see right through the carefully constructed farce. “You don’t have to linger if you don’t want to. I promised I wouldn’t ask you to come again if it was too much, didn’t I?”

The offer hangs in the air, a lifeline thrown your way, but you refuse it with a sigh. “No. I’ll stay. I’ll wait for you two.”

Elena gives you a thoughtful look but doesn’t press further. She turns back to Nikolas, her voice warming as she speaks to him again. “Come on, Nikolas. Let’s get you settled in.”

You watch them go, feeling like an outsider once more. 

Eventually, you find yourself leaning against a nearby stone pillar, trying to push away the gnawing unease. As the sounds of the city swirl around you—laughter, the distant clatter of metal, the hum of conversation—you find yourself yearning for the stillness of the undercity. For the quiet comfort of familiarity, even if it was painful. 

Here, in Okhema, there’s nothing but unfamiliar faces, bright lights, and the weight of expectations. The city feels too big, too cold, too far removed from everything you’ve known.

Your eyes catch the glitter of the golden sun off a nearby building, and you swallow hard. Somewhere, deep down, you know that this is what you should want. This is where Nikolas will build a better future. This is the world of the privileged, the elite.

And yet, all you can think of is Lethe—the island you came from, where the waves washed away the weight of the world for a time. Where you could drown your worries in song and drink, forgetting the ugliness of life. But even there, you were no stranger to suffering.

You blink back the feeling of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm you. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to escape the shadows of the past—if you can even reconcile the girl who once wanted more with the woman who knows she’ll never have it all. The silence between you and the world around you stretches on, heavy like the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. You don't know how long you stand there, watching the bustling crowds of Okhema, feeling the chill of being far from home—far from Lethe. The sharp, rich laughter of the city mocks your uncertainty.

But just as you’re about to let yourself drown in it, a voice cuts through the air, low and familiar.

“Lady Thalia?”

You jerk upright, eyes snapping toward the source. Standing a few paces away, tall and unruffled, is Phainon. His wide shoulders are relaxed, his posture easy, yet there's something about him—his unwavering calm in this sea of chaos—that makes him seem like an anchor in this storm of unfamiliar faces.

"Phainon!" you breathe, voice laced with surprise. 

You hadn’t expected to see him here. He’s usually a fixture in The House, checking in on you, Elena and the others. But here? In the heart of Okhema? It’s a little too much to process.

Phainon smiles, his eyes soft with something between surprise and delight. “I didn’t expect to find you in the overworld, let alone at the Academy of all places. This is a first.”

You laugh quietly, though it’s a hollow sound, like the air leaving a balloon. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect to be here either,” you tell him, gaze flicking to the Academy’s entrance. You can feel the weight of the city press against you once more, but Phainon’s presence is like a breath of fresh air, grounding you in the moment.

He tilts his head, a glimmer of something thoughtful in his eyes. “So what brings you here? Nothing bad, I hope?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I’m waiting for Elena and Nikolas. They’re just finishing up inside. Little Nik has been accepted into the Academy, and I’m just here to provide some moral support.”

For a moment, you pause, gaze wandering again to the grand doors of the Academy—the same door Nikolas will walk through everyday. It feels like the world is turning a page, and you’re left on the outside, watching it all happen.

Phainon studies you, sensing the flicker of doubt in your eyes. “Well, that’s quite an accomplishment,” he says, his tone warm, though his voice drops a little, as though trying to lighten the mood. “And who knows, maybe you’ll find your way around the city in time. Okhema isn’t so bad once you get used to it.”

You offer up half a smile, though the sentiment doesn’t quite ease the discomfort curling in your chest. “I’m not so sure about that. It’s just... I’m not sure I fit in here.”

Phainon’s expression softens, the playful energy draining from his face. “You don’t have to fit in, Lady Thalia,” he says simply. “This city doesn’t get to dictate who you are. You’re the one who decides that.”

Before you can respond, the doors of the Academy finally open, and Elena and Nikolas step out. The former beams at you and Phainon, her proud smile lighting up her face. On the other hand, Nikolas is glued to her side—his eyes wide with excitement.

“I still can’t believe it,” he exclaims, his youthful energy spilling over. “I’m going to be trained to fight! I’m going to be a guard just like the ones we saw earlier!”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’ll be great, Nik. You’ll make us all proud.”

Elena looks over at Phainon, offering a warm smile as well. “I see we have company.”

Phainon grins back at her. “You could say that. And what a pleasant surprise it is. I didn’t expect to find Lady Thalia in Okhema, let alone in the Academy district.”

That makes you roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth that you haven't felt since you set foot in this city. “I didn’t expect it either,” you mutter, though there’s something almost comforting in Phainon’s presence.

“Well,” Phainon continues, his voice taking on a playful note, “since we’re all here, why don’t we make the most of it? I was just on my way to the Overflowing Bath, and I’d be more than happy to invite you all for a little dip.”

Your expression shifts, surprised by the offer. “The Overflowing Bath?” 

Phainon’s mention of it stirs something in you—a memory of tales passed among your sisters, of how the bath is rumored to have healing waters, soothing both body and spirit. The waters, blessed by Phagousa, the Titan of the Ocean, have long been a comfort to those who sought solace in their depths. 

It was in those very waters that you had found a semblance of peace after all those years you spent with Agamemnon, your scars slowly healing under the gentle flow of the blessed stream. That was the closest you’ve been to the Titan who you used to believe in. Yet, despite the healing they offered your body, the scars of your heart have never quite mended.

Phainon notices the faraway look in your eyes and softens his tone. “The Overflowing Bath is a place of peace,” he says, “blessed by Phagousa herself. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s a place where you can leave your burdens behind, even for just a little while.”

You nod slowly. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. In fact, that’s where Elena brought us first after you freed us from…”

The thought trails off, but the rest of them catch the unsaid message regardless. Elena smiles gently before placing a hand on your shoulder. “I know the bath has helped you heal before,” she says softly. “You’ve earned some time for yourself.”

Phainon’s grin is wide and inviting. “Come with me, then. There’s no rush, and no need to worry about anything for a while. I had the bath reserved for the morning if being in the company of strangers bothers you.”

That makes you scowl. “You booked an entire bath for yourself?” 

“...More or less.”

Elena shakes her head, laughing lightly. “As much as I’d love to join, Nikolas still has to get his uniform made, and that will take some time. But you two go ahead. This one deserves the break she needs.”

Nikolas pouts. “Aww, we can’t go?” 

“I’ll take good care of her, Elena,” Phainon assures, his voice light yet sincere. “I swear it in the name of the Flamechase Journey.” 

“What a tall oath,” the head of the House chuckles before egging you on. “Go ahead, Thalia. It’s a rare moment of peace. Take it.”

You look between them with evident hesitation, a quiet thanks in your eyes as you finally nod in agreement.

“Alright,” you say, your voice steadier than it has been in a while. “I’ll go.”

Phainon’s grin widens as he leads the way, the sunlight glinting off the gold-tinted streets of Okhema. The city fades behind you as you walk, the towering structures and polished marble giving way to the softer, more tranquil atmosphere of the Overflowing Bath. Phainon’s presence, calming and steady, makes you feel like you can breathe again, if only for a moment.

When you reach the specific area that Phainon reserved, he pushes open the ornate doors with a flourish. The sweet scent of warm water and incense wafts out, drawing you inside. Your eyes search the steamy, serene atmosphere, until your gaze catches on a figure lounging on one of the ledges of the bath.

You freeze in place, breath catching in your throat. Mydei, who you haven’t seen or heard from in weeks is here. Of all the places. Of all the times.

Phainon, oblivious to the shock written on your face, smiles warmly. “Ah, Mydei, I see you’ve already made yourself at home.”

Mydei looks up, his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I thought I’d get a head start.” His gaze shifts towards you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—a softness that immediately makes your heart flutter.

“Thalia,” he greets, his voice low but warm.

You don't know what to say. How do you speak to someone you tried so hard to forget, but whose presence still calls to you in ways you can’t ignore? Sure you’d only seen Mydei once during that fateful encounter, but your sisters can attest to the fact that the Prince has affected you in ways no man has ever done before.

“I—didn’t know you’d be here,” you murmurs, your voice betraying the swirl of emotions you’ve been hiding for so long.

Mydei’s smile deepens, though it holds a trace of sadness. “I didn’t expect to be, either.”

As the water of the Overflowing Bath beckons, you can’t help but feel like the healing waters won’t just soothe your body this time—but perhaps, for better or worse, it will stir your heart once again.

The soft murmur of the stream fills the gaps in between your conversations. Phainon has settled into the pool with his usual ease, splashing the water lightly as he leans back with a relaxed grin. You, however, feel every drop against your skin as if it's a reminder of your discomfort. Coupled with Mydei’s presence, it’s difficult to maintain your composure.  You lower yourself into the water slowly, trying not to meet the prince’s gaze. His figure is hard to ignore—his chiseled form outlined in the glow of the bath’s warm light. He’s right there, and yet, the space between you feels as vast as the ocean.

“What compelled you to rent out an entire bath?” you ask more to settle your nerves than anything else. You then turn your eyes to Phainon, finding something familiar in his carefree demeanor. 

The Chrysos Heir lounging with his eyes half-closed, simply shrugs, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I do have a tendency to pull off stuff that others least expect. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

You try to laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Mydei, on the other hand, remains quiet, his gaze shifting from Phainon to you, his expression unreadable.

“I... didn’t think I’d find you both here, together,” you add, fingers trailing lazily through the water, finding solace in its movement.

Phainon glances over at you, his eyes sparkling with his usual wit. “Well, you know Mydei. He’s always full of surprises.”

Mydei shifts slightly but doesn’t respond, his silence more eloquent than any words could be. You are acutely aware of the space between you—how small, yet how loaded it feels. It’s not the first time you’ve felt something unsaid lingering in the air, but somehow this time feels different. More fragile. You find yourself stealing a glance at The Prince as he speaks with Phainon about some uproar in the Marmoreal Market. His broad shoulders are relaxed, his wet hair framing his face in a way that, for a moment, makes you forget the tension in the air. You quickly avert your eyes, ashamed of the way your heart flutters, even now.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” 

The sound of Mydei’s voice startles you, low and deep—like the distant rumbling of thunder. You know he’s talking to you because his words carry a characteristic softness that you don’t really hear when he’s conversing with Phainon.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmurs, trying to fill the silence with anything. “I’m just...passing the time.”

Mydei gives a low hum of acknowledgement, but it’s clear he’s not about to press you for more. Instead, he turns to you with an almost imperceptible nod. “This place... it’s been known to heal more than just wounds,” he says casually, his voice laced with a tone you can’t quite place. “If you’ve been carrying scars... the water here helps.”

“I’ve heard,” you say, voice low enough to be a whisper. “When I first arrived here... I thought it was too good to be true.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softer than it has been before, but still guarded. “It’s true. The waters here have a way of healing what’s broken. And they don’t ask for anything in return.”

You dip your hand further into the water, feeling the warmth seep into your skin, almost as though it could wash away everything you’ve tried to forget. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this peace until you found it, in this strange, blessed space.

“I think I’m used to broken things,” you tell him quietly, unsure whether you mean it for either of them to hear. “But maybe... some things can be fixed.”

Mydei, still sitting near the edge of the bath, shifts slightly, but doesn’t respond. There’s a weight in his eyes as they meet yours, and for the briefest of moments, it feels like the world outside of the bath has ceased to exist. There are no words for the thoughts passing between you—only the water’s gentle rhythm and the faint echo of an old song neither of you dares to sing aloud. Just as the silence begins to feel suffocating, Phainon rises from the water. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says with a grin, clearly not fooled by the unspoken tension. He starts moving toward the exit, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder as he passes. “Enjoy the waters. Don’t forget, you two—rest is as important as duty. You’ve earned it.”

You watch him leave, feeling an inexplicable weight lift off your shoulders. Alone now, you’re left with the gentle pull of the water and the quiet, watchful presence of Mydei. The space between you has become an almost tangible thing—fragile and full of unspoken possibilities.

When he speaks again, it’s only after several moments have passed, as if he’s still choosing his words carefully. 

“Does it get easier?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, your tone matching his. “It doesn’t.”

And with that, the silence returns, but this time, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

You don't know how long you sit like that—still, silent, steeped in the warmth of the water and the ache of unspoken words. Around you, the sacred scent of herbs mingled with steam rises from the surface, curling in the air like incense in a forgotten temple. Somewhere beneath the hush of the baths, you can almost hear the pulse of the city—distant bells, murmured prayers, the echo of footsteps beyond the marble walls. You shift slightly, drawing your knees closer to your chest beneath the water. Mydei remains at the other end of the pool, his arms draped over the edge, head tilted back, eyes closed. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was asleep. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, soft but sudden. “What you said... about the water not asking for anything in return.”

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at you right away. “Yes,” he says after a pause. “Not everything here is like the rest of the city.”

You let that sit for a while. “That’s rare,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the surface of the water. “Things that don’t take something from you.”

At that, Mydei deigns to look at you. His gaze isn’t sharp or probing—it’s quiet. Careful. Like he’s trying to read a page you haven't decided to turn yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “For what you were put through.”

The words catch you off guard—not because of what they are, but because of how gently he says them. Not as a prince, or a warrior, or a man trying to soothe his conscience. Just...a person who sees your pain. You don't respond right away. You can’t. Your throat tightens in that way it sometimes does, where it feels like if you say anything at all, the mask you’ve carefully kept in place will crumble.

Instead, you swallow it down with a minute nod.

“I know,” you finally say. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t carry it.”

The water laps quietly between you as you close your eyes. You’re not supposed to be kind, you think bitterly. You’re not supposed to see me.

But he does. You know he does.

Just then, Nikolas’ laugh echoes faintly from the corridor beyond the marble walls. Elena must have found something to delight him on their way here—his joy is unmistakable, pure and bright. It makes something ache deep in your chest. A reminder of why you’re still here. Why you’re trying, even if you haven’t figured out how to start healing yet.

You open your eyes and let your gaze sweep across the bath. Mydei is watching you again, but there’s no expectation in his molten gold irises. In spite of this, you manage a small, wry smile. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He gives a faint, sheepish shrug. “I talk less when I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought princes were trained to always know what to say.”

He huffs softly—more breath than laughter, but it’s genuine. “Maybe I missed that lesson.”

You surprise yourself by laughing too, and for a moment, it’s easy. Light and fleeting as it is, it lifts something heavy off your chest. The two of you don’t speak again after that—not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because silence feels safer now. More honest.

When you finally step out of the bath, wrapping yourself in one of the palace’s pale linen towels, you feel... lighter. The pain hasn’t gone. The past hasn’t changed. But for a moment, the weight is a little easier to carry. Mydei stands as well, quiet and respectful, and doesn’t look at you until you turn to him.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell him. Not a question, not a promise—just something that hangs in the space between maybe and someday.

Mydei nods. “You will.”

And then, as they part ways, the steam rises behind them, curling upward toward the sky where the temple windows open wide, letting in the late morning light. Lethe’s daughter walks beneath it.

And for the first time in a long while, she doesn’t feel like she’s drowning.

That night, sleep finds you gently in your room at The House.

It’s quiet—unusually so. The murmurs and laughter from the halls have faded, and even the candlelight flickers soft and low, as if unwilling to disturb you. The sheets smell faintly of lavender and mineral salts still clinging to your skin. For the first time in a long while, your body feels light. Almost whole. But the moment your eyes close, the world begins to shift and suddenly, you’re in Lethe again.

The air smells like salt and fruit wine. Music drifts down cobbled streets, bright and winding, and laughter spills from open balconies. The sun dips low, spilling honey-colored light over everything. You remember this part—how beautiful it always looked from the outside. A paradise that asked nothing of you but to smile, to dance, to forget. You tried so hard to forget.

The tide starts to rise.

Your bare feet slap against wet stone. The cobblestones fade beneath a creeping tide of black water. The music warps, slows, becomes something hollow. You try to run, but the water climbs higher, dark and cold, and from its depths emerge faces.

Wandering souls. Pale, half-formed, drifting just beneath the surface. Eyes like moons, wide and lost. You saw them once—back on the shores of Lethe, before Agamemnon took you away. Now they’re reaching for you. Calling for you like sirens. But before you can answer, the dream fractures again.

You’re in the undercity.

A lantern swings overhead, casting jagged light along damp stone walls. You hear sobbing from behind closed doors, moans of pain, the dull thud of fists against flesh. You know these sounds. They followed you for years.

He is here.

Agamemnon’s voice slithers through the dark, oil-slick and indulgent. 

“You’re lucky,” he says, “A beauty like yours shouldn’t be wasted in some seaside slum.”

“You’ll be taken care of. Treasured.”

“You’re mine.”

You see him again—his eyes devouring, hands like shackles dressed in gold. He touches your chin. You want to spit. You try to scream.

And then—light.

Like a blade cleaving darkness, you see Elena. Bent over, cradling a crying baby, shielding him from a world that wants nothing but to unmake him. Her eyes—tired, fierce, filled with love. Nikolas. His cries cut through the dream like a signal fire.

You run.

Through water, through shadow, through screams and shattered laughter. You don’t know if you’re chasing something or fleeing from it. But the sea rises. The souls call. The walls bleed gold. And then—

You gasp awake, heart jackhammering in your chest. Sweat clings to your back, and the cool, sacred air of the overworld feels far too still. For a moment, you forget where you are.

Then you remember the bath. The light. The gentle way Phainon laughed. The quiet look Mydei gave you, unreadable and tender. You remember the promise of healing, the way the blessed water wrapped around your wounds like a whisper. But even the kindest waters cannot drown what lives inside you.

You wipe your face with trembling fingers. The night is silent, but your pulse is loud in your ears. Though the blessed water may have healed your body, the scars inside you still sing.

The ghosts are quiet now.

But not gone.

The sun never sets in Okhema.

By late afternoon, the light should have softened, dipping into that gentle hush before dusk—but here, under the watch of Kephale’s Dawn Device, the city remains suspended in a perpetual golden hour. 

It’s beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl if you think about it too long. The warmth feels artificial, borrowed. Like the heavens forgot to turn the page. You step onto the polished stone streets, the hem of your cloak catching faint glimmers of light. The satchel you carry is light, barely filled with anything but a half-eaten persimmon and a cloth to wipe Nikolas’ ever-sticky hands. Still, its strap rests against your shoulder like something heavier—something earned.

The walk to the Academy winds through quieter neighborhoods, far from the towering temples and the chatter of merchants. The air smells like crushed citrus and dust. You keep your head down. You always do, even now, even when people don’t seem to look at you with the same venom they once did. 

It’s been some time since Agamemnon fell, but his ghost lingers in certain corners of your mind, like mildew that clings no matter how many times you scrub.

At the gates of the Academy, you pause, eyes tracing the archways carved with symbols of Kephale’s divine mind—logic, clarity, vision. It’s meant to inspire discipline. You’ve never been particularly fond of order, but something about Nikolas in this place makes a strange kind of sense. He deserves more than survival. The gates creak open and children spill out like laughter, sharp and careless. Your eyes scan for him.

And there he is—Nikolas, his hair a wild crown of dark curls, cheeks smudged with ink, a leather-bound workbook clutched to his chest like a badge of honor. His smile is wide when he spots you.

"Big Sis Thalia!" he calls, breaking into a run. He nearly barrels into your legs, arms wrapping tight around your waist. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, brushing ink from his cheek. “Elena’s going to think I dragged you through the gutters.”

“She always says that,” he shrugs, then looks up with that disarming earnestness only children possess. “Did you wait long?”

You shake your head. “Only a little. Come on. Let’s head home.”

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Nikolas digs his heels into the stone, tilting his head back with a grin that already spells trouble. “Wait—Thalia, can we go to the Hall of Respite? Just real quick? Please?”

You raise a brow. “Why so suddenly?”

He bobs his head eagerly. “They have those honey-glazed flatcakes I like—the really soft ones! And I got a perfect score today. Ask anyone. Master Irenas even patted my head. That never happens!”

You blink. “A perfect score?”

He puffs out his chest, smug in the way only little boys who’ve just conquered the world can be. “I studied really hard. Even Lord Phainon said I should treat myself more. He did!”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “I doubt he meant ‘bribe your guardian into feeding your sweet tooth.’”

Nikolas clasps his hands together dramatically. “Please? I’ll even save you a bite.”

You glance down at him—the sunlight caught in his lashes, the pink blooming across his cheeks from too much running, the way he’s still slightly out of breath and doesn’t care at all. The kind of breathless you used to be, back when days were filled with sea spray and laughter and song.

“Alright,” you sigh again, and this time it’s gentler. “But only one. And don’t think this means I’ll cover for you if you throw up before dinner.”

He whoops with victory, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the Hall of Respite, where the scents of warm milk, nutmeg, and golden syrup linger in the air like an embrace.

You follow, the goldlight casting your shadows long behind you—but for now, you don’t look back.

The Hall of Respite is a marvel in gold and gentle laughter. Soft harp strings hum in the background, accompanied by the distant trickle of a fountain somewhere beyond the marble colonnades. You and Nikolas sit tucked near one of the arched windows, bathed in dappled light as he gleefully tears into his honey-glazed flatcake, cheeks sticky with syrup and joy. He talks between bites—fast and animated—his voice barely able to keep up with his thoughts.

“—and then he flipped Cassander over with just one arm! Just one! Like this!” Nikolas throws his arms out, nearly knocking over your cup of mulled cider. “And he made us practice breakfall drills until our backs hurt. But he said it was so we wouldn't crack our heads open later, which makes sense, right?”

You blink at him, smiling despite yourself. “What happened to that gentle etiquette instructor you said reminded you of a housecat?”

“Oh, Master Aetius?” Nikolas waves him off. “He’s still there. But this new guy—they say he was a real warrior! Like, a real real one. He's a little scary. But… he’s kind too. He taught me how to breathe when I'm scared.”

Your smile falters just a little.

“You’re scared?”

