#also coming up with a name for this was so hard

[gloomwitchwrites]

hear me out hear me out

what if the 141 men were with reader who could not lock in before sex, like they’re out here spewing FILTH and reader is unable to do anything but giggle and hide their face- not wanting it to stop, but also having no idea how to respond without their cheeks hot enough to light a flame

What a delicious prompt, anon. Sometimes you just need something a little naughty and this one hit the spot. Thank you for sending it in!! Enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): established relationship, dirty talk, suggestive themes, breeding, horny behavior

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“You hiding from me?”

You sink further into the cushions of the sofa, hiding your face from your husband. “I can’t,” you giggle, cheeks flaming.

“Thought you wanted to ride my dick until I look like a prune.”

“John!”

His tone becomes sultry. The sofa sags under his weight as he traps you beneath him. “Let me breed you. Fill you with my cum. You can lay on your back. I’ll do all the work.”

John’s large hands find your knees, spreading you wide as he settles between.  You refuse to look at him. One peek and you won’t be able to control yourself.

He grinds himself against you, his hardness stiff and apparent. “How wet are you for me? What will I find if you allow me a touch?”

You attempt to wiggle away, but John is much stronger, and far more determined. As you twist away to claw yourself out from under him, John grasps your wrists and pins them to the cushion. He grinds his erection against your ass, and this time you gasp through the giggles.

“I’ll turn that laughter into moans, love. Just spread those legs for me.”

Your cheeks flame hotter with the promise.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Wrapping you up in his arms, Johnny lifts, and then he body slams you into the top of the bed. It’s not rough or breath stealing, more like a weighted blanket falling on you that might be a bit heavier than you expected. You’re completely smushed beneath him, unable to wiggle out from under him. Johnny’s erection pokes the curve of your ass, his need apparent and insistent.

“Johnny!” you laugh, as he starts to aggressively hump you.

Johnny nips at your ear, then your throat, growling with an over-the-top snarl which only sends you further into hysterics.

“Gonna fuck me now, lass?” he asks as you stifle your giggles with the duvet.

“Stop,” you chuckle, even though you don’t want him to.

Johnny turns from humping to grinding, all the silliness in his body leaving as he expertly rocks himself against you. “Could take you like this. Face down.” Johnny’s hand comes down firmly on your butt. “Ass up.” His palms squeezes, comes down again. “Could tie you up this time. Use the spreader bar.” Your face grows even hotter. “Eat your pussy like that for hours.”

You’re unable to look at him, embarrassment and desire clashing within you.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

You don’t hear the shower door opening. You aren’t even aware Simon is there until his hands fall on your hips.

“Si—” His name on your lips is cut short as he halts your attempt to turn around.

Simon presses you up against the shower wall, his muscled body a weight you cannot escape from. His hands roam downward, and then inward to between your thighs.

“Teasing me on purpose?” he asks with a hint of a growl. “Scrubbing your body down in full view of me. Touching your breasts, tempting me with glimpses of your cunt.”

Every naughty word heats your cheeks. It might be sexy as fuck but you can’t help yourself—the flustered giggle emerges unbidden.

“So you do want to fuck me,” croons Simon, grinding his dick against your ass. “Could take you up against this wall.” He lifts one leg, opening you slightly. “Or fuck you like this. Wash away the cum after. Put it all back once we get out.”

“Simon,” you hiss, smacking his arm, face heating to new heights.

“Wet,” he whispers, dipping one and then a second finger into you. “Warm.” He pumps. Once. Twice. Thrice. “And all fucking mine.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

His strong hands are vices on your hips, guiding you backward until you bump against the edge of the kitchen countertop. There is no escape. No running from Kyle when he’s determined to make you melt in his arms. The kiss is languid and slow, sending heat through your body.

“Should I take you right here? On the counter?”

It’s the devilish smirk that bites you. Already, you feel your cheeks flaming bright hot and scorching.

“Or,” he continues, “I can bend over the kitchen table. Fuck you senseless until you come around my cock.”

“Kyle!” you laugh, shoving at him, burying your face in his chest.

But Kyle isn’t done. “All that cum dripping down your thighs and onto the floor.”

The image is luscious, but his words are sending you into a giggle fit. It’s too much too fast, and though you enjoy his words, you’re unable to control yourself.

You place your hand over his mouth, and you feel his mouth form into a smile. Kyle presses in, holding your gaze. The words repeat in your head, over and over until you’re itching to run from him.

Your hand slips and Kyle makes his move. “Bend over.”

[cosycryptid]

Steve’s not that much of a fan of coffee but he frequents the local coffee shop because Robin is and she also has a crush on the blonde barista, Chrissy. Steve doesn’t mind tagging along at all because he is a) an excellent wingman and b) ever so slightly enamoured with Eddie, Chrissy’s attractive, metalhead coworker, who always grumbles about the corporate machine making him tie his hair back and take off his rings for work.

Steve thinks the ponytail is cute, but the one time he said that, Eddie got all quiet on him and wouldn’t stop shooting Steve these looks he couldn’t quite get a read on. So naturally Steve assumes it’s a touchy subject and doesn’t bring it up again. Apart from that though, he feels like he gets on really well with Eddie and alway enjoys his company. He’s managed to make him laugh at least eight times since he and robin started going there. Robin’s been keeping count for him.

The issue is, lately Steve gets the feeling Chrissy is trying to hit on him, and it’s making him feel super guilty because she’s Robin’s crush and seems to be really close with Eddie too. Also, he’s not into her, but he doesn’t want to upset her because she seems like a genuine and sweet person.

It started when Chrissy handed over his usual to go cup and instead of his name, it had ‘handsome’ written on the side in marker with a cute little heart drawn under it. He had panicked so hard about Robin potentially seeing it that he downed the coffee when it was still hot, scolded the fuck out of his tongue and shoved the empty cup in the nearest trash can. He thought that his reaction would be enough to deter Chrissy, but they kept coming thick and fast, each one making Steve blush to the tips of his ears and feel a wave of guilt crash over him.

The messages kept getting more flirty each time too, some stand outs being:

‘Enjoy, sweetheart xx’

‘Hey there, pretty boy :) x’

‘Nice jeans, sweet cheeks ;)’

‘Hot tea for a hottie x’

‘The only thing sweeter than this drink is you, darling x’

And the final straw:

‘Call me, big boy xx’

The last one had a phone number underneath, and Steve felt his heart sink when he saw it. He’d thought eventually with him throwing away the cups so quickly - before he and robin even left the place most of the time- Chrissy would surely catch onto his lack of interest and stop at some point. However, it had only seemed to spur her on. This last one took it a step further, invited him to do something about all the others that came before it. Robin isn’t there with him today, so he assumes that’s what gave Chrissy the confidence boost to take a shot and he feels like such a shitty friend for not telling Chrissy to stop this earlier.

Now for several reasons, Steve would have the unfortunate task of letting her down gently. He decides it’s best to tear of the bandaid and just do it right away so there’s no room for miscommunication. She’s gone back to the till to take someone else’s order, so Steve joins the back of the line, the offending cup of coffee in hand.

As he approaches the front she catches sight of him and frowns for a second, but then plasters on her usual bubbly, customer service smile. “Is there something wrong with your order, Steve?” she asks, sounding upset at the idea and twisting the knife in Steve’s chest a little further.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs heavilly, he glances around to see if anyone is listening in before speaking because he doesn’t want to cause her any embarrassment. “Look, I’m really flattered, honestly,” Steve says, placing his cup down on the surface and turning it so the message faces Chrissy, “but I have a friend who thinks you’re really cute and I’m kind of interested in your coworker.” He lowers his voice for the second part. “So I’m really sorry, but I can’t call you.”

He’s bracing himself for a negative reaction, but then he’s bewildered when a bright giggle bursts out of Chrissy’s glossy pink lips instead. She continues to let out little peels of laughter, only stopping when she registers his look of utter confusion.

“Steve, I’m not the one who’s been making your drinks all this time, I’ve just been handing them to you.”

“Then who-“

“You better hang on to this one, beautiful. I’ve seen too many of my previous masterpieces go unappreciated.” Eddie interrupts, leaning on Chrissy’s shoulder with a devlish grin. “I’ll be expecting that call later, big boy,” he says before winking at Steve playfully and going straight back to fulfilling orders.

Steve’s jaw drops and his face burns, and all of a sudden that little paper cup is the most precious item he’s ever recieved. Part of him wants to go back and locate all the previous ones he threw away, but he knows that they’re long gone by now and that Eddie would probably lose interest in him quickly if he saw him trying to climb in the bin for a better look.

Stece settles on guarding the cup he has, the most important one, with his life instead. And he does so up until the end of the day, when his shift finishes and he’s back to the safety of his house. Before doing anything, he makes a beeline straight for the phone and presses in the number he now knows off by heart after hours of reading it off the side of the cup.

The call is picked up after the second ring.

“Eddie?” Steve asks.

“Hey, Stevie.” Steve tries to ignore the way his chest flutters at the nickname. “So, I was thinking… how would you like to see me with my hair down?”

Steve beams brightly. “I’d love that.”

Coffee could possibly become one of Steve’s favourite things.

[sentrryy]

—-- windchill

john walker x ex-avenger!ex-widow!reader

—- summary: walker doesn't seem too excited about the fact that captain america just saved your life. arguing ensues. and then making out follows. —- wc: 5.4k —- warnings: no use of y/n, john walker is an asshole, canon-typical violence, reader is also a bit of an asshole, actually everyone is kind of an asshole, jealous john walker, arguing, making out, spontaneous confessions, everybody lives in the tower because i said so —- notes: thunderbolts made me want walker and i will make it everyone's problem. first time writing this freak so hopefully you guys like it lmao.

[тётушка (tyot-oosh-ka) - auntie]

"lost visual on the fourth, anyone got him?"

walker's voice comes through your earpiece, the only sound beside the thrum of the wind in your ears. you shift to look down at him from your vantage point, perched on the roof of a nearby building.

"nothing from up here," you respond, giving the streets another quick once-over through your scope, but between the overturned cars, the only movement on the street is from your team. "must've ducked into an alley somewhere."

he huffs, and you watch him run a hand through his hair. "copy that."

"copy this, copy that, lost visual– you can just say you let him get away, you know that right?" ava's grumbling earns a quiet chuckle from you which you're careful not to broadcast over the radio, but yelena isn't so considerate.

naturally, the three of them start to bicker. as entertaining as it is to listen to them go back and forth, you tune them out as best you can while you continue to watch for the last target. or, that's what you intended to do, but despite your efforts your gaze seems to naturally gravitate to john no matter where you look.

his helmet had been lost a while ago, and you have to admit, he looks good with his hair a mess like that. the blood smeared on his face, the dirt and grime marring his skin – in the back of your mind, you're glad everyone else is too busy to notice you ogling him through your scope.

it crept up on you, how quickly you came to like walker. you weren't expecting to care for him any more than you did when you were chasing the flag smashers, but he's a lot more tolerable when he's not being an egomaniac. lately, though, just being near him is enough to distract you. and when you're twenty stories up and still can't seem to focus? you realise it might have become a problem.

there's a crunch behind you, the unmistakable sound of gravel under heavy boots, but your reaction is too slow. the moment you twist around to face your assailant, you're met with a hard strike to the temple. 

your vision blurs from the impact, a trail of warm blood falling down your face, a yelp passing your lips before you can stop it. the blow knocks you onto your back, dangerously close to the ledge, and sends your rifle clattering to the ground below.

you grunt, your fingers immediately reach for the pistol at your thigh, pointing it at him the best you can through the disorientation, but he grabs the barrel and forces it upwards.

there's a struggle, an agonising moment where you fight for the upper hand with him on top of you. voices in your earpiece are white noise in the background, your team no doubt having noticed your situation by now.

your assailant shifts his weight, and you take the split-second opportunity to swipe his legs from under him. the gun slips from both of your hands, sliding just out of reach as he hits the ground next to you.

you lunge for it, and so does he, your breathing ragged. the trigger, taut under your finger, the barrel flush to his chest, the blood roaring in your ears, a hard pressure against your stomach.

a single shot rings through the air, and then you're falling.

the weightless feeling makes your stomach turn, the ground is coming up fast, too fast to think – it all happens quicker than you can react.

you vaguely hear a shout of your name, multiple voices, though one is louder than the rest, but it falls on deaf ears.

then, the air is forced from your lungs by a solid force colliding with your ribs, and suddenly you're not falling anymore. you blink through your dizzy confusion, finding what caught you isn't just a force, but a person – and not just any person, it's sam wilson.

with the wind whipping around you, you can just about discern his voice as he calls out, "happy to see me?"

he'd swooped in and plucked you out of the air, holding you close as he cuts through the air with a speed that makes your head spin.

"holy shit!" you cry, holding the back of his suit with a vice grip. the skyscrapers fly by, and, yes, you've known sam a long time, but you've never been in the sky with him before.

you feel his laugh rather than hear it, the vibrations under your palms as he gradually banks back around to where the other (new) avengers were. and honestly, now that you're not in immediate danger, the feeling of the wind in your hair is actually quite pleasant.

when your feet are finally back on the ground, you're not prepared for how your knees give out from under you. sam catches you, again, his arms winding around your waist to steady you, an amused grin on his face.

"woah, you okay?" he asks, the wings of his suit retracting into themselves, and you nod.

"yeah, i'm good – nice catch, by the way." you grin up at him, breathless. a hand still rests over the star on his chest as you find your balance, and the other cradles the new ache in your side, "even if you did break all my ribs in the process."

he chuckles, finding the humour in your words and returning it easily. "hey, i don't accept responsibility for injuries sustained while i'm saving your life, and you're more than welcome for that, by the way."

you're still reeling from the shock of almost falling to your demise, but you can't help the breathless laugh that escapes you. it's slightly delirious and adrenaline fueled, a reflex of sorts. near-death experiences weren't uncommon for you, but you have to admit, this was one of the more fun occasions.

steady enough now to stand on your own, you take a step back and meet sam's eyes once more with a sincere expression. "seriously though, thanks."

"any time." he smiles again, softer, and releases your waist, sliding one arm up to rest around your shoulders instead. "just don't make a habit of falling off buildings, okay?"

you chuckle, patting his chest as you take notice of the rest of your team rushing over, "alright, if you insist."

yelena calls your name as she skids to a stop in front of you, taking your face in both her hands and thoroughly checking you over for cuts and bruises.

"тётушка, you okay? you don't have a concussion?" she frowns, tilting your head to meet her concerned gaze. she brushes away the blood at your brow, and the incredulous look she sends sam, as if it was his fault, almost has you laughing again.

you manage to hold back your amusement though, mostly for her sake, and reassure her, "i'm fine, lena, i promise."

her eyes dart to the way you're holding your ribs as you shift uncomfortably in place, and clicks her tongue at you. "no, you're not fine, look at you – you're more injured than before he got to you!"

"ah, captain america, a rookie mistake!" alexei's voice echoes through the empty street, and he's still yelling even as he lands a hand on sam's shoulder. "you are not very good at whole saving people business, eh? that's okay, red guardian forgives you!"

"wh–" sam pulls a face, half offended, half confused, "you didn't see me catch her mid-air two minutes ago?"

"bah! child's play!" alexei dismisses him with a wave of his giant hand, and he's about to continue until he's interrupted by another one of your team arriving.

"yeah, we all saw you wilson, jesus christ…" walker huffs, rolling his eyes as he comes to a stop a little ways from where you stand.

the air instantly thickens. his jaw is clenched hard, the death glare he's sending sam unsettling in a way that's not like him.

"what's the problem now, walker?" there's annoyance in sam's voice, but you can't shake the way john is locked onto sam; like a predator to prey, he hasn't taken his eyes off him once, and it worries you.

something about the way his eyes graze sam's arm, still around you, sticks in the back of your mind. the way his jaw clenches and his fists tighten at his sides, it unearths something more to his anger.

john scoffs, and rolls his eyes again. "my problem is we're the avengers, and yet for some reason you're always right there whenever we're trying to do our jobs!" he throws his arms out to the sides, his breathing fast and heavy. a moment passes where no one moves, just watching him in stunned silence. "look– we get it, you think you're better than us, but you're not, okay?"

"walker, you need to calm down." yelena leaves your side to get between them, but the staredown just continues over her head.

sam drops his arm from your shoulders, holding his hands out as he takes a step towards walker, an attempt to placate him that has little effect. "hold on, i don't think I'm better than you guys–"

"but you do think you're better than me, don't you wilson?" he's shouting, invading sam's space now, his fists twitching with the effort of holding back. the way his voice cracks, subtle but clear as day to you, sends a twinge through your heart.

you hesitate to break the thick silence that follows. part of you wants to shut him up, to defend your friend – but a larger part, the part of you that cares about john, says that this isn't like him.

"walker." you murmur, a low warning just loud enough to catch his attention.

his glare snaps to you, an undertone of something undeniably hurt beneath his burning anger, but then it's gone just as fast as it appeared. "what? you're on his side now?"

there's a deep sting in your chest when he meets your eye with that same piercing scowl. "i'm not on anyone's side–"

"really? 'cause you're supposed to be on ours– your team's!" he spits, "but i guess it's just whatever you feel like in the moment, right widow?"

if he notices the way your face falls, he doesn't show it. 

"alright enough!" bucky yells. he gets in-between the two of them, next to yelena, and puts his metal hand sternly on john's chest. "walker, go back to the car."

john scoffs again. "right. i'm the bad guy – as per usual." he spits, the energy fading from his voice with every word until he just sounds defeated. "why is he even here?"

"just shut up and start walking." bucky growls, pushing him away with the hand on his chest. walker huffs, hesitating like he's debating if he should argue, but eventually spins on his heel and marches off. bucky looks over his shoulder at you, sending sam a somewhat apologetic look, before wordlessly following behind him with alexei in tow.

"sorry." you sigh, massaging the furrow from your brow, and offer sam a regretful look of your own. "he's not always that much of an asshole."

"why do i find that hard to believe?" sam grumbles, watching walker's form retreat. he looks back at you, his expression softening, and shakes his head. "you don't have to apologise."

"sorry anyway." because you are. yelena is waiting for you, her hands on her hips. you pat sam's arm, that guilty feeling still lingering. "i'll see you around?"

he gives you a nod, already starting to walk away. "of course. take care of yourself, alright?" 

and with that, his wings extend and he's in the sky before you can blink.

you watch him go a moment longer, before turning back to yelena and gesturing for the two of you to get moving. the others have already turned the corner up ahead, leaving just you and her walking side by side. 

"you want to talk about that?" she broaches, looking at you from the corner of her eye with a certain delicate tone that really doesn't make you feel any better.

a grimace crosses your face. no, you wanted to say, not particularly, especially since you're shouldering most of the blame for it. "...what is there to say? i think it might've been my fault anyway."

"don't say that." yelena scolds, her brows pulling into a frown, but you shake your head.

"if i'd been paying attention, then that guy wouldn't have snuck up on me, and then sam wouldn't have had to come and save me, and we could've avoided this whole thing." you release a deep breath, ignoring the sting that radiates from your ribs. "now the energy's all… weird."

she clicks her tongue, and lays a comforting hand on your back. "it's not your fault walker is an asshole, тётушка, nothing we can do about that."

you catch her smile and huff, a weak attempt at a laugh, but it falls flat.

it was more than that, you could tell. more than just walker's typical asshole shtick, but, again, you were hesitant to think about it. he always toed the line, pushed his luck with comments and insults, but that was malicious, meant to wound. you really thought walker had moved past his feud with sam – he didn't seem to harbour the same animosity for you, or even bucky, though maybe you were wrong about that too, since you'd just gotten the same treatment. you shake your head to rid yourself of that train of thought; that's not an idea you want to confront.

so you settle for something vague, a plausible deniability you hoped she would let you keep. "did he seem… off to you?"

yelena lets out a sharp laugh, "oh, so you noticed this time, thank god for that."

"what's that supposed to mean?" you shoot her a puzzled look, your eyes narrowing. she holds herself like she knows something you don't, and it's unsettling.

she chuckles to herself again, a knowing glint in her eye. "it's not all about that shield with him, you know that, right?"

"uh…" you swallow hard, vaguely remembering that odd flash of emotion you'd noticed in john earlier, but you're still confused. "no?" 

she doesn't elaborate any further, simply holding your gaze with an expression that reveals absolutely nothing. there's no time to interrogate her further, though, bucky's call of your names from just ahead cutting your conversation short. one last attempt to meet yelena's eye before you climb into the back of the truck, which she shoots down, and you're left with only the rumble of the engine as bucky pulls away.

the drive home is eerily quiet. even ava – who usually jumps at the chance to make a sly comment, at john's expense especially – refrains from speaking.

despite what yelena said, and despite knowing she's right, it still feels like you could've avoided this. you all knew john wasn't really a fan of sam, but he was a good friend of yours, you weren't going to drop him just because one member of your team didn't like him; even if it was the same teammate that held your heart in his hands.

and speaking of walker, he has yet to acknowledge any of the rest of you, taking instead to boring holes in the wall opposite him with his red hot glare. you've been trying to meet his eye the whole ride home, but he fails to notice, like he's somewhere else entirely. with every minute that passes in uncomfortable silence, you're less and less sure that it's not you he's angry at.

when bucky finally pulls into the tower's basement garage, after fifteen minutes that could have easily been hours, he's the first to move. the car has barely even rolled to a stop before walker's standing, hunched over awkwardly as he crosses the length of the truck and throws open the back doors.

the heavy sound of his footsteps echos through the garage, and he's gone before the rest of you can clamber out. the urge to follow him is strong, but you hold off. you're not even sure what you'd say if you caught up to him.