“Sometimes,” he says plainly. “But not with him around. Master Mydei’s really strong. Like Lord Phainon—but sharper. And he never talks down to us. Even if he looks tired sometimes.”

The name settles in your chest like a dropped stone. Your cup stills in your hands, forgotten. You’re about to ask—Master Mydei?—but before the words even leave your mouth, Nikolas is already wriggling around in his seat, eyes lit with recognition.

“He’s over there! Hey! Master Mydei!” he shouts, waving one syrup-slicked hand in the air.

You nearly choke.

Across the hall, seated near a towering ficus and sipping from a ceramic cup with a journal open beside him, a figure turns his head. And the moment your eyes meet—those same sunlit-gold irises now caught in the warm light of the Hall—time slips. Your breath stutters. He doesn’t look surprised.

A flicker of something unreadable passes across his face before his mouth curves into a small, polite smile. He closes the journal softly and stands.

Nikolas is already halfway out of his seat, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s the one I was telling you about! He—he taught us how to roll without breaking our necks! And he gave me a second try when I tripped the first time!”

You, however, are frozen.

Of all the faces to find in the afterglow of a sun that never sets, it had to be his.

“Master Mydei, this is Big Sis Thalia!” Nikolas beams, tugging on the hem of your sleeve like he’s about to introduce a treasured friend to a local god. “She picks me up after class now!”

You feel your heart thrum a little too hard at that name spoken aloud. Mydei is already making his way toward your table, each step measured and unhurried. He moves like he always does—like someone born of silence and gravity, like someone who’s learned the value of taking up just enough space. He stops just beside the table, gaze dipping to meet yours.

“It’s good to see you again, Thalia.” His voice is smooth and composed, but not cold. There’s a flicker of something warmer under the surface—familiarity, perhaps. Or curiosity.

You rise a little from your seat, unsure whether to bow, curtsy, or offer a nod. You settle for a soft, polite greeting. “Likewise, Lord Mydei.”

He waves the title away. “I’m only ‘Master’ here in the Academy halls, and only because the instructors insisted.”

Nikolas clambers back onto his seat, already patting the bench beside him. “Come sit! You’re not gonna leave already, are you?”

Mydei glances once at you, as if gauging your comfort, then back at the boy. “Only if your guardian doesn’t mind.”

Your mouth feels dry, but you manage a nod. “Please. We were just having a small treat before heading home.”

“Then I’ll join you for a moment.” He lowers himself gracefully onto the bench beside Nikolas, placing his journal aside, hands folded neatly on the table. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

Nikolas puffs out his chest. “Got a perfect score on our formations quiz. Even the scary second-year instructor said so.”

“Impressive,” Mydei says, tone light but sincere. “Maybe you’ll be teaching me something before long.”

The boy snickers proudly, and conversation carries on easily enough—for him, at least. You sit across from them, quietly, sipping from your cooling cider and watching the exchange. But before you can get lost in your thoughts, Nikolas looks between you both, his brows furrowing with curiosity.

“Wait... Do you two know each other?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious, as if he’s stumbled onto something important.

You freeze for a split second, unsure of how to answer, but Mydei simply smiles—an easy, natural smile that doesn’t reach too far into anything personal.

“We’ve met a few times,” Mydei says smoothly, his eyes flicking over to you briefly before returning to Nikolas. “Mostly through your mother’s good work.”

Nikolas’s eyes narrow as he looks between you both. His lips quirk, understanding settling in like a quiet revelation. He’s been around enough to know the weight of that phrase, to know what it means when someone mentions meeting through his mother’s “good work”.

A subtle, knowing look passes between the two of you, and you can see Nikolas’s mind working. He doesn’t press it, though; instead, he just nods as if he’s pieced things together in that young, perceptive way of his.

“Got it,” Nikolas says with a slight grin, his voice dropping to something quieter. “Well, anyway... Master Mydei’s pretty cool, right?” He sounds more casual now, as if the conversation’s already shifted away from anything that’s uncomfortable for him. But he’s not blind—he knows.

You meet Mydei’s gaze, and for just a moment, the question lingers in the air between the two of you. But for Nikolas, it’s already passed. He’s not going to make things harder for you. He’s just glad to have his perfect score to boast about.

Nikolas chatters on beside you, still glowing with excitement from his day at the Academy, especially now that he’s seen his new instructor outside the training halls. You try to listen, but your eyes keep drifting toward the man standing before you—Mydei, now dressed in a much more practical outfit than when you last saw him, though no less composed. His gaze doesn’t linger on you long, but when it does, it feels as if he sees far too much.

“Well,” he says at last, with a polite nod toward Nikolas, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your treat.”

There’s nothing overt in his tone, but something in the weight of those words sticks with you, and you find yourself offering a small nod in return, though your chest tightens.

Nikolas, thankfully, doesn’t notice the shift. He keeps talking, something about how Master Mydei demonstrated a maneuver with a practice spear earlier. You murmur something in response, but before you can fully catch your breath, Mydei is at your side again. You feel the brush of his hand—light, fleeting—guiding you a few paces away from Nikolas and the noisy crowd of the Hall. You don’t resist. The moment feels suspended in air. He leans in, just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

“I’ll see you again tonight,” he whispers, his voice low, meant for you and you alone.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure what you expected—if you expected anything at all—but that wasn’t it. Before you can gather a reply, he’s already stepping away, his touch gone, his presence retreating with effortless grace. You stand there, the din of the Hall slowly returning around you, and wonder if he knows just how much weight his words now carry.

Nikolas tugs at your sleeve, oblivious. “Are you okay?”

You manage a soft smile, though your thoughts are still chasing after the shadow of a prince disappearing into the golden light.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Let’s finish that snack.”

You shouldn’t be fussing this much.

You tell yourself that as you smooth the silken sheets for the third time, as you adjust the folds of your robe for the third time, as you dab perfume just under your jaw, though it’s not the kind you ever wore for clients. It’s subtle, something like rosewater clinging to the memory of seafoam.

Your sisters have noticed. Of course they have. Fewer and fewer names on your ledger, fewer nights where you let your hair down for anyone but him. They don’t say it outright, but you catch the glances. The knowing smirks. A gentle elbow here, a raised brow there. Elena says nothing, bless her, but there’s a glint of worry behind her eyes.

Because girls like you are not meant to hope.

The fourth hour comes, quiet as a whisper. Mydei doesn’t knock. You just know when he’s arrived. The door creaks open, and there he is—bathed in the low amber light of your chamber, looking more god than man. His hair is like a flame pulled taut into a low tie at his nape, loose strands catching the light like cinders. His golden eyes find yours, but they don't linger in lust—they search. For what, you aren’t sure. Answers, maybe. Or something you’ve tucked too deep to name.

Red markings glisten faintly across his skin, crawling down the ridges of his arms, over the firm landscape of his torso. Not painted. Not cosmetic. They pulse faintly with some inner rhythm, as if alive with meaning. You’ve traced them before. With fingers. With lips. But you’ve never asked about them. And he’s never offered.

You rise from the bed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” you say softly, trying to keep your voice level. “I said I would.” He closes the door behind him. He walks with the silence of someone used to being watched. Every step deliberate—quiet, measured. “I didn’t want to disturb the others.”

You nod, heart beating like a drum. For a moment, you hesitate. This is the part where he usually takes off his cloak. Where hands meet skin. Where everything unravels into motion. But instead, Mydei says, “I don’t want that tonight.”

“...You don’t?”

He shakes his head, steps closer, his expression unreadable—but not cold. “I just want to sit. With you.”

Your body stills, breath catching. No man’s ever said that before. Not in this room. Not with that look in their eyes.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks past you and sits at the edge of your bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes watching the floor like it might swallow him whole. “When I’m with you,” he says at last, “I remember I’m still human. That I haven’t been swallowed yet by the weight of everything waiting outside.”

You take a slow breath, and then, you join him.

Silence stretches between you for a while, warm but unfamiliar. You’ve never had to fill it before. Not like this. Not with someone like him. So when you speak again, your voice is careful, hushed. “What did you want to talk about?” You look down at your hands as you say it, suddenly aware of how tightly you’re wringing the fabric of your robe. “I’m… not very good at small talk.”

He glances your way, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Gentler. “Neither am I.”

There’s a pause—he leans back slightly, gaze on the ceiling for a heartbeat, as if weighing the shape of the question he’s about to ask. Then, softly: “Phainon.”

You blink. “What about him?”

“I was just… wondering,” Mydei says, his voice measured but curious, “why he’s always around. Why he’s so close to everyone here. It’s unusual.”

You study his expression. There’s no accusation behind it, no jealousy or condescension. Just a quiet sort of puzzlement. You suppose that makes sense. Mydei walks through the world like a figure carved of duty and divine weight—philos, strategos, prince. A man raised in marble halls where power is either taken or inherited, never simply given away.

So you exhale and say, “Can I tell you a story?”

He nods once.

“There was a man,” you begin, fingers tracing invisible lines along the embroidered edge of your sleeve. “A wicked man. Not in the way people always expect—he didn’t shout, didn’t strike in public, didn’t bare his teeth. He wore silks. Spoke softly. Promised the world.”

You glance up, briefly, and find Mydei’s gaze hasn’t wavered.

“They said he had a collection. Not of art, or relics, or trinkets. But of little dolls. Girls, mostly. Women from across the land. He wandered far—coastal villages, mountain towns, the wine-soaked islands. He’d find the ones with songs in their hearts and stars in their eyes. The beautiful ones. The dreamers. The desperate.”

Your voice drops. “He would say, ‘Come with me. I’ll give you a place to shine. A home. A future. A better life.’”

“But the moment they stepped into his palace, they were no longer people. Just property. Stripped of name, of will, of voice. He dressed them up. Painted them pretty. Locked them behind velvet doors, and called them his treasures.

“And if they cried, he’d say they were ungrateful. If they fought, he’d punish them. But if they stayed quiet—if they obeyed—he’d smile and say they were his favorite.”

You fall silent then, and the memory of it coils like smoke in your throat. The sweet, rotting scent of those early days in Okhema. The illusion before the trap snapped shut.

Mydei doesn’t interrupt. But when you look at him again, there’s a new sharpness in his gaze, tempered only by a sadness you didn’t expect to see. Like the weight of your story has settled somewhere behind his ribs. “And what became of the wicked man?” he asks softly.

You offer the ghost of a smile. “A good man drove a sword to his chest.”

The corners of Mydei’s lips twitch ever-so slightly. You like to think that he was proud. You go on, voice low but even. “When the wicked man still ruled the undercity, we weren’t anything more than possessions. Broken things, caged and bruised, prettied up for those who could afford cruelty. He was cruelest of all.”

The words are flat, almost clinical. It’s easier that way.

“Phainon was sent to take him—dead or alive. I don’t know who gave the order. But when he found us, locked behind his velvet curtains, we weren’t his mission. Just… collateral.” You draw in a breath, remembering the blood, the broken door hinges, the weight of Agamemnon’s silence as it fell to the floor.

“But Phainon didn’t walk past. He stayed. He broke every lock. Carried the ones who couldn’t walk. He helped bury what was left.”

You glance at Mydei now, his golden gaze unwavering.

“That’s why he’s always around. Because even after that day, he never left. Never once tried to collect on our gratitude. He just… checks in. Makes sure the water still runs. The food still comes. That we’re still whole.”

A silence settles between you again. You didn’t mean to say so much. But somehow, with him, the words come easier than you expect. And still, you’re not sure what he’s thinking. Not yet.

But he nods, slow and solemn. “He’s a good man.”

“Better than most,” you murmur, softer still. “He never wanted anything from us. Not even a thank you.”

You don’t say the rest. That in some ways, Phainon taught you that not all men come bearing knives beneath their smiles. And maybe… maybe Mydei could be one of them, too. “Enough about me,” you say after a beat, forcing a lighter tone. “I bet you have stories that are far more worthwhile to hear.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flitting down for a moment as though considering it. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, lips curving. “Depends on who’s listening.”

You raise a brow at him. “That sounds like a prince’s way of dodging.”

“It’s worked so far,” he admits, unapologetically amused.

But you catch the glint in his eyes—the kind that speaks of walls he’s not quite ready to lower. He’s not being cruel. Just careful. You know that kind of silence all too well. So you pivot, gently.

“Fine,” you say, leaning back on your palms. “Then let me ask you something real.”

That gets his attention.

“Is it true?” you ask. “That you don’t die?”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Not alarm, not defensiveness—but something older. More tired. You continue before he can pretend ignorance. “They say you walked away from death. That not even blades or poisons or the sea can keep you.”

For a moment, Mydei says nothing. Then—

“No,” he says, voice like flint striking stone. “It’s not true.”

“I do die,” the prince adds, and there’s a strange stillness to him now, like a sword balanced on its edge. “Just not permanently.”

“I’ve been killed before. My lungs have filled with blood. I’ve drowned. I’ve been burned. I’ve been sent to the nether realm where the dead drift, where the living are not welcome. And every time—” He tilts his head slightly. “—I’ve clawed my way back.”

“Clawed?” you echo.

He nods ever-so slowly. “The nether realm is not a quiet place. It’s full of things that shouldn’t be remembered. Things that don’t forget. I kill whatever stands in my way. Until the path home opens.”

You can hardly breathe for a moment.

“Sounds lonely,” you whisper.

“It is,” he says simply.

But there’s no sorrow in the way he says it. No anger either. Just the truth. Heavy and hard and worn like old armor. And suddenly, you understand the look in his eyes—the way it always seems like he’s staring through time itself. Because maybe he is. Maybe he’s already lived a hundred lifetimes. Maybe the only thing that’s ever tethered him back to the present… is the choice to return.

“Can anyone else just kill their way out of the nether realm?” you ask, the words half a jest, half wonder.

Mydei's lips twitch, but his gaze doesn't waver.

“…If there was,” he murmurs, “I think I would’ve run into them by now.”

You fall into silence at that, eyes dragging over the lines of him—his broad shoulders, the golden hue of his skin kissed by something celestial, and the red marks that wind down his arms, chest, torso. Not scars. Not tattoos. Something older, etched into him like language itself. Wordlessly, your hand lifts. You rest your palm lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath warm skin. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Just watches you. Your fingertips trace the red markings slowly, following the curl of them as they wind over muscle and bone.

“This body is special, then,” you say, voice almost reverent. A beat passes. His breath hitches—barely—but you catch it.

“Cursed,” he says quietly. “Or blessed. Depends on who you ask.”

“And if I ask you?”

His gaze flickers down to where your hand rests, still trailing those strange, divine brands.

“…Ask me later,” he says, softer now.

As though he’s not ready to name what he is. As though something about your touch is unraveling the edges of him. You don’t move your hand from his chest. You feel the warmth of him—too alive for someone who’s clawed his way back from death. Too human for a man on the precipice of godhood. He looks at you, eyes shining gold even in the low light, flickering with something he doesn’t say.

You tilt your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Later, then.”

And you should’ve pulled away. Should’ve stepped back and said goodnight, like the polite fiction you both pretended to believe in. But you don’t.

Instead, your hand slides higher, fingers grazing his collarbone, resting against the side of his neck. You’re closer now. When did that happen? His breath mingles with yours, his lips parted slightly, like he’s on the edge of a word he can’t find.

Then it happens—slow and inevitable.

He leans in first, but it’s you who closes the gap.

The kiss is soft the moment your lips touch. Careful. Testing. The kind of kiss that asks a question neither of you can put into words. His hand finds your waist, anchoring you like you’ll vanish, like maybe he already thought you would. It’s only when you deepen it, that he lets out the faintest sound against your mouth—half a sigh, half a surrender. And for a moment, there’s nothing holy or tragic about either of you. No gods, no ghosts. Just this. Just now.

You forget what it means to be someone broken, and he forget what it means to be someone burdened. You just feel. Your lips part just barely from his, breath catching between the narrow space that remains. His hand still rests at your waist, his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your robe. You search his face, trying to decipher if he means to pull back or dive in again.

“I thought you weren’t here for this,” you whisper, your voice trembling not with fear, but the weight of wanting.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back to yours, and a soft laugh escapes him—low and rich, like the crackle of embers.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “but what sort of man would I be if I left you wanting?”

The corner of your mouth lifts, not quite a smile—more like something delicate unraveling. His words coil around your ribs like silk, tightening gently, beautifully. You should say something clever, something to keep this from slipping too far.

But your mouth finds his again before you can even try.

The quiet between you lingers after the kiss, but it’s not empty. It thrums with something unspoken, something deeper than words. Mydei’s breath brushes against your skin, warm and steady, his hands still resting at your waist as if anchoring himself in your presence. You don’t say anything when you lean in again. You don’t have to. The moment folds in on itself, soft and slow, like the hush before a storm. Your fingers trace the red markings on his chest again, not out of curiosity this time, but reverence. There’s something sacred about the way they wind across his skin, the way he lets you touch him like this—open, unguarded.

He follows your lead, hands gliding up your spine, over your shoulders, until they frame your face. When he kisses you again, it’s not with the urgency of want, but with the ache of longing. As though he’s been waiting to do this properly. As though he knows this might be the last night he’s allowed to feel human. The world outside your room fades, replaced by the rhythm of shared breath, the brush of skin against skin, the silent promises made in the space between heartbeats. The weight of your histories—his battles, your chains—falls away for just a little while.

What remains is tenderness.

Your clothes fall away one by one. Amidst the passion that seeps into your very bones, you find it in you to make a quip about how much easier things are when he’s not wearing his armor. Mydei scoffs, but there’s no sign of annoyance on his face. Just the subtle endearment for something—someone he never knew he could connect with so deeply. 

He’s careful with you, even when your hands wander, even when your heartbeat quickens under his touch. There’s a reverence to the way he holds you, like he’s afraid to break something delicate, even though you’ve long since learned to be unbreakable. His fingers slide into you with perfect precision, the slick between your legs granting him enough lubrication to make you feel every sensation there is to give. Your velvet walls clamp down on him with fervor, curling into the heat of his indestructible body as he spreads you open for him. 

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers. “Too good for me.” 

There’s an undertone of something you can’t quite name that accompanies his words. But the notion is lost on you when he curls his fingers just so. A broken whimper escapes your lips, unable to stifle it as Mydei continues to hit that sweet, sweet spot inside you. You feel it far too soon—that telltale sizzle of release. It bides its time, tying your stomach in knots until the pressure in your navel becomes too much to bear. Mydei growls into the curve of your neck when he feels your body spasm beneath him; having given into the pleasure so easily, it awakens something primal within him. It’s like your body is on fire. Sensitive to the touch wherever his skin meets yours. Part of you wants to recoil, to beg for respite. Too much, too much, too much— 

Sensing how deeply he's unraveled you, Mydei tempers the urgency of his touch into something gentler—tender strokes that barely skim your skin, grounding you, reminding you he's still here. That he's not going anywhere. As if in silent apology, he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose—soft and reverent.

“All I want,” he breathes, his voice rough with restraint, “is for you to feel good. Do you trust me?”

You know he already holds the answer in his hands, but still, you blink through the blur of your tears until his face comes into focus—fractured by light and emotion, and yet still so beautiful. With a shaky breath, you reach up, fingers weaving behind his neck, and pull him into a kiss that speaks the answer for you.

“Yes,” you whisper into his mouth, like a vow you’ve been holding your whole life. “I trust you more than anything. More than anyone.”

This kind of vulnerability is something you never imagined you could offer so freely. Not after everything. Not to anyone. But with Mydei, it doesn't feel like surrender. It feels like remembering something you thought you'd lost: the ability to feel safe in someone’s arms, to be seen without shame, to be held without fear. Despite yourself, heat flares in your cheeks at the sight of him—aroused and aching. His leaking cock strains against his abdomen, flushed with a need so primal, he practically grinds the throbbing shaft between your supple thighs. 

“I need you,” you breathe, voice trembling, desperate. Your hand slips between your thighs, guiding him with aching intent. “Please, Mydei… just—please.”

He gives in to your wishes—he’s starting to grow much too weak against them. Mydei guides his length into your dripping heat, the head of his cock penetrating you with the same cautious anticipation he exhibited during your first night together. 

And then, inch by inch, you feel whole again.

For a while, the two of you remain tangled in that moment—heat blooming between your bodies, thick and breathless. The stretch of him should’ve been too much, but all you can feel is how right it is. How perfectly he fits, like he was always meant to be there. He groans, a proud lion reduced into nothingness when you purposely clench the walls of your cunt around his poor length. You find yourself grinning mischievously when Mydei starts speaking in that language long lost to time. You should ask him about that sometime—when your heads aren’t clouded with sheer desire. But for now, you live in the moment. 

“I regret not finding you sooner,” he admits with a quiet laugh. A moment of clarity hovers across your mind, and your first instinct is to tease. “Why? Would you have bought me out of this brothel if you did?”

“Perhaps,” Mydei murmurs before suckling a band of hickeys above your collarbones, initiating slow yet languid thrusts that have your toes curling with bliss. “But if I had found you sooner, you never would have had to live the life you lead. I would’ve stolen you away from Lethe myself.” 

You know those are just the words of a man lost in the throes of pleasure. Men tend to start running their mouths whenever they’re high on the feel of your cunt pulsating around their cocks. But Mydei has a knack for being candid about all sorts of things.

“Would you—hah! W-would you have put me in a cage too?” you taunt and it gets you the exact reaction you want. Mydei snaps his hips harshly, nearly punching the breath from your lungs. “Dress me up in the f-finest of silk and flaunt me to the world?” 

“No. Never.” He grits his teeth so tightly, you swear you hear the strain in his jaw. “I’ll make you mine, but only on your terms. Only if you want me to.”

Even in the haze of desire, he manages to remain the most honorable man in all of Okhema. The thought of it, the weight of his words, makes something warm well up inside you—so overwhelming you could weep with joy. His raw honesty encourages you to wrap your arms around his broad back—holding him so close that he can’t ever hope to slip away. The heat of his skin against yours is grounding, a reminder that, despite everything, you’re here together, tangled in this moment. When his calloused fingers find the sensitive bud of your clit, you jostle beneath him in surprise. You were so focused on how good he’s giving it to you, that you failed to notice his hands wriggling down to your thighs. 

“M-Mydei—!” you gasp, but he only fucks into you harder. 

Mydei’s breath stutters in quiet, devout gasps, the edge of release so close he could reach for it. But he holds back. Draws out the moment like a hymn. He could stay like this forever—just to savor the weight of your body beneath his, just to feel the hush between you stretch into something timeless. You memorize the feel of him—not just the way his body fits against yours, but the quiet sighs that escape when your lips find the hollow of his throat, the way he lingers on every touch like he’s afraid to let go. 

He’s fire and gold and thunderstorms, and yet he looks at you like you’re the miracle.

Mydei spills into you with reckless abandon, canting his hips with clockwork precision as he fills you to the brim. For a moment, the world quiets—like the tide pulling back before the next great wave. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, breath hitching, arms locked tight around you like he’s terrified of the space that might form between your bodies.

You feel him trembling, not from exhaustion, but from the gravity of it all. As if something in him has broken loose—something raw and sacred and entirely yours. But it doesn’t end there.

You don’t realize what he’s doing when he swiftly breaks free of your embrace. But when his face hovers across your soiled cunt, you make the motions to pull him back up—only for your beast of a lover to devour the mess he’s left in his wake.  Mydei laves at your hole like he intends to feast on you for the rest of his life. He scoops his own cum out with his own fingers, slurping your mixed essence with so much depravity shining in his golden eyes, you can hardly believe he’s a prince. No sane man would look so blissed out whilst doing something so—

“I can feel you,” he growls. “Need you to come for me.”

The words are spoken with such authority, it sends a guilty thrill straight to your throbbing cunt. Mydei latches his lips onto your sensitive nub, fucking his cum back into you with those godlike fingers. You thrash around beneath him, but Mydei keeps you in place with a steady grip–making sure you feel everything he’s willing to give. Your body trembles, overwhelmed by the relentless tenderness he wields like a weapon. Every curl of his fingers, every flick of his tongue draws out a fresh wave of pleasure that crashes through you with no mercy. Your cries are half-muffled by the pillow, but he hears them all the same—drinks them in like a sacred prayer.

“Mydei,” you sob, unable to do anything but hold onto him. Your legs shake around his shoulders, your hands tangled in his hair like lifelines.

He doesn't stop. He won’t—not until he’s certain there’s nothing left unsaid between your bodies. Not until your body recognizes him as deeply and completely as your heart already does. When he finally slows, it’s not because he’s spent, but because he’s sated. Because he knows you are too. And as he pulls you into his arms, nestling your exhausted form against the warmth of his chest, you realize—this isn’t just release. It’s devotion. A vow whispered into your very bones.

Time passes strangely in the dark. You don’t know how long the two of you stay like this, curled in the comfort of each other’s warmth. His hand is cradling the back of your neck, his breath evening out as you rest your forehead against his shoulder. There are no declarations. No promises. Only the quiet understanding between two people who’ve found something rare in each other—if only for a night.

And that, somehow, is enough.

You are back on the shores of Lethe yet again. 

The scent of the ocean is heavy in the air, salt mixing with the sweetness of the breeze. The horizon stretches wide before you, the sea infinite and restless, each wave a soft whisper against the shore. But there’s something else—something familiar, something that stirs deep within your chest.

The souls.

They drift across the water, gliding in and out of the mist that rises from the waves, countless and silent. At first, you don’t see them clearly. They’re indistinct forms, like smoke or vapor, just the shape of something that used to be. They are lost, wandering. Some of them move in clusters, others alone, each drawn to the sea like they were always meant to be here. It’s always been this way. You’ve seen it many times before. The souls spill from the nether realm, drawn across the waters, stretching between Lethe and Styxia. You’ve stood here before, in this same silence, watching as they passed by.

This time, though, there’s something different. One soul catches your eye. It’s faint at first, barely distinguishable among the others, but it glows—a soft, golden light, faint but warm, as if it’s radiating from deep within. You’re drawn to it without thinking. The pull is gentle, but it grows stronger the closer you get. The light flickers in the mist, barely visible behind the shadows of the other souls. But it’s there, unmistakable.

You take a step forward, and the light grows, a shining ember in the endless grey. You know, without a doubt, that this one is different from the rest. It moves with purpose, not like the others who are aimless, lost in their endless drift. This one seems... aware. Alive, somehow.

As you move closer, the light brightens, and you catch glimpses of a shape, a form within it. At first, it’s unclear—blurry, indistinct, like the edges of a dream. The golden light wraps itself around a figure, but it’s not fully defined, not yet. You reach out toward it, a quiet yearning stirring in your chest. Then the figure shifts slightly. You feel it, a subtle movement in the water, and your heart skips. The golden glow swirls, growing stronger, as if it recognizes you, as if it’s meant to find you. The warmth radiating from it is overwhelming. It's like sunlight after rain. You step forward again, closer, closer still, the feeling of it wrapping around you, pulling you toward the shore.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the light begins to fade. The soul drifts away, slowly at first, and then faster as the current pulls it back. You reach out, desperate to hold on, but your fingers touch only the mist. The light dims, vanishing into the expanse of souls, swallowed by the sea.

You stand still, the warmth that had filled you fading like the last embers of a fire. The mist thickens again, and the souls continue their endless journey, their forms lost to the distance. But something lingers. The feeling. The warmth. The sense that you’ve witnessed something important, something that has been waiting for you all along. You don’t know what it means, but you know, somehow, that it’s a connection you’re not meant to forget. 

Not yet.

The bells of the Academy chime across the courtyard, clean and melodic like everything else in this part of Okhema. As the students depart for dismissal, you wait by the marble fountain just a ways away from the main entrance. A tree that curls over it offers ample shade beneath the unchanging light of the Dawn Device above.  Nikolas emerges from the throng of students scurrying out. He doesn’t run to you anymore, but his steps are quick, a little uneven, like he hasn’t quite grown into his legs yet.

“We talked about the Titans after our drills today,” he says after giving you a quick hug. “One of my classmates asked if Kephale ever puts the Dawn Device down. Master Theon said, ‘Not once in all of history.’”

You smile faintly, brushing a curl from his temple. “That sounds like something you’d ask.”

He grins. “I would’ve made it sound smarter. And I did 'cause Master asked us to make an essay about it.”

Nikolas tries to sound casual, but the way he looks at you afterward like he’s waiting for you to be proud makes your heart twist a little. It’s only been a few weeks since he first walked through the Academy gates—still all knees and elbows—but he’s already grown so much. They don’t ask for perfect speech or polished manners here. Just grit, and enough fire to stand when the Black Tide comes crawling. This isn’t the Grove of Epiphany, where scholars chase after the elusive truth and speak in riddles. Here, boys and girls are shaped into the last line between the dark and everything worth saving.

You have half the mind to ask if Nikolas wants to make another detour to the Hall of Respite. To treat him to some of his favorite flat cakes. But then an unwelcome voice slithers into the quiet moment. 

“Well, what do we have here? The whore walks in daylight.”

It takes effort to turn, to meet the man’s eyes without flinching. He’s older now, more jowled than you remember, but the silk of his robes and the stink of indulgence are the same. Aeson. One of the men who used to come slinking through the undercity when the sun was too high for shame. He once asked you to sing for him while he undressed. Said you had a voice like smoke, a body like borrowed gold. He was never violent, just entitled. And worse, comfortable.

“I suspected that it was you for a few weeks now but even I knew how much you despised the overworld,” Aeson says, condescension dripping from every word. “Then again, you always did love playing mother to that stray.”

You hear Nikolas bristle at the man’s words, and you put out a hand to keep him from doing anything rash. Even at his young age, he’s seen how men treat you and your sisters like gunk beneath their sandals. And you’ve seen how a boy, raised with so much love even in the dark, has tried to give it all back—to protect the women who became that love for him.

But you’re not in some smoke-choked alley of the undercity. You’re in the pristine courtyard of the Academy itself. And there’s no way in hell you’re jeopardizing Nik’s education just to put some pompous old coot in his place. Elena would never forgive you.

Instead, you give him a flat look before saying, “Go pester someone who’s desperate.”

But the man steps in closer, a haughty look painted high on his wrinkly face. “I remember you desperate, girl. I paid for it. You should be grateful that anyone still looks at you nicely, knowing you're old Agamemnon’s trash.”

And that sinks teeth into you. The insult doesn’t surprise you. You’ve heard worse from softer lips. But it stirs something darker: the memory of what it cost you to not belong. The long, awful ache of surviving by grace of what others wanted from your skin. The truth of it is what burns most. Because Agamemnon did claim you. And now his name clings to you like grease you can’t scrub off.

You square your shoulders. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it land. But before you can speak, the air shifts like something heavy has entered the scene.

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back.”

The voice is low, deliberate. Not loud, but heavy with promise. You and the nobleman both turn. Mydei stands at the edge of the courtyard, backlit by the cold radiance of the Dawn Device. His armor catches the light like forged fire, making his presence all the more unmistakable. There is no rage in his face, only clarity. The kind that makes cowards remember their manners.

“Prince Mydei,” Aeson stammers, dipping into a mock-bow. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you there.”

“No,” Mydei replies. “You only saw who you thought you could speak over.”

He draws up beside you, a hand hovering—not touching—but near enough that you feel it like heat through fabric. Similarly to how you did with Nikolas, however you did that to prevent. Mydei does so to protect. “You said too much,” Mydei says, voice iron-flat. “And the next time you think of talking to a woman like that, remember this moment.”

A pause. You don't think you remember how to breathe, not in the face of Mydei's quiet fury. Then, as sharp as a blade, he grates out,

“Leave.”

Aeson recoils—stammers something too low to hear—then stumbles back into the crowd, his velvet trailing like a cloak of rot. You follow his hunched form until he disappears completely out of view. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ebb away. Nikolas looks between you and Mydei, uncertain.

“Was that one of the city’s... uh, patrons?” he mutters.

You exhale slowly, shaking off the sting. “You could say that.”

Mydei’s eyes don’t leave your face. Not even as Nikolas tries to catch his attention with a look.  You don’t meet his gaze, but you feel it—the weight of what he didn’t say. The rage he carried in like a blade still sheathed. “Old men like that never forget a girl they once thought they owned,” you say softly, reassuring Nikolas with a smile that takes more out of you than you thought. “Doesn’t mean they matter.”

“You matter,” Mydei says, quiet but unflinching. It startles you only because you didn’t expect for him to put in another word. “They just don’t know what that means yet.” And for a breath, the city stills around you. Not in reverence, nor silence. But in recognition. “Thank you,” you whisper, not knowing what else to say. “Nik and I will be off now.”

The prince’s gaze doesn’t shift. His hand lingers near yours, and when you hesitate, he takes a half-step closer. His voice is firm, though his tone softens just slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the undercity.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but the remnants of the encounter with Aeson hang over you like a heavy fog, and the words fall flat in your throat. There’s a pull in your chest—a need for distance from everything that just transpired—and you find yourself nodding before you can think better of it.

“Alright,” you murmur.

Nikolas watches the exchange quietly, still unsure of the silent tension between the two of you, but he follows nonetheless, his footsteps light against the cobblestones. Mydei falls in step beside you, his presence unyielding but steady, like the silent promise of protection. The city stretches out before you, its lights distant and hollow beneath the unblinking gaze of the Dawn Device. The hum of Okhema fades into the background as you walk. 

You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. His proximity alone quells any lingering fear, and you find comfort in the silence that comes with it.

Since that day in the courtyard, walking home together just started...happening. 

Mydei never asked. He simply waited outside the gates of the Academy, where the marble gave way to cracked stone and the air grew thick with real life. Nikolas would spot him first, sometimes with a grin, sometimes pretending he hadn’t been looking for him.  It was a strange little ritual, but one that settled into place before you realized it. Nikolas walking beside one of his instructors like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you beside them both, listening, nodding, adding the occasional remark when Nikolas recounted the latest training mishap or philosophical disagreement with a teacher.

It wasn’t how these things were supposed to go—not a prince, not a prostitute, not a boy from nowhere—but it worked.

And then, over time, Mydei’s steps carried him a little farther. Past the alleys you knew like breath, and the entrance to the undercity that you insisted was far enough for a chaperone. 

Today is one of the two rest days that Nikolas has within a school week, and you spend a chunk of your time helping around The House. It always feels different on slower days like this. Softer, almost. Less like a cage and more like a secret place between worlds—where laughter could still echo against peeling walls, and perfume hung in the air like memory. You hear the rustling of his armor before you see him—familiar now, no longer something that makes the girls stiffen or reach for the knives tucked beneath silk pillows. Just outside, the lanterns have begun to glow gold, and from the hallway, a voice calls out:

“Thalia, your knight’s here again!”

You roll your eyes as you round the corner, but you can’t stop the smile that forms at the sight of him. Mydei stands in the foyer with a small basket of fruit in one hand—dates, you guess, or maybe honeyed apricots from the upper district market. He's still donned in his armor, though he’s unstrapped the shoulder pauldrons. Less imposing that way. Still unmistakable.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be busy,” he says, a touch uncertain, as if his presence might overstep.

“Penelope’s braiding Iris’ hair,” you reply. “The rest are pretending not to peek.”

As if on cue, the door behind you creaks. Penelope leans out, a wry grin curling at her lips while Iris stammers out apology after apology for eavesdropping. 

“Thalia, really,” Penelope says, mock-scolding. “You keep bringing in decent men and setting the bar too high for the rest of us.”

You snort, and even Mydei’s mouth twitches in something that’s not quite a smile—but it’s close. “I can leave the fruit and go,” he offers.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then, gentler, “Stay. They like you here now, but don’t let it go to your head. Elena’s already figured out how to turn your visits into good business.”

Mydei nods with half a smile gracing his face. He steps further in, letting the warmth of The House wrap around him. One of the younger girls, quiet Calliope, flits by and steals an apricot from the basket. He lets her. 

Later, you find him sitting cross-legged on the floor while Penelope retells some outlandish story about a drunk client who mistook her for a goddess. Mydei doesn’t laugh, not loudly—but there’s light in his eyes. One you don’t often see up in the sanctified marble of Okhema’s spires. And maybe—just maybe—The House feels a little safer with him in it.

The following morning, the sky in the overworld is bleached bone-white. The unsetting sun hums high above, softened by distance and with it, Okhema shines, immaculate and hollow. Despite your more frequent visits due to your new job as Nikolas' guardian, you haven't grown to like it much. Too polished. Too sanctified. But today you’re not alone.

Mydei walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, matching yours. He carries your satchel without needing to be asked. You’ve got a list—written in Alexandria’s looping hand—and a basket slung over your arm. There’s something gently absurd about it all. You, running errands in the overworld. Choosing peaches. Haggling for bath oil. The sort of thing the other girls usually do. But today, you offered.

You’re not sure what’s more startling: that no one questioned you, or that you meant it.

The Marmoreal Market is alive. Vendors cry out over pyramids of citrus and hanging lanterns of glass. Incense smoke curls in lazy spirals above marbled stalls. A bard plays something languid on a flute near the olive barrels. The air tastes of brine and roasted almonds. It should be overwhelming. Once, it might have been. But today you just walk. Mydei doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it breathe between you like he always does. You pause to examine a twist of lavender soap. He waits patiently while you hold it to your nose, frown, and mutter, “Too much oil, not enough flower.”

When you change directions suddenly to get to the honeyed fig vendor—the fig vendor, the only one who doesn’t cheat the glaze with sugar water—he follows without question. You almost feel normal. Not broken. Not fallen. Just here.

“Thalia?”

You turn. And it’s like the sun tilts sideways. Daphne.

She looks... different. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Her hair is coiled into a gold-pin bun, her robes the sort nobles wear when they want to look effortless. There’s a softness around her now—a shine to her skin, a plumpness to her face, like love and safety have filled her out. Her bracelets tinkle when she steps closer.

“Gods,” she breathes, laughing. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look... good! Healthier than I remember. And your hair—still doing that wave in front, huh? I always said it made you look like one of those Lethean sirens.”

You manage a thin smile. “It’s you.”

She steps in like she might kiss your cheek, and you let her, though every inch of you braces like it's being touched with salt. “It’s been what—two years? Maybe more? I kept asking Elena about you, but she always just smiled and changed the subject.” Daphne’s eyes flick to Mydei, then back to you with a teasing grin. “And here I thought I was the only one who came out of that place lucky.”

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, feigning modesty. “Did I tell you? No, of course I didn’t—you’ve been hiding down in the bones of the city. Well, you remember Heron, don’t you? The grain magnate with the crooked teeth and all the rings? Turns out he wasn’t just talk. Married me proper.” She lifts her hand, lets you see the band. “I’ve got a little garden now. A cook. We’re thinking of getting a dromas of our own, but I thought that would be a bit too much!”

You say something. You think you do. It sounds like “That’s nice,” but your mouth feels numb. Daphne laughs again, easy and breezy as a woman who’s forgotten how deep The House used to cut.

“I still remember how Agamemnon used to spoil you, you know. Oh, don’t look at me like that—it’s not jealousy. I used to think, ‘She must have Lethean blood in her veins to bring a man like that to his knees.’” She tilts her head, studying you. “Funny how things turn out, huh?”

Your grip on the basket tightens. Mydei hasn’t moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching her. Watching you. You lift your chin. Even if you know the man keeping you company is more than capable of stepping in like a guard dog, you don't let him. There are some things in this world that you'd rather not rely on Mydei for.

“I should get going,” you say, and your voice doesn’t crack. “We’ve got things to pick up.” Daphne blinks, surprised. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t mean to—well. You look well, Thalia. Really. I mean that.”

You nod once and turn. Mydei doesn’t speak until the crowd swallows her up behind you. His voice is quiet, but certain.

“Are you all right?”

You keep your eyes forward. “She didn’t mean it cruelly.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she still cut you.”

The fig vendor appears ahead. You make a beeline for it, needing something solid to do with your hands. Something to hold onto. Mydei doesn’t press. He stands beside you as you weigh fruit and speak numbers and pretend the world didn’t just tilt under your feet. And when you walk away, his hand grazes yours again. Not demanding, but simply offering.

It pains you to pull away—to refuse something he's always given freely—but you avoid his hand altogether. You turn the corner, pushing through the crowd, trying to breathe again. The air feels tight, sharp, as though the weight of everything that just shifted in your chest is pressing down on you. Daphne. A wife. She’s happy now. And yet—something about her—something about the way she carries herself now, so light, so untethered—bothers you.

The House. Agamemnon. The way the air used to feel thick, like every breath was a crime, and the walls hummed with all the things people would never say. Did the time away make her forget the way he used to drag you through rooms like cattle, like property? The way she’d walk in and out of those same halls, always knowing the price of every touch, the cost of every whispered word?

You shake your head. It’s not her fault, you remind yourself. Daphne’s not the one who held your body hostage, not the one who let it break beneath the weight of his need. But...why does it feel like she’s forgotten? A soft laugh. A garden. A gods damned dromas. And in her voice, in her smile, you hear the echo of a life away from all of that. As though the past was just something easily shaken off. It gnaws at you, that inconsistency. The way she walks with ease—like she didn’t have to bleed for it, didn’t have to drown in every unspoken rule of The House, its suffocating power, its price.

You feel it again, in your chest. A tightness, a rawness. And as you push your hand against the basket's rim, trying to steady yourself, the question lingers, still unanswered:

Did Daphne truly forget? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and you... you’re still here, carrying pieces of it, like shards of glass you can’t pull from your skin? You don’t realize how tight your grip’s gotten on the basket until Mydei speaks—softly, like the sound might startle you if it were any louder. It didn't occur to you that even if you evade him, he'll follow you like a shadow either way. 

“Do you want to go home?”

You glance at him, caught between the din of the market and the roaring in your own head. His eyes are steady. Not prying. Just there. Like a door already open, waiting for you to step through. He takes the basket from your hands without asking. The tension eases just enough for your fingers to ache. He doesn’t rush you. He stays close as you weave through the crowd, his presence a quiet shield against the glances, the voices, the past. He doesn’t say anything about Daphne. Doesn’t ask what she meant or what it meant to you. And that’s what makes you want to cry.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does—and he knows better than to pick at a wound that's still bleeding.

By the time you make it back to The House, the light above has cooled to its twilight hue—soft gold thinning into rose where it filters through the grates. The sun doesn’t set in Okhema. It only shifts, like a watchful eye half-closing. The undercity glows beneath it, wrapped in the kind of light that feels like the end of a long breath.

Inside, things are loud again. Familiar. One of the girls calls out about a client who tried to pay with temple scrip. Someone else has braided jasmine into the worn curtain rods, and the scent clings stubbornly to the air. You smile when you need to, nod when you must, and brush off any lingering edges from earlier like it’s routine. Because it is. No one notices the way your shoulders hitch too quickly when you laugh. Or the way you avoid the looking glass near the stairs. No one, except the man who’s still standing by the door like he doesn’t quite belong—but doesn’t want to leave just yet.

Mydei shifts slightly, readying himself to depart, the way he always does once you’re safely home. But something in you rebels at the thought.

“If you’re not busy,” you say, quieter than you intend, “could you stay? Just for a little while.”

He pauses, brows rising ever so slightly. “You want me to?”

You nod. “Only if you want to.”

A beat of stillness. Then: “Then I’ll stay.”

You turn before your face gives you away. You don’t lead him to the front parlors where guests are meant to lounge. You don’t steer him toward the back alcoves where girls entertain more private company. Instead, you climb the stairs. Past chipped paint and perfumed cloth. Past laughter behind closed doors and one girl humming a tune you haven’t heard since Lethe. You walk until you reach your room.

Your room.

You’ve never brought anyone here apart from your sisters and Nikolas. Phainon’s the only outsider who’s ever crossed its threshold, and even then, only when you couldn’t stand to be alone. This room is yours. A sanctuary carved from hand-me-downs and half-stolen quiet. The walls are soft with age, the bedding faded but clean. There’s a tiny dish of dried figs near the window, even though you'll never finish them. They don't taste the way they do back at Lethe.