"what crawled up his arse and died?" ava grumbles, sending you a sideways glance as she passes you. "thought i was about to suffocate in that tension…"

you frown, watching the door to the stairwell slowly fall shut, the only indication that john was even there at all. 

"just give him some space." you follow her towards the elevator, and she cranes her neck to roll her eyes at you over her shoulder.

"right. like i was planning on spending the rest of my evening in his glowing company…"

a few paces behind you yelena snorts, ignoring the warning look you give her as the rest of you load into the elevator. it's a squeeze with alexei and bucky taking up most of the space, leaving you and yelena facing each other from opposite sides of the box.

"don't worry, тётушка will talk to him," she begins, leaning back against the cool steel and crossing her arms over her chest.

"i will?" you quirk a brow at her as the doors slide shut and the elevator begins to rise. you're not sure if the way your stomach sinks is because of the elevator, or the thought of having to face walker after what happened earlier. "i don't know if that's a good idea."

"yes, it is. seeing as this whole thing is kind of your fault, i think that's fair." she continues, shrugging in response to the look of betrayal you send her. "what? you said it yourself!"

you throw your hands out to the sides, as emphatically as you can in the confined elevator. "you weren't supposed to agree with me!"

"she's got a point, though." ava chimes in, then leans back to hide from your glare behind alexei's arm. "you did let your guard down, quite critically if you ask me."

"hey!"

"you were distracted, yes?" alexei now grins down at you, a gesture you pointedly do not return, and continues, "too busy watching red guardian's heroic moves, i understand, it happens."

you bring a hand up to cover your face, massaging the bridge of your nose, and mutter a quiet, "oh my god…"

a nudge against your foot draws your attention, and you look up to find bucky looking at you too. "it's not a bad idea."

you stare at him, an image appearing in your mind of the fury in walker's eyes earlier, but then bucky tilts his head at you and you really can't resist that sad puppy look he puts on. you breathe a deep sigh, rolling your eyes at all of them, "...fine. i'll talk to him. but if it backfires and he just yells at me again, it's your fault."

"thank fuck," ava replies, a subtle smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, and as the elevator dings she's already phasing through the doors with a call over her shoulder, "spare the rest of us from his terrible mood."

the conversation dies there. one by one, the others filter out on their respective floors, until you're left standing by yourself in the elevator which suddenly seems far too big.

you press the button for walker's floor, and the doors slide shut again.

he was angry at you, even if you didn't fully understand why, he made that abundantly clear. that scathing omment directed at you – you know he's referring to the sokovia accords, the fight in germany, and even though you know he was just lashing out, a defence mechanism you're accustomed to from him, it was a low blow.

and it stung that little bit more coming from him, because you trusted him. it had come up, late one night when you had bumped into each other in the kitchen during a bout of insomnia, the topic of the previous avengers. in the early hours of that morning you'd confided in him your worries about being part of a team again, how you couldn't handle losing another family like that. and he had reassured you, that the new avengers wouldn't be like that – only to use it against you in a petty argument.

the elevator dings. the doors slide open.

the hallway feels unusually cold when you step over the threshold. something within you tells you this is a bad idea, that you're only going to get hurt again, but you can't walk away.

your hand is poised to knock, hovering centimetres from his door and staying frozen there. no light seeps through the cracks from his room, making the cool fluorescent lights in the hall seem that much more suffocating. you're still not sure what exactly you're here to say.

as if the universe could sense your indecisiveness, the door abruptly swings open, revealing john with a look on his face that sends a shiver down your spine.

but when his eyes land on you, he pauses, his expression going blank. your name falls from his mouth in a whisper. he'd shed the top half of his suit, leaving him in that skin-tight undershirt that does absolutely nothing to help your already scrambling mind. you blink at him, trying to find something to say, but you draw a blank.

and then he goes to shut the door on you. you manage to wedge your foot in the gap before he can fully close it, a small frown taking over your features.

"john," you begin, your tone something almost pleading. "i want to talk."

hesitation dances across his face, and you briefly wonder if hes just going to jist the door on you again. but, to your surprise, he lets the door falls back open, screwing his eyes shut as you move to lean in the doorway.

"about what?" he avoids your gaze as he mumbles, a distinctly defeated feel to his voice. he looks so tired, even more so than he did when you last saw him not even an half an hour ago. 

you frown, and answer in a murmur, "you know what."

"yeah, i screwed up, okay? i know that!" he snaps, still dutifully avoiding your gaze as he lets go of the door and turns back into his room. "you don't have to rub it in!"

"i'm not– what's going on with you?" you follow him in, leaving the door ajar behind you, and stare at his back a few steps away, "and don't try and give me the 'i'm just tired' excuse, because i know it's more than that."

he sighs sharply, running a hand over the back of his head, but doesn't turn to face you when he answers, "you wouldn't get it."

it's a lame excuse, and he knows it – it's why he refuses to look you in the eye – but you're not discouraged by his attempt to brush you off.

"oh, come on, john." you roll your eyes, your concern quickly morphing into frustration the more indignant he becomes. "it's something to do with sam, right? i know he's my friend, but if you have something to say, or–"

finally he whips around to face you, his eyes wide with the same kind of anger as before. "right– everything's always about sam! you can't even stop for five seconds to back me up when you know I'm right!"

"why the hell would i back you up when you're being a complete asshole to the guy who just saved my life?" you retort, standing your ground against him despite the way it prickles the hairs on the back of your neck. "he's my friend, i'm not gonna let you, or anyone, talk to him like that!"

"it's not about him– it's about none of you guys ever having my back like i have yours!"

"so i'm the problem? seriously, what did i ever do to you? and bringing up the accords thing, really john?" you glare at him with a scoff, exasperation bleeding into your expression. he goes to turn his back to you again, but you grab his arm before he can, forcing him to hold your gaze. "you're lashing out, you're pissed at me, i know you are, so just tell me what i did!"

he groans, a deep rumble of frustration in his chest as he presses the ball of his hand into his eye. "you didn't do anything!"

"so it is sam?" you press him further, but he just grits his teeth. "i thought we were over this, why do you have such a problem with him?"

a beat passes, a fleeting second where he seems to hold himself back, but the words spill from his mouth against his better judgment.

"because it should've been me!"

you don't say anything. something changes in the air as he catches his breath, feeling thicker than before with the weight of everything still unsaid. he takes your wrist in his hand and brings it between you, taking a tiny step forward.

"...because i could've saved you! he's not–" his voice catches, breaking in a way that squeezes your heart, and his gaze is just short of desperate. "...i could've saved you, and then maybe you would've looked at me the way you looked at him!"

his eyes gloss over, you catch a glimpse just as he drops his head to hide it from you. it's hard to find a single word to say.

"...how did i look at him?" you whisper, hesitant to disturb the fragile air between you.

against your skin, john's fingers twitch, a barely noticeable tremble. there's another oppressive pause where he doesn't speak, just holds you there in unbearable silence. you can almost feel the embarrassment, the shame, radiating from him, see it in the way his shoulders are bunched up.

"like he was your hero. like– like he was everything…" he finally answers. he tilts his head back up, his eyes darting between yours and looking beyond you.

"john…" you murmur.

it seems so obvious now, what all of this has been about – the weird feeling about him you got earlier, yelena's cryptic remarks, you're embarrassed it took you this long to realise.

warmth rushes to your face as you come to the conclusion; john was jealous of sam, not because of the shield, but because of you.

"...how is it fair? that he gets the shield, the fame, the life, the legacy…" the hand on your wrist moves up to grasp your own, his thumb pressing into your palm. his voice is low and raspy, a jarring contrast to his usual blunt confidence. "he already has everything, how is it fair that he gets you too?"

your mouth falls open, confusion replacing the surprise from his confession. "i don't…"

"it doesn't matter." he mumbles quickly, releasing your hand and taking a step back from you. his eyes are still glassy as he turns away, a strain to his voice when he continues, "it doesn't fucking matter, you don't see me that way."

you step forward with him, reaching for his hand that drags through his hair. "you don't need–"

"no, don't do that. don't try to make me feel better." he pulls away from your touch, back to avoiding eye contact, his brows pulling tightly together.

he's spiralling, that much is clear, but you can't manage to get a word in without him interrupting you. "i–"

"just get out, okay? i need to be alone!"

"will you listen to me!" you yell, taking the front of his shirt in your fist to force his gaze back on you. he freezes, his jaw clenched tight, but he stays quiet. "you don't need to save my life in some grand gesture for me to look at you like that!"

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. the way the light from the hall catches in his eye, you can't bring yourself to look away, even when the vulnerability feels too much.

"you don't need to be the hero, john, i don't care about any of that. is it so hard for you to understand that i might just like you how you are?" your voice is quiet again now, the room closing in around you as if you're the only two people in the world – and in this moment, you might be.

the air is warm, bordering on stifling, but your skin prickles under the ghost of his touch on your waist. he lets it hover there for a moment, as if he was afraid you'd change your mind. you don't, though, and a shiver rolls through you as he plants his hand firmly there. the bruising is just a distant ache under his touch, all but forgotten as you gaze deep into his eyes.

"i like you how you are." you utter. the words are little more than a whisper, reverence in the miniscule space left between you.

he walks you backwards – one, two, three large strides, until his hand can reach to shut the door and crowd you against it, plunging his room into total darkness.

"you shouldn't…" he mumbles, his breath fanning over your lips, tantalisingly close but still much too far, "...i'm not a good person, everything i touch… just…"

you huff, bringing a hand up to curl around the back of his neck, grazing your nails over his skin. "don't care."

the press of his lips to yours is hungry, and it steals the air from your lungs. the force knocks your head against the door, earning a muffled groan into his mouth.

"sorry," he breathes against you, a hint of a smirk in his voice that you can picture even without the light. you click your tongue, fighting a smile of your own, sliding your hand up through his hair and use it to pull him back in. he doesn't resist, following your unspoken command with the diligence of soldier.

then he's on you again, gentler this time but no less desperate. he brushes his fingers over your cheek, moving to cup your jaw and tilt your head to close whatever distance was left between you. the feel of him is overwhelming; the maddening scratch of his beard, how his broad shoulders box you in and his arm snakes around you to pull your body flush to his, it's so much but still not enough at the same time. his skin under your hands is hot, and you absently wonder if he always runs this hot, or if it's just for you.

he sighs against your lips, rough and needy, barely moving away to draw in ragged breaths. your other hand flattens across his chest to feel the rapid pace of his heart, pounding out of control beneath his sternum just like your own.

there's nothing else, in this moment, just him and you. the argument from before is long forgotten, replaced with the feeling of his mouth on yours, his hands all over you, seared into your mind even after he finally leans back.

you can't help the bashful smile that spreads across your face as you catch your breath. you're thankful the room is dark enough to hide it, though you're not sure it matters with his super soldier eyesight.

"i'm…" john murmurs lowly, feeling the vibrations from his voice under your hand as he continues, "...i'm sorry, i shouldn't have yelled at you, earlier. you didn't deserve that."

you sigh, resting your head in the crook of his neck. "i wish you'd just talk to me."

"i will." his hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and he presses a soft kiss to your hairline. "i'll try. i promise."

"then i'll hold you to that." you grin against his neck, placing a kiss of your own against the barest stubble there. "...so, are you gonna apologise to sam, too?"

john scoffs. "what? no, i stand by what i said." you tighten your grip in his hair, drawing a sharp breath from him before he begrudgingly continues, "...but i guess i could thank him, y'know, for not letting you die?"

an airy laugh escapes you, not surprised by his stubbornness. "y'know what? just don't talk to him."

"probably for the best."

[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.

[bucksangel]

under a ceiling full of stars

pairing: dbf!sugar daddy!steve rogers x reader x dbf!sugar daddy!bucky barnes

word count: 6.2k

summary: You’re learning the hard way that being in love can be difficult, especially since you’re in love with not just one, but two people. Two people who happen to be your father’s friends. Two people who happen to be your sugar daddies. Two people who happen to be married to each other. You’ve been trying not to think too hard about the consequences of falling in love with the men, but everything comes to a head one night when your father catches you with them. And, the ramifications of your secret are far worse than you anticipated. Luckily, Steve and Bucky are determined to make it right.

warnings: 18+ only pls and thank you, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, poly relationship, reader’s father is very verbally abusive so please beware, hints at physical abuse for like a sentence, r’s father is named Paul so i’m sorry to any Paul’s out there, mentions of blood, alot of fluff, and also angst, hurt/comfort, love confessions, happy ending

a/n: i have no idea where this came from but i hope y’all like it!!

masterlist | tip jar | ao3

“Wow.” Bucky is breathless, all the wind knocked out of him as he enters the room. It takes you a moment to notice his presence because you’re too focused on your reflection, eyes locked on the way the fabric of the dress sways as you twist your hips this way and that. It’s a deep red, satin little thing with a plunging neckline, though, not too risque given that the restaurant you’re going to is classier than most. The matching red heels and real gold accessories add to your appeal, and it makes you giddy inside. You don’t really care about others' opinions, but it makes you feel good when you get all dolled up.

Well, you do care about two other people’s opinions on your appearance.

One of those people, Bucky, has saddled up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and letting his chin rest on your shoulder. Finally, you look up to meet his gaze through the mirror, smiling when you see the mix of hunger and adoration in his eyes. While you know he appreciates you in any attire, you also know that he gets a little extra feral when you’re wearing something he bought for you.

This is the latest purchase. Well, technically, it was Steve’s doing. You three were out shopping – practically a bi-weekly occurrence at this point – when your eyes lingered on the outfit for more than three seconds. And when you didn’t ask for it, Steve decided that he’d buy it and have it shipped to his and Bucky’s house. Their excuse for not sending it directly to your apartment was, of course, that they wanted you to model it for them before they hastily undressed you in an attempt to get at your naked body.

Being with them for the last several months has been exhilarating, though you’re technically just their sugar baby. You’ve tried not to linger on your romantic feelings for the men, considering that they also happen to be your father’s friends, but it’s hard. Oh boy, is it hard not to fall a little in love with them whenever they dote on you, praise you, worship you. For now, you’re just trying to enjoy the time you have together before life inevitably rips you away from them.

“You’re so beautiful, have I ever told you that?” Bucky’s tone is teasing because he has, sometimes multiple times a day if he’s feeling especially sweet on you.

“Oh, only every day,” You tease back, placing your hands on his arms as they wind around your waist, your heart skipping a beat when he threads your fingers through his.

“Every day isn’t enough,” He sighs, almost as though he’s disappointed in himself for not showing you more affection. He then lets go of your hands so that he can turn you in his hold, now facing you directly. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek while the other is placed on your lower back. “I need to tell you every hour how your radiance lights up my day, even when I’m grumpy.”

Giggling, you wrap your arms around his neck, staring into his eyes even as his intense gaze makes you want to squirm. Sometimes you have a hard time believing that they want you, even if it is just for your body and your presence at outings whenever he and Steve get bored with work. But you’ve tried to push those feelings aside, not wanting to self-sabotage the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

“You don’t need to tell me every hour, Bucky,” You say, leaning up to peck his lips to silence his objections. “I know just by the way you look at me. Your eyes give you away.”

“Well, I just can’t resist you. Can you blame me, princess?”

“No, I can’t.” Steve appears in the doorway of their bedroom, watching you both with such admiration that this time you do shy away, tucking your face into Bucky’s neck. After a moment, he pushes himself off the door frame, walking up behind you to trap you between their bodies.

“You are beautiful,” Steve murmurs in your ear, kissing your cheek, and then guiding your head up so he can kiss your lips as well. “Our sweet girl, always so perfect for us.”

His words make tears want to spring to your eyes, a stabbing pain in your heart at the sincerity of his words that make you ache for a real relationship with them. It hurts that you can’t be with them the way you want, and not just because of them most likely not feeling the same way. Your father would blow a fuse if he found out about the three of you, and you don’t even want to think about those consequences; just imagining what could happen makes you sick to your stomach.

“What time are the reservations?” For a moment, you consider trying to convince them to stay in tonight, wanting nothing more than to spend all night being pleasured by these two gods among men. But, you know they’ve been dying to take you to this particular restaurant, so you don’t want to dampen their excitement by cancelling.

“We have about twenty minutes before we need to leave,” Steve says after looking at his watch, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

Well, if you can’t stay in tonight, at least you can have some fun before dinner.

The men seem to be thinking the same thing, because Bucky pulls away slowly after pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Keeping eye contact, he kneels on the ground before you, then takes hold of one of your calves, running his hand up and down the soft skin. Steve’s arms wrap around your middle, keeping you upright and steady so that Bucky can lift your leg over his shoulder. 

“Bucky,” You sigh, whining a little when he nips at the inside of your thigh.

“It’s alright, baby,” Steve murmurs, delicately kissing your neck. “Let Buck have his dessert.”

Shivers run down your spine, excitement flowing through your veins because you know something that they don’t. While you weren’t planning on revealing the information so soon, you know the evening will be even more fun if they know now.

“You’re not wearing any panties?” Bucky’s gruff voice cuts through your thoughts, and when you look down you can see that he’s hiked up your dress to your hips, exposing your soaked and bare pussy to his hungry eyes. He’s not even looking at you, he’s staring directly at your core, licking his lips as though he’s aching to dive in.

“Naughty girl,” Steve says, one hand staying on your waist while the other travels up to cup one of your breasts. Arching into his touch, you can’t help but whine again, heat filling your body as pure need overtakes your entire being. It’s been far too long since they’ve touched you, which is to say it’s been maybe seven hours. They meticulously took you apart several times that morning, not stopping until you were on the verge of passing out due to the overwhelming amount of orgasms and lack of food since they were insistent on not letting you leave the bed without making you cum at least four times.

“Only for you guys.” It’s true. You’ve never been so bold in any of your other relationships, never daring to do any of the dirty things Steve and Bucky have managed to get you to partake in. And, it’s not because you simply didn’t want to, you’ve just never found anyone that brings out this animalistic side of you, the side that aches to be filled and fucked at every hour of the day, willing to do whatever it takes to get their cocks or tongues or fingers.

“So fucking perfect,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself. Then, he brings one hand up to your pussy, running his thumb along the slit and chuckling when you gasp and tilt your hips. “Keep her still.”

Steve does as instructed, holding you still so both you and Steve can stare down at Bucky as he leans in, a smirk on his beautiful face because he knows how his hot breath fanning across your wet lips are causing tingles to shoot down your spine. He’s too good at this, too good at drawing things out until you’re desperate and begging for more. Luckily, he doesn’t tease for long, because he must realize you don’t have a lot of time before dinner.

As soon as his tongue dips between your folds to flick over your clit, it’s over. The only way you can describe the way Bucky is licking you is feral. He’s told and shown you over and over again that he could spend hours eating you out, proving that point several times by tying you down and setting timers to see how long he really can last with his tongue buried in your hole.

Four hours, by the way. And it’s not because he doesn’t want to continue, but because you can only take so much. You passed out the first time you played that little game, and the men rewarded you with a cake the next day, the cursive style writing on top reading ‘Thank you for letting me eat you out for hours’. You’re not sure who they got to make it, but it made you laugh, and that’s all that really mattered to them.

Back in the present, you’re surprised when Steve pulls down one of the straps on your dress, tugging it until your breast spills free. Another gasp escapes your lips when he tugs on your nipple at the same time Bucky dips his tongue inside your quivering hole, and already you’re so close to coming. However, with them, it’s not that hard to make you cum. You’re always so easy for them, and no one is mad about it. They love that you’re always ready to spread your legs for them because they’re always eager to pleasure you, to give you the euphoria you deserve.

“You gonna cum, princess?” Steve asks, nipping and sucking your neck. He knows you are, you can hear it in his teasing tone, but you give him an answer any way by nodding your head, leaning back against Steve’s chest and trying - but failing - to thrust your hips into Bucky’s face.

“Give it to me,” Bucky grunts, barely pulling away from your pussy just so he can fit two fingers in your hole. You can feel him smirking against your core, but you’re not even mad at how smug he is. Honestly, he deserves to be; he knows his game is good. His tongue is fucking magic. “Cum all over my face, baby. Let me have it. It’s mine.”

You know you should probably be embarrassed by how quickly you cum considering how not long you’ve been at this, but you can’t find it in you to feel anything other than bliss. They take pride in making you come undone, so you’re never ashamed of how fast they get you to that edge.