There are no doors to your room. Only a curtain of seashells—bright, iridescent, strung together in delicate strands. A gift from Elena, thoughtful as she is. It reminds you of home, of the sea, of the ebb and flow of tides. It’s not a door, not really, but it’s enough to separate your space from the rest of the world.

You open the curtain, casting a sidelong glance at Mydei in a quiet invitation. He hesitates only briefly as his eyes scan the room before he steps inside. The prince says nothing. Doesn't gawk or wander. He simply stands in the middle of there like someone waiting for permission. You amble across the wooden floor, the tension finally unspooling from your spine. Mydei stays close—but not too close—and it strikes you again, how careful he always is with you. Not delicate. Just…respectful and measured.

“Not what you expected?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the modest space.

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says softly. “But it suits you.”

You look down at your hands, then up at him. “I didn’t want to be alone,” you say. The words fall like something confessional.

“I’m glad you called for me,” Mydei tells you, honesty bleeding into his voice, and there’s something in it that makes you look at him again.

In the silence, you walk over to a shelf in the far end, one that the prince has been eyeing since he stepped inside. A small, eclectic collection of trinkets are lined up together on its surface. You can feel his gaze touch each item, but there’s no judgment in it—only quiet wonder.

“These are the pieces I kept,” you murmur, and his eyes flick to you as if waiting for a story, a reason.

A small glass vial, still corked, filled with syrupy red wine the color of dusk. “From the lushest vineyard in the entire island. I stole it,” you say with a faint smile. “Ran all the way down the hills with red hands and a mouth stained purple.” Beside it, a faded ribbon, sea salt-blue and frayed at the edges, tied in a lazy bow. “For the dances,” you murmur. “We wore them on our wrists, so even the shy ones could be pulled into the revelry.”

Next, a small, tarnished flute—its surface dulled by time, but the carvings of swirling waves and grapevines still visible. “It only plays when the wind is right,” you say, lifting it briefly to your lips. A single note spills out, thin and wandering. “My mother bought it for me. Said no Lethean should be without music.”

There are seashells, of course—real ones, not like the ones strung in your curtain, but pale and pink and lavender, collected from the shallows. One of them still smells faintly of brine when warmed by your palm. Another is cracked down the middle, but you never threw it away. “The ugly ones are often the ones that lived longest,” you explain, as if it matters.

And then, near the end of the shelf, sits a delicate pendant, the size of a coin, fashioned from mother-of-pearl and set in brass. Its surface has worn smooth from years of handling, but if the light catches just right, the faint outline of a chalice brimming with waves and fruit still glimmers—the old symbol of Phagousa, the Titan of Plenty. You used to wear it around your neck. Now it just rests there, like something left at an altar. You don’t explain that one.

Mydei is silent, not out of discomfort. He watches you with a strange, quiet intensity, as though your memories hold a significance beyond words. His hand brushes lightly across the ribbon, then rests on the shelf’s edge.

“You brought Lethe with you,” he says, almost to himself.

You nod, slowly. “I didn’t want to forget. Even if everyone already did.”

In that moment, everything floods back. The deal you made with Agamemnon. How you packed what little you could into a single satchel and left behind the life you knew. How you walked away from the island you once called home without so much as a goodbye to your mother. But it doesn’t matter now. Agamemnon is dead, and Lethe is gone. Not wanting to spiral back into what Mydei did his best to haul you out of, you walk towards your bed, patting the space beside you.  Oddly enough, he joins you without complaint. Not touching. But close enough that if you shifted an inch, you would. You both sit in silence, the air between you warm, but not heavy. The soft flicker of twilight outside dances across the walls, casting long shadows that stretch with time. The quiet is comforting. It doesn’t feel like the heavy silence of distance, but something closer, like the stillness of two souls finally aligning.

Mydei’s presence in the room feels different now. Less like a visitor and more like someone who belongs here, who fits with the gentle rhythm of your life. His armor clinks softly as he shifts to make himself more comfortable, but there’s nothing forced about the movement. You look up at him, your gaze tracing the familiar red markings on his arms and chest—his half-worn robes draped in a way that speaks of battles fought and distances traveled. 

He doesn’t try to hide anything, not the weight of what he’s carried, not the quiet strength that lingers in every measured movement. His stillness is calm, but you sense the storm just beneath it, the tumult that never fully goes away.

You can feel the question in the air—the unspoken one, hanging between you, something about where this moment will lead. But neither of you needs to speak it. You’ve crossed unspoken lines before, danced on edges, and tonight, the edge feels softer, more accepting. You shift a little, a quiet invitation—your leg brushes his, just enough to send a ripple through the calm. 

Mydei doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, his hand shifts to the space beside you, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your bedding, as if this is something he’s always respected. Your eyes meet, and there’s a quiet understanding there, a promise wrapped in the kind of intimacy that doesn’t demand. He moves slowly yet deliberately. When his hand finally meets yours, it’s as if the world outside this room falls away, and all that’s left is the soft brush of skin against skin, the way your breath hitches when his thumb runs over your knuckles, grounding you in the here and now.

The space between you disappears with that small touch.

Mydei doesn’t rush. There’s no hunger, no desperation—only the kind of stillness that comes after a long journey. You feel it in the way his fingers thread through yours, slow and certain, like he's holding something precious. Like he’s afraid if he holds too tightly, you’ll vanish. Your other hand lifts without thinking, drawn to him as if by instinct, fingertips brushing the line of his jaw. He leans into it, and you can feel the weight he carries, heavy beneath his skin, and still he lets himself soften here, with you.

His forehead presses against yours. Neither of you speak. His warm breath fanning against your face tells you enough. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of the things neither of you could say before. Of every stolen glance. Every almost. Every ache that built into this moment. When he kisses you, it’s not a question. It’s an answer. Warm, unhurried, and steady. His lips taste like memory and promise all at once. And when Mydei pulls you closer—closer still—it’s not possession. It’s presence. It’s the quiet vow that, here in this moment, he is entirely yours.

You fall into him like tide to shore. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something adrift. You feel found.

Sounds of lovemaking fill your room in a way that has never happened before. It's a given that privacy in The House is close to none, but all the girls who managed to catch you bringing your fiery-haired lover into your sacred space knew better than to intrude. They also told the others that upstairs is off-limits until either you or Mydei emerged again. What they don't know is that with Mydei, sex takes a very good while.

He starts the way all men usually do—missionary. Simple, straight to the point. But where you'd often just lie there and let your patrons take you sloppily, Mydei grounds you beneath his weight like he wants you to remember the moment. He doesn't piston his hips with the intent of chasing after his own sweet release. But lets that gaze of molten fire seep into your very bones, his girth spreading your aching walls far apart with each thrust.

You moan his name like you're stringing a litany of prayers. Mydei is all too happy to heed each desperate plea. He hoists one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your body just several degrees sideways. The angle confuses your brain for a moment, unused to being positioned in such a way. But your thoughts are eventually lost to pleasure when his cock breaches your wet heat once more—bullying past gummy walls that yield all too easily to his touch alone.

"More, more, more," you dole out mindlessly, tears catching in the corners of your eyes. "I need you more."

You're not sure if any of your words even make sense, but Mydei reads between the lines anyways. He slants your lips together, like stars melting into each other. His kiss swallows your cries, tender and consuming all at once—like he’s trying to hold you together with his mouth alone. His hips roll deeper still but slower now, savoring the tremble in your thighs, the desperate way your fingers clutch at his back.

“I’m here,” he murmurs against your lips, voice frayed with restraint. “I’m always here.”

The words break something in you. Maybe it’s the past you’ve tried so hard to outgrow, or the girl who once believed no one would ever stay. Either way, she shatters—and in her place is a woman who is being seen, held, loved in a way that feels like becoming. Mydei presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven. The rhythm of your bodies is a language now, spoken in heat and motion, in the slick slide of skin and the muffled gasps you share like secrets. 

And when you come undone, it isn’t with fireworks—it’s with something quieter. A tremble. A sigh. A sense that, for once, the ache inside you has been met with something that understands it.

He's carrying you by your thighs before you can even form another thought. You think you bleat out a weak protest but Mydei presses your back against the nearest wall like he didn't hear a thing. You feel something dig into your spine, but the pain is eclipsed by raw ecstasy when he slots himself inside you again—a shuddering gasp stolen from his chest while he noses at the crook of your neck. Your nerves are still burning with sensation, but the slide of his cock makes you want him more. Desire him deeper. You're past the point of caring whether or not he'll break you, because you know he will and he'll do it deliciously. 

"You're more than what your past made you out to be," he huffs hoarsely, teeth scraping across sweat-slicked skin. "You're more than just some dead monster's favorite."

Your breath catches as his words sink into the tenderest part of you, far deeper than where his body touches. It makes your pulse throb in places untouched, makes your body arch for more of him, for all of him. Ever since the first time, Mydei has never made you feel like some sort of commodity. 

He makes you feel human. Always. 

His hands are rough where they grip your thighs, but there’s reverence in the way he holds you open, like you’re nothing short of a miracle even now, especially now. His pace slows, deepens. Not to tease—no, it’s devotion. Every thrust says, I see you. Every breath he steals from your lungs is a promise that he’s not here to use you—he's here to worship what's been denied worship for far too long.

"I don’t care what they called you,” he murmurs, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours as if he needs to feel your thoughts against his. “You're mine now. If you’ll have me.”

And gods, you do.

You meet him stroke for stroke, mouth chasing his with a hunger that borders on holy. There’s nothing soft left in the room—not the air, not the wall, not your shared breathing—but there is something real, raw, and rising fast. Like the sea in a storm. Like love, if you're brave enough to call it that. His lips find your throat, trailing heat and tremble in their wake. He doesn't kiss you like you're fragile. He kisses you like you're fire—meant to be burned by. Tongue and teeth dragging along the slick curve of your collarbone, he groans your name like it’s some sort of invocation he’ll never stop repeating.

“You take me so well,” he breathes. “Every time.”

And Titans, you do—greedy and trembling and insatiable, taking all of him because you can, because you want to. Because his desire doesn’t just touch your body—it drenches it, floods it, marks you in places no one else has ever dared to reach. The rhythm builds again, languid and punishing in its control. He doesn’t fuck like a man trying to get off—he moves like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out. Etching himself into your marrow, into every twitch and gasp and please. He cups your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. The look in them nearly undoes you.

“You’re not allowed to forget,” he growls, lips brushing yours with maddening restraint. “Not how this feels. Not what you are to me.”

You nod before you can speak, the sound caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. But he sees it. He feels it in the desperate flex of your hips, the trembling grip on his shoulders, the way your mouth parts for his without needing words. You don’t forget—how could you, when he’s everywhere? Inside you, around you, underneath your skin?

His kiss turns hungry again, all heat and tongue, no gentleness this time. Just raw need—his and yours, tangled and indistinguishable. You drink each other in like you’ll never have another chance. His thrusts deepen, rougher now, but still precise—his cock dragging just the right way, hitting every spot that makes your eyes roll back and your breath shatter in your chest. Your thighs start to shake around him, and he feels it, curses low under his breath as shifts your weight to tether further against the wall. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers finding that slick bundle of nerves already pulsing.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, and it’s not a request. It’s a command, one laced with reverence and heat and a promise that he’s going with you.

The pleasure rips through you—white-hot and blinding. You shatter around him, trembling and crying out, clinging to him like he’s the only real thing left in a world gone molten. He follows with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt, forehead pressed hard to yours as he spills into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his soul.

For a long moment, all you can do is breathe together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm. Your skin sticks where it touches, but you don’t pull away. He doesn’t either. Mydei's thumb brushes your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know you shed.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You’re more than what they made you believe. So much more.”

And somehow, in the quiet between heartbeats and aftershocks, you believe him.

The morning carries a softness that feels borrowed—like it wasn’t meant to belong here, but slipped through anyway. At breakfast, the House begins to stir fully, louder with each passing minute. Girls laughing down the hall. Doors creaking open and shut. Water being drawn. Someone tuning a string instrument with off-key determination.

And Mydei is still here.

You spot him in the tiny galley kitchen, sleeves rolled up, red markings stark against the pale curve of his forearms as he folds dough with a focus that borders on reverence. His half-worn robes are still askew from the night before, hair tousled but face composed. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as he flips a pan with entirely too much grace for someone who used to command legions.

“Didn’t think you’d stay,” you murmur.

“I said I would,” he says, not looking up. “Besides, Elena refused to take any money as payment for...”

He pauses, face flushing only for a moment. You feel like he's embarrassed by the prospect of paying for what you suppose was a rendered service, but you're past the point of caring about those little nuances. Elena clucks approvingly as she bustles by, balancing a tray of sweet tea. “This one’s more helpful than half the men who’ve ever darkened our doorstep,” she says. “You sure you’re not already married, Mydei?”

He almost smiles. “Wouldn’t want to subject anyone to that.”

Calliope, who's lounged in a chair with her legs over the armrest, perks up. “I heard a rumor once,” she says, grinning, “that the Crown Prince of Kremnos has a secret love of cooking and baking. Thought it was ridiculous, but…” She gestures at the evidence: golden pastries cooling by the window.

“It wasn’t a secret,” he says, quietly. “Just not something I could do often. Before.”

The mood shifts for a moment. A faint shadow touches the edge of his voice. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. Shortly after your sisters and Nikolas have helped themselves to Mydei's surprisingly good cooking, you find two clay cups. Inside, you pour the pomegranate juice from the jug Elena leaves on the counter before offering one to Mydei. He takes it and raises a brow when you offer him a pitcher of milk.

“Try it,” you say, smirking. “It cuts the tartness.”

He mixes the two with a flick of his wrist and takes a cautious sip. Blinks. “…Better than I thought.”

That draws a laugh from you. “Funnily enough, there's actually a story about that.”

He glances over curiously as you cradle your cup in your palms, leaning against the counter. “The legend says Phagousa offered pomegranate juice to Nikador after he emerged from the battlefield drunk on the blood of his enemies. Said it would calm the fire in him—make him less likely to kill the wrong people. He took it. Said it tasted like war and sweetness in equal measure.”

Mydei is quiet. He drinks again. “A Lethean offering peace to a Kremnoan,” he says after a pause. “Fitting.”

You smile around the rim of your cup. “And did it work?”

“For Nikador?” He shrugs, then looks at you. “Maybe not. But I think it’s working on me.”

You don’t say anything, just nudge your foot against his under the table. You’re still smiling when the kitchen curtain rustles—and someone stumbles in, awkwardly frozen mid-step. A young man, clearly from Kremnos by the style of his cloak and the glint of bronze on his collar. His gaze darts from Mydei to you, then back again. His face drains a shade paler.

“My—uh—Master Mydei. Sir.” He clears his throat, eyes flicking quickly away from your legs, bare beneath a short sleeping tunic. “I—I didn’t realize you were… here.”

“You are?” Mydei asks, calm as ever.

“Andreas, sir,” the man says too quickly. “I-I'm a patron here. Not often. Just…sometimes.”

You exchange a look with Mydei. He doesn’t smirk, but his silence feels like one. The soldier straightens with a snap. “A-Also, General Krateros is looking for you, sir. Told the entire battalion to let you know it was urgent if we ran into you.”

Mydei nods once. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

The man retreats in a flurry of embarrassment and half-bowed apologies. You and Mydei are left alone again, the moment suddenly fragile with the knowledge that it’s ending.

He sets his cup down. Then, without ceremony, leans in and kisses you. Not a lingering promise—just enough to make you feel like you’re being remembered. When he pulls back, you catch the brief return of that storm behind his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” the prince says.

You nod, but your gut twists. You’ve seen too many men vanish behind words like that. And this time… something in the air tastes different.

Like milk stirred into blood.

They meet in the outer sanctum beneath the Marmoreal Palace, where gold and obsidian twist in solemn pillars, and the air always tastes like old fire. Mydei stands alone, back turned, watching the Dawn Device cast long beams across the chamber floor.

“You’ve been difficult to find,” Krateros says, voice echoing off stone. No preamble. Just that.

Mydei doesn’t turn. “You found me.”

Krateros crosses the room in measured steps. His armor creaks with each movement—clean, precise, like the man himself. “That’s not an answer.”

“You vanish for days at a time,” Krateros continues, quieter now. “And when you return, you say little. No reports. No council. You’ve always kept things close to your chest, but this…” He trails off, the restraint in his voice pulling taut.

Still, Mydei says nothing.

Krateros studies him. The faint burn of the Dawn Device catches the edges of Mydei’s profile—the worn robes, the exposed red markings pulsing like coals. He looks less like a prince, more like a relic. A weapon waiting to be wielded.

“I know what you’re doing,” Krateros says. “I know where you’ve been.”

Now Mydei turns. There’s no guilt in his expression, only that cold, unreadable stillness he wears when he’s weighing whether or not to unsheathe something sharp. Krateros doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to scold you,” he says. “But you are a Chrysos Heir. The last son of Kremnos. You carry the blood of kings and the fire of a dying god in your chest. You don’t get to drift like this.”

A pause. Then:

“Distractions,” he says, “will cost us more than time. You know this.”

Mydei’s gaze narrows, unreadable. “And what would you call your lectures, Krateros, if not a distraction?”

“I call them necessary,” Krateros replies, jaw tightening. “You think I don’t understand? That I haven’t been tempted to take some warmth where I can find it? But we don’t have the luxury of choosing comfort over cause. Not with the Coreflame waiting. Not with the Black Tide pressing in on all sides.”

He steps closer now, not as a soldier, but as something older—friend, brother-in-arms, the last remnant of a broken home trying to hold what’s left together. “You led us here,” he says. “We followed you. Through fire. Through exile. Through the death of everything we once knew. Don’t let your crown slip now, Mydeimos.”

There’s a long, brittle silence. Mydei’s jaw ticks, something flaring behind his eyes—anger, maybe, or something far more human. And when he speaks, his voice is low and measured.

“I haven’t forgotten who I am,” Mydei answers, low and steady.

Krateros watches him. “Yet you act otherwise.”

A beat passes, and he feels like the entire world has tilted several degrees off its axis. “I don’t begrudge you wanting something that’s yours,” his general adds, quieter now. “But you don’t get to lose yourself in it. Not when all of Amphoreus is watching.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Mydei lifts his chin, that same old stubborn steel in his voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

Krateros stares at him for a long moment, then nods once. “Then don’t make the rest of us pay for it if you’re wrong.”

And with that, he turns and walks away—boots echoing through the temple like the sound of time running out.

When you go to pick up Nikolas with the intent on celebrating his first quarter at The Academy, he tells you something unusual. 

“Master Mydei wasn’t there today,” the boy says, even before you can ask how his lessons went.

You pause, blinking. “No drills?”

Nikolas shakes his head, scuffing the ground with his heel. “He hasn’t been there all week. The other instructors are taking over, but it’s not the same. Master Mydei made the exercises feel like... like they mattered.”

He says it lightly, already moving on to recount how one of the boys tripped over his spear and brought the whole line down with him. You smile when he looks up at you, but your thoughts lag behind. You try to brush it off. It’s not like Mydei’s vanished—he still comes to The House often enough. Still lingers in the quiet hours when the world outside feels far away. But… you realize that it's been a while since he last walked the two of you home. Since you last saw him leaning against the sun-drenched pillars while waiting for Nikolas' day to end.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s a Chrysos Heir. Of course he has other things to tend to—greater things, things that were always meant to take him elsewhere. And yet, a small, unwelcome unease begins to settle just behind your ribs. Not loud, not sharp. Just there. Your fingers curl a little tighter around the strap of Nikolas’s satchel as you walk, listening to him talk and laugh beside you.

Something had shifted. You just don’t know what yet. And it’s not just at the Academy.

Mydei still visits The House—but not like before. The frequency of it has thinned, like footsteps fading further down a hall. And when he does come, he doesn’t stay long. Sometimes, he barely speaks. Sometimes, he stands in your doorway for all of two minutes before offering some small, unreadable look and leaving again. He doesn’t touch you anymore. Not like he used to. Not with that quiet hunger that made him feel almost human. He doesn’t reach for you in the way a man reaches when he’s afraid he might fall apart if he doesn’t. He used to take comfort in the simple closeness—in being held, in pressing his brow to your shoulder and saying nothing at all. Now he barely lingers long enough to sit.

You try to rationalize it. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s too burdened, too pulled in a dozen different directions to find room for softness. You tell yourself that. Again and again. But the warmth is waning, and with it, something unnamed and precious slips quietly from between your fingers. That golden silhouette in the Sea of Souls has begun to plague your dreams again, despite having nothing but peaceful sleep weeks before. And day by day, it's slowly beginning to resemble Mydei—drifting further and further from the shore. 

You're still lost in that thought when the sound of soft footsteps pulls you back. Elena approaches you at the foyer, her gaze steady as ever, but softer than most get to see.

“Come,” she says gently, placing a hand at your back. “Let Iris fetch Nikolas today.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she shakes her head—just once. “You need a moment,” she adds, lower now. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

You don’t argue.

You let Elena guide you, her hand steady between your shoulder blades. She doesn’t speak again as she leads you through the quieter halls, past the small garden and into the corridor at the back of the House—the part that used to feel off-limits, even if no one ever said so aloud. She opens the door without ceremony. You realize where you are only once you're inside.

Agamemnon’s old quarters.

No—Elena’s room now. The heavy furnishings are gone, replaced by soft lamplight and shelves lined with small comforts: books, folded blankets, glass jars of dried herbs and sealed ink pots. The walls still wear the same paint, but the presence in the room is wholly different. The old chill that once haunted it is gone. She took it back. Firmly. Like reclaiming stolen ground.

She gestures to a cushioned seat in the corner, and you sink into it, your limbs suddenly heavier than they ought to be. She doesn’t sit—not yet. She pours a bit of warm tea into a cup and sets it on the table near your elbow. “You’ve always been good at reading people,” she says, tone gentle but without pity. “But you never let anyone read you.”

You don’t respond right away. The room smells faintly of citrus peel and ink. You stare into the steam curling from the tea. “There’s nothing to read,” you murmur.

Elena lets out a quiet, unimpressed sound. “Then you won’t mind if I guess anyway.”

You almost smile. Almost. She finally settles across from you, folding her legs beneath her like she has all the time in the world.

“It’s about him,” she says. Not a question.

You close your eyes. “He still visits.”

“Mhm.”

“But it’s different. He barely stays. Doesn’t even—” You stop yourself. The words catch on something sharp. “He used to reach for me like he was trying to stay tethered. Now he comes and goes like... like it’s a task.” Elena doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers drum once against the arm of her chair. “It’s always hardest to hold onto something when it stops reaching back,” she says finally.

You nod, just once. You can’t bring yourself to say more than that. “I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t care,” Elena adds. “But whatever path he’s on now… it’s pulling him somewhere you can’t follow.”

You stare down at your hands. “I know. But it still feels like losing something.” She leans forward, brushing her thumb briefly over the back of your hand—a rare gesture of softness from her. “Then mourn it,” she says. “And if it comes back to you, you’ll meet it where you stand. Not where you’ve been.”

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in this room reclaimed by strength and memory. But you let yourself be still for a while, with Elena beside you, the tea growing cold between you, and the truth settling like dust in the warm silence.

No matter how much you hoped, the distance just widens—slowly, then all at once.

At first, it’s just a missed day. Then two. Then a week, and another. Until eventually, Mydei stops coming to The House altogether. No familiar footfall. No pause outside your curtain. No voice saying your name in that low, quiet way that once felt like it belonged only to you. You try not to let it bother you. You tell yourself he’s busy. That he’s important. That you were foolish to expect anything different.

There, you try to return to old rhythms—take patrons again, smile when you need to, pretend your body is yours to give rather than a thing left behind like an empty shell. You let your sisters dress you up in gold and laughter, let yourself be seen again, touched again, admired again. But nothing fits quite right anymore. None of them are him. None of them have his silence, his gravity, the way he made you feel like you were the one thing in the room that mattered.

You should’ve known better. He’s a Chrysos Heir. The future of Okhema. He carries burdens most men would shatter under. You had no business placing your heart in hands already full with destiny. Mydei is not like the others—you know that. He didn’t use you. He didn’t forget you. He just… had somewhere else to be. Something bigger than you to answer to. But that doesn’t make the ache any smaller.

In a moment of foolish desperation, you even try to reach out to Phainon. You think maybe he’ll know something. Maybe he’ll tell you what happened. Maybe he’ll offer some sliver of truth that makes it easier to bear. But Phainon, too, is gone. Not a whisper of either Chrysos Heir's presence left to trail after. And for the first time in a long while, you start to wonder if you're the one being left behind—not because you were unworthy, but because some things aren’t meant to stay.

Just like that, you’ve slipped back into your old life.

The one you had before Mydei ever crossed The House’s doorway. Silk draped over your shoulders, bracelets tinkling at your wrists, voice low and teasing when it needs to be. You smile the way you’re meant to, laugh when it’s expected. To anyone watching, you’ve returned to form—graceful, poised, untouched by the ache he left behind. But in private, you still let the pain simmer.

You still wake in the middle of the night, clutching your sheets, heart thrumming with the echo of dreams you can’t fully name. Always the same: a golden silhouette adrift in the Sea of Souls. Always just out of reach. Always walking away. And still, you go on.

Tonight is no different. One of your regulars has come by—a young man, handsome in that polished, golden-boy way. Elena says he likes you. Really likes you. She catches the way he watches you like you’re more than just a passing indulgence, like he wants something real. Something lasting. But you’ve already gone down that road. You know better now. You light the lamp. Offer him wine. Let your fingers graze his shoulder as you guide him down the hallway—not to your room, never your room—but to one of the House’s standard chambers. Comfortable, detached, forgettable. Just how it should be.

You’re halfway through undoing the knot at your shoulder when the front door slams open. Not gently. Not cautiously. It’s the kind of sound that slices through everything—through music, through laughter, through the sighs of someone trying to forget. It echoes down the halls, startling a few girls into silence. The hush that follows isn’t just surprise. It’s recognition.

You barely hear Elena’s voice from beyond the corridor, sharp and uncertain: “Thalia.”

You pause. The young man on the couch shifts, half-rising, brows furrowed. You don’t give him a word of explanation. Just press your robe back into place, step out into the hall, and follow the tension crawling down your spine. You round the corner. And there he is.

You’ve seen him in lamplight before, cloaked in shadows and quiet rage. But this time—this time he looks like something pulled from another realm entirely. His hair has grown longer, burnished gold streaked with fire, one side neatly braided, the other loose and tangled like he hasn’t slept for days. His skin is dusted in sweat and ash, and the red markings on his arms burn brighter now, like veins of molten ore running beneath his flesh. His eyes find you. And gods, they’re tired. Not in the way of men worn down by time, but of someone who has looked too long into a fire he could not escape. There’s distance in them now. Not coldness—but something deeper. Like he’s gone someplace you can’t reach, and left the door half-open behind him. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to. Because standing there in the House's low flickering light, Mydei looks nothing like the man who used to listen to your stories in the quiet after midnight.

And yet, for one awful, aching second, you wish he did. You don’t know what he’s lost. What he’s won. Only that whatever road brought him here, it was not kind. You want nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms. To forget the silence. The ache. The long, hollow stretch of nights he wasn’t there. But time has carved you into someone sharper. Someone careful. And when you finally speak, your voice is cold enough to frost over the doorway. Whatever softness once lived in you for him has learned to hold its breath. You’ve patched yourself up too many times to tear open at the seams now.

So when you speak, it isn’t tender. “What are you doing here?” Your voice echoes in the narrow hall, too poised for how fast your heart is beating. You don’t give him time to answer. You straighten your shoulders, glance behind you at the door you just stepped out of. “I’m busy tonight. With a patron.”

The words taste sour, but you say them anyway. You watch the shift in his face, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze hardens, jaw tightening like he’s biting something back. There’s a fire in him—there always was—but now it crackles at the edges, no longer tempered by gentleness. Not rage, not quite. But something close. Still, you hold your ground. You won’t let him look at you like that. Like he still has the right. You’ve taken yourself apart piece by piece to survive without him, and now he shows up—unannounced, unchanged in all the ways that still hurt. You clench your fingers in your robe, exhale through your nose. “You don’t get to come back and expect everything to be the same,” you say, quieter this time.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you with eyes that have seen too much, and a silence that says he knows it. But you’re not ready. Not yet.

For several days, Mydei attempts to reach out, and for several days, you refuse him. 

Elena constantly tells him that he's the last person you need to see. But Mydei has Kremnoan blood running through his veins—stubborn, unyielding, relentless. He doesn't take no for an answer. His presence lingers like a shadow, and it becomes a silent war of wills. Finally, Iris, sweet, gentle Iris, who’s always been the heart of this place, is the one to snap.  You hear it from the hall—a raised voice, sharp with frustration, followed by silence. The next thing you know, Iris is standing between Mydei and the door, her face flushed with the strain of trying to be firm.

“If you don’t leave now,” she warns, voice trembling with quiet fury, “I’ll call the guards.”

It’s a rare thing to see Iris so resolute. But you know she’s doing it for you, for the pieces of you that have been broken and scattered too many times. Later, you overhear the girls talking, gathered in hushed voices. You stand just out of sight, pretending to be absorbed in something else, but the words sink into you like a slow poison.

“I never wanted to turn him away,” Iris whispers, the sound of her voice raw with something you can’t quite place. “But... If he left and vanished without a trace, maybe... maybe that would be better for her. He was the one who made her happy once. I haven’t forgotten that. But now...” Her voice cracks. “Now, he’s the reason she’s in so much pain.”

You feel the weight of her words like a stone in your chest. And for the first time in days, you allow yourself to feel the ache of it all—the loss, the betrayal, the gaping hole that used to be filled with his presence.

Is this all that's left between the two of you after all?

The next morning, The House is quieter than usual. Even the laughter from the girls seems dulled, as if they, too, are caught in the fog of yesterday’s storm. You wake early, before the sun has fully risen, and the weight in your chest hasn’t left. If anything, it has settled deeper. The ache is no longer sharp. It's something quieter now. Constant. You leave without telling anyone. No makeup. No disguise. Just a long shawl draped over your shoulders and sandaled feet slapping against cold stone. You don't know where you're going until you're already there.

The Marmoreal Palace gleams under the light of the Dawn Device, pristine and untouched. Here, the world feels distant—like something imagined rather than lived. Inside, the air is warm and still, a mix of sea-salt and something floral you can’t place. Steam curls in lazy tendrils around the painted columns. You disrobe in silence and slide into the water with only the barest splash, letting it cradle you like a memory you can’t shake. The baths are quieter than you expected. Until they aren’t.

“You’re here,” comes a familiar voice.

You flinch, not because you’re afraid, but because you weren’t prepared to hear him. Phainon stands at the edge of the pool, looking only mildly surprised to find you already there. His long white hair is damp at the ends, his robe half-slipped from his shoulders. He hasn’t changed, not much—but your heart clenches anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “You disappeared too.” He blinks at you, as though he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing you’d say. “I did,” he admits, quiet and unapologetic. “I had to.”

“Of course you did,” you murmur, sinking further into the water. “Everyone has to.”

A silence stretches between you. You’re too tired to keep the edge in your voice, but it’s there nonetheless. The warmth of the bath does little to ease it. Phainon doesn't enter the water right away. He sets his robe aside and sits on the pool’s edge, feet dipping into the blessed waters. “I go here a lot when I need to get something off my mind,” he says instead of answering. “I suppose the same is true for you as well?”

You don’t respond. You don't trust your voice not to break. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again. “The Black Tide started rising faster than any of us expected. We had no choice but to act—quickly.” You shift, water rippling around your shoulders. “So you just vanished.”

“I told him we should say goodbye to you first,” he says softly, finally looking at you. “He wanted to. But there was no time. We left at dawn the next day.” You don’t realize you’ve curled your fingers into fists until your nails bite your palms beneath the surface. “So where did you go?”

Phainon exhales. “Castrum Kremnos.”

Your gaze snaps to him. He continues, slowly, like the words are stones he must carry across a river. “Mydei needed to reclaim something that was lost. Something his people had forgotten. Nikador’s Coreflame. The power that was once theirs before the Titan fell into madness.”

“He fought for it. We all did. The Coreflame is back where it belongs now, in the Vortex of Genesis. Waiting for someone worthy to take it up.” You look away. Your voice is thin when it finally comes. “So that’s why he left.”

“He’s not just trying to be a prince anymore,” Phainon says. “He’s preparing to become something else. A protector. A demigod. The Bastion of Okhema.” You close your eyes, letting the steam soften your expression, though it can't quite dull the ache in your chest. “And you?” you ask. “Are you becoming something too?”

Phainon smiles faintly. “I’ve always been someone in the background. That hasn’t changed.”

That's not an answer. You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Sensing your unease, he leans forward slightly, voice lower now. “I just didn’t want you to keep waiting in the dark, thinking he abandoned you. He didn’t. Not really.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re still trying to fit all the pieces together. The silence stretches again—only this time, it doesn’t feel so lonely. Outside, the golden light deepens, catching the mist like spun thread. You don’t feel lighter, not yet. But at least now you understand what happened. The mist swirls around you both, catching golden in the morning light. For a long time, you say nothing. Just the sound of water, soft and steady, and the occasional hush of distant footsteps echoing in the marble halls. Then, finally, you speak—your voice low, but clear.

“I was cruel to him.”

“I didn’t see him,” you go on. “Not once. Not when he knocked. Not when he waited in the hall. I made my sisters turn him away. I let Elena speak for me. I didn’t even... I didn’t even ask why he left.” Your voice catches. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was too angry. Too hurt.” Phainon looks at you, not with pity, but with something gentler. Something like understanding. You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “He tried. And I—I let my silence answer him. I thought it would protect me. I thought... if I didn’t open the door, it wouldn’t hurt as much when he disappeared again.”

“But it still did,” Phainon says softly.

You nod, just once. “And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to say anything to him again.” Phainon’s expression is hard to read. The bathwater reflects golden across his features, giving him a soft, solemn glow. “He wouldn’t fault you for it,” he says at last. “He doesn’t carry anger the way most people do. But he does carry weight. The kind that never really leaves you.”

You let the silence stretch again, letting his words settle in the spaces your regret has carved out. “I thought he was choosing something else over me,” you admit, your voice almost a whisper. “But it was never about that, was it?”

“No,” Phainon murmurs. “It was about all of you. All of us. The people of this city. The ones who still believe in something better.”

You lean back against the stone, letting the warmth seep into your bones. The water may have been blessed by a goddess, but it can’t wash away everything. Still, it helps. “I think,” you say after a moment, “I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like I was worth saying goodbye to.”

“You were,” he says simply. “You are.”

You don’t thank him for the words. But you don’t argue either. Phainon stretches his legs out into the water, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something almost peaceful about it now—like the ache has found room to breathe. Then, casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather, he says, “If you ever want to get away from the city... there’s a spot by the eastern slopes. Hardly anyone goes there. You can see all of Okhema from up top. Even the Dawn Device looks small from there.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That sounds oddly specific.” He just shrugs, the corner of his mouth curving. “Just thought you’d like the view.”

There’s something veiled beneath the words—something left unsaid. But Phainon is too practiced at deflection. You don’t press him, but the suggestion lingers in your mind like a note in a half-finished song. One you intend to see through until the end.

Later that afternoon, after making Phainon swear he won't disappear without a trace again, you leave the marble gates behind. The route he mentioned winds through the less-traveled parts of the city—stone paths lined with ivy, stairways sun-bleached and cracked, quiet courtyards where birdsong carries between empty alcoves. The air feels different here. Less ostentatious. More honest. The slope rises slowly, and the buildings thin out. Eventually, you're left with wildflowers brushing your ankles, old roots breaking through forgotten stones, and a sky that feels far too big.

And then you see it.

Tucked into the edge of a cliff, half-forgotten by time, is a small, crumbling terrace. Vines have crept through broken latticework, and moss clings to the faded stones. There are remnants of garden beds—empty, but outlined lovingly, like someone had once planned to grow something beautiful here. It would’ve made a lovely garden. And standing at its edge, back turned, bathed in gold and shadow, is Mydei.

He’s not in armor. Just loose robes, wind-tossed, the markings on his skin catching the light in flickers of red and copper. There’s a weight to his stance—heavy, as if he might as well replace the Titan who bears the world on his back. But there's also a quiet sort of anticipation lingering there. As if he’s been waiting. You stop. The wind carries the scent of dried leaves. And in that instant, all the breath you’d held over these past weeks escapes you.

He turns—slowly, carefully, like the world might shift beneath him if he moves too fast. And when his eyes find yours, they soften. He looks like someone who’s walked through fire just to make it here. Someone who never stopped hoping you would come. You don’t say anything, but your feet carry you forward. Because he’s here. And somehow, so are you.

He watches you approach. Still, unmoving—as if the moment might scatter like birds startled from branches. But you've committed enough mistakes to know when you're supposed to make up for them. 

“Mydei,” you breathe, unsure if you even want to say his name. It tastes like salt and grief on your tongue.

His eyes meet yours, steady. He doesn't address you with Thalia like the rest of the world, but with a name you trust only his voice to say. The sound of it makes warmth simmer beneath your skin, slipping into the cracks that time has broken into your soul.  You stop a few steps away. Mydei doesn't come closer. He just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting. You try to hold it in, all of it—the storm, the ache, the betrayal you swore you'd buried. But it frays at the seams. And once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

“I was cruel,” you say. The words come through clenched teeth, tears spilling even as you try to swallow them. “You tried to see me. I wouldn’t even look at you. I didn’t let you speak. And now…” Now you’re the one standing here, hoping he’ll listen to what you have to say. “I thought you left me,” you whisper. “Not just me. Everyone. But especially me.”

It sounds selfish, yet he doesn't deny it. He doesn’t make excuses. He just lowers his gaze, jaw tightening for a breath before he says, quiet as dusk, “I should’ve told you.”

You shake your head hard. “I didn’t make it easy.”

“That’s not why.” He looks up again. “There wasn’t time. It all happened fast. The Coreflame… Castrum Kremnos…” His fingers curl slightly at his sides, like he’s reliving it. “I didn’t want to go without saying anything. But I had to.”

Your chest caves, air escaping you like a punctured wineskin. “And when you came back…”

“I didn’t know where to start,” he says, and his voice carries the sort of quiet that borders on sadness. “You looked at me like I was a stranger.”

“Because you were.”

He accepts that. Just nods, slow and quiet. You glance around the terrace, at the garden-that-never-was, and back at him. “This is where you’ve been?”

He gives a small nod. “There’s a place just down the slope. An old house where it’s quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts.” He looks out toward the city. “I didn’t want to stay in the Marmoreal Palace. It’s… easier to think here.”

You wipe at your face again, suddenly self-conscious about how much you’re crying and how dry his eyes are.

“So you’ve been alone all this time?”

His voice is soft. “Not really.”

You look at him again, confused. Finally, Mydei steps forward—not all the way, just close enough that you can hear the breath he takes before he says, “You were always with me. Even when you hated me.” Your mouth trembles from his honesty, and you don't know what to make of it. He challenged a god and won, yet his thoughts still drift to you?

“That doesn’t make this hurt less,” you whisper.

“I know.”

In the silence, he doesn’t ask if you want to come with him. Mydei just starts walking down the slope, and when you don’t stop him, when your steps fall in beside his, it’s enough. Your footsteps fall quietly along the worn path. Behind you, Okhema glows with its usual light—soft and steady, as it always is. The sun never sets here, but the city feels quieter now, like it knows to dim its voice when the world needs rest.

The place he stays in is small. Unremarkable. Worn wood creaks beneath your feet, and the stone floors have seen better days, their surface chipped and cracked in places. The room is sparsely furnished, without any of the pomp you might expect of someone of his lineage.

There are no guards. No banners. Just a kettle by the hearth, a narrow bed with a folded blanket, and a half-finished meal on a plain wooden table. It feels like a room for someone who wants to be forgotten. Or perhaps just needs the space to remember.

He pours you water from a ceramic jug and offers it to you wordlessly. Your eyes catch the bottle of wine sitting beside his bed—an afterthought, a companion for moments too heavy to be filled with words. You take it, uncork it with a quick twist, and drink. The liquid is sharp, its warmth moving down your throat like a slow burn. Mydei doesn’t comment.

His gaze lingers on you, and in the quiet of the room, it feels heavier than any words could be. You sit on the edge of his bed, and it’s strange, the intimacy of it. The way it feels small beneath you. The way his presence feels familiar enough that it cuts deep. He stays standing at first, watching you for a beat too long, before slowly sitting beside you. 

"Phainon told me about the trial," you say, your voice unsteady, more vulnerable than you mean it to be. Your fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, your eyes still not meeting his. "Nikador’s Coreflame. That you’re going to take it."

He nods, barely a movement. “I am.”

“When?”

A long pause hangs between you, thick with things neither of you can say.

“Tomorrow.”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes for a moment, as if trying to gather the pieces of yourself back together. “Of course.”

It should have been easy to accept. Yet you swallow hard, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, and your hands tremble slightly as you take another drink from the bottle. He watches you quietly, and for a long moment, you just sit there, caught between the past and the future, each breath heavy with things you wish you'd said earlier.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Mydei murmurs, his voice heavy with the weight of all the things he’s already lost.

You laugh, but it's bitter, a raw sound that catches in your throat. "It never was, but we're here anyway." The wine burns as it slides down, but it feels like nothing compared to the burn in your chest, the ache that’s been there since the first time you pushed him away. The silence between you isn’t sharp anymore. It’s softened, worn, tired. And you know it’s not just the long day that’s tired. It’s you. It’s him. It’s everything in between.

“You know," you begin, your voice quiet now, more frayed than angry, "we could’ve had more time. All those days you waited outside, and I—” Your voice cracks on the last words. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier. But it didn’t. I just...wasted what little we had left."

His eyes are soft when they meet yours, as always, there’s no judgment in them. Just understanding. And maybe that’s worse. Because understanding makes the hurt feel heavier.

“I would’ve waited as long as it took,” he says, and his voice breaks, just a little. It’s the quietest thing, like he’s afraid you might shatter if he speaks too loudly.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you forget how heavy it all feels. The reality of what you both are about to face. The gravity of your mistakes. You look at him, really look at him. Not the demigod. Not the prince. Just Mydei. The man sitting right next to you, exhausted and hurting, full of things he’s never said, and so much he’ll never get to. And then, almost without thinking, you cross the space between you.

The distance doesn’t feel right. It never does. So you reach out and kiss him. Not out of desperation. Not even out of need. Just out of acknowledgement. Of everything you were. Of everything you are. And everything you’ll never get to be.

The kiss is tender, slow, like you’re both trying to savor it before it slips through your fingers. His hands come to rest on your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your fingers tangle in the fabric over his shoulders, and you feel the rough texture of the red markings beneath your touch.

His body is warm, solid against yours, like the only thing holding you together in the midst of the unraveling. But in spite of it all, you climb on top of his lap and his hands meander to your hips like clockwork. Mydei breathes out your name again—your real name—and it takes every ounce of self-control to not unceremoniously spear yourself on his hard, leaking cock.

Instead, you hold on to the tenderness in his voice, guiding his length slowly into you as you sink yourself inch by inch. His golden eyes observe in quiet rapture as you envelop him in the heat of your cunt. And for a moment, time stills. It's only you and him in this world. No higher calling. No inescapable destiny.

Just two lovers entangled in each other's embrace. 