Nor are you ashamed of how loudly you moan his name, your orgasm crashing through you when Bucky’s fingers stab at that special spot inside you at the same time he sucks your clit into his mouth. It’s all too much, it’s too good, and your legs are trembling by the time you’re able to run your fingers through his hair and tug him back. A smirk of your own crosses your face when he moans, using his pain kink to your advantage.

Looking further down, you can see how large his bulge is, and you mentally curse the universe for not giving you enough time to get your mouth on him. Steve’s own erection is pressing into your back, and you let your hips roll back into his just to hear him hiss.

“Okay, princess,” Bucky says, a little breathless. His mouth and chin are shiny with your arousal, and your desire to clean him up with your tongue is quickly replaced with another wave of arousal when he stands and leans over your shoulder, carefully dropping your leg to the ground so he can grab the back of Steve’s neck and pull him forward.

You’re not sure which of the men moans when their lips connect; truthfully, it’s probably both of them. Steve wastes no time in licking into Bucky’s mouth, tasting your essence on his partner’s tongue as the kiss turns messy. They seem to be lost in their own worlds, openly moaning and sighing and rutting their hips into you to try to relieve their own need.

It’s not until the alarm on Steve’s phone rings that they break apart, both breathing heavily.

“I guess we should go,” You say with a contented hum, eager to go out now that you’ve had a little taste of the pleasure you know they’re going to bring you tonight.

“I guess we should, princess,” Steve says, kissing your forehead and smiling down at you. “Besides, we booked a corner booth, so we should be good to play a little at the restaurant.”

His wink makes you shiver, filthy thoughts filling your mind as they gather everything you need to leave.

“Another drink?” The waiter approaches your table, nodding to your nearly empty glass of wine, and taking it with a smile as he promises to return soon.

“How’s the food, princess?” Steve asks, sitting on your right with an arm thrown over the bench seat behind your head. He’s nearly finished his plate, as has Bucky, and you would have finished your food if not for their wandering hands distracting you.

“Oh, Stevie, it’s…” Your voice trails off, nerves flooding your body and causing your stomach to become queasy. You’re not sure why you looked away from him, scanning your eyes over the other patrons eating at their own tables, but you did. And you don’t know if you’re glad you did or not.

Because walking toward you is a beautiful young woman, dressed to the nines, with her arm hooked through another man’s arm.

Your father is that man.

While you know that your father frequently goes on dates with various women, you try not to think about it too much. After all, thinking about your father dating just feels weird to you. You don’t particularly mind that he does, but you’ve never known him to come to restaurants like this, which is part of the reason why you agreed to go out in public with Steve and Bucky.

But tonight he’s decided to break his usual routine and bring his date to one of the most exclusive places in Brooklyn, and your heart starts racing with nerves. There is absolutely no way he won’t see you sandwiched between his friends, eating at such a romantic restaurant, and not realize that you’ve been fooling around with them. For a moment, you don’t know what to do. You want to run and hide, maybe even duck down under the table to avoid him, but by the time you’re able to turn your gaze back to Steve, you know it’s too late to do anything other than face the music.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, furrowing his brows in concern. He must have noticed the way you tensed up, your hands becoming clammy as you disentangle them from his.

“My… My father -”

“Steve?” Your father’s voice cuts through your own frantic thoughts. Steve is sitting closest to the outside, so of course, he’s seen first. And Steve’s eyes widen when he hears the booming voice of his friend getting closer and closer.

“H-Hey,” Steve says, not at all confident. Clearly, he’s a little worried about how this will play out, too. And that does nothing to quell the anxiety fogging your mind.

“What are you…” Your father trails off, finally stopping at your table and locking eyes on you. You’re not looking at him, though, you can’t. You don’t want to see the confusion and anger in his gaze. “What are you doing here?”

You know he’s talking to you, that tone sending unpleasant shivers through your body as you tense even further. It’s not as mean as it usually is, but you figure he’s trying to control himself due to being in public. Knowing that you’re in public doesn’t do much to help, though, because you know you’ll eventually have to face him alone, and you’re absolutely dreading that conversation.

“We, um -”

“I’m not talking to you, James,” Your father spits out, noting how close he is to you, as well as Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. “What are you doing here with them? Why are they touching you like that?” He asks you again, malice laced in every word. Tears spring to your eyes, and you can already feel the beginnings of a panic attack taking over.

“Dad, please don’t make a big deal out of this.”

“Don’t make a big deal?” He’s on the verge of shouting, and you can see nearby patrons looking over with curiosity, some with concern. “I shouldn’t make a big deal over my daughter getting cozy with my friends? How long has this been going on?”

“Paul, please -”

“Shut up, Steve!” Your father snaps at him, and you can’t stop the few tears that spill over your waterline. “How long have you been whoring yourself out to them?”

“Dad, stop!”

“Paul!” Bucky snaps back, straightening up. If you looked at him, you’d notice the confusion contorting his face at how your father is speaking to you, and you’re reminded once again that no one knows of the horrors your father has put you through. 

“No,” Your father yells, and you have to shuffle a little awkwardly so you can get around Steve and slide out of the booth.

“Please, don’t do this in public, Dad.” Your begging seems to work on some level, because your father stops yelling. But now that you’re close to him, he’s able to grab your wrist.

“Fine, we’ll do this at home.” Your father’s eyes are aflame with what can only be described as rage. Even though you knew he wouldn’t have a good reaction to finding out you’ve been sleeping with his friends, you didn’t really expect him to be this fired up. Especially in public.

You don’t even get to say goodbye to Steve and Bucky before he’s pulling you along with him, dragging you out of the entrance in silence as he shoots glares at you.

It’s silent the entire drive back home, and your heart hasn’t stopped pounding relentlessly even as he doesn’t pay you any mind. It’s nerve-wracking in the worst possible way, knowing that tonight is not going to go well makes you want to curl up under your bed like you used to when you were a child and he would get too drunk and loud. Only now, you’re an adult. And you can’t get out of this by hiding until he’s calmed down.

Everything is quiet, that is, until you both get inside.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Your father doesn’t even let the door shut before he’s shouting, following you into the living room as you toss your heels off. “They’re married, for fucks sake! Why were you draping yourself all over them? How long have you been fucking them? How long have you been hiding this from me?”

“Dad, if you would just let me explain-”

“There’s nothing to explain!” He cuts you off, spinning you around to face him. When you’re a child, everything is much scarier than it actually is. Everything is bigger, louder, more intense, and as an adult, you can still vividly remember all the nights you would sleep in your closet because your father turned into some monster that would stop at nothing to degrade you, and you just wanted to get away from him.

Right now, he’s worse than anything you’ve ever experienced. Though he’s never hit you, you wouldn’t doubt that he would do it tonight.

“You don’t need to tell me anything, because you’ll just lie to me. You’re a fucking slut! I mean, what were you thinking, sleeping with two married men? You clearly weren’t thinking with your brain because if you were, then you’d realize that you’re just wasting your time with them. You’ve been out here whoring yourself out to them, and probably more men. How many men have you let use you? I know it’s not just them!”

“Dad! No, it - it’s not like that!” You’re surprised you can even talk due to how heavily you’re crying, the sheer panic that has poisoned your blood that’s making you worry over passing out.

Distantly, you can hear a pounding at the front door, but clearly your father doesn’t because his grip on your arm tightens when you go to answer the knock.

“Don’t fucking leave when I’m trying to talk to you!” Spittle flies from his lips as he continues to scream at you, and you duck your head as though that will protect you from his ire. Another knock at the door causes his head to whip up, glaring at the front door as though he can will away whoever decided to interrupt.

“Go away!” He yells, turning back to you and shaking you as if that will get you to listen to him. “If I ever see you with them again I’ll -”

A loud bang stops your father in his tracks, the front door swinging open as Bucky and Steve rush in to find you with your makeup ruined by your tears and your father’s harsh grip on your arm.

“Paul! What the fuck?” Steve’s shout is almost as loud as your father’s, and the men barrel forward as they try to quickly assess the situation.

“Go away!” Your father yells again, and you wince when his grasp tightens. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

“Paul, please. Just calm down,” Bucky is trying to be levelheaded, but out of the corner of your eyes, you can see his clenched fists. Knowing that they’ve come to help does make your beating heart calm down a little, but you know it won’t last. Your father will just throw them out and continue berating you.

“No!” Your father shouts, shaking your arm again. “Don’t try to pretend you actually care about her!” Turning to you, he leans even further into your space. “They don’t care about you, and they never will. You’re nothing more than a whore.”

“Paul!” Both Steve and Bucky move forward, but your father just drags you back.

“We do care about her -”

“No you fucking don’t!” Your father cuts Steve off, and there are too many emotions swirling through your head, there’s too much noise, everything is just too much. The yelling, the degradation, the complete chaos of the night are crescendoing into madness.

“Stop!” You yell through your sobbing, trying desperately to yank your arm out of your father’s hand. The action does nothing but force your father to hold you even tighter so you can’t escape, and you’re surprised you’re still conscious due to how heavy you’re breathing and how cloudy your mind is. “Please, everyone, stop!”

“Shut up!” Your father is about to go off again, but then Steve yanks your father off of you, pushing him back as Bucky steps in front of you to protect you from the punch your father throws at Steve.

He misses because Steve simply steps to the side, but that seems to make him angrier, obviously itching to take out his rage on someone. He swings again, but this time Steve catches his arm, blocking the hit and pushing your father to the ground. The thud of him hitting the ground makes you flinch, curling into Bucky’s back as though you can disappear to a place where this isn’t happening, where your world hasn’t been turned completely upside down. 

“Why do you think you can talk to your own daughter this way?” You’ve never heard Steve so angry; he’s fuming, really. And even though you can’t see him, you know his face is twisted with a kind of infuriation you could never imagine. “You don’t have any right to talk down to her like this.”

“She’s my fucking daughter!” Your father shouts back, and by the sounds of shuffling, you assume that he’s standing again, presumably to continue the fight. “I can talk to her however I want! Besides, you two are just using her anyway, so what do you -”

You’ve never heard anyone being punched; you know that it can be a sickening crunch, a loud thud, but you’ve never actually heard it for yourself until tonight. For a moment, you’re worried that your father hit Steve, but when your father yelps in pain, you know it was the other way around. And you have never known Steve to be even remotely violent, but something in him must have snapped when your father said that they were using you. At least you can take comfort in knowing that they won’t let you continue to be verbally abused.

“You don’t know anything, Paul,” Bucky grunts through clenched teeth, turning so he can wrap his arms around you and tuck your face into his chest. You can feel him shaking with anger, and you know he must want to join Steve in hurting your father. Your hands clenching his suit jacket prevent him from moving, though, so he keeps holding you.

“You know what? Fine! If you want her to be your whore then do it, but it won’t happen under my roof.” Risking a glance up, you see your father lying on the ground and bleeding heavily from his nose. When he sees you looking at him, he points a finger at you. “Get out! Get out and don’t fucking come back!”

Suddenly, black spots cloud your vision. You were already on the verge of passing out, but now the fear of being kicked out and on your own makes you heave as you gasp for breath. 

“Bu-Bucky,” You whimper, almost too low for anyone to hear, but Bucky hears you. And he must notice how distraught you are because he quickly hooks an arm under your legs, lifting you to cradle you to his chest.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” He coos at you, kissing your forehead, then nodding to Steve. “I’ll take her to the car.”

You can barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears, but you can make out your father’s “Good riddance!” through the fog. Sobs wrack your body, and you can’t stop crying even when Bucky carries you outside, not even when he opens the car door and sets you down on the seat, not even when you cling to him because you crave his comfort. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, shaking in Bucky’s arms as he tries to console you, but you know it must be a while.

You don’t even notice when Bucky takes your hands and places them on his chest, rubbing the backs of your hands and murmuring sweet nothings into your ear. Eventually, you’re able to make out a few words, mostly just “breathe, baby” and “it’s okay” and “listen to my voice.” It’s hard to shake yourself out of your panic, but you’re able to recognize that Bucky is doing his best to calm you down, so you follow his instructions and begin to slow your breathing, inhaling and exhaling when he does, until you can finally take notice of your surroundings. It takes a few minutes of deep breathing before you lift your head, wanting to start crying all over again when you see that your makeup has ruined Bucky’s jacket.

“I-”

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky says, already knowing what you were going to say. “I don’t care about the suit, all I care about is making sure you’re okay.”

Both of you sigh, and you hang your head in an attempt to get away from the sympathy etched across his face. You don’t want to see it right now, you’re too muddled with emotions to be able to even understand that this is the first time anyone has seen the way your father treats you.

“What am I going to do, Bucky? I - I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You’re staying with us,” Steve says, appearing behind Bucky holding a suitcase. “I grabbed your essentials, and Buck and I will come back tomorrow for the rest of your things.” He’s still clearly fired up, and you can see that his hands are a little more bloodied and bruised than they were when you were taken away from the argument.

“Steve, I can’t -”

“You’re not burdening us.” Just like Bucky, Steve is able to read your mind, and once he puts the suitcase in the trunk of the car, he scoots Bucky out of the way so he can take your face in his hands. “You’re not a burden to us. And you’re certainly not a whore, or any of the other awful things he said to you.”

You want to cry again, but you can’t, you’re simply too drained to do anything other than hold his wrists so he’ll keep touching you. Looking into his eyes, your bottom lip trembles, and you lean up to press a small kiss on his chin.

“You promise?” Your voice is small and, quite frankly, a little pathetic. You hate that you have to ask for reassurance that you’re not all those horrible things your father said to you, but you need the confirmation, you need to know that at least someone doesn’t think of you the way your father does.

“We promise.” Steve leans down and kisses your forehead, brushing his lips across your cheeks to dry them off before pecking your lips.

“Now, let’s go home.”

When you finally get to Steve and Bucky’s house - well, yours now, too - you make a dash to the bathroom, anxious to get out of your clothes and wash your face. Once you get to the bathroom, you toss out the idea of a shower; you don’t have the energy to do anything other than wipe your makeup off and rip the dress from your body. Mentally, you mourn the loss, the dress was beautiful, after all. But you don’t care that much right now, you don’t actually know what you’re feeling. Almost numbly, you look into the mirror, staring at your reflection. You know the person staring back at you is you, but you don’t quite comprehend it.

A knock at the door shakes you from your thoughts, and even though your naked form usually causes the men to drool, they don’t try anything when you open the door and step out, immediately shivering from the air conditioning. Bucky stands in front of you, helping you into one of his casual shirts while Steve appears with a pair of your underwear, also aiding you in putting those on. When you’re dressed, you avoid their gazes, fiddling with your fingers as you try to figure out how you’re going to go about this.

“Can… Can we go outside?” Your voice is so small that you think of asking again, just to make sure they heard you, but they show that they were listening by Bucky lifting you in his arms again. 

“Of course we can, princess,” Steve says softly, rubbing your cheek with his thumb before stepping aside and following you down the stairs and to the back garden.

Normally, you love coming out here, especially at night. The stars always seem to shine brighter in Steve and Bucky’s backyard, and their lounge chairs and strung-up fairy lights make you feel at home. Tonight, you can’t really muster up those positive emotions, you just want to forget the night even happened. But, you know you have some explaining to do.

Once you’re sitting on one of the couches with both men on either side of you, you stare up at the sky, jumping ever so slightly when they both cover your hands with theirs. Neither of them says anything, though, allowing you to take the lead.

But, where do you even start? You’re not sure quite how to explain it to them, but when Steve gives you his ever-loving smile, you know you need to try.

“He… My father has never been the best man, you know? He puts on a facade for the world, volunteering, hosting parties, holiday bonuses at work, and all that. But, he’s never been… He’s never been that way with me. Everything is always my fault. I can’t do anything right. If I lose a boyfriend, it’s because I’m too ugly; if I failed a test in school, it’s because I was too stupid; if I make even one mistake, then it’s because I’m incompetent. Nothing I ever do is good enough for him, and he always makes sure I know that.”

You have to pause so you can sniffle, looking away from Steve so you can look up at the twinkling stars again. Tightening your grip on their hands, you take a shaky breath.

“It’s always been like this. And I never told anyone because no one can do anything about it anyway. He never hit me, and everyone thought he was just the perfect guy, so no one would believe me anyway. I, I just…” You have to shut your eyes, more tears causing them to sting. “I’ve been dealing with him for so long. And even if you guys did believe me, I didn’t want to ruin your friendship with him.”

Glancing between the men, you whimper a little, your bruised heart cracking when you see how utterly horrified they are.

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Princess,” Steve sighs, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not going to lose us, ever.”

“Everything he said to you was wrong, baby,” Bucky continues, kissing your temple and letting you lean on his shoulder. “You’re not a whore, and we most certainly weren’t using you. We care about you.”

“We love you,” Steve says, and time seems to slow down. Your eyes find his, desperately searching for any hints of humor because you wouldn’t be able to handle them lying to you just to make you feel better. But you don’t find any humor. You don’t see anything but love etched onto his face. He means it when he says it, and you can’t help but chuckle a little. Not necessarily because the situation is funny, you just don’t know how tonight has once again flipped your world around.

“You do?”

“Of course we do,” Bucky says, soft and low, like it’s just for you. “We love you so much, baby. We never said anything because we didn’t know how you felt, and we didn’t want to lose you either. But… After tonight, Steve and I both know that there’s no way we can hide it any longer.”

All at once, despite the trauma of the night's events, a huge smile makes its way onto your face. You can’t really feel anything other than love, love from them and for them. You never expected them to feel the same way you do, and you never expected it to come to light like this, but you’re a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. So, even though you’re still upset, you let yourself fall into your new life, a life filled with Bucky and Steve and love and care.

“I love you, too.” Both men almost immediately let out sighs of relief, like they were hoping you would return the sentiment. But how couldn’t you? They’re the perfect men, always so kind, caring, making sure you’re warm and safe. It’d be impossible not to fall in love with them. After a few moments of contented silence, you turn so you can kiss Bucky’s lips, then shift so you can kiss Steve, too.

“So, I’m really living here?”

“If you want to,” Steve says, though by his tone, you know he really wants you to say yes.

“We’ll set up the spare room if you don’t want to sleep in our bed,” Bucky pipes up, running his thumb along the back of your hand. “But we want you here. We always will.”

“And if I do want to sleep in your bed?” You know that they want that too, but you enjoy teasing them anyway.

“Then we’ll get some more of those fluffy pillows you like and clear off some shelves in our room for your things.” Steve sounds so sure, and knowing that he’s clearly thought this over makes you all soft and giddy.

“Well, that’s settled then.” It’s clear that you’re tired just by your voice, not to mention the big yawn you let out, but no one makes a move to go inside. Instead, you all adjust yourselves so you can sit sideways on Bucky’s lap with your legs thrown over Steve’s, happy to sit under a ceiling full of stars and ruminating on the love you have for your men.

And if you accidentally fall asleep tucked into their bodies, well, it’s not like they’re anxious to move either.