You both linger not because you have to—but because neither of you can bear to end it. When you kiss him again, his mouth tastes like grief and gratitude, like unspoken apologies and quiet forgiveness. When you finally part, it’s not with a gasp, but a breath.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” you whisper, your voice shaking against his skin. “That it wasn’t just comfort. It wasn’t just—just survival. I chose you. Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Mydei lets out a quiet exhale, one that sounds like it’s been locked in his chest for too long. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I chose you too. Every time.”

You swallow hard, and it burns. Like all the things you’ll never get to say are rising up at once. “But you have to go,” you say, and you hate how much it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The prince nods. Not because he wants to. But because he has to. There’s no anger in it, no bitterness—just that quiet, devastating calm he always wears when the world asks too much of him. And this time, it’s asking for everything.

He brushes his knuckles along your cheek, trailing them down to your jaw, memorizing the shape of you like it might be the last time. Maybe it is. “I’ll come back,” he says, softly, reverently. “Even if I’m not the same. Even if I come back a god, or a shadow of one—I’ll still find a way to be yours.”

You shake your head—wanting to refuse, wanting to insist that he shouldn't choose you over the rest of the world. But your voice fails you when you bring your hips down once more and the tip of him kisses a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“Just… don’t forget this,” you manage, struggling with sincerity when your mind is overloaded with pleasure. “Don’t forget who you were before.”

His lips press to your brow—firm, steady, lingering—and the warmth of it spreads like a vow you’ll carry in your bones.

“I won’t,” he says, a shadow of regret already flitting to the surface. “Because you’ll be the part I remember most.”

You want to say more. You want to tell him that remembering won’t be enough. That memory is fragile, easily rewritten by divinity or time or duty. But instead, you stay there, wrapped in him, letting the silence fall like a shroud around your tangled limbs. Words feel too small now, and besides—he’s still human. For just a little longer.

You lie against him in the quiet, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his warmth grounding you. The world outside doesn’t shift—there’s no setting sun, no stars to blink into view. Just the bright, aching stillness of Okhema, stretching on like it always has.

Mydei shifts slightly beneath you, his voice low and gravelly. “What do you want most in the world?”

You blink, not expecting the question. The wine dulls the edges of your thoughts, but not enough to soften the truth. You tilt your head up, looking at him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes search yours like he needs an answer—one that matters.

“In this moment?” you whisper. He nods once. You swallow. The answer feels foolish, but it’s the only one that comes.

“You.”

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. Longing. Love, too, but buried beneath it all is something heavier. Something finite.

He shakes his head slowly, gently. “That’s not something I can give.”

It doesn’t feel cruel. Just honest. You exhale, the breath shaky, and let your gaze wander to the walls, the table, the pale jug on the hearth. The silence presses in again, not oppressive but inevitable, and you dig past the ache, the wanting, to something deeper.

So, softer now, more to yourself than to him, you say,

“A fig tree.”

Mydei's golden eyes startle as he tilts his head. “A fig tree?”

“Mm,” you nod, eyes still on the ceiling. “A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you. And it’d be mine. Just mine. Not in someone else’s garden. No clients, no watchers, no debts.” You smile, but it barely lifts your lips. “I’d name it something stupid. Figgy, or Kephale’s Ass.”

That gets a laugh from him—low and surprised. But when you glance his way, he’s already watching you differently. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of the wish beneath your joke.

“You’re serious,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m tired of wanting things that cost too much.”

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for your hand where it rests between the folds of the blanket, his fingers brushing yours—tentative, warm. You don’t pull away. And in the silence that follows, you both know: he’ll claim Strife's Coreflame tomorrow, and you’ll remain here with this—this moment, this ache, this impossible tree blooming behind your ribs.

You close your eyes. And when you finally sleep, it’s not peace that cradles you—it’s the ache of knowing morning always comes. Because when it does, nothing will be the same.

News of a new demigod spreads like wildfire.

Trumpets blare from the upper terraces, their notes caught and carried by the ever-blazing sun. Laurel garlands are tossed from balconies. The Kremnoans, long-suffering and scattered, gather in droves across the plaza steps of the Marmoreal Palace, crying and singing in a tongue most in Okhema don’t understand. But you recognize the shape of it��reverence. Relief. Rapture.

Their king has risen.

The rest of the city does what it always does when faced with something greater than itself: it hopes. Whispers pass from market stalls to sun-washed colonnades. He’ll stop the Black Tide. He has to. He has the strength now. Maybe the nightmares will end. Maybe the tide will be driven back into the deep where it came from.

But you don’t go aboveground to hear any of it.

For a long time, you don’t leave the undercity at all. The lamps still flicker, The House still bustles, Alexandria still braids jasmine into the curtain rods. Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t.

You don’t read the news scrolls. Don’t look at the mural of the Dawn Device glowing gold above. You pass the stairs leading up without a glance. And when others mention the name Mydei, you simply excuse yourself, as if you’ve grown bored of the story.

But Elena notices. She always has. The way you pause by the seashell curtain longer than you mean to. The way your makeup is lighter these days, your smile more practiced. How you move through the House like you’re carrying something delicate and heavy all at once.

She doesn’t say anything, but the tea she leaves by your bedside is your favorite kind. The chores she assigns are quieter, further from the crowd. On days when the sun feels too loud, she dims the lanterns near your corner without a word. Nothing big. Nothing obvious. Just the kind of help that doesn’t ask you to admit you need it.

And then, one day, Phainon comes.

He doesn’t knock—just waits outside your curtain, patient as ever. When you finally let him in, he looks older than you remember, like something behind his eyes has sunk deeper into itself. You sit on the floor. He doesn’t offer pleasantries, nor does he mention the revels or the rumors.

“Mydei’s gone,” he simply tells you straight away.

You say nothing.

“He left this morning. Headed east, back to Castrum Kremnos. There are reports of the Tide breaching the mountain passes. He’s going to defend the border.”

Still, the silence persists.

“He didn’t tell me where exactly. Didn’t tell anyone, really. Just said it was time.”

It’s that last part that does it.

Something in your chest—fragile and waterlogged for days—splits down the middle. The breath you pull in is shuddering, tight, and the laugh that escapes you is barely a sound at all. You press the back of your hand to your mouth like you can stop it from coming, but you can’t. Phainon stays with you. He doesn’t try to stop you from crying, nor comfort you with false words. He just sits there as you fold in on yourself, as your body heaves with the grief of it, the hollow and the heat of it. The kind of grief you only feel when you lose something you were never meant to keep.

He reaches over, quietly, and squeezes your shoulder. In the distance, the bells of the Palace ring again. Not for you. Not for him.

For the god they now call Strife Incarnate.

For the man you loved.

And ultimately lost.

Years pass in the blink of an eye.

Okhema, still burning beneath the tireless light of the Dawn Device, becomes a sanctuary for the displaced. City-states once proud and untouched by ruin collapse beneath the weight of the Black Tide. Their people arrive in droves—haunted, half-starved, wide-eyed with grief—and the city takes them in. The sanctity of its alabaster spires strains under the weight, but it does not break.

Mydei and the other Chrysos Heirs push back with fire and fury, golden shields against a growing sea of death. They are everywhere and nowhere—always spoken of, rarely seen. Even when they stem the tide in one corner of the continent, it seeps through another. Victory comes in fragments. Defeat is slower, quieter.

But still, life goes on.

Nikolas has grown into adulthood. Taller. Sharper. These days, he wears the armor of one of Okhema’s elite guards—the kind that gleams like polished sunstone. These days, he's too busy to live anywhere other than his company's assigned barracks. But he brings gifts sometimes—candied nuts, new thread, secondhand books for the girls. He doesn’t linger long, but when he sees you, his expression softens. He bows his head, always. Not with ceremony, but with something gentler. Something that says: I remember where I came from.

Down to the undercity. To the House.

The House that is much different now. No longer a brothel, but a resting place for the weary. At the start of the exciting change, Penelope asked, why didn't we turn this into an Inn the moment that old bastard died? A sentiment echoed by yourself and your other sisters. Elena answers simply.

"Because I wanted us to start, not from the wealth Agamemnon made off of our suffering, but with the money we all earned on our own terms." 

Rooms that once held secrets now hold stories. Travelers sleep beneath patched roofs, fed by kind hands that ask nothing in return. You stayed through every change. Through every wave of newcomers. Through every whispered prayer sent up toward the unblinking sky.

You haven’t heard from Phainon in years. The last thing you received was a letter, edges sun-bleached and curling. He didn’t say much—but what he did say stayed with you. That it was no small thing, to keep a soft heart in a world that rewarded hardness. That kindness, in hands like yours, meant more than most people would ever understand.

At the end of the letter, he told you: If you ever need a breath, a moment, a sliver of peace—go back to the eastern slope. The place where the light hits just right. Where hearts had once been laid bare.

You hadn’t thought of it in a long time. But today, while clearing out a drawer, you find it again. The edges of the paper are curled. The ink faded in places. But the words remain. You read it three times before setting it down. Then you pack a small bag with water, a slice of flatbread, and nothing else.

The walk is longer than you remember—not because the distance has changed, but because the world has. This part of the city, once overgrown and forgotten, is no longer deserted. Homes have been built into old stone. Children run barefoot down winding paths. Lanterns hang from beams softened by age, and laughter drifts like wind through the open spaces.

You almost turn back, unsure if this place remembers you.

“Are you lost?” a voice calls from the side of the path.

You turn. An older man with silver in his beard and a scar across his brow stands beside a cart of firewood. His sleeves are rolled up, arms weathered from work. Not a soldier anymore, but something about his posture says he once was.

“I’m looking for an old terrace,” you say. “The one that looks over the eastern rise.”

He studies you. Something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe, though you don’t recognize him. Still, he nods and sets down the bundle he carries.

“This way,” the man says, ushering you further.

You follow him in silence. Through quiet lanes. Past gardens planted with practiced care. The city didn’t build these homes—people did. Survivors. Settlers. Refugees who carved something that's now theirs from the wreckage.

“The people of Castrum Kremnos live here now,” the man says, almost offhand. “Most of us settled after the last wave several years ago.” He glances back at you. Slows. “Rumor has it that this is where Mydeimos spent his last days as a man. Before he crossed the threshold into divinity.”

You say nothing, despite that same exact scene flashing behind your eyes, but the bitter memory is cut short the moment your eyes find the once-abandoned terrace.

The garden plot is still there—but it’s not wild anymore. It's thriving. Every inch of soil breathes with care, with memory. Herbs spill over low stone borders, blossoms lean into the sun, and trailing vines curl like quiet laughter around hand-hewn posts. It doesn’t shout its beauty—it hums with it, steady and sure.

And at the heart of it all stands a fig tree.

Tall and deeply rooted, its bark dark and knotted with age, its limbs outstretched like open arms. The leaves catch the wind with a soft rustle, and from its branches hang ripe fruit—heavy, sweet, and low enough to reach.

A big one. Sweet fruit, low branches. Shade so thick, you could sleep under it all day and no one would find you.

And it’d be mine. Just mine.

The man slows beside you. “That tree’s been here a while now. We were told to plant it. Given seeds and a spot. It was the prince's final order before leaving for Castrum Kremnos.”

You look at him. “He… Mydei asked for it?”

He nods. “Didn’t say why. Only that it had to grow. That it mattered because it belonged to someone important.”

You step closer to the tree, fingertips brushing the bark. You recount the past several years, where it always felt as if you were wading through a sea of mist. You would even think to yourself that maybe you're becoming one of those wandering souls in your dreams. But this very tree that was planted here on the whims of a man who still thought of you even past his divine countenance.

It mattered... 

Even after all this time. Even after he became something more than mortal. This fig tree—this patch of earth—tells you he remembered. That part of him stayed.

You stand beneath its branches, and for a long while, you say nothing at all.  The wind rustles the leaves above you. The figs hang heavy in the warm light—sweet and low.

Here, at last, something is yours.

Something he left behind.

When you return to The House, the sun is still high above Okhema, as it always is. The basket in your arms—given by that kind old stranger who you know now as Krateros—is heavier than you remembered, brimming with ripe figs, their skin warm from the walk.

Nikolas is the first to spot you. He bounds over, looking like he was still fourteen despite being in full uniform, and snatches one from the top before you can say a word. “These are real?” he says, mouth already full. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Your other sisters drift into the foyer like petals on a breeze, drawn by the smell, the sight, the rare smile tugging at your lips. They ask what the occasion is. You shrug, setting the basket down where everyone can reach.

“No occasion,” you say softly. “Just… felt like it was time.”

You don’t tell them about the eastern slopes. Or the fig tree. Or the man who once stood beneath that sky beside you, heavy with a goodbye neither of you could speak. You don’t need to. Because for the first time in your life, you are not looking back.

You're no longer the girl from the sea, from an island long lost to time. The one who only lived out of fear and anger at the city who made her the way she was. You like to think it was Mydei's presence who made you realize all the things you're not, but part of you knows he would say something along the lines of, No. This was all you. 

And it was. 

You sit among your sisters and the boy you all raised together, the sweet taste of fruit on your tongue, and let the moment hold you—not as someone who was left behind, but as someone who still remains.

And in the warmth and laughter around you, you begin to understand:

Some loves don’t end.

They simply grow roots in the quiet parts of you.

...and keep on living.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[satorusugurugurl]

The Leisure Streamer is a Hottie!

Summary: Rumor had it the top donor of the-strongest-streamers chats get to see him naked! Now that you're the top donor, will you get to see the goods, or was it just a rumor? Time will tell.

Pairing: Streamer!Gojo x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 5,457

Warnings: language, smut, sixty-nine, pinv, safe smut, condoms

A/N: I’m having so much fun with this series!! It makes me giggle! I loooove streamer!Gojo so much! 💚💚💚

Part One Part Two Part Four

Gojo impatiently tapped his fingers against the Love Hotel receptionist's desk counter. He pushes his dark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and waits for the girl at the counter to give him the key card to the room he had bought. However, she keeps staring at him. Every once in a while, she glances back at him from her computer screen. She was trying to figure out where she had seen him before but couldn’t quite place it.

In her defense, it was hard to recognize him as his online persona, which was typically half naked, when he was fully clothed.

“I’m sorry, but you look so familiar.” She questioned, handing him a form to sign that you both wouldn’t be breaking any of the equipment or the toys within the room. “Have I seen you before? Have you stayed at our establishment before?”

“Nope!” Gojo quickly signs his name at the bottom of the dotted line. “Never stayed here.” He said that he had never stayed at a love hotel. This was his first experience.

“Huh,” the receptionist eyed him, glancing at his scribbled name, “I would say you have one of those faces, you know, like a generic guy. Someone I see all the time that comes in here. But I’m sorry if this comes off too strong—” She bit her lip, eyeing him up and down, “you are utterly gorgeous, and I’m pretty sure I would recognize you if you stopped in here before.”

Gojo fights the urge to slam his head against the counter repeatedly for them over how long it’s taking to get checked in. He didn’t care about meeting potential fans or conversing with them like Nanami insisted. All he wanted to do was get you up to the room and worship the body. He had been drooling over the night before. The only way that could happen was if the bimbo receptionist would give him the damn keys to the room.

“Look, I’m sorry--could I get the ke—”

“Are you like an idol? Is that where I’ve seen you before?!”

“No, I'm not an idol, the ke—”

“An actor?!”

“No—”

The girl not so subtly unbuttoned the top button to her blouse, pulling it to the side as she leaned over her desk. “Oooh, maybe you should invite me to your room and let me get to know you more personally, Mr. Gojo.” Satoru is two seconds away from losing his shit and getting canceled on the Internet when a delicate hand gently wraps around his arm.

“Baby~ did you get the key to our room~?” your breath is hot as it fans against his ear. The sound of your sultry voice causes goosebumps to rise over his skin as he physically shudders. “I’m feeling a little antsy~” God, he barely knew you and was so bad for you.

The girl behind the counter straightened her flirtatious smile and smacked off her face, replaced with a more professional one, as she buttoned her shirt back up. “Oh, is this your friend?” The tone in her voice doesn't go unnoticed as you catch an eyebrow at her.

“No, I'm his girlfriend.”

The receptionist says no other words as she reluctantly hands Gojo the keys to the room. “I see. I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” Gojo mumbles out a quick thank you before dragging you towards the elevator.

The second you both are inside, and the door is closed. You’re giggling as a Gojo slams his head against the metal wall. “That had to be the most painful experience I’ve ever had with checking into a hotel.” He slams his head against the wall before pushing his sunglasses up, his bangs sticking out here and there. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.” Both hands are behind your back as you give him the most gentle smile you can muster.

“You're welcome; that must be hard getting recognized without people being able to connect you to your streaming channel.”

“Eh, normally, it’s not that big of a deal. It helps that I’m half-naked when I stream. But once in a blue moon, I like that, then recognize me, but they can’t put their finger on it.” With a step, he slowly crowds you into the corner of the elevator's confined space. “You, however, recognize me right off the bat with clothes on.”

An audible gulp is heard as you stare at the gorgeous man crowding you. “I-I’ve been a big fan for a long time—” That was a lie; you and Gojo knew that.

The Greek god of a man standing before you was fucking hot beyond all means, but it wasn’t just his looks or his body that drew you into him. It was his humor, the way he laughed, the kindness he showed smaller streamers to his fans. He could be arrogant and hardheaded, and he had a bit of an ego online, but it didn’t deter you from the fact that he was a good person. That was only one of the many reasons you liked him so much.

The man only took you to Sendai for his favorite dessert, paying for your ticket and the hotel room, but he also made you feel super comfortable talking to him. There was a connection between the two of you, one that probably only came once in a lifetime. One, neither you nor Satoru are going to let slip away.

Gojo’s is an inch touching your lips with his when the elevator dings as you reach your floor. “Alright, here we are.” He clears his throat as he gently takes your hand and his own, leading you out of the elevator to your room.

“Did you get a themed room? I’ve seen some pretty crazy ones on YouTube and stuff.”

“Themed room?” Gojo scoffs, his face plastered with an incredulous smile. “Wow, I can’t believe you.” He swipes the key, opens the door, and reveals an underwater-themed room. Complete with a fish tank wall, with real fish, and glowing blue lights overhead. “You would assume I wouldn’t get a themed room.”

You step inside, face twisting from awe and amazement to pure disgust at the tacky decor. The door shuts behind you as you turn to look up at the man who had purchased this room for the night. His shoulders shake as his lips are firmly pressed together while you fight the giggles rising in your chest.

“I—” you cover your mouth, “don't know what even to say.”

Gojo’s cheeks are flushed as he chuckles softly. “Oh, sweetheart, you haven't even seen the best part yet.” He turns you to face the opposite side of the room, where you see it. A giant clam is positioned against a wall, but it isn't a clam but the bed.

You lose it the second your eyes meet the tacky pillows made to look like pearls. You throw your head back, your face burning, and Gojo joins you in laughter. The hotel staff took the theme of being under the sea to the next level. You laughed until tears formed in your eyes. You found yourself leaning into Gojo as the giggles finally began to subside.

Gojo hummed, his hands gently running up and down your arms as those piercing blue eyes bore into yours. “You’re so beautiful when you laugh.” Putting the tacky room aside, you found all the humor fading into a low burning desire.

”Thank you. I love the sound of your laugh.”

The burning heat filling the room settled in your chest as Satoru continued moving his hands up and down your arms. It was such a simple gesture that it held so much want behind it. The tension between you grew with every passing second, much like the night before, but no screen separated you this time. This was irl, no avatars, or web cameras to hide behind. Behind the closed door of the Love Hotel were you and Gojo Satoru.

You could feel your pulse racing in your neck as you pulled back enough to turn to face Gojo. His cheeks were flushed as his hands slowly trailed down your arms before hovering over your hips for the longest moments and not daring to move as he took a long breath.

”Is this okay? Do you want to do this?” Satoru cleared his throat, eyes darting off to the side. “Because if you’re uncomfortable with this, we can cuddle instead.” He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth with a nervous chuckle. “We only just met, and I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never done anything like this.”

His concern for your comfort had your heart racing even more. Not only was he funny and hot, but he was also extremely considerate, making sure you were okay with whatever was going to go on. You found yourself moving without hesitation, pressing your chest firmly against his. The feeling of your breast against him had the streamer shivering as you led his hands to your hips, placing them on your body.

”I’ve never done anything like this before, so that makes two of us.” You slowly ran your hands up his t-shirt, fingers grazing over the defined muscles under his shirt before passing his pectoral muscles. “But I feel like there’s this spark between us, and while I’ve never done anything like this before, I’ve never been more sure that I want to keep whatever this,” you gestured between you with your finger, “is going.”

”So does th—“

”That means I want you in every way you’re willing to give.”

With your consent spoken loud and clear, the grip Satoru's hand on himself snapped. His hands moved up, cupping your face as he feverishly kissed you, Eyes shut tight, white lashes twitching as he put everything he had into your first kiss. It was hot and heavy, knocking you back, stunning you for just a second until your arms were wrapped around his neck, kissing back. He pushes you further back until the back of your legs hits the clam-shaped bed.

Satoru breaks the kiss, heaving heavily before he pushes you back against the plump mattress. You’re sprawled out over the white comforter, staring up at the man you had been a fan of for so long. In all of his streams in the past, he was so upbeat, happy, and a total goofball. But right now, as he stands before you, breathing heavily as he tugs his shirt and tossing it to the ground, every fiber of your being is losing itself to the raging kindling inside of you. You didn’t think it was possible to find him more attractive than you did, but seeing this incredibly intimate side of him, you fell head over heels.

Following his lead, you pull your shirt up and off, tossing it at his bare chest, before doing the same with your bra. Seeing Breast in person and not through his computer screen makes Gojo melt. His hands reach out, closing the distance between you before he’s groping your perfect tits. He massages them, palms running over the soft flesh. His fingers gently brush over your nipples, rubbing them in slow circles as they harden under his touch. You arch into him, pressing your breast more firmly into the palms of his hands, making him shiver.

While his cerulean eyes are focused on your breasts, your hands dip down, cupping the tent that was forming in his pants. You could feel his cock as it twitches against your hand as you rub your fingers over the tip, teasing the slit through his shorts and his boxers. The pre-cum smears within the confines of his too-tight undergarments, making him jolt forward, aching for more.