[bluehourbucky]

Impulsive

pairing: bucky x reader

summary: youre known for doing something impulsive from time to time but this might be your best decision yet

a/n: had a neurodivergent reader in mind I know my adhd had me make some impulsive decisions haha

I wish I knew how to write smut🥲 tho this is might just be the filthiest dirtiest thing I've ever written

warnings: kitty eating, hard sex, lots of come, possessive bucky, squirting

bucky masterlist

~~~~~

Bucky gets worried when he's on a mission for a long time, he knows you're going to be okay but he also knows your adhd is unpredictable. He just hopes you don't run out of your meds or forget to take them.

"I'll be fine Buck, besides it's only 3 weeks you'll be back in no time!"

His hands are around your waist holding you close as you play with his hair looking at him like he hung the sun moon and the stars.

"I know, doll. Just I'll miss you and please take your meds. Last time I was gone for over a week you adopted a cat."

You laugh fondly

"You love that cat with your whole being, I see nothing wrong with that."

However true that is it was still crazy since neither of you had any idea how to care for a cat.

"Mhmm, and that time I was gone for two weeks you repainted our kitchen, actually half of it because you didn't like the color and just left it that way."

Bucky smiles softly at your eye roll.

"Well in my defense, at least I didn't paint all of it!" you say and smile

He can't help the pure joy that overwhelms him, he is so in love with you that he might actually explode.

"Fine, but if anything happens please call you have the emergency phone number."

"Relax nothing will happen! You dont need to worry!" you kiss him good bye and send him on his way.

And Bucky believes you, again.

~

"Okay maybe he was right to be worried."

"Huh?"

your tattoo artist looks up from her spot and lifts the tattoo gun.

"Ah nothing just talking to myself."

The tattoo is over in less than 20 minutes and this one might be the one with least amount of thinking through. You have a few tattoos and not all of them were thought through or meaningful.

But this one takes the cake.

Your tattoo artist put on her story how a client cancelled and she had a free spot and if the tattoo is small it would be cheap. So in your mind it was only logical to leave work and go straight to the studio.

there on your pelvis, on the left side near the hip lays in cursive three letters.

jbb.

You look at it in the mirror and you honestly love it. It's beautiful, it looks like it was always meant to be there.

Your artist gives you instructions how to care for it and you pay and leave.

Bucky left two days ago and in that short time you had gotten a tattoo, his initials.

Days pass and each day you look at the tattoo and admire it. Its cute and it makes you feel hot, and like Bucky owns you now. And the horniness is getting out of hand. All you can think about is Bucky and how when he enters you he'll have perfect view that you're marked.

It's torture waiting for Bucky to come home, it usually is but this time you can't stop hyperfixating on what his reaction will be.

The day before he's supposed to come home, you are filled with anxiety and the excitement had died down. Because what if he hates it, what if he thinks it's weird or what if hes superstitious and thinks you'll break up because couples break up very soon after getting their partners name tattooed.

And its finally midnight and Bucky is going to be home soon and you don't know what to do with yourself. You can't sleep, you look at the clock and its almost 2am, you've been turning for hours.

2:15am

you hear doorhandle shake, and doors opening and closing, not Buckys steps though he's too quiet. You do however hear meowing.

"shh alpine, mommy is sleeping"

"Or not.." Bucky says as he opens the door to your shared bedroom, he sees you sitting up in bed, looking at your phone and when you see him you stand up and almost knock him over with the force you jumped in his arms.

"I missed you so much. And I love you!"

He smiles into your neck hugging you tighter.

"Love you more."

When you let go Buckys instantly worried because you have that look in your eyes when you do something impulsive, and try to tell him not to freak out.

"Don't look at me like that! It's not bad! At least I don't think it is?"

God Bucky never knew he would love someone as much as he loves you.

"Alright, hit me." he's not mad, he couldn't be, you do however keep him on his toes.

"Okay close your eyes." and he does.

"Oh this definitely isn't bad." Bucky says when he hears the rustling of clothes, your shorts falling on the floor.

"Okay now." you peck his lips and step away.

Buckys a little confused, since you stand there in just his shirt and he doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He sees you playing with the hem of the shirt lifting it just enough so it's over your tummy.

"Take them off. Slowly."

Buckys confused but he doesn't need to be told twice, he takes a step closer and takes the band of your panties, and slowly starts pulling them down.

Bucky freezes as soon as he sees the tattoo, he just looks at it in shock.

"I can always cover it up of you hate it."

Bucky looks up and his eyes are two shades darker, he looks like hes about to devour you.

"Youre not covering anything up." he almost growls.

In seconds you're thrown on the bed, the shirt gets ripped and discarded somewhere on the floor as do your panties.

Bucky is breathing hard, he's overcome with some primal desire, and possessiveness that he never experienced before.

He doesn't give you a moment before his tongue gets buried deep in your pussy, his hands holding your thighs apart. You're holding for dear life onto the bedsheets with one hand and the other in Buckys hair.

The way he's eating you is sinful, the wet sounds from your pussy are pornographic.

"Oh god buckyyyy!" You moan as you cum but that doesn't make him stop, he eats you like a man starved.

Only when you come a third time does he detach himself. And its the hottest thing youve ever seen.

His eyes are clouded with lust, his beard and lips coated in your release. He takes off everything off of him in seconds.

"Fuck baby. Gonna fuck you so hard."

Bucky doesn't give you a chance to reply as he lines himself up with your entrance.

"Shit so fucking thight. Fuck look at my pretty pussy taking me so well, fucking own this pussy its all mine."

"All your Bucky, baby please fuck me please, so good, so big. Mhrittheee." you babble your words slurred incoherent.

Its rare for Bucky not to keep eye contact, but right now all he can focus on is the three letters, he genuinely can't have any coherent thoughts except.

Mine. Mine. All mine.

"Fuck baby girl m' close."

He thrusts into you with all he has, bed started creaking, and thudding against the wall (mind you you have a huge king size bed that's heavy af). Buckys fucking you into tomorrow and you come two more times before he does.

"Yes baby just another one give me another one please."

and as you come the final time so does he you can feel all of him everywhere, he continues fucking into you chasing his orgasm.

"Fuck baby, can't stop coming."

you feel your tummy bloat from his release.

It takes him a few moments to stop.

"Shit, I've never come so hard." Bucky says as he looks at the fluids coming out of you when he exits you. He crashes next to you and pulls you to his chest.

"Hey baby you there?"

you turn eyes unfocused your hair sticking to your neck tears and sweat on your cheeks.

You open your lipts to reply but words just won't come, so you just give him a thumbs up.

Bucky stands up and you lift your arms to call him back but he just laughs and kisses your head. He's back a few moments later with a bottle of water and a wet towel. You can see he cleaned himself a bit first.

"Oh baby you're a mess." he gently cleans you up and helps you drink some water through a straw.

He settles next to you , with your head on his chest, as he stroaks your hair.

"You did so well baby, such a good girl for me"

"So you like it?"

Bucky looks at you with a face that says "are you serious right now?"

"Might have fucked you senseless, but apparently I haven't fucked the brat out of you."

"Nope! You could never!"

"You're cocky for someone who can't even stand up right now." Bucky smirks and his hands wonder down to your folds but you're quick to grab them.

"NO BUCKY IM SORRY." your voice laced with panic.

"Ah not so fearless now."

a few moments pass.

"Perks of having a girlfriend with adhd is you get surprised in the best ways!"

"You're gonna be the death of me."

"You love me."

"Yeah I do now go to-

***snore***

sleep."

Bucky sighs with content, and falls asleep not long after you.

~~~

and i oop take me to horny jail ty very much.

[rhiannonsknife]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MORE HOUSEWIFE JACKIE….(can you add more stuff where she likes giving head?)🙃

housewife!jackie who loves giving head?? canon!!

housewife!jackie who could probably drown in your pussy…who could stay between your legs for hours, not just to make you come, but also to worship your body, to taste you there and feel you react to her mouth and tongue; to feel your clit stiffen under her lips, your cunt getting wetter and wetter with every drag of her tongue through your folds.

housewife!jackie who pretends not to notice how flustered you get when you come home and find her barefoot in the kitchen, hair clipped back as she stirs dinner on the stove.

jackie waits until you sit down, slumping into the dining chair after a long day. only them does she wordlessly pad over and kneels in front of you. “no hello?” you tease, smiling. jackie’s hands are on your thighs, eagerly pushing them apart. “hi,” she rasps. “better?”

you don’t have time to answer: she’s already tugging your pants and underwear down, her mouth following the trail of exposed skin, pressing kisses to the softness of your inner thighs. jackie’s hands slide up your calves, teasing the back of your knees.

she noses at your cunt, breathing in deeply. “god,” she whispers. “you always smell so good…”

her tongue parts your folds before you can blush too hard, licking long strokes from the bottom of your pussy all the way up to your clit, circling it with the flat of her tongue and closing her lips around it. jackie hums, eyes fluttering shut like she’s the one relieved.

she’ll never admit it outright (always deflecting, mumbling halfhearted excuses about how you’ve had such a hard day & that it’s her job to take care of you) but the truth is jackie loves this. she loves when you grab her hair or gush against her tongue. she loves taking her time, sloppy about it when she wants to be.

her eyes flick up when she hears your moans, pupils blown impossibly wide. jackie’s whole face glistens with you, its lower half wet, her cheeks pink, tongue darting out for more.

she grinds her own thighs together as she eats you out, groaning again as she doubles down, sneaking up to hold your stomach down when you start to arch too hard off the chair. jackie licks through your orgasm and doesn’t let up even as you cry out and try to squirm away; she’s greedy for it, soaked by the time you’re tugging at her shoulder, gasping her name.

[terraswallows]

I actually snapped for the first time yesterday and swore both my friends.

So, as most of you know, I go by Terra now—and I’ve been doing so for over three months. I've been patient, I’ve given people time to adjust, and I haven’t pushed hard about it, because I understand change takes a moment.

But yesterday… I hit a wall.

I was working, and things were busy. I was teaching two new players how to play Magic, helping a kid constantly pestering me for Pokémon cards from the store folder, checking in everyone for a yu gi oh tournament, sorting out entries, and bouncing between all of that while also helping with snacks, drinks, and product sales. On top of it, a friend had come to the store just to trade me two cards—but they ended up getting swarmed by my two friends let's just go with Tim and Dale, who were trying to get trades off them too.

So yeah. It was a lot.

But the part that really broke me?

While I was juggling all of this, Tim and Dale kept calling me "Deadname"—over and over again. Like:

"Hey Deadname, can I check your file?"

"Deadname, did you bring your Final Fantasy stuff?"

"Deadname, wanna pod up for a game?"

I kept my cool, but it didn’t stop. It was so constant that even John, who knows me as Terra, got confused and started calling me Deadname too. Then he paused and literally asked, “Wait—I know them as Terra? Why do you keep calling them Deadname?”

And Tim and Dale casually said. “Umm, that’s because it's his name.”

That’s when I snapped.

I said—loudly—“For fuck’s sake, my name is fucking Terra. Get it right—I won’t be asking again.”

And Dale? He had the audacity to say:

“Wait, you’re still doing that?”

And I just stared at him and said,

“Of course I’m still fucking doing it. I’ve been going by Terra for almost three months now, and it hurts that neither of you have made a single ounce of effort to even learn or remember my name.”

John just nodded, like it finally clicked, and went back to shuffling his Magic deck. But gods… that moment stung more than I can explain.

Both Tim didn't make eye contact or attempt to speak to me the rest of the day, except for Dale who appolagised and called me Terra the rest of the day.

[lizzieisright]

party

Summary: After being a nervous mess, Abby finally finds the courage to talk to you.

Tags: nervous wreck!Abby, fem!reader, first meeting, college!AU.

Notes: I went through my old drafts and found this thing that I wrote after watching the Bottoms like year and half ago, so this is heavily inspired by it and by the party by Charlie XCX.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Abby is nervous as she sits next to you on the balcony. Her house is loud, people are laughing and drinking and counting as someone drinks the whole bottle. 

But her heart is louder, because you are here. You came to her party. 

You seem so chill and relaxed, and Abby is a mess. Her hands are sweaty, she barely keeps her thighs from jumping up and down, and Abby prays to all gods that you won't notice. She doesn't know where her courage came from, to just follow you outside, but right now this courage is packing its things and leaving.

"It's loud." You say to start a conversation, and Abby's heart almost jumps out of her ribcage.

"Yeah. Do you like it?"

"What?" 

"The party."

Abby is so desperate to know. She did everything to make it perfect: your favourite drinks, your favourite music for dancing, your favourite games - it is here today. Her house is decorated in your favourite colours, and it's borderline creepy how she is obsessed with you and how much she knows about the girl she talked a few times to, but Abby is shy. She can't just talk to you and ask you on a date, she has to throw party after party hoping you'd come through. 

And today you came, and she almost threw up from nerves when she saw you coming in. 

"Yes. If I knew you threw cool parties, I would have come the other times."

You called her party cool, oh god. Oh god, Abby is going to die. 

Abby doesn't know what to say, too afraid of saying something wrong, and her mind is reeling because she can't just sit in silence! It's her chance to talk to you and make you like her, and Abby is silent, what the fuck! 

“Does it mean you'll come next time?” Abby asks, not hearing herself from how loud her heart is. You smile at her, and Abby clutches the bench so hard she hears it creak. You look like an angel, she can't handle it - it's overwhelming to interact with you.

“Probably.” You chuckle playfully and Abby goes into error 404 brains not found. “Sometimes I need to study.”

Abby swallows, hard. Say something! Say something, goddamnit! 

“Do you want a drink?” Abby blurts, not coming with anything more smart than this. She seriously needs a breather before she goes into cardiac arrest from being so close to you. 

“Got it right here.” You show her your plastic cup. “But I won't mind a refill.”

Oh thank God, Abby thinks and nods, reaching for your cup. Your fingers touch hers and Abby shivers, her breath is caught in her throat. She is electrocuted by you, the cold of your skin lingers on hers and she can't help her blush. 

“What do you drink?” Abby doesn't need you to tell her, actually, she already knows, but she is self-aware enough to know it would be creepy to just go and get what you want. 

You give her the name of your drink and Abby nods before going back to the house. 

The moment she is out of your sight, she takes a deep, shuddering breath: how is it even possible to feel so much for someone she doesn't really know? How do you strike so much in her just by existing? Abby never cared about what others think of her, but she is desperate to be enough for you.

Abby suddenly thinks that you might use Abby's leave as an excuse to also leave, since she was probably weird as fuck and made you uncomfortable, and it scares her so much her hands are trembling as she pours your drink. 

“Someone's got their shit together.” Nora chuckles when she pours her own drink at the table. “You are going to her?”

“Yeah.” Abby swallows. “I can't fucking think around her, Nora. What do I even say to her?”

“Ask how her day is going, what she watched recently. Easy stuff.” Nora helps. She makes fun of Abby for being such a wreck when it comes to you, but she is a good friend who can read the room. “You've got this, Anderson.”

Abby whines helplessly, but she needs to see you and hear your voice, and no amount of fear will stop her now. So Abby takes the cups and goes back to the balcony, praying to every deity you're still there. 

You smile when you see her and Abby smiles back, unable to look into your eyes, her chest fluttering.

“Thanks.” You take your cup from her hand and Abby shudders again when your fingers meet. 

It's not a warm night, and Abby only now picks up on the fact that you're cold. Abby panics, looks around to find any kind of blanket, but there's nothing. 

“Sorry, just a sec.” Abby tells you and disappears again. 

You're puzzled, but you wait for her anyway: you have nowhere to be and you're curious about Abby. She's always seemed intimidating - one of the reasons why you didn't dare to show up to her parties - but right now she is so sweet to you, shy even, and you wildly assume she is one of those sweet kind people who have resting bitch face.

Abby is cringing at herself as she takes her softest jacket from her bedroom - it's corny and obvious, you'll crack her in a second after it, but Abby can't help herself. She wants to have some part of you to herself, even if it's your perfume. Abby quickly tries to get rid of this thought, but she hopes you won't give it back to her so she'd have an excuse to talk to you. 

“Here.” Abby says awkwardly and shows you her jacket. “You seem cold.”

“A little bit, yeah.” You smile softly and Abby screams inside. 

There is no difference between being brave and being stupid - otherwise there's no explanation why Abby put her jacket around your shoulders herself and why she didn't fall apart right away when you are so close. 

You lift your cup and Abby catches up and clinks her cup against yours. 

“Cheers.” You smile at her and only now, in the morning lights, you notice her blush. “Thank you for giving me your jacket.”

“No problem.” Abby says, but internally she is beating herself up for being such a grump. “So, uh, Have you watched anything good lately?”

Abby knows she sounds lame, and you don't even know that she uses the line that Nora told her, but she is out of ideas. And then your eyes light up like you definitely want to tell her about it, so Abby counts it as a win.

"Have you seen Severance?"

Seriously, Abby is going to light a candle in a church because the fact that she watched Severance and the conversation stops being so awkward is a real case of divine intervention.

You're sweet, and your smile literally makes Abby's world brighter (even though you two disagree on a few points), and if she could she would stay here with you, forever.

You tell Abby your opinion about Milchick's arc, and only thing Abby is noticing is that you're sitting closer to her, close enough for Abby to feel your body heat and holy shit her face is burning. Now she can smell your perfume and then you laugh at something Abby said and it's a full body laugh, meaning you lightly slap her knee and oh God. Oh God.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" You ask, worried, when Abby bluescreens so hard she stops moving. Fuck, she stops breathing.

"Uh, no- no, I'm fine." Abby smiles, but your hand is still here, and you're- "You're so pretty."

What the FUCK!!! Why did Abby tell you that? Where was the brain-to-mouth filter? whathefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck!!!!

Before Abby tries to kill yourself by wishing for it really hard, you giggle and your eyes are sparkling. Oh. Oh, maybe Abby doesn't have to die.

"Thank you. You know, I'd never think you'd be shy."

"Well, here I am." Abby says weakly, still riding the adrenaline high of not weirding you out.

"It's cute." Abby blushes to the roots of her hair and you giggle again. Abby can listen to this sound forever.

You look over the balcony where the sun is up and morning people are already jogging and being all put together, and Abby has a sinking feeling you're going to leave.

"It's getting late. Or, well. it's getting early." You chuckle at your own joke and it's adorable. "I should get going."

"Oh, yeah, Of course."

Abby visibly deflates when you return the jacket, but then you take your phone out and ask the best question ever.

"Can I get your insta?"

Abby barely contains her excitement as she taps her handle with shaking fingers. You smile, say your goodbye and leave.

Abby waits for a minute just to make sure you won't hear her. She falls on her bed. She screams into her pillow, rolls on her bed and then screams some more.

"Got your girl?" Nora laughs when she comes to check on her.

Abby blushes and throws the pillow at Nora's face.

But yeah. She got her girl.

[mangio-formaggio]

spuffy in s4 are actually so special to me. the petty jealousy in The Harsh Light Of The Day, borderlinling with weird familiarity of knowing about each other's previous lovers, the raw playful necessity to poke fingers in open wounds. and then reluctant compromising in Pangs, bruised egos have been shoved aside, cause okay it's the truce and we done it like one and half time before. what the worst can happen? and then it's the beginning of Something Blue and they've been in a close proximity and at each other's throats longer than ever before. but the spell hits and oh, we gonna keep arguing actually. we gonna keep bringing up our exes and making fun at each other's names. no pink glasses here, actually. but also what if we suck faces a little and that will successfully end any conflict we face during that night? what if all that cravings of a good fight is in our tongues now? wouldn't that be a good alternative to punches and kickings? what if nothing changes except hate is love and violence is sex? wait, the spell is over? yeah it wasn't nice at all. not like we both ever thought it could possibly be nice. oh, a cookie.

and then they're trying so hard not show that things changed for the rest of the season, just to fail miserably. he's always in the corner of the room with the rest of the group, rarely talks to her personally as if cautious, but is marginally pulling her hair with words as much as he can. my nemesis wants to stake himself? idk go ahead, babe. not so much keen to do the job myself, I guess. so my nemesis won't come to see me move into a new cool crypt? rude. Giles needs help in New Man , Spike will help, but never crosses paths with Buffy who's actively seeking Giles at the same time. Anya brings Spike to a party, Buffy is trapped in an endless sex dream upstairs. oh well, he wants to help her? oh wait, he doesn't care. really, he doesn't. he's just being a little shit, look at him not caring like a pro, laughing off a nobility nobody believes in a first place. he meets Buffy at the club and she acts horny and provocative. weird I guess, but actually that what she always does, isn't she just a sodding tease? someday, we gonna have a confrontation. the Jonathan's spell covered the town, but those two worsties will be totally normal about each other. his hands in her hair, on her cheek, her chest. she will allow it. maybe lean to it a little. something is deeply wrong with the world tonight, so glad to let you know that we still gonna have a confrontation one day. a comfronting thought. a sensual grounding touch of an enemy. he can't fucking wait. will make an alliance with a psychotic Frankenstein monster build by a military organization that castrated him. the world (that he actually quite likes) can burn, but he will get the chip out of his head and kick Buffy's ass. maybe she will ride him till she breaks him at first. it's negotiable. meanwhile Buffy looks at his traitorous face and once again chooses not to stake him. cause whatever. it's just Spike. his plans never works. not on her. not like he caused a lot of damage, more like provoked a friend group therapy session. not like he put his heart into this scheme. he can annoy her a little longer. she got used to it anyways.

they start season with The Harsh Light Of The Day and by the end of it, in a harsh light of the day, in front of other people, they're kids at the playground. but whenever they're in shadows, more or less alone, they're two tigers circling around each other, knowing now that they both too unpredictable for the fight not take some truly wild turns.

[lostinlovingrevery]

So I know Logan being experienced in dating gives him the skill to woo anybody into a date. How about the opposite, like, imagine you have a crush on Logan and you don't know if he not only likes you back but also will commit to a relationship. And one day he goes up to you and... completely fucks it up asking you out. Like the more he trys to save it the more he fumbling it so hard. But to you its very sweet in how earnest this handsome,experienced Casanova is trying to ask you out, confirming w/out knowing it that hes serious about you. How would you think each Logans would go about it?

(This came about in how most imagines have Logan being smooth as hell, I wondered how would the opposite be. Bc ngl if some one as hot as Logan was fumbling so hard asking me out, I would be so flustered and flattered.)

AAAAAAH I LOVE THIS IDEA!!!

Awhile back I think I wrote a fic of Worst! Wolverine being such a nervous goof trying to ask out reader Just the idea of Logan being so smitten by you he's just a nervous wreck instead of his usual smooth self. I LOVE IT!!!!!!!!

How Nervous Logan(s) Ask You Out!

(another note look how cute he is in this gif OMFGGGGGGG!!!!)

(some of these feel a bit repetitive but bear with me lol, also tried to make most of these GN! Friendly <3)

Trilogy Logan: Will probably trip over himself trying to talk to you, fumble his words. You're the cute server at the bar he frequents. All smiles and a figure that makes him drool. He's respectful but every time he tries to talk to you his mouth goes dry. You think it's adorable, especially because he puts up a major tough guy act with everyone else, including his friends who occasionally come in with him. Nice people- and you can tell they tease him about you throughout the night. It's not until a late night- you let him stay over closing to finish his drink while you clean, and you can see him nervously tapping his fingers on the counter and watching you while you wiped tables down. You come back over to take his drink after he finishes- and his voice cracks when he says your name, leaving him red in the face. You smile and asks him if he needed something. He stammers, something about getting something to eat, but he mixes up his words and says something about eating you out instead- leaving him completely frozen in fear. It makes you laugh, and he wishes he really could die because he couldn't take the embarrassment- but you kissed his cheek, and said you would love to go out somewhere to eat tomorrow, squeezing his arm reassuringly. You asked him to pick you up on his motorcycle and he smiles and promises he will. He still thinks he's a damn idiot- but at least something worked.

70s Logan: Probably the least awkward, but he's very sweet about it. I think we all agree this Logan is probs the smoothest and flirtiest out of all versions of him. For some reason with you, it draws out that softer side of him- the side that he has buried for a long time. He has felt he could be his real self around you- and that leads to a lot of vulnerability. He doesn't want to mess things up, so he doesn't actually ask you out for awhile, just a lot of sweet compliments and makes subtle comments about you and him being together. However because of him being such a smoothtalker with others- you assumed your relationship would be nothing more than just friends. When he finally asks you out it's something quiet, polite, where he looks at you with those big puppy eyes and asks you in a timid voice and a bouquet of flowers if he could take you out for dinner- a real nice dinner, maybe at your favorite place. It told you that maybe that was real- because he's not putting on a mask. He'll take you dancing and WON'T feel you up- at least until the second date <3

Worst Wolverine: You're the cute one he's sees in the coffee shop you both go to almost every morning before work. Never talked much to each other other than small talk. You think he's soooo handsome- but no way was he into you because he barely spares you a second glance. But he definitely has the biggest crush on you. Hes familiar with your lotion, your coffee order and the fact that you try a new muffin every day. Logan would love to talk to you, get to know you- but shit he's so fucked up, he can't imagine dating, likely will fuck it up- plus the whole different timeline ordeal- and his past. Maybe he gets a lil brave one morning and buys your order for you, He starts overthinking it- what if he completely overthought you and him? What if you haven't noticed him? What if you think he's creepy? When you finally get there, and find your order ready and paid for - the barista points him out and he looks like he wants to die on the spot. You reach him and the first thing he says is "Im sorry" because he's overthinking. You ask him if he wants to sit with you- and finally hold a real conversation. He's SO nervous, but calms down eventually- and you feel like maybe this was the start of something sweet <3

Old Man Logan: He's SO self conscious, and thinks the most self-deprecating things :( (no baby!). He doesn't believe you would go for an old man like him, so he doesn't actually try to ask you out, but he does "flirt" because it just comes naturally to him even when hes aching and tired (you're just that pretty for him). Except his flirts come out SO dry and strange sounding- because he does it SO seriously. He'll compliment you and start worrying about freaking you out. However you just love how cute he gets when he begins flustering and overthinking. He short circuits when you ask him out- his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish- he's wondering if you're feeling okay because him? Really? He's embarrassed with his reactions, but you reassure him that you think he's so cute- and he'll probably ask you if you need to borrow his glasses.

2013 Logan: He's grumpy-shy. He was on his own for a long time before you met. You're the prettiest lil thing he's seen in his entire (long) life and honestly he's forgotten how to interact with people- much less flirt. He messes up on his flirts more than once and youre not quite sure what he was trying to say but you smile and thank him anyway. He sounds a bit cranky when he compliments you and it's a mixture of offputting and endearing- but he's cute so you don't mind. It's not until one night you're talking deep in conversations and opening up to each other and he's trying to get out how he feels about you but he keeps messing up and stammering because you're looking at him with those such pretty eyes and he can't think straight and finally just breaks and kisses you. Hes not great with words anyway. Maybe you noticed the hand he was cupping your face with was shaking a little bit when he moves it away.

Patch! Logan: Okay I think it's so funny the idea of the most suave out of all logans being SO flustered trying to ask you out. Patch is all about being discreet, a scoundrel, hes a smoothtalker. He's NONE of those things with you. Who are you? Maybe a breathtaking singer at the casino, or a stunning cocktail waitress, maybe even the daughter of one of the corrupt men Logans looking to take down- whoever you are, you take his breath away and all his instincts and common sense go down the drain. However you took this to believe that he didn't actually like you because he is just so tense around you. He catches you in the halls after a successful night of some roulette and poker, and wants to spend some of his earnings with you. He's trying to be charming, feeling confident since he's gotten lucky already tonight. He's leaning against the wall over you- flashing a cute smile, able to hold more of a convo than he has in awhile without saying something embarrassing. When he goes to walk with you- he trips over himself and lands on the floor. You're cooing over him, trying to make sure hes okay and he's got this dopey look about it and finally tells you he will be if you join him for a drink.

Cowboy Logan: He's a serious and intimidating character in your town. Most people avoid him, whispering stories of the cowboy that showed up awhile back- but you knew deep down that maybe there was more to him than his roguish looks. He's a gentleman to you anytime you spend time together, holds doors open for you, kisses the back of your hand, and always takes his hat off out of respect. He's quiet, always letting you talk first. He always looks like a hurt puppy around you, and is so gentle. When he finally asks to properly court you, he appears on the porch of your home, taking his hat off and using his manners in speaking to you. He stammers a bit and has blush on his cheeks- when he tells you how beautiful you are, and asks if you'd give a cowboy like him a chance to win your heart. You'd be crazy not to <3

DOFP Logan: The other professor at the school he has a major crush on, and doesn't know what to do about it. To you, you had no idea. Logan seems to be so comfortable with everyone else- but with you he always acted...different- leading you to believe he doesn't like you like that until it's Ororo who points out that he literally stutters when he's trying to flirt with you (You: He was flirting?). His face gets red, and he seems to shut down whenever you smile at him- not to mention when you attempt to flirt with him, he gets even more flustered and can't even flirt back, usually thanking you and smoothing back his hair or scratching his beard and fidgeting nervously- and it made you blieve you made him uncomfortable. He hasn't dated in a while, having prioritized the x-men and teaching- so hes rusty on the flirting game even with his age. His feelings for you snuck up on him and honestly he's not quite sure what to do about it. It's only after a few dates that he starts to relax around you- and you get to have a turn becoming flustered by his classic Logan charm.

Origins Logan: OKAY I SWEAR!!! This one would be the most SWEETEST about it. He's like a kid going up to his very first crush. He's all shy, asking about your day and other small talk. Youre the pretty librarian he sees through the window and he finally gets the nerve to go in and talk to you- making excuses for renting movies or getting certain books that he actually read 50+ years ago (you don't know that yet) He comes by every week and he lets you do the talking because you just make him nervous he doesn't know what to say- just a smile and a nod and you think he must find you so annoying because you're ranting about one of your favorite books that you got him to read. However he loves listening to you talk, and hearing you be so passionate. It's not until he quietly gifts you a 1st edition of one of your favorite books that you must have mentioned in passing wishing you had that you realized that maybe you two had something a lil more going on than just him listen to you ramble on all the time. Maybe he rents a movie you say you really wanted to watch in passing- and he trips over his words trying to invite you over to watch it with him- only to shut up when he messes up for 5th time. You smile, and ask him what time <3

[ladsrlife]

What are you doing step brother???!!!

Caleb x Reader

Where you start living with your step-brother for uni and the relationship starts to take an interesting turn...

tags: 18+ nsfw/smut, slow burn, angst, taboo, obsessive/yandere caleb 😋

Chapter 1💗 Chapter 2💗 Chapter 3💗 Chapter 4💗 Chapter 5💗Chapter6💗 Chapter 7💗 Chapter 8💗

Also started posting on ao3 :)

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Chapter 9

You still can’t forget the day you met Caleb for the first time.

You were clutching your mother’s hand. It had been two years since she had stopped holding it back. Her fingers stayed limp in your grip, but you refused to let go. You glanced up at her to see her dull eyes light up at the sight of two people walking towards you - a man with cold, barren eyes, and a young boy who looked too tired for his age.

Though the boy looked not much older than you, there was a maturity to him that made it hard for you to look away. And the moment you locked eyes with him, you knew instinctively that he was deprived of the same thing you were.

You took an immediate liking to him without fully realizing why. You latched on like a bug, and, Caleb, who had every right to be annoyed, didn’t push you away. Rather, he anchored you back. Treated you like you were his duty. He’d pick you up when you scraped your knee. Braid your hair clumsily when your mother forgot. Talk back to protect you when his dad got abusive. He soon filled the empty void in your heart, and you could tell his was filling too, by giving love to you.

He was the hearth of your life.

So when you wake and feel Caleb’s rhythmic breathing tickling your skin, his arms loosely wrapped around you as he sleeps soundly beside you, you’re not sure what to feel anymore.

The memory of last night hits all at once. Skin on skin. Heat, sweat, and soft cries. Mind-numbing pleasure. By the end, your eyes had barely stayed open - and through the haze, you swear you remember him whispering your name, looking at you like you were holding his bare heart in your hands.

You’d expected things to shift once you crossed that line. But you hadn’t expected it to change like this. As sweet and intoxicating as it is, it scares you. The one constant in your life, the one who always grounded you - your relationship with him is shifting too quickly, like a pendulum reaching its tipping point.

You turn your head to view his sleeping profile comfortably. His brown hair falls onto his smooth, convex forehead while his long eyelashes are shut closed. His sharp nose lets out deep, rhythmical breathing, and his pink lips are slightly parted.

He’s so sound asleep that it’s endearing.

You wonder how he’s so comfortable with this sudden change.

You slowly free one hand from under his arm and brush a few loose strands of hair from his face.

Then you lean in and press a soft kiss to his nose.

His arms tighten around you in response.

“…!”

You blink, startled, as he lets out a low groan and pulls you closer, your face pressed to the curve of his neck as he exhales deeply into your hair. The scent of his skin, warm and familiar, fills your lungs, and the heat of his bare body radiates into yours. It’s grounding and dizzying all at once.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” You murmur, lifting your face slightly so as you don’t mumble into his skin. You note the hoarseness of your voice with a wince.

“…Don’t worry about it” He half-sighs, half-murmurs, voice rough and low with sleep. His hand finds your hair, stroking gently. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah?” you reply, but it comes out more like a question.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

He pulls back, searching your face with eyes so soft they almost seem liquid - amethyst with a touch of gold. When you meet his gaze, his smile blooms, and he leans in for a quick peck. It’s featherlight, but it sets your heart fluttering.

“Well… I sound like a monster.” You say. Your voice is so croaky you almost don’t remember what you usually sound like.

He chuckles. “You need hot tea. Anything else?”

You shift under the sheets, stretching slightly. Your body aches here and there, but nothing sharp or unbearable.

“I don’t think so… just a bit sore.”

“That’s good. I was worried I went overboard…”His voice is so gentle, it almost vibrates through you. “Was it okay?”

“It was… good.”

Your cheeks flush even as you say it, suddenly shy.

“Really?” he says, breaking into a wide, gummy grin.

You nod.

“I loved it too.” He says, his voice catching like he’s overwhelmed. He pulls you even closer - the way he presses into you and tangles his limbs with yours - it’s like he’s trying to figure out a way to merge into you. “It was amazing.”

He starts to shower your face with kisses. From your forehead to your fluttering eyelids, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks, everywhere.

You can’t help the smile that creeps up your face as he does it.

“Hey, your stubble burns-” you grumble, rubbing your finger against his chin to prove your point.

“This, pipsqueak, is what you call the epitome of manhood.”

You roll your eyes. He’s winding up to say something cocky again. You try to pull your hand back, but he catches it and presses it against his jaw.

“Now why’re you making that face? You were happy about my manhood last night, when I made you cum so hard, so many-“

You place both of your hands on his mouth to get him to shut up. Your face is burning while Caleb bursts into laughter, pulling you tighter by the waist.

“Have some decency, Caleb.”

“My bad. My bad.”

His deep chuckle vibrates through your chest. He cups your face, this time finding your lips. You trade soft, teasing kisses, like baby birds pecking, until each one grows longer, more tender, melting into the next until you’re breathless, dazed and drunk.

The way his soft lips suction yours - it’s strangely addictive.

The atmosphere soon becomes heated like the night before. You meet his dark eyes again and feel yourself getting swept up in it. You also notice something hard and heavy resting against your thigh.

But you also remember-

“Wait-“

As Caleb comes in to kiss you one more time, angling his face like he means it, you place a hand on his muscular shoulder and push him gently.

“What time is it?” You say out loud.

You ignore his weight on your collarbone as he huffs and rests his head on it, as you twist to reach your phone on the nightstand. His large, calloused hands strokes lazily at your waist.

“It’s one in the afternoon!” You exclaim, looking at the time on the screen.

You pat his back. He doesn’t budge, face still buried in your shoulder.

“Caleb get up. We both have classes at two.”

You stroke his shoulders, down past his shoulder blades to his back in big motions - an attempt at being tender with him. You feel his muscles twitch under your palm.

Suddenly, he bursts up from bed, lifting you with him so you straddle him like a child.

You let out a small sound as you hang onto his neck for dear life. Your head grazes against the ceiling as Caleb stands on the bed, like it’s a podium, and he’s the gold medalist.

“Since we are running out of time, I’ll be pipsqueak’s personal maid today. How about we shower together first?”

You pinch his cheek as he leans in to kiss you again, stepping off the bed and striding toward the bathroom.

“I think this maid is full of ulterior motives.” You say, as you feel something hard bump against your ass with each step.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hear him merrily hum a familiar tune - his favorite rock band song - as he lets you down.

You absentmindedly turn around to view your reflection in the bathroom mirror - and gasp.

You look terrible. Your face is swollen, your hair, which dried haphazardly while you were in various unnatural positions, is a mess, your lips looks like it was stung by a bee, and red and purple marks bloom across your skin - on your thighs all the way up to your neck.

You look towards the cause of it all - standing behind you, now silent and gauging your reaction through the mirror - and you can hear the gears in his head turn as he searches for the right answer to give you.

“…It looks good on you?”

“How am I supposed to go to swim practice like this?”

“…Sorry,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you close. “I got carried away. I won’t do it again.” He kisses your neck between words. “Will you forgive me?”

As you feel his hot breath on your sensitive skin, any complaints you had at the tip of your tongue fly away like the puffs of a dandelion.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

You stare absentmindedly at the blackboard at the front of the lecture hall.

You ended up kissing Caleb - fervently, desperately - and getting each other off in the shower, again.

You feel like your brain is fried.

Surely you must’ve gotten dumber.

You sigh and drink hot tea from your stainless water bottle - something Caleb was adamant on packing for you, alongside a simple sandwich - before the two of you left the house.

Speak of the devil - your phone screen lights up as a new message arrives from him.

[Listen well in class :D And let me know if you feel off or anything, ok?]

You smile and type in a simple reply.

[ok <3]

Then you notice a message from Ethan. It’s from yesterday.

[Did you get home ok?]

It must’ve arrived shortly after you arrived home, but you were busy up until now doing… other things. You shortly pause before sending a reply.

[Sorry, just saw this. Yeah, you?]

His response is crazy fast. You see it turn read as soon as you send it.

[Yeah. I mean, you dropped me off. lol]

Another message piles below.

[It was fun. We should hang out again some time :)]

You notice the professor walk up to the podium and start the lecture.

You rapidly send a reply and tuck your phone in your bag.

[Yeah me too. Sure!]

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

You internally groan as the professor announces a team project due during midterms. As if echoing your soul, a collective groan ripples through the classroom.

When class ends, you agree to partner up with the only two friends you’ve made in your major - both seated next to you.

“It’s a tough schedule. How about we just get it over with this week?”

You nod, and the three of you decide to meet during the shared free period.

You head to the library together, bags slung over your shoulders.

“By the way Y/N, isn’t it way too early to wear turtle neck?” One of them tell you as you leave the lecture hall. “Aren’t you hot?”

“Not really. I have-” You cough to make it sound believable. “-a cold.”

“Tell me about it. You sound like a witch.”

You gape at her. She laughs at your expression.

“It’s not that bad?” You ask, in your defense.

“It might be a slight exaggeration.”

As you walk, you notice your phone lighting up with Caleb’s name on it. You pick up the phone while your friends talk about something involving class.

“Hello?”

[Done with class pipsqueak?]

His voice has a bright, excited edge to it.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

[Where are you? I’ll head over.]

“I’m heading with my friends to the Auburn Library. You don’t need to come?”

[…Right. What about after your physics class? Should we get dinner out?]

“I might have dinner with my friends. We need to talk about a group project. Besides, don’t we usually get dinner separately on Mondays? I’ll see you at home?”

[Sure. Okay then. See you at home.]

You note the slight fall of his tone.

“Yeah, see you.”

You end the call to see both your friends looking at you with great interest.

“Who’s that?” One of them asks.

“My brother-”

You awkwardly pause mid-sentence. Flashes of skin on skin intrude your mind.

Brother? Step-brother? boyfriend?

You stare back at their puzzled looks as you swallow down the guilt and force the sentence out.

“Yeah, my brother. He was just asking about dinner.”

“You’re so lucky.” Your friend sighs. “My brother wouldn’t care less if I starved on the street. You guys are, like, really close huh?”

“…Yeah. I guess so.”

You manage a smile and the conversation moves on.

The heat you get swept up in when you’re with him, and the ice cold plunge when you have to talk about what the two of you are.

You wonder if you’ll ever stop flinching at the difference.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Caleb is already home when you arrive - typing on his laptop on the couch with the TV on, its noise barely filling the space. He looks up the moment you walk in.

“Hey,” you say, smiling.

“Hey. Busy day, huh?”

You drop your bag and stretch, yawning. “Tell me about it. Group project stuff took forever. I might have to meet up with them a few more times this week.”

He hums in response.

You head to the kitchen to get some water, phone in hand.

You smile at some random picture your classmate sent you in the group project chat, while pouring yourself a glass of water.

You nearly drop the glass you’re about to drink when you feel Caleb’s arms wrapping around you gently.

When did he get this close? You didn’t hear a thing.

“Next time, call me if it gets too late. I’ll come get you.”

He says, mouth close to your ear. You feel his chest flush against your back.

“I shared an uber with my friend. It’s fine, she lives near by. I don’t want to bother you.”

You turn around to meet his eyes. He shifts his hands so that they rest on the counter, enclosing you between.

“Not calling me bothers me more,” he says, voice low. “I was worried. You know how dangerous it gets out there this late. Plus, you aren’t exactly in the best condition.”

“I texted you that I was riding with her,” you reply, your tone flat - just bordering on defensive.

His eyes turn few degrees colder.

“Seconds before getting in the car,” he says quietly. “After hours of silence. Might I add.”

“I was working on the project.”

You frown. He doesn’t usually make an issue out of this.

You try to brush it off and move past him, but his hand catches your wrist before you can.

He turns you gently - but firmly - back around.

“Caleb,” you say, the irritation slipping into your voice. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

He scoffs softly, shaking his head.

A bitter smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You know… I’m thinking maybe I’m the only one who can’t stop thinking about yesterday.”

His gaze is fixed on you - earnest and intense - maybe a little too much.

“I want to be with you all the time. Every second. But maybe…” he trails off, voice lowering, “you don’t feel the same.”

You exhale, chest tightening.

“That’s not true,” you say gently. “I just… I had things to do. It doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you.”

He studies you for a beat longer, then finally steps back with a short sigh.

“Sorry, pips. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine.” You say, this time reaching out to lace your fingers with his, to which he flinches ever so slightly.

You take this opportunity to speak out about what’s been on your mind.

“I just… feel like I can’t keep up either.”

His brows knit, gaze softening with concern.

“With the pace of all this,” you add. “I mean, we’ve known each other for ten years. And now suddenly… everything’s different. You seem so sure, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But for me…”

You trail off, unsure how to put it into words.

Caleb squeezes your hand gently.

“You think this is fast?” he repeats, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “If I told you I’ve been holding back more than you can imagine… how would you feel about that?”

“…You’re holding back?” you echo, eyes widening slightly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you against him. You feel it immediately - his arousal, solid and unmistakable, pressing into your stomach. The sheer rawness of it heats you up in an instant.

“I get like this just from thinking about you,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice low and sinful, almost reverent.

Like a prayer, or a confession.

You swallow. “Since when?”

He pauses.

“…Would it matter?” he says at last. “But after last night… it’s like I can’t think straight anymore.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

You feel yourself slipping into the grasps of his deep, intoxicating gaze.

“Won’t you take responsibility?”

His voice is low. Though its melody is wrapped in devotion, its content is daring.

You nod. For some reason you’re trembling from anticipation.

He looks at you, waiting.

Hesitant, you lean in and press your lips to his.