“Mmm fuck.” Satoru, these lips meet yours again in a kiss that takes your breath away. The lingering sweetness of the brown sugar, Boba, you both drink, lingers on his tongue as he flicks it over your bottom lip. He doesn't have to wait long before opening your mouth and welcoming his tongue. The kiss is messy, passionate, and full of nothing but pure lustful need. “You—mmm—” You take his bottom lip between your teeth, pulling it gently before kissing him harder. “Fuuuck, you taste so good~ so sweet.”

“You taste good, too~ but you feel even better.”

Hearing those words leave your mouth almost sends Gojo over the edge. His cock throbs eagerly at your words. But instead of words, you slid your hand into his shorts and boxers, gripping him at the base of his cock before dragging your thumb up and down the underside of his shaft, tracing gently over the veins. Listening to your words would

been easier to do at this point because right now, all of his attention was focused and not blowing his load inside of his boxers.

“Haaah—nnngh.” Satoru’s head falls forward against your shoulder as you wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him up and down. “Y-Your hand feels so good.”

You giggled breathlessly, biting your lip as you twisted your wrist with each stroke. “My hand feels good, but my mouth feels even better~” his cock throbs hard in your hand, pre-cum dribbling out of his slit as he whines.

“Y-You trying to make me cum? Because if you keep talking like that, I will explode before we even get to that point.” He pressed kisses up your shoulder.

“Then let’s get to that point.” You moan out as his lips and teeth assault your neck with a burning passion. “I wanna taste you; I don’t mean your tongue.”

Satoru groaned, bucking his hips into your still-jerking hand. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard his entire life. With a growl, he rolls you both so he’s lying down, and you’re on top of him. The sudden change of positions makes your pussy throb as he slaps your ass.

“Well, come on, baby, bring that perfect pussy here; sit on my face while you suck my cock.” He slaps your ass again, squeezing the fat of it and making you jump.

“Okay!” You giggle, shifting to the side, pulling your pants and panties off and tossing them to the sand pattern carpet. As you do that, Satoru is beaming as he tugs his pants off, his cock throbbing as it smacks his abdomen.

You settle your legs on either side of his head, gripping his cock, leading it into your mouth. Satoru’s hands were gripping the top of your thighs as you wrapped your lips around his tip. He jerks, jaw clenched as herrs whines, your tongue swirling around his twitching tip. He was so cute, withering and whining underneath you. He had no idea what he was in store for.

That’s what you thought. When, in reality, you had no idea what you were in store for. Taking more of him into your mouth, Satoru’s grip on your thighs tightened, making your eyebrows and it together. Before you could pull off to look back at him, his mouth was on your cunt. His tongue moved up and down your slick folds, laughing at your dripping hole before finding your clit instantly.

“Mhmm?!” a startled gasp sounded from deep in your throat as Satoru chuckled into your dripping sex. The confusion was evident in your voice as your eyes rolled back into your head. “M-mnnngh.” Your hips rocked against his eager mouth as you struggled to keep up with his pace with his cock in your mouth.

“Heh~” Satoru scoffed, laughing his tongue up and down your folds again before flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit like a madman. “What~ you thought I was a virgin or something? That’s just because I like the feel of your hands on my body. I’ve never done this before. Is that why you’re making such shocked sounds? My tongue feels that good~?”

“Hmmm!” Your eye shot open as his lips sealed around your clit, drawing out a louder moan from deep in your chest.

“Oh yeah~ I’m experienced. I hope you’re ready because I’m gonna give you the best orgasm you’ve ever had in your life.”

You didn’t doubt him for a single moment. The way he eagerly laughed and looked at you, how his hands tightened, gripping you as hard as he possibly could, holding you against his mouth, and having him so eagerly challenging you to focus on him. It seemed like every time you tried to take him back into your mouth to buy your head up and down, attempting to make him lose all control. He would one-up you.

He slid his tongue inside of you, pressing his muscle against your g-spot on his nose, and rubbed against your click back-and-forth, not more and more moans from your throat. Each time you try to bob your head up and down, increase the speed of his time inside of you, laughing and looking at your wet walls. Each time he did that, you would lose your concentration, your movement ceasing as you lost yourself in the pleasure.

Satoru loved the way your body would stiffen, how your breath would hitch your throat, and how the muscles in your thighs tremble with each flick of his tongue. You were so responsive to his touch. He could get used to eating you out like this. It wasn’t just the sex it was you. Something about you had his heart fluttering, racing like a hummingbird's wings. He found himself wanting to get to know every part of you. Including you’re wet, throbbing sex.

“Fuck~ you taste so fucking good,” Satoru sighed, pulling away from your sex. “you’re so sweet, almost as sweet as kikufuku; there’s only one difference.”

You pulled off his cock, replacing your struggling mouth with your hand, jerking him off. “Oh yeah, and what’s that~?” The man underneath you moaned, bearing his face further between your legs.

“You’re not cream filled~” He gives you clit a touch suck with a smirk. “Not yet, at least.”

His words shake you, muscles in your legs trembling under his skilled tongue. You take him back into your mouth, sucking just as eagerly as he was, but his tongue is far too talented. Tears well in your eyes as soon as Gojo rubs his face back and forth, rubbing your clit and stimulating you and all different kinds of ways. You pull off his cock, accepting your defeat.

“Ahh~ haaah~ fuck I-I’m gonna cum—”

“Mhmm~ mhmm~ mmm!” Satoru hums in agreement, his tongue flicking your click faster before he seals his pretty lips around it, sucking it as hard as he can, trying to pull you over the edge. “Come on, baby~ cum for me~!”

That was all that it took him sucking, and his eager homes pulled you down over the edge into a mind, shattering orgasm. You scream louder than you had ever screamed with a partner. As you slick coat his tongue, Satoru doesn’t stop. He moves faster and harder eagerly, licking up everything you had to offer him, extending your mind-blowing orgasm. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking above him. Even while sucking, his tongue continued gently lick your folds clean before he peppered kisses along your inner thighs as you struggled to escape his delightful tongue.

You collapse, resting your head against one of the pearl-shaped pillows as Satoru licked his lips clean. His cheeks are flushed as he grins down, taking the sunglasses off the top of his head and resting them on the nightstand next to the bed. He looks like an angel from where you’re lying and in a post-orgasmic haze. His being an angel seemed fitting, saying that he almost ended your life with how hard you came.

“G-Give me—” you hold up one finger in front of you, panting heavily, “one sec and I-I’ll get you off.”

Strong hands gently rub at your aching thighs. “You don’t have to finish doing that. Do you wanna keep going? Once you come back to earth?” You grunt with a nod, holding a thumbs up as he lies beside you.

As your heart rate slows and your blood stops pounding in your ears, you turn on your side, staring up your favorite streamer, who had been a stranger until yesterday and had selflessly taken you out on a date. He was kind, handsome, and funny on top of everything else. Gojo was your type; you couldn’t wait to see where this new relationship went.

While you stared into, Satoru grinned gently, cupping your cheek and one of his hands while the other wrapped around your body, pulling you flush against his bare chest. He took a moment to admire your beauty, flawless skin, beautiful hair, the way your eyes glitter, and the blue lighting of the room. You were stunning, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his entire life, but it wasn’t just your looks he was enchanted by.

It was how you did a happy dance when you ate the kikufuku, how you left wholeheartedly when you stepped into the hotel room. It was how you were looking at him right now.

This wasn't a one-time thing for him. He wanted to see where your future took you both. He wanted all of you. That had him leaning in, closing the inch of distance between your mouths, brushing his lips against yours. The kiss was slow and sweet, almost hesitant, like you were testing the waters of a pool in the summer.

You both melt from that single kiss that wasn’t driven by pure lust but by curiosity instead. Satoru pulled back, grinning down at you, pressing his forehead against yours before kissing you again. This kiss was more passionate, his lips moving against yours feverishly. As you turned your head, your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss by gently sliding your tongue over his bottom lip.

The second Satoru opened his mouth to you, your tongues moved against one another, allowing you to taste yourself as Satoru reached for the bowl on the nightstand blindly. When he pulled his hand back, breaking the kiss, you noticed he was holding a condom. He swallowed, glancing at the foil packet.

“Oh shit, too small.” He turned around, reaching into the bowl, searching for a condom of the correct size. “Bingo!” He beamed, pulling out a condom in a gold foil and ripping it open with his teeth. You watched as he expertly rolled the condom on with a concentrated look in his eyes before he rolled back onto his side, grinning at you. Do you have a preference for positions?”

”I wanna do it like this.” Your voice was low and soft as you draped your right leg over his hip while your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to continue to stare into his beautiful eyes. “Is this okay?”

If you could hear his heart slamming against his chest, you would know he was more than okay with this position. “Yeah,” he swallowed, “I think it��s perfect.” His left hand rested on your right thigh, pulling you an inch closer to him before his right hand dipped between your bodies, leading his cock toward your wet and twitching entrance. “Are you ready?” Letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, you gave him a gentle grin before nodding.

“I’m ready, Toru.”

Hearing you call him, Toru had chills of excitement running down his chiseled back as he slowly pressed the head of his cock inside of you. “Mmmhm, sweetheart, you’re so tight.” He chuckles before giving you a gentle kiss. “I’m barely inside of you, and you feel so good.” From the way your jaw drops open, you could say the same about him.

He feels so good sliding slowly inside of you, stretching you out in the most phenomenal of ways. It burns, but it burns in the best way. A burn that's left you aching for more of him. You whine, pressing your lips harder against his with a pleased moan as he pushes inside of you until he bottoms out. You both lie there, staring into each other's eyes, breaths combining as Satoru pulls out an inch before slowly sliding back inside of you with a moan.

His thrusts aren’t hard or rough; they’re slow and well-paced, leaving you aching for more of him. While your insides twitch and hug his cock, telling him to go harder to fuck your stupid, he holds himself back. Satoru didn’t want you to think he was just going to fuck your brains out, and that was that. No, he wanted you, your body, and you psussy to know that he wanted you, all of you. He truly meant that he didn’t want this to be your only date; he wanted this to be the first of many.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He growled out against your swollen lips before catching them again with his own. “So fucking pretty, smart, and sweet.’ His fingers dug into the fat of your ass, massaging them as he set a slow pace, gently thrusting in and out of you, his chest pressing against your bare breasts.

“Ah, Satoru~” As he kisses you, your fingers trail up, running through his soft bed and messy hair. Nails gently scratched at his scalp as he continued to slide in and out of you, his low grunts growing louder with each slide in and out of your heat. “Faster~ please, I need more.”

Hips that were moving almost agonizingly slow begin to move a bit faster, both your breathing and breathless moans filling the room that smells like sex. All you can smell is the musky scent of Satoru and clean linen. It makes you feel high as he rocks his hips faster into you with a guttural growl. You softly cry against his lips, tugging his head down, pressing lips more firmly against your mouth.

“Mmm~ fuck you feel so good~ god fuck, your pussy is so tight it feels so good wrapped around my cock like this.”

”Y-Yeah, god, fuck, you keep hitting my cervix.”

Upon hearing his dick was hitting the most sensitive part inside of you, Satoru slowed down just a bit. “Oh, sorry, do you wan—“

You cut him off with another kiss. “I want you to fuck me harder, it feels good.” Bright blue eyes widen before narrowing as he does as you ask, slamming in harder, but not enough to make it painful for you. “Oooh fuck yes, Toru, just like that!” There you go again with that nickname that makes his heart skip a beat.

“Sweetheart, nngh, you feel so fucking good.” He grunts, pressing his forehead firmly against yours.

“So do you—haaah!” Your words are cut off as Satoru kisses you, moans mingling with each other in an orchestra of pleasure. “Toru~ Toru!” His cock is slamming into you now, drawing out more high-pitched cries from you as his balls slap against your ass, mixing in with the squelching sounds of his cock disappearing inside of you.

“Haah~ mmmhmp fuck yea, say it baby, shit, say my name~”

“Toru~! Toru~! Toru!” Each moan of his name has his cock twitching inside of you, both his hands grabbing either side of your hips as he begins drilling himself inside of you with deep animalistic groans. Ones that would make any pornstar blush, ones that were pushing you close to your sweet release. “I—I’m gonna cum! Ooh fuck me, I’m gonna cum so hard.”

”Yeah~? Me too, baby, I can feel it coming.” Both your walls and his cock, twitch in harmony as your nails dig into his shoulders, your eyes going wide, filling with tears. “Yeah~ that’s it, sweetheart cum for me, cum. all over my big fat cock.” He can feel you before he hears you. Your insides convulse, squeezing around his throbbing shaft, milking him. “Ohh fuck Cumming I’m cummming baby, fuck fuck, fuck!” His whiny breathless moans fan against your mouth as you messily kiss each other as Satoru’s cum fills the condom separating you.

The orgasm is the most intense one you’ve probably had with a partner before. He was leaving you a shaking mess on the clam-shaped mattress. Satoru whines, tailings soft kisses over your cheeks and down your neck as the twitching between you slowly dies. When your walls relax, he gently pulls out of you, sitting drunkenly up, pinching the tip of the condom off and tying it up. The whole time he cleans up, tossing the trash away, he has a goofy, happy grin on his face, his cerulean eyes occasionally darting towards you as he heads to the restroom to fetch you a warm rag to clean you up with.

Much like on the train ride or during your Sendai outing, the silence that fills the room as Satoru gently wipes you clean isn’t awkward. It’s comforting and relaxing, and it feels so natural. Neither one of you has to put on an act around the other; you can sit and be yourselves. Connections like this were rare, and you were lucky enough to find it in each other.

It’s the same comfort that has Satoru’s arms wrapped around you as he stares up at the shell that covers half of the king-size bed. “So, what are you doing this week?’ Satoru probs as his hands gently caress your back.

“I have a couple of classes to attend this week, and I’m probably going to be working on Geto’s logo design.” Satoru hums, pursing his lips together. “So, I’ll probably be at the shop this weekend. I like to be in the amphospeher of the business I'm designing.” His face lights up as he grins sleepily down at you.

”Could I buy you a coffee? Maybe I can take you to dinner? Trust me when I tell you, you’ll need to get away from the shop with the characters working there.”

”Says the half-naked leisure streamer who lives in Geto’s basement.”

Faux shock crosses Satoru’s face as he pulls you tighter against him. “Look at you; you barely meet them, and you’re already talking like you’ve known them for years.” He presses a quick peck to your forehead, winning a giggle from you as you wrap your arms around his waist. “In all seriousness, could I take you out on Friday for a proper date?” Butterflies swarm in your stomach as you nod.

”I would love that.” You both yawn as the bubbling from the fish tanks in the walls lulls you to sleep. Your fans won’t mind you missing a live stream?”

”Mmm,” Satoru turns the fluorescent bright blue lights off, leaving a darker blue light glowing from the tanks as he covers you both up with the cool, crisp blanket. “Yeah, they won’t mind; my fans and community are great.”

“Okay, Friday it is.”

”Friday.”

Satoru repeats with a grin as you both fall asleep, unaware of the thousands of notifications blowing up Satoru’s Twitter, discord, and Twitch accounts. The do not disturb on his phone makes it so none of Nanami’s calls or Suguru’s texts come through. Leaving you both unaware of what was going on until morning. Because the-strongest-streamer was trending online, and the headlines read; “Popular Leisure Streamer Checks into a Love Hotel with His Girlfriend!” Underneath the article was a photo of you and Satoru at the receptionist's desk, where you had just checked in hours before. Everyone knew it was him because he had left his mask on the table at the Sendai shopping center.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks

LSIAH Tag List (AGE MUST BE IN BIO):

@witchbybirth @zoeyflower @missmuffinr @kalulakunundrum @matchalatte06 @aussiemeerkat @gojoful @ilovebattison @getoloverr @dottedhalfnotes @sonicsolos @manyno

[lucy-literates]

Hickies - Part 2

A/N: you can read part 1 here

💌 - open

(You had a little giggle, slightly pleased with yourself. You removed yourself from Kimi’s grip so you could make your way to the bathroom. You were in the middle of your skin care routine when you felt his arm wrap around your stomach. He looked in the mirror and jumped back with a gasp. He leaned into the mirror, tenderly touching his neck.

“Amore mio” he said “I think you need to even it out”)

"Kimiiiii" you let out a laugh. "We just went absolutely at it last night, and you don't want a break? You don't want to take the day to go hike or anything?" Kimi gave you a skeptical look, "why would I want to do any of that, when I could just do my girlfriend" he gave you a kiss on the cheek and moved to pull you into him. You wiggled out of the way just in time.

"Not now baby, I want to go on a hike. You can stay here if you would like but I am going to explore. That's what mountains are for". You turned on your heel, leaving him flabbergasted in the bathroom. You were never one to reject him, especially if it included you being worshipped. He was starting to catch onto your little game.

You changed into your fitness outfit, tank top, leggings, and runners. you packed your water bottle, battery pack, and charger, phone, and snacks for the hike. You find Kimi snacking in the kitchen, in his pj's. "I'm heading out now love, I'll be back this afternoon" he walks over and gives you a kiss, "be safe amiro" he mumbles into your lips.

You disconnect from Kimi and walk out the door, closing it behind you. You started on the path towards the trail. It takes you 4 hours to reach the top of the mountain, with rest breaks. Unfortunately, it has rained 2 days ago so, your shoes were all muddy. But, finally, you had reached the top.

Not 5 minutes later did Kimi stumble out from the trees, covered head to toe in mud, but also carrying the muddiest picnic basket you had ever seen. You looked at him and burst out laughing, he trudged through mud, got lost, and still managed to make it to the top of the mountain to have a picnic with you. "You could've asked to come if that's what you wanted" still giggling at Kimi's appearance.

He pouted as he said “I wanted to surprise you”. That’s when you noticed he was wearing nice shorts and a decent t shirt, clothes you shouldn’t be hiking in. He laid down the basket, pulling out a blanket and setting out the food on the blanket. He had packed finger sandwiches, carrot and celery sticks with some dip, strawberries and chocolate, and some soft drink (soda/pop).

You spent about an hour telling stories from your lives away from each other, that team video he did with George, how your friend laughed so hard her drink came out of her nose. Eventually, the picnic was packed up and the hick back down the mountain was made.

After you and Kimi had showered and his muddy clothes were in the wash, you settled down in front of the tv, cussing into his chest. “Thank you for trying to surprise me today” you mumbled, half asleep. “You’re welcome principessa”. He kissed your forehead as you both drift off to sleep.

You woke up in bed the next morning, but Kimi was no where to be seen. You called out for him, no answer. You walked around the house, looked outside the house and tried calling him, only to find that his phone was on the kitchen counter. That’s when you noticed the car you rented, coming towards the house, Kimi in the drivers seat.

He hopped out of the car, grocery bag in hand. “I’ve got a surprise” he told you. He led you over to the couch and sat you down, lifting his hands to your face as he leaned in and tenderly kissed you. You returned the favour, the kiss beginning to pick up speed and need. He pulled away, much to your dismay.

He reached into the bag and pulled out some whipped cream. “Since you won’t even out my neck on your own, I’m going to help you” he said, spraying a dot of whipped cream on his neck. “Care you clean up?” He asked you. You leaned in and sucked the cream off his neck, suckling a small bruise in the process. The rest of the morning consisted of whipped cream, teasing and tender loving. Exactly what you needed for your week away.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! 💌 open

[zepskies]

Hi, how are you?

I was wondering if you could write something like "Dean reads you wrong" but with Sam Please

Hey, lovely!

I'm doing well, thank you. 💜 I hope you are too! Hmm, I'm still working through my current bank of requests, but since "Dean reads you wrong" is so fresh, it got me thinking about how Sam would go about this...

Pairing: Sam Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: It's hard for Sam to admit he wants you...when he thinks you might want his brother.

Song Inspo: "If You're Gone" by Matchbox Twenty

Word Count: 1,600 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, fear of unrequited love, mutual pining

Imagine: Sam reads you wrong.

When Sam falls for someone, he's...well, what he would call self-aware.

But also cautious.

He knows his own track record with women. He knows the life he leads, and has resigned himself to giving up most kinds of normalcy or domesticity.

And maybe, a part deep in the back of his brain has given up on the idea of love.

That's why it's so damn confounding...how you've managed to take him by surprise.

He's always been able to rely on you. Whether it's sharing the brunt of the research with him when Dean loses focus, or staying up with Sam on late nights, sharing mugs of tea and quiet conversation, bonding over familiar tastes in books, and '90s grunge music, of all things.

You also confessed to him, late one night, that you have a growing collection of mugs, fuzzy socks, and vinyl records, despite the fact that your record player has collected more dust than the bunker's old storage room.

You're wonderfully weird.

And you're unfailingly loyal to who you consider "your people." And Sam thinks (knows) he's fortunate enough to be included in that small circle.

Sam also knows, deep in his gut, no matter how much he tries to "rationalize" it away, that you're special. And special to him.

You've managed to do more than just slip under his skin. When he thinks too hard on it, he can admit it (just to himself). You've infiltrated all four corners of his heart so deeply, he doesn't have a prayer of scooping you out.

Some days, it's all he can do not to reach out while you're chatting away, filling the silence.

He can picture it like a scene in his mind: of interrupting your mouth with a gentle hand on your cheek, tilting your face up to his and showing you, with or without words, that he wants you...

And yet.

He can't help but watch how you are with Dean.

You two tease each other, bicker and gripe over coffee grinds left in the coffee pot and who ate the last of the leftovers. You fight with Dean over the remote on movie night (once, damn near smothering him with a pillow).

But you also dote on him, making sure Dean has one of his favorite desserts every time you go out to buy groceries. You swap his beer out for water when he's not looking. (And though Dean frowns and grumbles, he doesn't argue with your raised brow and imploring look.)

It's not quite flirting, but it's not quite platonic either—at least in Sam's eyes. You and Dean seem to have something.

And sometimes, your playful banter with his brother makes Sam sick to his stomach.