He moans into your mouth and deepens the kiss instantly. He grabs your chin and angles it to lock you in place.

The kiss is more like a statement than a tender act.

But for some reason it gets you riled up.

You moan, shamelessly against his mouth, to which he answers with a deep, aching sound of his own.

You stagger back until your knees bump against the edge of the couch. You sink into it, breathless, while he leans over you, still pressing you in with a relentless kiss.

“Get on your knees.”

He says, voice rough, chest heaving, as he abruptly breaks contact.

You blink, stunned. Your gaze meets his demanding purple ones and your body moves before your mind can catch up.

Your knees hit the floor.

He sits back on the couch, legs spread, looking down at you. You can’t take your eyes off the bulge straining against his sweatpants.

The grey fabric is visibly damp - darkened from how badly he wants you.

“Let’s see if pipsqueak can take responsibility for her actions.”

He murmurs, the corners of his mouth curling up, eyes dark with heat. He reaches down and guides your hands to the waistband of his sweats.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you curl them around the seam, hesitant at first. With his silent encouragement, you pull them down in one smooth motion, along with his briefs.

His thick, leaking length springs free.

The way it’s dark and throbbing is almost barbarous.

As if in a trance, you shift forward, settling between his spread thighs. Your hand wraps around the base, tentative but curiously.

A shaky exhale bursts out from above.

You look up to see him looking down at you, face flushed with pure, unfiltered exhilaration.

It’s contagious.

He runs a hand through your hair, slow and gentle, guiding you without a word.

You tilt his length toward your mouth, heart hammering, and lean in.

Your tongue flicks out in one slow stroke across the tip, catching the slick liquid beading there. It tastes salty.

“Ah-“

His body jolts, head tipping back as his fingers tighten around your hair.

You do it again, licking him like a treat you don’t know how to eat yet. You circle the tip with your tongue, then press into it and grind slowly.

It earns you a long, breathy moan from deep in his chest.

“Stop teasing pips. I’m gonna lose it.”

He growls the words, voice thick with restraint, nudging the back of your head.

You obey, parting your lips and taking him in.

He’s thick - so much so your jaw stretches uncomfortably as you sink halfway down. You stay there, unsure what to do.

He chuckles above you, dark and warm.

“Move your head baby. Up and down.”

You slowly, carefully pull back to the tip, then slide forward again.

“No teeth.”

He gently corrects, and you adjust, lips curling tighter around him.

His hands suddenly slip under your arms, lifting you until you're straddling his lap.

“Let’s try with fingers first, yeah?”

He brings his index and middle finger up to your face. You know what he means. You open your mouth, eyes locked on his.

His gaze flickers hungrily and dangerously.

He slides his fingers in, and you begin to suck, slowly mimicking what you just did.

You coat his fingers in your saliva, curling your lips carefully, sliding back and forth.

“Curl your lips so that your teeth aren’t touching… yeah… just like that… and suck it back and forth…”

He pushes deeper, and you gag faintly, breath hitching.

“Angle your head like this-“ He tilts your chin slightly, then strokes the front of your neck with his other hand. “Open your throat.” Your breath stutters around his fingers as they slide in deeper. Drool slips past your lips, dripping down your chin.

“Good girl.”

He says, voice low, pulling back with a wet pop.

Then he guides you back down between his legs.

You swallow it gladly.

A loud moan escapes his lips as his hips jerk forward instinctively. His tip hits the back of your throat and you gag, eyes watering. With deep breaths escaping your nose, you angle your head and open up like he just taught you, and begin sucking.

“Ah- fuck!”

His hand fists your hair roughly like it’s life support.

You start to move - bobbing slowly at first, then faster as he begins to pant above you.

He grabs both sides of your head like he can’t take it.

You whimper sharply as he thrusts into your mouth, hard, deep. You let out a muffled whimper that only makes him groan louder.

You grip both of his thighs to back up, but he presses in stronger. You vocally complain - which comes out in high pitch whimpering - which seems to ignite him more.

He starts moving faster, fucking into your throat with growing desperation.

Each thrust hits the back of your mouth with a wet sound.

“So good-fuck, just like that. Such a good girl, taking it in exactly how I taught you-“

He says breathily between each thrust.

“Mmph-”

Your throat spasms and groans with each push. You feel your jaw ache, tears prick at your eyes - but you hold on.

“Feels so good I’m already gonna cum.”

Through the frenzy of it, you try to wrap your tongue around the bottom, to which he curses loudly.

“Fuck- I’m gonna cum down your pretty throat. So fucking hard. Ah- Mmph-“

With a rough snap of his hips, he presses in deep, and releases. Hot, thick spurts flood your throat, coating you with each pulse, to which you whimper around him, swallowing desperately to keep up.

“Ah, Mmm-“

He moans echo above you as you take it all.

When he finally pulls back, the last of his load pools heavy on your tongue, its remnants dripping out and drooling down your chin messily.

He brings a thumb up and pushes it back into your mouth.

“Drink every last bit I gave you.”

You meet eyes with his dark, languid, completely undone eyes, and swallow hard.

His thumb presses down on your chin and you open up wide.

“Good girl.”

He brings you onto his lap again, and kisses you tenderly.

You feel your body trembling from the desire coursing through your veins. It’s strange. Even though you’re the one who sucked him up, it’s like you were on the receiving end of it.

You pant into the kiss as he presses a hand to the small of your back, your stomach meeting his with no space between.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes glinting with something new.

“You seem to enjoy it when I’m rough with you.”

You shake your head quickly, not wanting to admit it.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

He mimics your tone teasingly, nudging your nose with his, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“Look at you. You’re totally out of it.”

Your lips press shut on instinct.

You hadn’t realized they were parted. Dumbly, no less.

“No. I was just… taking responsibility. That’s all.”

You mumble, suddenly self-conscious. You smooth down your hair, trying to regain your composure. You try your best to school your expression.

“Really?” He looks at you like you’re adorable.

“Yeah.”

“Well, bad news.” His voice drops as his hand slides down, fingers brushing the zipper of your pants. “That wasn’t nearly enough to make up for how I’ve been feeling today.”

You blink, breath catching.

His hands wander down to the zipper of your pants.

“Ah-”

Your hips twitch beneath the faintest graze of his knuckles.

He tsks softly, clearly entertained by how responsive you are.

Urgency slowly seeps back into his gaze, replacing the languidness from a second ago.

“Let’s go for round two tonight. Yeah?”

You thought Caleb was your anchor. Steady, selfless, always there to catch you without asking for anything in return.

But now, as you meet the full weight of his want, for the first time in your life - raw and undiluted - you feel yourself unraveling in ways you never thought possible.

Now, you’re starting to think he might not have been the hearth or the anchor after all.

He might have always been the storm. Silently brewing, and waiting. For you to give permission. And call it forth.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Okay I'll be honest I didn't really proof read so I hope there are no typos or awkward parts. lol.

Plus, I feel like some part of it is kind of awkward? like there could've been more build up. Idk, pls tell me your thoughts :(

Hope you guys enjoyed this!!!

Will try to update at least once a week :D

Likes and comments are life <3

tagged readers💕: @noxus123 @plzdonutpercieveme @captainstarnoir

[chronosdawn]

Hi, what would the LIs do in a situation where the reader lives as a middle/lower middle class and cant afford to provide for another person. For example im a student who lives on my scholarship, and its kinda hard to provide for myself, let alone someone else. What would they do? They can't exactly get a legal job since they don't even exist in this world :^, I think that'a fun scenario :)

Anon you're so valid for thinking about this. I'll start by saying upfront that absolutely none of the LIs would let you struggle for money, and would likely get very frustrated at the whole legal side of things.

I think Rafayel has the best skillset for getting around the legal issues of trying to get a job without a valid ID, as while he would be an unknown artist in our world, he is still a very good artist and you can sell his work under your name. If you already have art supplies lying around, he can use those, otherwise the local college's art department might mysteriously find a couple of things go missing. He's initially pretty offended by the idea of taking commissions but if you're desperate he'll eventually cave. Admittedly he will complain the whole time and expect a healthy amount of gratitude from you in the form of your undivided attention.

Zayne is probably in the toughest spot when it comes to the ability to do his actual job in our world, as on top of the usual paperwork, he also doesn't have a valid medical licence here. However, if your willing to loan him your laptop or tablet for a bit, I do think he would be able to set himself up as an online tutor (even if it did require a bit of photoshopping to fake a couple of certificates) and he'd be good at it as well. At least one med student messages him after their lesson telling him's saved their life.

Now Xavier is an interesting case as he's been through this scenario before, just with the LaDS version of Earth rather than our version of Earth. He admittedly doesn't have access to a lot of the resources he had there, but I reckon if any of the LaDS LIs could fake an ID here, it would be him. As for what he uses that ID for, well his priorities for a job are as follows: 1) earning money for you, 2) still being able to spend time with you, 3) sleep. I think if you're a student, he ends up getting a job at your university, likely in the physics department. He still sleeps on the job, but he has a better understanding of the subject than most of the Professors so he somehow gets away with it.

I'll be honest with you, I really struggled with coming up with something for Sylus as while he also had to establish himself in the LaDS Earth, he did so by becoming a crime lord. However here is what I think goes down in this scenario: it starts with you bemoaning your money troubles as you go through your grocery list for the week. Sylus listens to you, a serious expression on his face and then tells you to go to bed, while he goes out for a bit of fresh air. You're woken up by him letting himself back into your room at 4am and dropping a thick wad of cash on your desk. Where did he get it? Well, if you really push him, he'll tell you but it's probably safer for you if you remain ignorant.

And finally we get to Caleb, who is in a similar boat to Zayne in the way that there is no chance of him being able to pilot a plane while lacking any sort of valid documents. I think Caleb has a lot of skills, but the one that it would probably make it the easiest to earn money without getting you in trouble with the law would be his cooking. It's easy enough to set up a baking business under your name, while he does all the actual work. Caleb would rather just cook for you but if this is what it takes to put food on your table then it's what he's going to have to do.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

I Like Her

eddie brock x fem!reader x venom

It’s late—somewhere between “I should be asleep” and “I deserve a treat.” The city hums softly under flickering streetlights as you slip into your hoodie, grab your keys, and head down the block toward Mrs. Chen’s convenience store. The night is cool, quiet, and mostly uneventful—until it very much isn’t.

The little bell above the door jingles as you walk in, the fluorescent lighting giving everything that slightly-too-yellow glow. Mrs. Chen is behind the counter in her usual seat, sipping tea and watching a tiny TV that’s clearly been through a war or two.

“Well, look who it is,” she says without looking up. “Out past bedtime.”

You grin, heading straight to the coolers. “Craving Dr. Pepper. You judging me?”

“Always,” she says dryly, finally glancing up. “Don’t take the last one.”

You grab it anyway, winking. “What can I say? Gotta keep you on your toes.”

As you make your way to the counter, the door jingles again. You don’t look at first—you’re too busy pulling out your wallet—but Mrs. Chen perks up and says, “Eddie. You’re late.”

You glance to the side—and immediately freeze.

Eddie Brock.

He’s wearing a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he fought with the wind and lost. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has this quiet, kind-of-awkward energy like he didn’t mean to be so hot but here he is anyway. You stare for half a second too long.

He nods politely at you, eyes flickering in recognition, and walks toward the back of the store. You watch him go, subtly—but not subtly enough.

Because Mrs. Chen leans in, amused. “Don’t even think about it.”

You turn to her, deadpan. “He fine as hell. What do you mean, don’t think about it?”

She makes a noise. “Trouble. All the hot ones are trouble.”

“Girl, let me live,” you mutter.

Unfortunately, you said it a little louder than you thought—because from the other aisle, you hear a voice say:

“Mrs. Chen, you’re supposed to be my wing woman. Are you turning people away from me now?”

You practically choke. Your eyes go wide, and Mrs. Chen has the nerve to smirk.

Eddie reappears from behind the shelves with a pint of ice cream in hand and a very amused expression. He glances at you, his eyes warm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just… hard not to when your name’s being dragged through the mud.”

You’re mortified.

“I didn’t mean—” you start, panicking.

“I mean,” he says with a crooked grin, “I am fine as hell. That part was accurate.”

You blink. Then you laugh, embarrassed but also charmed. “Okay, wow. I’m just gonna take my Dr. Pepper and go—”

“No, wait.” He steps forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Eddie.”

You stare at his outstretched hand. You blink. Then you take it. “Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He smiles—awkward, genuine. “You… uh… come here often?”

Mrs. Chen groans. “Oh my god.”

And just like that, you burst out laughing again.

———

You don’t know how you ended up agreeing to the date. One minute you were talking to Mrs. Chen and low-key drooling over a man with haunted eyes and perfect cheekbones, and the next you were exchanging numbers and trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment.

Now, you’re standing in front of a small, cozy Italian place tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore—classic first date material. The lighting is warm. The smells are divine. The nerves? Off the charts.

Eddie’s already waiting when you arrive. He stands up awkwardly from his chair outside the restaurant, brushing nonexistent crumbs off his jacket.

“Hey,” he says, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Hey,” you smile, a little breathless.

“You look—uh, nice. Great. Really great.”

You grin. “Thanks. You clean up alright yourself.”

The hostess leads you to a corner booth—quiet, dimly lit, perfect for pretending you’re not both internally screaming. Once seated, the server drops off water and menus, and you both dive into them like they’re hiding from social anxiety behind laminated pasta options.

“So,” Eddie says, eyes scanning the menu. “Do you… like carbs?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I live for carbs,” he confesses. “I just wanted to make sure we’re not gonna fight over garlic bread.”

“I would absolutely fight you for garlic bread.”

“Fair,” he says. “That’s valid. I’d let you win.”

The banter feels easy. Surprisingly so. Conversation flows—from your favorite movies to embarrassing teenage phases to how much Mrs. Chen terrifies you in a loving-aunt-who-would-fight-a-demon-for-you kind of way.

At one point, your foot brushes his under the table and he goes still. You freeze, thinking maybe you crossed a line—but then he smiles, soft and unsure, like it’s the first time someone’s touched him and meant it.

Halfway through dinner, as you both split a plate of fettuccine Alfredo (he let you win that garlic bread war), Eddie excuses himself to the bathroom. He walks quickly, almost too quickly, like he’s trying to have a conversation with someone who isn’t you.

Which… he is.

Because the moment he rounds the corner, Venom oozes up into his field of vision inside the stall.

“She is delightful,” Venom says, licking imaginary fangs. “Smart. Pretty. Funny. I like her.”

“No,” Eddie hisses, pressing both palms to the stall door. “Absolutely not. You stay inside. Please. This is going well. She doesn’t know. Let me just have this.”

“But I want to meet her,” Venom insists, looming over Eddie’s shoulder like a judgmental roommate. “We could share the garlic bread. She would love me.”

“She would freak out, and then she would run, and then I would cry. You want me to cry, big guy?”

Venom makes a pouty noise. “No.”

“Then let me finish this date like a normal person.”

Venom slinks back down reluctantly. “Fine. But if she hurts you, I get to eat her ex.”

“She doesn’t have an ex.”

“She might one day.”

Eddie groans and splashes cold water on his face.

⸻

Back at the table, you’ve just finished telling the server you don’t want dessert when Eddie returns, slightly flushed but smiling again.

“Everything okay?” you ask, amused.

“Yup,” he says a little too quickly. “Just… had to tell myself not to blow it.”

Your brow lifts. “You think you’re blowing it?”

“No,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I’m kind of having the best time.”

Your smile softens. “Me too.”

And that’s how it goes: a little awkward, a little chaotic, a lot charming.

Neither of you say the word second date out loud that night, but you both know it’s coming.

(And somewhere deep inside Eddie’s mind, Venom is already planning the next one.)

———

The second date starts off suspiciously perfect.

You’d picked the place this time—an indie theater playing old-school horror movies and serving popcorn in stainless steel bowls like some sort of classy cinephile fever dream. Eddie had shown up exactly on time, held the door open for you, and hadn’t even argued when you insisted on getting the extra-butter popcorn.

Which was a red flag.

Because Eddie Brock? That man is never this smooth. Not unless he’s got something to prove.

Like maybe to a certain symbiote who is currently fighting for control of the metaphorical steering wheel in his brain.

⸻

You’re seated together in the back row, your shoulder barely touching his, your laugh echoing softly through the dark theater as a corny scene plays on screen.

And Eddie… is tense.

You don’t notice right away. You’re busy, actually enjoying yourself. But Eddie? He’s rigid, eyes flicking nervously toward the corner of the room where a sticky black substance is starting to slither out from under his collar like a nosy eel.

“NOPE,” Eddie mutters under his breath, leaning forward fast and slapping a hand to his neck like he’s got a bug bite.

You glance at him, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yep. Fine. Just, uh… popcorn kernel went rogue.”

You offer him your water. “Drink. You’re sweating.”

“Because it’s… warm,” he says, clearly lying.

From inside his mind, Venom is fuming.

“I JUST WANT TO SAY HI. ONE LITTLE ‘HELLO.’ ONE FANG-FLASH. SHE’LL LOVE IT.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. He smiles painfully at you. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick.”

“Popcorn revenge?” you tease.

“Something like that.”

⸻

Once he’s in the theater’s dingy little bathroom, he locks the stall and whispers-screams into his palm.

“Dude. No. Not tonight.”

“She is fun! And smells like jasmine! And she laughed at that horrible zombie pun!”

“She’s also a normal person who doesn’t expect a parasite to crawl out of her date’s face during a rom-zom-com!”

“Symbiote. And maybe she would find me charming.”

“You called her ex’s brain ‘appetizer material’ last night. That’s not charming. That’s therapy-triggering.”

Venom pouts. Figuratively. Maybe literally. Hard to tell.

“You’re being selfish.”

“She’s not ready.”

“You’re scared.”

Eddie stares at his reflection.

“…Maybe.”

Eddie comes back from the bathroom looking like he just sprinted up six flights of stairs. His hair’s a little damp, his face pale but flushed, and the collar of his shirt is suspiciously rumpled—as if he got into a minor fistfight with himself.

“Everything okay?” you whisper, watching him collapse into his seat beside you.

He nods too fast. “Yeah. Great. That was… probably the sketchiest bathroom I’ve ever been in.”

You snort a little, turning back to the screen. “You say that like you didn’t do an exposé on moldy jail cells.”

“That mold was safer.”

He laughs a little too hard. Then he goes quiet.

You offer him the popcorn again, and he waves it off. You notice he’s wringing his hands—like his fingers can’t sit still—and chewing on his bottom lip like he’s got some sort of internal monologue happening at full volume.

“You’re nervous,” you whisper, nudging his knee with yours. “Did the popcorn mess you up that bad?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I just—” He looks at you, and for a second his whole face softens. “You’re… very cool. And sometimes I feel like I’m not.”

You blink.

“That’s why you’re twitching like someone dropped you in a blender?”

“Yep.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Look, if I ever do something weird—like really weird—you’ll tell me, right?”

You furrow your brows, playful but confused. “I mean, you’ve already said ‘no offense to zombies, but if they were real, I’d sue for copyright infringement’ out loud, so… yeah. I’ll call you out.”

Eddie chuckles. But the smile fades quicker this time. His fingers flex on his knees. You don’t notice the way his shoulder subtly tenses like he’s holding back… something.

Something that wants out.

⸻

When the credits roll, you stretch your arms overhead and yawn, giddy from the movie and warm from sitting close to him. Eddie walks you back to your apartment again. You talk about the film, joke about who would survive the zombie apocalypse (you say you would, he disagrees), and your hand grazes his once or twice on the way.

At your doorstep, you pause.

You tilt your head, teasing. “You gonna survive another bathroom trip?”

Eddie gives you a weak laugh. “Not if the plumbing looks anything like that theater’s.”

You smile, but there’s a flicker of curiosity under the surface now.

There’s something… off. Something twitchy. Something guarded.

But he’s sweet. Kind. And trying. Maybe even a little in awe of you. You like him.

So you lean in.

He kisses you goodnight—hesitant, gentle, like he’s afraid he’s going to break something if he’s not careful.

You go inside, heart full, mind spinning, completely unaware that you’re now dating two beings.

One of whom is desperately trying not to introduce himself.

⸻

Meanwhile, in the car, Eddie slides into the driver’s seat and grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles go white.

“YOU ALMOST LET ME OUT.”

“I literally didn’t.”

“You thought about it.”

“No. You thought about it.”

“I LIKE HER.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I like what I know. She is soft and funny and pretty and her blood smells like cinnamon toast—”

“STOP. STOP TALKING ABOUT HER BLOOD.”

“YOU’RE NO FUN.”

“You’re gonna get us both dumped.”

“YOU LOVE ME.”

Eddie groans and bangs his head softly against the steering wheel.

The symbiote purrs.

“You’re welcome.”

———

THIRD DATE – HER APARTMENT THIS TIME.

It had started off simple: a movie night at her place. She offered, shyly, and Eddie—despite the symbiote’s very loud objections—agreed. Venom wanted her to come to their place again (“We have snacks! And chocolate! And a better couch!”), but Eddie promised Venom a triple-decker chicken burrito if he behaved.

And Venom, ever the glutton, accepted the bribe.

So now Eddie sat on her couch, something cheesy playing in the background—some rom-com neither of them were really paying attention to. She was curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, sipping hot cocoa and smiling in that way that made Eddie’s chest do something weird. Not panic attack weird. Not Venom-arguing weird. But happy weird.

The kind of weird that made him think too hard about what it would be like to wake up next to her.

Venom stirred.

“Tell her. I like her.”

Eddie didn’t move.

“I’m being good. I want her to know that.”

“No.”

“What if I pop out just a little bit? Say hi?”

“If you so much as twitch, I will feed you kale for a week.”

“…Monster.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back. She had no idea he was having a telepathic standoff with a symbiote in his head. No idea her date was literally arguing with a seven-foot-tall black goo alien with teeth and a voice like a nightmare.

“What?” she asked softly, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Eddie blinked. “Huh?”

“You made a face.”

“Did I?” He chuckled. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

Eddie hesitated. “You,” he wanted to say. “Us.” But the words stuck in his throat.

Instead, he said, “Nothing bad. Promise.”

She yawned, then nudged him with her shoulder. “Good. I like this.”

“This?”

“Us,” she said, quietly, the same thing he’d been too scared to say. “I like being with you.”

His heart damn near burst.

Venom purred.

“TELL HER.”

“Shut up.”

She laughed at something on the screen, her hand absently resting on his thigh. Eddie barely breathed. He was holding onto this night with both hands.

And somehow, miraculously, Venom stayed quiet the rest of the night.

⸻

LATER THAT NIGHT – EDDIE’S APARTMENT

The moment he walked through his door, the peace was shattered.

“You fool!” Venom’s voice echoed through his head as the symbiote practically exploded out, forming like a shadow from his back and slamming down onto the kitchen floor. “You are WASTING TIME!”

Eddie dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. “Could you maybe not scream right after I get home?”

“She likes you. I like her. We are in agreement.”

“She doesn’t know you exist.”

“Whose fault is that?!”

“She will run. I like her. I don’t want her to run.”

Venom hissed but didn’t argue right away. He slithered around Eddie’s shoulders like a living hoodie, half-formed.

“…What if she doesn’t?”

Eddie looked into the mirror across the room. His reflection showed half his face—and Venom’s.

“Then I’ll tell her,” he said, quietly.

Venom blinked those wide white eyes.

“You will?”

Eddie nodded. “Just… not yet. I just got her. Let me enjoy it a little longer.”

Venom tilted his head, then slithered down Eddie’s arm like a dripping shadow.

“Fine. But if she dumps you because you waited too long, I will eat your socks.”

———

She hadn’t planned on staying the night.

It had started out like any other cozy evening: Eddie had made his famously-mediocre spaghetti, and she’d brought over her favorite movie snacks—popcorn, Twizzlers, and Dr Pepper. They were getting comfortable in each other’s space now. Close. Easy. She kicked off her shoes without asking. He let her take over the couch with a blanket without thinking twice.

It was the kind of domestic comfort that made his heart ache a little. Like he was tasting something he hadn’t realized he was starving for.

And then it happened.

Eddie had stepped into the kitchen to make hot cocoa—real hot cocoa, with milk and melted chocolate and those weird peppermint marshmallows she liked. He was humming. He felt happy.

Which was exactly when Venom decided to ruin his life.

As Eddie stirred the milk over the stove, Venom slithered up and out behind him, sensing movement—her, padding softly down the hallway looking for the bathroom. She passed by the open kitchen just as—

“Hey.”

A voice. Not Eddie’s. Deep. Rumbling. Alien.

She froze.

And when she turned, there it was. A massive, slick, black shape, with an angular, sharp face and huge white eyes, rising up from Eddie’s back like something out of a horror movie. Its teeth glinted under the overhead light. It looked alive.

She screamed. It was pure instinct—loud, scared, raw. She backed up against the wall, heart hammering, eyes wide.

Venom blinked, confused. “I was trying to be friendly.”

Eddie bolted into the hallway, cocoa abandoned, panic already setting in. “Shit—shit! I told you not yet!”

“She screamed at me!”

“She doesn’t know what you ARE!”

He rushed over to her, hands up, trying to calm her. She was still frozen, trying to make sense of what she’d just seen. “Eddie,” she whispered, “what the hell is that?!”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder. Venom had retracted partially, goo dripping along the walls like oil. “That… is Venom.”

She didn’t move.

“I can explain. Just—just sit, okay? Please?”

She hesitated, then numbly followed him to the couch. Still shaken. Still silent. Still watching every twitch of his body like something might jump out again.

Eddie sat across from her, elbows on his knees. “Okay. Deep breath. I’m not possessed, okay? I’m not a zombie or an alien or a monster. Well… technically, he is an alien, but I’m not.”

“What the hell is going on, Eddie?”

He swallowed. “Venom is a symbiote. He… lives inside me. We’re bonded. He keeps me alive. He has powers. And hunger. Sometimes for chocolate. Sometimes for… less ideal things.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to scare you. I know it’s a lot. It’s too much, probably. But I like you. I really like you. And I didn’t want to lose that before I even had the chance.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Eddie sighed, leaned back, ran his hands over his face. “Okay. If you want to leave now—if you never want to talk to me again—I get it.”

“…Can I ask him a question?”

Eddie looked up.

“…Seriously?”

She nodded slowly, still cautious. “If I’m gonna process this, I need to know what I’m processing.”

Eddie exhaled. “Alright. Yeah. Okay.”

Venom oozed out from behind his shoulder, this time smaller, more contained—just a head, floating and blinking with big alien eyes.

“Hi,” Venom said, sheepish.

She didn’t scream this time. Didn’t move. Just stared.

“What do you… like to do for fun?”

Venom tilted his head. “I like eating chocolate. And saving the city. And eating… bad people.”

She blinked.

He grinned—all teeth. “And chicken nuggets. Especially the spicy ones.”

There was a long silence.

Then she stood up, walked calmly to the bathroom, and closed the door.

Eddie rubbed his face. “You had to say ‘bad people,’ didn’t you?”

Venom made a wet, guilty shrug.

Behind the door, she was pacing. Breathing heavy. Whispering, “Okay. Okay. He’s not evil. He’s not evil. He’s just… different. Like superhero different. Antihero different? Shit…”

When she finally came back out, she stood there, eyes on Eddie. Still processing. Still unsure. But calmer.

“…So you’ve had this thing in you the whole time?”

Eddie nodded. “Since before I met you.”

“…You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

She stepped closer. “Do you think I’m that easy to scare off?”

“You screamed.”

“…You’re not wrong.”

Venom’s head popped back up. “Do you still like us?”

She blinked.

Then smiled.

“…You made me hot cocoa?”

Eddie stared, then slowly grinned. “Yeah. It might be cold now.”

She stepped closer and kissed his cheek. “Then go reheat it. I have a million questions. And I guess I’m staying the night.”

Venom beamed. “I like her.”

———

It was a Friday night, and Eddie had his hand wrapped lazily around hers as they strolled down the cracked sidewalks of San Francisco. She was rambling about something funny she saw at work—her nose crinkling when she laughed, her thumb absently brushing over his knuckles—and Eddie couldn’t stop smiling. Not for a second.

They were only a block from Mrs. Chen’s shop, the neon flicker of the “Open” sign visible in the distance when it happened.

“Give me the bag.”

The voice was low. Sharp. Laced with a threat that turned her spine to ice.

A man stepped out from the shadows of a side alley, hoodie pulled low, gun glinting beneath the streetlight. His hand was steady. His eyes were wild.

She stopped, heart lurching. Eddie instinctively moved in front of her.

The guy motioned again. “I said give me the bag, lady. Don’t make me ask again.”

She tightened her grip on the strap. “I don’t think you wanna take my bag.”

Eddie’s pulse was already climbing. He felt Venom stir inside him—like an animal licking its lips.

The mugger scoffed, waving the gun at her face. “What, your puny little boyfriend gonna stop me?”

And then—like it was nothing—he yanked the bag from her shoulder and shoved her hard. She stumbled back and hit the pavement with a thud, gasping as her palms scraped against the concrete.

That was the exact moment the air shifted.

Eddie’s eyes darkened. His shoulders rose. His head tilted, slow and steady.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.

The mugger turned toward him, annoyed. “What—”

But he didn’t finish.

Because from behind Eddie, something surged up. Fast. Fluid. Massive.

Venom exploded out of Eddie like a vengeful shadow, black tendrils slamming into the man and dragging him up off his feet, dangling him upside down like a ragdoll.

The guy screamed—loud, terrified—but only for a second.

Venom opened his monstrous jaws. “We warned you,” he growled, voice layered and deep. “You hurt what’s ours.”

And then—

CHOMP.

It was over in seconds. The man dropped to the ground in a heap—alive, but passed out cold. Covered in slime and half-conscious.

Venom licked his teeth.

Eddie turned, heart still racing. “You okay?” he asked her, rushing over.

She was still on the ground, blinking in stunned silence, staring up at the towering, hulking symbiote standing over them like some feral protector.

“…Did he eat him?” she whispered.

Venom grunted. “Bit. Just a little.”

She looked at Eddie. “Just a little?”

Eddie offered a sheepish shrug. “He doesn’t like when people touch you.”

She stared. Then wiped the grit from her hands and stood, eyes narrowing.

“…Okay. I’m gonna need a burrito after this.”

Venom purred. “With tater tots.”

She blinked. “…Did he just say—?”

“Yes,” Eddie sighed. “He’s been obsessed with tater tots lately.”

They stared at the still-unconscious mugger for a second.

“…Should we call the cops?”

Venom rumbled. “He’ll wake up. Eventually.”

“…Cool.” She shook her head. “You owe me a new bag. And tater tots.”

“Done,” Eddie said, sliding an arm around her shoulders as they started walking again.

Venom slithered back inside Eddie’s body with a huff. “She’s growing on me.”

Eddie smiled to himself. “Yeah, me too.”

[elryuse]

Manifesting

Gaeul X Male Reader

Tags : Toxic Relationship, Trauma, Cheating, Breakup, Romance, Dark Romance, Obsession, Yandere, Psycho, Angsty Words : 5,359 Words

It was a hard few weeks after your sad break up with your long lasting girlfriend, named Gaeul. She was your sweet sweet angel, she was caring, soft and charming. But that all changes when she be friends with some girls, who slowly changes her, and before you know it, She was lost, gone, turned into something different.

She started to ghost you, neglected you, and worst of all she cheated on you. You caught her, there, red handed, having sex with a guy you didn't know at all. You try to talk her up, but she got angry instead, slapping your face, marking it red as the shape of her palm.

You stood there silent, not knowing why this shit even happened to you. But all you know and understand is that She's not the Gaeul you know. With that, Your face turns cold, Gaeul didn't move, she closes the door as she continues to have sex with the man.

And with that, You left. You left the room, the house, and most importantly you left her. For good.

As time goes bye, You started to fix your life for the better. The first few weeks of the breakup was straight up hell, as you tried your best to forget the good memories you have with her. However, the memories kept flooding in. The time you said you loved her, the times you went on dates. It slowly come back to haunt you.

However, you started to get more active, get to know other people, and slowly you started to get back on track. As slowly, you started to find hobbies and stuff to do with other people. It was actually fun. A breathe of fresh air.

But one day, Those moments gonna haunt you again. As one night, out of nowhere, you met her again. Gaeul. She was standing outside your apartment, smoking a piece of cigarettes, as she ruffled up her blonde hair. You both looked at each other, before Gaeul throw away her cigarette, as she smiled.

"It's been a while".

You were shocked, timid, not knowing why is she here. Again. Out of anybody else that could be here. Why does it have to be her.

"What do you want" You asked.

"C'mon is that really what you have to say to me. I know that you missed me pabo. Let me in, I have a ton of thing's to say babe".

"Babe? Babe!? Are you fucking with me Gaeul. We're not together anymore. Get lost, before I call the cops". You angrily shouted, clearly still not accepting what the hell is even going on right now.

"Why are you mad… Besides, We didn't even break up. You're the one who left me". Gaeul rolled her eyes, as her body rested on the walls.

"Yeah but you're the one who's fucking a guy Gaeul. Not me. So go away. I already moved on. So stop bothering me". You try shutting the door.

"W-wait. P-please. Alright alright I'm sorry. Look. I was young. I was dumb. My friends were the one encouraging me to try new stuff. I was carried away alright. So please. Just liste-".

"Look Gaeul. It's your choice. You choose to fuck someone else. And you also choose him over me. You slapped me and closes the door on me remember. You didn't even text me about how sorry you were. So stop pretending like you care. And please. Stop bothering me, And leave".

As you closes the door, Gaeul seemed to be shutted down. Her face was unreadable, as slowly a small tear runs from her face. She looked, Sad. Filled with Regrets? You don't know why but she looked desperate about something.

"P-please. Y-y/n. I really don't know where to go. Everyone.. They.. All bullied me, and I really don't know where to go. P-please. Can I stay at your place, just for a night"?

You should have said no. You should just closes the door on her. But some how, you just can't seem to do it. You just can't seem to act harsh on her. And with that you opened the door for her.

"Get in. Fast".

Hearing those words, Gaeul face immediately lit up. She immediately ran and hug you, as she cried all of hearts out. You were not sure whether to comfort her, or just stay still, so you decided to just let her cry for awhile.

You then let her sleep on the couch, as you were about to take a shower. Your mind was filled with all sorts of thoughts as you didn't sure what to do, especially after seeing her again. You sighed, as you hit your head, thinking why would you let her in the first place.

Suddenly you hear a knock from outside the bathroom. It was her.

"Y-y/n. C-can I come in"?

"Wtf you mean, can I come in. Stay out. I'm almost done".

You wipe the water off your face, staring into your foggy bathroom mirror. The knock still echoes in your ears.

“Y/n… please. Just let me talk to you… just for a minute,” her voice quivers, yet there’s something off about it. It’s too soft. Too controlled.

You grip the towel tighter. "No, Gaeul. You said one night. Just—give me space.”

There’s silence for a few seconds.

Then she chuckles.

“Space? After everything we've been through? You let me in, and now you're pushing me away again?”

You freeze. That tone. It wasn’t pleading anymore. It was colder. Possessive.

You open the door slightly—just a crack. “You’re making this weird. Go back to the couch. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

But she’s already right in front of the door. Close. Too close. Her eyes puffy from crying, her lips trembling, her fingers tightly holding the edge of her shirt as if she was suppressing something explosive inside her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispers. “Not when you’re just a wall away. It made me think of the nights I used to fall asleep on your chest. You remember that?”

You sigh and step away from the door. She takes that as an invitation, stepping in without permission.

“Gaeul, I told you—”

She suddenly wraps her arms around your waist from behind. The towel nearly slips. Her forehead leans against your back.

“I missed you. I’ve been so… lost. Without you, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I did bad things. But I never stopped loving you. Never.”

You stay silent. Because deep down, there’s a twisted ache in your chest. A part of you still remembers her kisses. Her laugh. The way she used to hold your hand like it meant everything.

But this isn’t her anymore.

You step forward, breaking the hold.

“Gaeul, go sleep. Please. Don’t make me regret letting you in.”

She stares. Hurt. Confused. Angry. Her lips tremble again, but this time it’s not sadness. It's frustration.

“I gave you my everything… and now you treat me like garbage.”

You glance back. “You cheated on me.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “I made a mistake. People fuck up. But I chose to come back. I chose you again.”

“Too late.”

You walk past her. Grab some clothes. The air between you two is suffocating.

She remains still, standing in the bathroom, staring blankly at the wall.

You hear the door creak shut as she returns to the living room.

You wake up around 3AM, heart pounding. Something feels off.

You walk to the kitchen. The couch is empty.

“Gaeul?”

No answer.

You check your bedroom.

She’s there.

Lying on your bed, wearing one of your shirts.

Your chest tightens.

“Gaeul. What the fuck are you doing?”

She turns slowly, as if expecting you. Her eyes gleam beneath the dim light. A sickly, satisfied smile spreads across her face.

“I couldn’t sleep… I felt cold… I needed you.”

You glare. “This isn’t okay. You’re crossing boundaries.”

“I know your body better than anyone else. I know how warm it gets when you’re upset. How quiet you become when you’re trying to hide your sadness. You think I don’t see that? You haven’t moved on. You're pretending.”

You back up slightly, disturbed. “Get out of my bed.”

“No.” Her tone is dead serious now. “I belong here.”

She sits up.

“I let my friends poison me. I know. But they’re all gone now. They cut me off. They talked shit about me behind my back. And that guy? He left. He never even remembered my birthday. I was stupid.”

“That doesn’t mean you can crawl back like nothing happened—”

“I HAVE NOTHING LEFT!” she screams suddenly. You flinch.

Silence follows.

Then a whisper: “Except you.”

She reaches under the blanket. Pulls out… your phone?

“I saw your messages,” she says. “With that girl. Minji, right? She's just a rebound. She doesn’t know you like I do.”

You feel your heart sink.

“Where’s my phone—how the hell did you—”

“I watched you sleep. You looked peaceful… So I wanted to check. And guess what? I was right. You're still broken. Still looking for me in everyone else.”

“That’s it. You're leaving. Now.”

You grab her wrist. Not hard. But firm. Her eyes widen—not in fear, but in thrill.

“Touching me again, huh? You still want me. Just admit it.”

“Get out, Gaeul. Or I will call the police.”

Suddenly she grabs your hand with both of hers, gripping tightly.

“I’ll kill myself if you do.”

You freeze.

Dead silence.

She smiles. Twisted. Tired. “I'm serious. You were the only good part of me. If I leave this apartment, I won’t walk home. I’ll jump off a bridge.”

Your throat dries. “Stop it…”

Tears pool in her eyes again. “Then let me stay. Please. Let me stay until I’m better. Let me fix what I destroyed.”

You hate how conflicted you feel. You know this is wrong. You know she’s manipulating you. But that look in her eyes—the same eyes that once stared at you like you were her whole world—breaks something in you.

“…Fine,” you mutter. “One more night. But you sleep on the couch.”

She giggles.

It wasn’t a joyful laugh. It was broken. Hollow.

“I knew you'd come back to me.”

She kisses your cheek.

And leaves the room.

You lock your bedroom door that night.

But even through the door…

You still hear her humming a lullaby she used to sing when she laid on your chest.

It doesn’t comfort you anymore.

It terrifies you.

You barely sleep that night. Every creak of the wood, every gust of wind against the windows makes your heart jolt.

She's still here.

Even though the couch is supposed to be her place for the night, a part of you fears waking up to find her standing at the foot of your bed. Watching. Smiling.

But the sun eventually rises.

You blink the exhaustion out of your eyes and check your bedroom. Empty. Quiet.

Carefully, you step out.

To your surprise, the living room is empty. The couch is made. Neat. Like she’d never slept there at all.

You turn toward the kitchen and see her.

Gaeul.

Wearing your hoodie. Cooking eggs.

She turns with a bright smile, as if everything’s normal. “Good morning, sleepyhead! I made breakfast! Just like old times, right?”

You’re speechless. Tired. Emotionally drained.

“Gaeul, I told you—”

Ding-dong.

You stop.

Your front door just rang.

Before you can even move, Gaeul turns her head. Her expression darkens in an instant.

“…Are you expecting someone?”

You walk to the door. Peek through the peephole.

It’s Minji.

Wearing a warm beige cardigan over a white sundress, her eyes sparkling with excitement, a small coffee tray in hand.

You blink.

She notices you and waves softly, smiling.

You open the door.

“Hey,” she says gently, “I’ve been waiting outside for a few minutes, didn’t wanna wake you… I brought coffee.”

“Minji?”

“Yeah… I was wondering… if you wanted to grab breakfast or maybe walk around the park with me?” she says, shyly looking down. “Just something small. You’ve been working so hard. I thought you could use some sunshine.”

You smile—genuinely—for the first time in what feels like forever. “That… sounds nice, actually.”

But then—

“Who’s that?”

Her voice slices through the air like a razor.

Minji blinks.

Gaeul is standing behind you, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, spatula still in hand, wearing your hoodie like it belonged to her.

Her eyes are locked on Minji like she’s prey.

“Oh,” Minji blinks, “I didn’t know you had… someone over. I’m sorry—”

“We’re not together,” you interrupt quickly. “She just… showed up last night. It’s complicated.”

Gaeul suddenly steps forward, resting her hand on your shoulder—possessively.

“I’m Gaeul,” she says, eyes narrowing at Minji. “His first. The one who knows what he really needs. And who are you?”

Minji’s expression shifts—still polite, but her smile dims a little. “I’m Minji. I go to the same campus. We’ve been hanging out… and talking.”

Gaeul laughs bitterly. “Hanging out? Wow. That’s cute.”

You sigh. “Enough.”