Like today, when Sam’s sitting at the kitchen table reading while you're making a cup of tea. The silence between you two is amiable, like usual.

Sam steals a glance at you and has to smile.

"Going with purple polka dots today?" he asks.

You look over with knitted brows of confusion, until you follow his gaze. You laugh sheepishly and wiggle your toes through your fuzzy socks.

"The floor is cold as hell," you defend yourself.

Sam's smile deepens a fraction as he turns back to his book.

"They're cute," he adds.

You turn your face to hide your blush. The mild thunder of heavy boots announces Dean's presence as he pops into the kitchen.

"Oh good, you're cooking. What's for dinner?" he asks. You turn to give him a familiar narrowed look.

"Who says I'm cooking?" you counter.

"Well, you're doing something on the stove..." Dean peers over and catches a whiff of the concoction you're brewing. He grimaces. "Second thought, I'm good. That smells like ass, whatever it is."

You roll your eyes at him. "It's just green tea, Dean. You know, health?"

He levels a deadpan expression at you as he opens up the pantry.

"I see your 'health' and I raise you...Doritos," he says. He digs his hand into the bag he's just pilfered and crunches a mouthful in your face. You can't help but splutter a laugh and push Dean away.

"You're ridiculous. If you catch a heart attack at 50, don't come crying to me."

"Hey, at least I'll die happy."

"Oh, right. A silver lining there. I'd hate to see what your arteries look like," you tease.

"Has anyone told you that you're unsavory?" Dean asks, continuing to crunch with an open mouth.

You smirk. "Is that your way of calling me sweet?"

He snorts. "Sure, sweetheart. We'll call it that."

"You know, I'm not your sweetheart," you point out.

Dean discreetly glances his brother's way with a sly glint in his eyes. Sam doesn't see it; by now he's trying his damndest to keep his eyes in his book and ignore the way his stomach is clenching, chest tightening.

Dean shifts his attention back at you and reaches down to brush your chin with his thumb.

"Not yet, but you could be," he says, in a flirtatious edge that he's never quite taken with you.

You're wide-eyed for a moment. In the end, though, you choose to take it as teasing. You push his hand away and give him an annoyed look.

"God, you're such a clown. Order a pizza if you're that hungry," you rejoin, and you pour two mugs of freshly brewed tea. "I won't even bother offering you one."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the "p." He walks out of the kitchen, giving Sam a firm slap on the back. Sam coughs and shoots his brother a frown.

Dean has the gall to wink at him before he walks out. Like he's having his own little private joke.

Well, Sam isn't laughing. He stares down hard at his book. He tries to ignore everything he just heard and saw out of the corner of his eye.

It becomes too much. He takes up his book and heads out of the kitchen.

He just doesn't see the way you frown as he walks away. There you stand, left holding two mugs of tea for you and him.

Sam returns to his room for a while. He's not hiding. He's...reading.

There's a knock at his door, and if it's Dean, he swears he's going to open his mouth and tell his brother to leave him the hell alone, like he's some kind of moody teen.

But it's you.

"Hey," you greet, after the door creaks open. Sam softens.

"Hey," he says, clearing his throat. "What's up?"

"You," you reply. You bring him his hot mug of tea and set it down on the desk where he sits.

"Thanks," he says.

You nod and place your mug beside his (Lord of the Rings themed, of course), and cross your arms as you lean against his desk.

Sam turns toward you in his chair. His hands rest on his thighs. His gaze travels back up to your face as he tries to keep his neutral, but welcoming to whatever you want to ask him. (He buries his heart deep, as he instinctively does whenever you're near him.)

"You okay?" you ask. Your brows furrow the longer you gaze down at him. Just staring, like you know he's hiding something. Like you can see straight into him, into the shadows where he keeps most of his thoughts of you.

This is perhaps the only area of his life where he's a coward.

"Yeah, I'm good," Sam replies, in a tone that suggests, Why wouldn't I be?

You quirk a smile. "Why don't I believe you?"

Sam swallows. For once, he's not sure what to say to you.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" you say softly. You take a subtle step into his orbit, almost between his open legs. Your demeanor says that you'd gladly listen, do whatever he asked of you. Because you're just that kind.

Sam's mouth twitches upward. "I know. I'm fine, really."

"You're fine, or you're Winchester fine?" you raise a brow.

Sam chuckles then, showing a flash of his smile. It lightens you.

"Maybe a bit of the second one," he admits.

You smile and inch closer, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah? Tell me," you say. Your voice is soft, but not quite a whisper.

It leads Sam to sigh. He grasps your hand where it lies on his shoulder. For a moment, he debates internally. He realizes then that Dean's antics earlier might've been more than just teasing. Maybe it was a subtle nudge—to stop wasting time.

Damn it, just do something, Sam thinks.

When you squeeze his hand back, it's just the small push he needs. He glances up at you.

Then he takes your hand and holds it between both of his, with care. He tugs you forward, surprising you as you step forward between his legs. Your mouth parts in soft surprise when he reaches a hand up to your cheek.

You still look surprised, blushing up to your ears, but you're not pulling away. In fact, your widened gaze moves from his eyes to his lips.

Sam smiles. He tugs you down to him and enacts a living daydream, finally kissing you with everything he has. Everything he’s had locked inside.

You respond to his mouth in kind; the subtle gasp of breath against his lips sharply cuts off as you sink into his kiss. Your trembling hand comes to his cheek, grazing the dull prickle of stubble. When your fingers dive into his hair next, it’s his turn to take a deep breath.

With each new kiss, he explores more of you. His hands find your waist, and he gathers you against his chest. You find purchase on his strong shoulders and give into the opportunity to straddle his hips, sitting in his lap while he continues to make your heartbeat wild in your chest.

Sam slows the kiss, only because his brain is starting to catch up with his heart. He wants to see your face, to make sure this is what you want.

He finds that and more when he looks up at you.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, tenderly brushing his thumb against your cheek.

"Does that answer your question?" he asks, with a soft laugh. You join him and press your forehead against his.

"I don't know,” you tease. Your eyes are dancing, both with amusement and relief. Because your heart has wanted this for even longer than Sam's.

You lean back in to whisper close to his lips. “Maybe I need a little more clarity."

Sam takes you at your word.

AN: It's been a long time since I've written for Sam! 💜 I got in another request for him a while ago. I may dust that one off soon... Until then, let me know what you think of this!

(And don't worry. I didn't forget about the Soldier Boy imagine I promised. That will come out at the end of this week, most likely!)

Read Dean's version: "Dean reads you wrong."

Sam Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

SW Tag List:

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @globetrotter28 @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @tipthejar

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @clinicallydepresso @emily-winchester @xiphoidbones @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @siampie @violetlilysunshine @nic-kolas @hobby27 @pizzagirlxnsfwx @malindacath @brujaporfavor @katherineann83 @torchbearerkyle

@sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @deans-daydream @adoringanakin @sanscas @pap3rtigers @kaleldobrev @nix-rose

[bnyf]

fawn over you ♡

yandere hunter x fawn hybrid reader

warnings : yandere content and themes, unhealthy behaviors, relationship and relationship dynamic

authoress note : first post :3 lowkey inspired by 'my sweet bunny cage' manga and i'm planning on making a bunny hybrid one too

his heart almost imploded and gave out upon sighting such a delicate, dainty fawn such as yourself.

little ole you had him in a rhapsodic trance, him whom's nature greatly differed from hers (you).

he, a mere man who's psychological disturbances causes him to hunt and kill. and you, a lovely creature who now gained the attention of a brute man who's main objective was to capture and claim.

the pattern on your skin like pearls, little dots trailing you. so perfect, almost impossible yet here you were.

it didn't help that by the beautiful white lily of the valley flowers surrounded you, like it was a symbol of how fucking perfect and graceful you are. you were ethereal. an angel or a goddess.

and god, those beautiful glassy orbs peaking his way held nothing but the universe and more in them. so innocent. the epitome of pretty and perfect.

he's sorry you had to meet him of all people, someone who'd ruin and corrupt you but he'd also worship you, others may do much worse to you anyway.

his movements were so still that you'd only notice him due to your instinctive feeling of being watched. your tailed and ears twitched.

you shivered, feeling bare and open to such preying eyes with selfish intent behind them.

his eyes held such a mad and malicious look, as if he were some sort of barbaric mad lad. he looks honcho and quite the opposite of you whom had a much smaller and soft physique.

his whole aura wrecked of death, he is, without a doubt, a true blood lusting predator's, a troubled psychopathy who needed to take his frustrations out on poor, unsuspecting creatures.

with that in mind, and thanks to your nimble agility and speed, you darted off before he could even approach you from the shades of the trees only 10 feet away from you.

he'd only chuckle to himself, engulfed by your beauty and elegance, and more than intrigued by the pretty, little doe-eyed fawn hybrid he just had the pleasure to encounter.

sure. you're quick witted. but being quick only gets you tangled up in a trap quicker.

and with that, his infatuation steadily mounts. he immediately started littering the leafy forest grounds in traps ever since that faithful encounter.

you've taken extra precaution after that day, hiding far away from his cabin and even further from that specific meeting sight.

like a lethal game of hide n seek, you both played your parts. and just like that, you started feeling more unsafe and uneasy knowing that he'd set up traps and cameras, watching your every move, both during the day and night.

sure. he had a life outside of this secluded forest he loves visiting. which is the only thing really giving you time to run and hide.

his work life was distressing as a lawyer, it was a very mentally, emotionally and sometimes psychically taxing line of work.

but that don't mean much considering whenever he got time or a day off, whether late night or not, he'd clear out an entire section of the forest with traps and cameras.

and eventually, you run out of both stamina and luck. you become dreary and tired, exhausted from fearing for your life. and your little stalker becomes impatient.

your little game of cat and mice becomes long over due, and sooner or later, you find yourself injured and trapped in enemy's territory.

it only takes 12 hours for him to finally come off work and whatever other things he may be preoccupied with in his life to come get you.

mean time, you kept your wound clean by licking it, fearing what he'll do to you once he gets there.

and boy oh boy, were you shivering when you'd hear the sound of twigs cracking under heavy boots approaching in the darkness of the light midnight. he's here.

you already cried a lot from the pain and realization of your situation but that didn't stop you from repeating the whole process again.

tears already brimming at your swollen, red eyes. the light from his flashlight becoming brighter as he gets nearer, near enough to shine the light directly at you, in your eyes and blinding you from seeing him.

yet he could quite clearly see you, those teary innocent eyes, your wound. every detail up close right in front of him as you lay right in his trap. looking at you with a sinister smile which you cannot see, leaving you guessing what smug facial expression he must have right now.

he let out a feral, maniac laugh.

"my little fawn, you're finally mine."

you had no where to run or hide anymore. grasping onto what little sanity you have now and praying for whatever great deity above to have mercy upon your innocent soul.

what awaited you next was a life of constant torment. the tears run off your chubby soft cheeks, colliding with your skin and the snot in your runny nose made the whole ordeal pathetic and shameful for you.

but to him? it was such an exquisite show! to him... that disgusting crying face of yours was nothing short of adorable.

he grabbed you away, kidnapping you from your carefree life of freedom. the last thing you felt was a prickling sting on your neck before you were enticed with an unknown sleeping drug that took effect instantly.

all the stress and negative emotions that were building up inside subsided as you were knocked out cold, remembering only his footsteps as he carried you to your new home...

the rest of your days were all a painful blur, you were cared for yes but you'd now have shackles placed on your ankles, a big enough cage and a collar. forced to comply to whatever rules he'd put in place for you. punished when disobeyed those rules. dressed to his liking, feed like a child and forced to learn tricks for his entertainment.

for lack of better words, you've been reduced to a pet.

his pet

your leg wound was still healing, which made escaping difficult. worse yet, his home in the city was large and difficult to navigate, with a built in security system that is literally impossible for anyone to get in or out without permission.

"shhhh don't be so scared, you're safe with me, my little fawn," he'd coax, all while keeping you sedated and locked up. you don't know why but for some reason he'd smell strange but also strangely good at the same time. you'd feel a bit oozy when around him, and inhaling his scent was addictive.

that's because his cologne is laced with pheromones and a special drug to get you addicted off him.

but you didn't know that, and you didn't need to know that. your innocent self blamed yourself for becoming addicted to him. he only smiled and hugged you, because he knows you can't think straight every time he's near.

keep this up and he might just send you into heat a little too early. not! that it's a bad thing for him, not that he wouldn't like that of course.

you hated every bit of this. hated him for making you into his glorified object rather than a living being, a person with thoughts and feelings.

but oooohhhh how he loved every second of it, loved dressing you up in all sorts of cute clothing like some little doll, loved pulling your collar when you misbehaved, and absolutely adored watching you get high off him.

the way your nose twitched, and your little tail sweep from side to side, that look you give him cause you're thinking this is all your fault when it's absolutely not.

[mrsshabana]

Hey Mrs.Shabana I just wanna say I really love your work and it’s always been a delight to read. What I would like to request a part two of NTR because not only was it hot but the possible drama afterwards makes me excited and I wish to know what happens next! You don’t have to do it though take your time with everything

𝐍𝐓𝐑 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary After cheating on your boyfriend, Tengen, it's not long before you face the consequences of your actions. But things take an unexpected turn, and Gyutaro couldn't be happier with the results. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, college au, 18+ MDNI, vaginal sex, netorare, cheating. ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 1.4k words

✧:･ﾟ→ Part one

"Aw man, do you have to wipe it off? You look so pretty covered in my cum..." Gyutaro pouts as he hands you a paper towel.

"Yes!" You say, trying to avoid letting it drip into your mouth, "Tengen will be here any minute to pick me up."

Gyutaro rolls his eyes and crosses his arms as he watches you clean up the beautiful mess he made of you.

"Heh yeah, I'm lookin' forward to that," he smirks, imagining the look on Tengen's face when he received the photo he sent of you just moments ago.

Begrudgingly, Gyutaro helps you clean up. Taking the soiled paper towels and throwing them in the garbage bin.

"How do I look?" you smooth out your hair and try to look presentable.

Gyutaro narrows his eyes and looks you up and down, "Looks fine to me," he says as he can obviously see a bit of dried cum leftover in your hair - but purposefully decides not to say anything.

"Ok, thanks," you reapply your lipgloss and straighten out your clothes, "Hopefully he won't notice..."

Just as you begin to feel the guilt seep in, the doorknob jiggles, and Tengen barges into the room.

"YOU FUCKING WHORE!" He shouts and comes barreling towards you.

Never have you seen your boyfriend so angry, especially targeted towards you. You instinctually go to Gyutaro's side, grabbing his arm and staying close to him.

"What the hell has gotten into you?!" you wail, genuinely afraid and confused. Though Gyutaro is shockingly calm and collected, an arrogant aura emanates from him as he grabs his vape out of his pocket.

"Are you fucking serious? You slept with my roommate!!" Your boyfriend clenches his fists in anger.

"Technically she didn't sleep with me, she just sucked me off," Gyutaro says nonchalantly.

Tengen narrows his eyes at his roommate, filled with fury. But honestly, he's not even mad at Gyutaro, he already knows he's a scumbag. So he isn't surprised he'd do something like this, he's more upset with you.

"Shut up incel, adults are talking," Tengen snaps back, "How could you do this, Y/N? I should've known you were a good-for-nothing whore."

"But I-I..." you whimper as your eyes begin to water, shame taking over you. Maybe you really are just a whore. Tengen may stand you up a lot, but that doesn't mean he deserved to be cheated on.

"Tsk," Gyutaro scoffs and takes a drag of his vape, "You're one to talk."

"Shut it! You're just a pathetic virgin, you don't know shit."

"Oh really? Then maybe I should tell Y/N about Hinatsuru. Or maybe Makio or Suma?" Gyutaro smirks as he watches Tengen go pale, "But what do I know? I'm just a pathetic incel, right?"

"You fucking prick..." Tengen curses under his breath.

Your eyes widen as you connect the dots. Those were the girls that Tengen told you not to worry about, claiming that they were just childhood friends. You gave him the benefit of the doubt because you didn't have a reason not to. But now you feel like a complete and utter fool.

A part of you is fuming with anger but the other part feels relieved that now you're off the hook.

"Whatever," Tengen puts his hands up defensively, "You can have my sloppy seconds."

His words hurt, but honestly, you can't even bring yourself to care. As you watch Tengen leave and slam the door behind him, it's safe to say that your relationship is over.

But why is it that you don't even feel that sad about it? Maybe because a part of you figured he was already cheating. He was never around anyway so the fact that you're officially broken up doesn't change much. If anything you're just really happy that you don't have to feel bad about giving Gyutaro a blowjob anymore.

"We should fuck on his bed." Gyutaro breaks the silence with the most out-of-pocket, unhinged sentence. Though you can't say you're surprised he'd say such a thing in a moment like this.

"A-Are you serious?"

"Hell yeah," he takes another drag of his vape, "He said I could have you now so why hold back?"

You can't help but blush at his bluntness - this was one of the reasons why you crushed on Gyutaro in the first place. He's never afraid to say what's on his mind despite how strange or inappropriate it is.

"Haha, sure Gyutaro," you chuckle, "Let's do that."

With a big mischievous grin, Gyutaro takes your hand and leads you to his roommate's bedroom. Promtly pushing you onto the bed and hurriedly taking off his shirt.

"You're still wet from earlier, right?" he says as he slides off his pants, all too eager for round two.

"Y-yeah," you say shyly. He's right, you did get really wet when you gave him a blowjob - your panties are already soaked.

"Well hurry up, take that shit off," he gets impatient, his cock twitching as he glares down at you.

"He's one demanding virgin..." you think to yourself as you hurriedly take off your clothes. Honestly, you're surprised Gyutaro is already hard again after he just came. But he is a virgin after all so it makes sense.

Once your clothes have been fully removed, Gyutaro spreads your legs and crawls on top of you. "About fucking time, you know how many times I've jerked off while thinking about this?"

Your entire face goes red in embarrassment. His words aren't romantic in the slightest but his honesty is sexier than dirty talk could ever be.

You watch in horror as he's about to slide into you, "Wait!! Put a condom on first!"

Gyutaro rolls his eyes and shoves himself into you anyway, "Hell no, I wanna claim you in ways Tengen never could." He groans as he pushes his hips flush against you.

Your eyes roll back in ecstasy as you feel him fill you completely. After being wet for so long without any stimulation, it feels heavenly to finally have him inside of you.

"Ah f-fine," you moan, "But you have to pull out! I-I'm not on birth control."

"Fuck I'd love to get you pregnant so then you'd really be stuck with me," he murmurs, "But fine, I'll pull out if that's what you want."

You hope he'll keep his word, but honestly right now it feels too good to care. Gyutaro begins bucking his hips wildly, thrusting in and out of you with sloppy thrusts.

"You're my girl now, got it?" he says between gasps.

"Uh huh," you moan, "M'your girl now, Gyu."

"Fuck... good girl, Y/N" he picks up the pace - the sound of skin slapping fills the room. And your combined fluids splash where the two of you are connected, creating a nice messy pool on your ex-boyfriend's bed sheets.

Gyutaro doesn't quite know enough about sex yet to make you orgasm, but he's doing a decent enough job at fucking you that you already feel close. So you use your right hand to rub tight circles into your clit, while your other hand holds onto his shoulder for support.

"I fuck you better than he did, don't I?" Gyutaro growls, getting closer to his peak.

"Y-yeah, so much better," you moan, "B-Bigger too."

His lips curl into an arrogant smirk, he grabs your hips tightly and shakily pounds into you as hard as he can. So pussy drunk that he barely pulls out in time.

His cock twitching in the air as his nails dig into your hips, "Th-this'll show him! You're my girl now!" he whimpers as his semen splatters all over your abdomen and all over Tengen's sheets.

Watching the white sticky fluid stain the cloth does something to you and you feel your legs tremble as you reach orgasm. Moaning and arching your back, wishing that he was still inside of you.

"Fuck... he's an idiot for ever cheating on you. You're the perfect girl," Gyutaro rasps, leaning forward and catching your lips in a kiss.

As you lay there, a panting and sweaty mess, Gyutaro grabs some tissues and cleans you up. Then he haphazardly smears his semen on the bed sheets. Watching as it soaks into the fabric. Knowing that when Tengen gets into bed tonight he'll have a little surprise waiting for him.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Hi! Been following ur blog for a bit and I love ur prompts. U can really feel that ur character interactions are so genuine to their cannon counter parts. One prompt idea I thought would be fun are ones center on the Welcome home neighbor's reaction to a tattooed neighbor. I'm quite curious 🧐

Thank you! I try my best to keep characters true to canon :)

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Wally, Eddie, Barnaby & tattooed Reader

Wally

★ He adores each piece you have. The idea of having art on your skin, permanently, fascinates him. It's something you choose to have. Could he do that? Get a "tattoo" like you? Perhaps he can't have anything inked onto him, but embroidery is an option!

★ If Wally ever got something akin to a tattoo, it would be a simple apple. Just a small red one. Possibly on his shoulder or lower thigh. Nothing flashy or elaborate, and he'd draw the design himself. A little detail just for him.

Eddie

★ For the longest time Eddie thought you were born with it. The design suits you well, so he never questioned it. Not until you corrected him. "Someone drew that on you? And it stayed? Oh. Well, isn't that somethin!"

★ When you explain how tattoos work, his smile falls. “Wait. Needles?” The idea of someone stabbing your skin over and over deeply unsettles him. And he looks genuinely concerned. "you paid someone to do it?! Neighbor that's-" He stops himself from finishing the thought. And instead just shakes his head.

Barnaby

★ He has plenty of tattoos! Well, patches technically. But to him it's the same. The colorful spots of blue, yellow and red that dot his body were not something he was born with. But a choice. He got them to look more like his mom. But you wouldn't know unless Barnaby told you.

★ The moment he sees the lines of ink etched under your skin, his ears perk up. "Well, well, I didn't take you for the inked type!” Barnaby smirks. Clearly interested in this new detail of yours. Wanting to know if they have any meaning.