Minji glances at you. “If now’s a bad time, I can leave…”

“No,” you say firmly. “You don’t have to. I said I’d go with you.”

Gaeul’s hand tightens on your shoulder.

“You’re leaving me here?” she asks softly. “After last night? I cried on you.”

You turn. “You’re not my girlfriend anymore, Gaeul. You asked for a place to sleep. That’s it.”

Her mouth opens. But before she can say anything else, you step outside and close the door behind you.

Later that evening…

You had a good time with Minji.

A real good time.

You didn’t think laughter could come so easily again. Her presence was calm, healing. You told her about your break-up. She didn’t pity you. She didn’t push. She just… listened.

When she finally walked you home, she hesitated at your door.

“I know you’re still healing,” she said, “But I like being around you. I just wanted you to know that. I’m not here to play games.”

You looked at her. Her eyes didn’t lie.

“Thanks,” you said. “That… really means a lot.”

She smiles, and with a small wave, walks off.

You breathe.

Then step inside.

The moment you close the door—

CRASH.

You flinch.

A cup lies shattered on the floor. Gaeul’s standing there, tears in her eyes, cheeks red with fury.

“You LIKED her, didn’t you?”

You stay silent.

“DIDN’T YOU!?”

“Gaeul—”

“After everything I told you? After crying in your arms? After begging for a second chance?! You go out with that—that—fake-ass bimbo!?"

“She’s not fake. And she didn’t hurt me like you did.”

You walk past her.

But she grabs your wrist. Hard.

“She’s going to hurt you. Like I did. Worse. She’s gonna take your kindness and stab you with it, just like I did. I know girls like her.”

“Gaeul—let me go.”

She shakes her head violently.

“No! You’re not doing this to me. You can’t just throw me away again. I came BACK for you. I chose you. I gave up everyone. Everything. And now you smile at someone else!?”

You rip your arm away.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

She falls silent.

Her eyes go wide. For a moment, she looks like a doll—cracked porcelain, ready to shatter.

Then her lips curl into a dark grin.

“You think she can protect you from me?”

You stop.

“What?”

“I meant it when I said I’d kill myself if you left me, Y/n.”

She steps closer.

“But maybe… she should go first.”

You stare at her, chilled to your bones.

“Gaeul… don’t you dare.”

She laughs softly. Her fingers trail your chest as she whispers:

“You don’t know how far I’m willing to go for you. But you will. Soon.”

It had been three days since that night.

Three days since Gaeul shattered a glass on your floor and swore she'd hurt Minji.

You hadn't heard from Minji since then.

Your texts—left on read.

Calls—unanswered.

You assumed she was just busy… or maybe she felt something was off. You couldn’t blame her.

Gaeul, however, was still here.

Still lingering in your apartment like a curse you couldn’t exorcise.

Every night, she cooked. Cleaned. Acted like she was your girlfriend again. She wore your clothes. Sat close to you. Slept on the couch but would sneak glances into your room every night like a cat waiting for a door to open.

Tonight, something felt different.

You returned home after a late class. The lights in your apartment were dimmed—intentionally.

A soft scent of jasmine floated in the air. You squinted.

There were candles… lit in the living room.

Your heart sank.

You step further in, cautiously. “Gaeul?”

"I'm here," her voice called out softly. Sultry. Dangerously warm.

You turn—and stop.

She's standing by your bedroom door.

Wearing your white button-up.

Only the white button-up.

Unbuttoned halfway down her chest, just enough to tease the curve of her breasts. Bare legs. Hair tied loose. Lips tinted with deep red gloss. Her eyes half-lidded with something… dark. Desperate.

"Gaeul, what are you doing?"

She slowly walks forward, swaying like a predator who knows you're caught in her trap.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she whispers. “So I thought I’d remind you why you used to crave me.”

“Don’t—”

She presses a finger to your lips. Silencing you.

“Shhh… I’m not here to fight.”

She steps closer. The shirt brushes against your chest as her body heat presses into you.

“I’m here to make you feel again.”

Her hand trails down your chest. To your stomach. Then down, lower—

You grip her wrist tightly. “Stop this.”

But your voice is weaker now. Your breathing shallow.

Her eyes sparkle.

“You say you’ve moved on… but your body’s still honest.”

“Gaeul—this isn’t going to fix anything. We’re broken.”

She smiles. “Then let’s break even more.”

Before you can speak, she slides down to her knees, slowly. Holding your gaze the entire time.

You curse under your breath, stepping back.

“Gaeul, stop playing games.”

She bites her lip, standing again. This time, she unbuttons the rest of the shirt and lets it slip off her shoulders.

Bare. Fully.

No shame. No hesitation.

“Do you remember the first time we did it?” she whispers, stepping closer again. “You were nervous. Shaky. And I kissed every inch of you until you stopped trembling.”

Your fists clench.

“And when you told me you loved me, I cried while we made love. Remember that?”

You shut your eyes.

“Stop it. Just stop.”

But she’s already guiding your hand to her waist. Skin against skin. Her breath hot against your neck.

“Touch me like you used to, Y/n. Please. Let me feel like yours again.”

Your head spins.

And for a moment—

Just a brief, dangerous moment—

You miss her.

You remember her laugh. Her moans. Her scent. Her warmth.

Your hand grips her waist.

She leans in to kiss you.

And you freeze.

Because just behind her…

Your phone lights up.

Minji: “Hey. Sorry I went quiet. I just… felt something was off. But I miss you. Can we meet soon?”

Your blood turns cold.

You step back.

“I can’t.”

Gaeul’s smile fades. Her eyes twitch slightly. “W-what?”

“I can’t do this. I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I can’t.”

You grab your shirt and step toward your room.

“Put something on, Gaeul. This… this isn’t right.”

She doesn't move.

Just stands there, naked, rejected, breathing heavily.

“…It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

You pause.

“You’re choosing her over me.”

“Because she didn’t destroy me,” you say quietly.

That’s when her smile dies completely.

“I see.”

She walks past you, slowly. Picks up her clothes. Dresses in silence.

You think, maybe—maybe—she’s finally going to leave.

But just before she walks out the door, she turns.

Her voice is calm. Too calm.

“You better hope Minji really likes you.”

You narrow your eyes.

“What?”

“Because if she doesn’t? If she even thinks of hurting you?”

She grins.

“I’ll make her bleed.”

But tonight, everything changes.

It had been two weeks since you pushed Gaeul away.

She disappeared after that night. No calls. No knocking at your door. No more haunting gazes from the corner of your room.

You thought maybe… she was finally gone.

Meanwhile, things with Minji felt like they were getting better. At least, that’s what you believed.

You went on little walks. Laughed together. Held hands.

She smiled often. She touched your arm. She told you she missed you when you weren’t around.

You let yourself believe again.

But deep inside, something felt off.

And you were right.

Tonight. 9:47 PM.

You were walking near campus when you saw her.

Minji.

At the back corner of a cafe, laughing with her friends—Hanni and Haerin.

You smiled at first, thinking about surprising her.

But then—

You heard your name.

Your actual name.

And your smile fades.

You stop. Hide behind a pillar. You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.

But you hear it.

You hear everything.

“So? Are you still ‘dating’ him?” Hanni asks, holding back laughter.

Minji giggles. “Dating? Oh my god, please. That’s such a strong word.”

“Girl, you’ve been holding his hand and giving him puppy eyes like it’s your job,” Haerin teases.

Minji rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her iced Americano. “Whatever. It’s not like I actually like him. You guys dared me, remember?”

Hanni gasps. “Oh my god, you still remember that?”

Minji smirks. “Of course. I lost the game, remember? You dared me to flirt with the loner boy. The one with the clingy ex? I couldn’t say no.”

Haerin laughs. “And now you’re full-on fake dating him. Girl, you're dedicated.”

Minji shrugs. “I thought I’d get bored after a few days. But he's so sad. I mean, who lets their cheating ex stay in their house? And then thinks I’m actually into him?”

All three burst into laughter.

“If I were a normal girl,” Minji says, smirking, “I would’ve blocked him the moment I saw that psycho ex lurking around.”

She takes another sip.

“But I guess I’m not that normal. He’s… entertaining.”

You feel your heart collapse.

Your world just folds in on itself.

You step back, unable to breathe.

She lied.

It was all fake.

Every smile.

Every gentle word.

A dare.

You turn, storming off. Your chest is burning. You can’t believe how fucking stupid you were.

But what you don’t know is—

You weren’t the only one listening.

Across the street. Hidden in the shadows.

A figure stands beneath a flickering lamppost.

Gaeul.

She had followed Minji for days. Watching her routines. Following her walks. Even slipping into the same cafes, silent like a ghost.

She had seen everything.

Heard everything.

And now…

She smiles.

No.

She giggles.

Quiet at first.

Then louder.

Her hand lifts to her lips, as her laughter spirals into something unhinged.

“You hurt him… you played with him,” she whispers to herself.

Her nails dig into her palm, drawing blood.

“After all the pain he went through, you made it worse… for a game… for fun…”

She tilts her head to the side.

“I should thank you… You reminded him why he needs me.”

Her eyes glaze over with affection. Obsession. Rage.

“I’m the only one who really knows him.”

She stares at Minji through the window, eyes dark and glimmering.

“He won’t forgive you.”

She turns. Walks away, softly humming the tune of a song you and her used to love.

But before she disappears into the darkness, she whispers—

“Minji… you’re gonna regret this.”

Later That Night…

You come home, throw your phone across the room.

You don’t even cry.

Just sit. Alone.

Hollow.

Then.

You hear it.

A soft knock on your door.

Your heart clenches.

You move toward it. Slowly. Dreading. Hoping. Fearing.

You open it.

And there she is.

Gaeul.

Hair messy. Face flushed. Hands shaking—but her smile calm and gentle.

Like nothing ever happened.

“I saw everything,” she whispers. “She was lying.”

You stare at her, speechless.

She steps forward. Her hand cups your cheek.

“I told you,” she says, voice soft as silk. “She’d hurt you. Just like I did.”

“But I would never lie like that again. Never.”

Her eyes lock with yours.

“I’m all you have now.”

And before you can speak—

She hugs you.

Warm.

Familiar.

Deadly.

A few days later.

The campus was buzzing.

Nothing unusual.

Until the whispers started.

It was during a break between classes when it happened.

The outdoor café near the main hall—crowded, full of students chatting, drinking iced coffee, scrolling through their phones.

Minji sat at a table with Hanni and Haerin, her usual crew. Laughter echoed from their corner, as always.

She looked perfect.

Smiling. Confident. The sun kissed her blonde hair just right. Her lips glossed in cherry red. She was untouchable.

Or so she thought.

Then—

A paper fluttered down in front of her.

Then another.

And another.

The wind wasn’t carrying trash.

It was carrying screenshots.

Printed. Clear. High-quality.

Your name.

Her name.

Her texts.

“Y/n~ where are you? I miss you 😘” “Are you asleep? Can’t stop thinking about our walk today 😳” “Don’t ignore meeee. Come outside, I bought us snacks 😩” “I wanna hear your voice before I sleep please call me 🥺”

One by one, the papers covered her table. Her friends stared, blinking. Some students stopped walking, confused.

Whispers started to grow louder.

Minji’s smile faded.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, her hands trying to gather the papers.

More fell from above, like snow. From the balcony above.

And then—

She appeared.

Gaeul.

Black skirt. White blouse. No smile.

Just rage and elegance.

She descended the stairs slowly, like an actress in a play she wrote herself.

Gasps spread through the students who recognized her—your infamous ex.

“What are you doing?” Minji hissed as Gaeul stepped into the center of the circle now forming around her.

“What am I doing?” Gaeul laughed. “You’re the one who started playing with people’s feelings.”

She held up one of the printed screenshots.

“This doesn’t look like a dare to me. It looks like you were the one chasing.”

Minji’s face turned pale.

Hanni stood up. “Who the hell are you—”

Gaeul didn’t even look at her.

She was focused. Predatory.

“You liked him, Minji. You really liked him. Don’t act like you didn’t. You texted him first. You called him. You begged him to stay up and talk.”

She threw another handful of papers onto the table.

“You were obsessed. Just like me.”

“Stop,” Minji said, voice shaky. “You’re insane.”

Gaeul’s smile turned cold.

She walked to the side table. Picked up a full cup of iced Americano that someone left.

And without hesitation—

Splash.

The cup emptied all over Minji’s pristine top.

Gasps echoed through the crowd.

Minji jumped up, gasping. The cold soaked her shirt instantly, making the white fabric nearly transparent.

Her hair stuck to her face. Her mouth opened in horror.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Gaeul stepped close. So close their noses nearly touched.

Her voice dropped into a whisper only they could hear.

“I’m not the one who played with someone’s heart.”

She pulled back, eyes unblinking.

“You’re the joke here, Minji. Because you thought he was just another lonely loser. But he’s not. He’s mine.”

She turned to the crowd.

“Let this be a reminder,” she said, calm and venomous. “You don’t mess with love just to get a laugh.”

She dropped the final piece of paper onto the wet table.

A photo.

Minji and you. On that first walk. Her holding your hand. Smiling genuinely.

Then she walked away.

And Minji?

She stood frozen.

Wet. Humiliated. Her hands clenched at her sides.

Because Gaeul was right.

She did like you.

Too much.

And now she lost you—and her dignity—in front of everyone.

Later That Night…

You sit on your bed.

Silent.

Then a knock.

You already knew who it was.

You open the door.

Gaeul stands there, smiling softly, a little victorious glow in her eyes.

“You saw it?” she asks, brushing her hair behind her ear.

You nod.

She steps inside.

“I did it for you,” she says quietly. “Because no one gets to treat you like that.”

“I don’t know if what you did was right…” you murmur.

She tilts her head.

“But it felt good, didn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

You’re not sure anymore.

She walks close, rests her head on your chest.

And whispers,

“She doesn’t deserve to be near you. Only I do.”

You close your eyes.

And realize…

You don’t know if you’re still angry.

Or starting to belong to her again.

The next few days pass in a blur.

You don't really go out anymore.

Your phone stays mostly silent, except for one consistent name.

Gaeul.

She texts you good morning. She cooks you meals. She cleans your apartment. She holds you when you can't sleep.

You didn’t ask for her to move in, but somehow, her things are there now—neatly arranged. Her toothbrush beside yours. Her shirts folded in your drawers. Her scent lingers on your bed.

At first, you thought you’d push her away again. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because she’s different now.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She smiles softly, with that old warmth you used to love. And most of all—she listens.

When you’re tired, she rubs your shoulders.

When you’re quiet, she plays your favorite songs.

And when you wake up from nightmares—of that day you saw her with another man—she holds you tight, whispering, "I'm still here… I'm not going anywhere."

Little by little…

You stop questioning her presence.

You start to need her again.

One night. Rain taps against the window.

You sit on the edge of your bed. Staring at the wall. Silent.

Gaeul walks in with two mugs of hot chocolate.

She sits beside you, curling her legs beneath her.

"You okay?" she asks softly.

You nod. But your voice is hollow. "I don’t know what’s right anymore."

She hums. Then leans her head on your shoulder.

"You don’t have to know," she says. "You just have to trust me."

She looks up, eyes big and watery.

"You’ve always been the soft one. The kind one. But people like her… they take advantage of that."

You look down.

She places her hand on your chest.

"But I won’t."

Your heart skips.

"I already hurt you once. And it kills me to think about it. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

Your fingers twitch.

"And you’ll realize soon… that I’m the only one who truly loves you."

And you believe her.

Even if you shouldn’t.

Meanwhile.

Minji sits alone on her bed.

Phone in hand.

Your chat still open.

No new replies.

Y/n… please just talk to me. I know I messed up. I really did like you. It started as a game but… I never thought I’d feel something.

No response.

Tears gather at her lashes.

She scrolls through her own messages—the ones she sent in the past. The ones Gaeul exposed. The ones that betrayed her.

I miss you already 🥺 You’re not like the other guys… you’re special.

Back then, she meant them. She did.

But now?

You were gone.

And worse—

She had handed you back to her.

To the girl she thought was just a clingy ex.

But now, she saw it clearly.

Gaeul wasn’t just an ex.

She was a predator.

And Minji… might’ve handed you right into her trap.

Back in your apartment.

Gaeul lies next to you, her arms wrapping around your waist.

"Let’s stay like this forever," she whispers.

You turn toward her.

She smiles.

"You don’t need anyone else."

You hesitate.

But your voice comes out soft. Tired. Relieved.

"Yeah… I guess I don’t."

Her smile widens.

She presses her lips to your temple.

And in her mind, everything is perfect again.

She has you.

And now she’ll never let you go.

[incloudcity]

omg your pwhl player x quinn hughes fic is sooo good! i could read a whole series on them, really liked your writing, and hope that you'll maybe do a part 2 to that one? 🩷🩷

offside 2 | qh43

requests are open a/n: hehe kinda left it open-ended, would love to see where y'all would want them to go from here. also i have no idea whats up with the tumblr spacing you guys dont even with me

You sign with Vancouver quietly. A press release, a few reposted highlights, and a thirty-second welcome video where you say you’re excited to be here. You don’t lie, but you don’t oversell it either.

You’ve learned how to be strategic with your enthusiasm.

The city is familiar but not nostalgic. You walk past restaurants you used to haunt during the campaign, ignore the flashbacks. They’re not important. Not anymore.

Your agent texts you after the announcement: Bet he knows already. You don’t ask who she means.

You practice like your spot depends on it. It doesn’t—not technically—but you don’t believe in comfort. Not in this league. Not with your name. You skate hard, tape tight, zero flash.

The media tries to bait you with old questions. You don’t bite. They try again. You skate away.

You’re deliberate now. Not difficult.

You meet Brock in a team facility hallway, half by accident. You’re leaving physio. He’s coming out of a video session, still chewing gum, still in that backwards hat he wears like it’s contractually obligated.

He grins when he sees you. “Finally. The myth, the legend, the PR nightmare.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re still using jokes from 2023?”

He laughs. Doesn’t take offense. Doesn’t take much seriously, by the look of it.

“You’re friends with Hughes,” you say after a pause, because someone had to name it first.

Brock shrugs. “I’m friends with a lot of people.”

You don’t ask what Quinn told him. You don’t want to know.

But Brock watches you the way some people watch warmups—like they’re not taking notes, but they are.

You see Quinn again for the first time in a shared training facility. Off-ice day. Your team’s lifting. His is doing some half-hearted stick-handling drills in the corner. You catch him in the mirror first.

He doesn’t do a double take. Doesn’t flinch.

Just nods once. Professional. Bored, even.

You return it.

The girl beside him—tall, polished, the kind of pretty that’s designed for optics—leans in to say something to him. He smiles at her. It’s not fake. Not full either.

You pretend it doesn’t hit somewhere you thought had scarred over.

Later, Brock nudges you on your way to the parking lot. “She’s PR-adjacent,” he says, meaning the girlfriend. “Met her at some Canucks event. Works in branding.”

You glance over. “Why are you telling me?”

Brock shrugs. “Not sure.”

The friendship happens slowly. Brock’s the kind of guy who doesn’t mind silence, which you appreciate. He’s also observant. Too much so.

“You don’t talk about him,” he says once, over a post-practice burrito.

“You don’t talk about your stats either,” you shoot back.

He nods. Accepts it.

Doesn’t bring it up again.

The tension starts to show in the gaps. Eye contact that lingers too long. Jokes that skirt the edge of inside. The way you and Quinn pass each other in corridors like ghosts. Like you never fake-dated. Like you never fell asleep on the same couch with his jacket over your legs.

But Brock sees it. Of course he does.

One night, your teams have staggered games at the same arena. You stay after yours, hoodie pulled low, unnoticed in the back row. Quinn’s on the ice. Fast. Clinical. Distant.

He looks up once during warmup and finds you. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

Brock finds you after the final horn. Offers you a ride back.

You sit in silence the whole way. Until the red light at West Georgia.

“He’s not over it,” Brock says, without turning the music down. You don’t answer. He doesn’t expect one.

Two weeks later, it breaks.

You’re in a locker room hallway, after a city outreach event. Media’s gone. Team buses are delayed. You’re answering a text when you hear him behind you.

“Wasn’t expecting you to sign here.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Neither were half the front offices, apparently.”

He smiles, a little. It’s tired. Careful.

There’s a beat. Then another.

“Brock says you’re fitting in.”

You tilt your head. “You asking or checking in?”

He doesn’t reply.

You shift your stance. “So. That’s your girlfriend?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait.

He doesn’t elaborate.

Typical.

You look at him long enough to remember every headline they wrote about you—too cold, too calculated, too much. Then say:

“You look good together.”

He flinches, barely. “She’s easy to be with.”

You nod. “And I’m not.”

He doesn’t correct you.

Doesn’t have to.

The silence sits between you like it used to—dense, unspoken, honest in the worst way.

You don’t say goodbye when you walk past him.

He doesn’t stop you.

But that night, your phone buzzes once. Unknown number. No name.

Still think about Calgary. No follow-up. No sign-off.

You don’t respond.

But you don’t delete it either.