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lowkeyren · 14 days ago

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—how to win my husband over 101

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

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

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

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

is he drinking... blood?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

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

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

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

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah.

well at least he has jokes..?)

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

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

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

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

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

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.

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

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

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

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

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

today will be different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a sudden force slams into your back.

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

it’s deeper than you thought.

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

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

the next thing you feel is warmth.

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

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

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

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

did he jump in after you..?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet, here you are.

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

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

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

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

something tugs at the edge of his mind.

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

so why do you still look at him like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

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

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

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

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

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“y-your highness, i only—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good like this, you think.

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

a half-truth, at best.

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

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"especially when they were a gift from you."

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

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

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

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. that does it.

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m not mad i—”

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

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

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just your luck.

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

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

did he just—?

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

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

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

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

oh no.

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

you frown. “phainon—”

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

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

“huh?”

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

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

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

“that’s enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

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

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

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

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

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

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

you blink, momentarily startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... and i wanted one today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“if it’s for you,”

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

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

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

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

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

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

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

the crowd cheers for violence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

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

“i always will.”

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

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

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i love you, [name]."

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

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

3K notes · View notes

navybrat817 · 7 months ago

Text

Mr. and Mrs. Barnes

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky suggests sneaking off at the gala. How can you resist?

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Unprotected v. sex, sex in a closet, dirty talk, possessiveness, established relationship, slight insecurities, mention of breeding, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes and he's a simp for you (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Sorry, lovelies. I just really wanted this. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn’t bother to hide his discontent as he looked around at the ballroom. Was it a gala? Fundraiser? What cared? He hated functions like these. People were either there to kiss ass and move up the chain of command or gloat about how well off they were in life under the guise that they were doing good for others. He didn't attempt to converse with any of them, but still had to go as a way to support SHIELD in some capacity and show that he was no longer the Winter Soldier.

At least Steve and Sam were excused from the event due to a mission.

Leaning against one of the pillars and tugging at his bowtie, he spaced out momentarily. No one looked his way, but he still felt judged. Like he didn’t just belong at the event, but amongst anyone. He wanted to go home, get out of his tuxedo, and get the product out of his slicked back hair. He debated sneaking away from some air until he blinked and saw the reason he was truly there: you, the only real person in the crowd of liars and cheaters.

He never understood the expression of clothes clinging to someone like a second skin until you stepped into your floor-length black dress earlier this evening, the fabric enhancing every beautiful curve of your body. His eyes narrowed as you moved around the room and exchanged smiles and handshakes with people. Your aura drew people to you, men brushing against you and their stares lingering for far too long. It served as another reminder of why he didn’t want to go tonight, especially when a General gripped your arm.

If he had a glass in his hand it would’ve shattered.

Convincing you to stay in bed didn't work since you both had to make an appearance, but it didn't mean he wanted you apart from him. “Get over here,” he whispered, craving your attention, needing you close.

As if you sensed him seeking you out, likely feeling the weight of his stare, you turned to meet his gaze across the room. Your eyes sparkled with love that he never thought he’d receive in his lifetime. The kind of love he never wanted to be without again. “Would you please excuse me?” You asked loud enough for him to catch as you removed your arm from the man’s grip. “My husband is waiting for me.”

Your hips swayed as you worked your way toward Bucky, not stopping for any other man who tried to catch your eye. Hearing you call him your husband brought the first smile to his face since he arrived. He still couldn’t believe some days that you wanted forever with him. “I was wondering when my beautiful wife would remember I was here,” he said once you were close enough, reaching out for your hand.

The moment you took it, he stood tall and pulled you against him. He was certain no one else came close to the intimidating vibe he put out, his hold on you possessive as you smiled. “As if I could forget. Practically heard you growling when General Rando touched my arm,” you teased.

“Because he has no right to touch you,” he said, your lashes fluttering as you spun away. His hands guided you back to him. “I know you’re better with people than I am, which is why you’re the one who has to socialize and I’m sorry for that. But you also said I’m not allowed to break any fingers tonight and I won't be held responsible if he tries to touch you again.”

He swore he didn’t have a possessive bone in his body until you sauntered into his life, giving him hopes and dreams and longing.

You laughed at him, a seductive sound that had a few heads turning. “You do know I can break his fingers myself, right?”

He chuckled, leaning close to your ear and tickling your skin with his breath. “I know you're more than capable of kicking his ass. One of your many wonderful qualities,” he whispered. People underestimated you and that was always a mistake. “But I still don't like that he touched you like he wanted to own you.”

You rang a finger along his bowtie. “We all know who owns me and we know I own you, too,” you said, holding up your hand to show him your wedding ring. He tried to ignore how fast his heart pounded at the sight of his ring on your finger, the pledge you two made together. “In a very healthy, non-toxic sort of way, of course.”

He smirked, glancing around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Of course, but maybe we could give everyone a friendly reminder that we’re a happily married and loyal couple.” His voice dropped lower, teasingly. He wanted to make your heart race like his. “Or maybe we could sneak away for a bit. Make this night a little more interesting.”

“Sneak away?” You feigned innocence as you blinked at him. He was certain any innocence you had before he met you was gone thanks to him. “Whatever for?”

“You know what for. It’ll be like that expo we went to a few months ago.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying your face closely. He easily picked up your sharp inhale, the way your pupils dilated and lips parted. It was clear that sneaking off was something that very much interested you. “C’mon, baby. This gala is boring and neither of us want to be here. My idea is much more fun. You know it is.”

He touched your cheek, your skin warm under his hand. He wasn’t able to keep you in bed earlier like he wanted, but the thought of pulling you away and having you right here and now had his stomach fluttering with excitement. “This gala is boring,” you agreed carefully.

“Then let’s make it exciting.” His thumb brushed across your lips and it took everything in him not to push his thumb inside. “You made me come to this thing. Don’t I deserve something for showing up and behaving?”

“I haven't made you come yet.” His muscles went taut when you briefly sucked the digit into your mouth, electricity crackling under his skin. He admired your boldness, how you were unashamedly yourself in front of these people. You didn't and would never care what they thought. “And I didn't make you come to this event, but I can make it worth your while.”

He held your chin and moved close until only an inch separated your faces. Your eyes gleamed with a hunger that rivaled his. The air crackled between you, daring you both to give over to your obvious desires. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” He rasped when you suddenly pulled back and helped move him across the floor in a dance.

“My plan? I thought sneaking away was your idea,” you smiled, guiding you both closer to the open doorway. “But if we can find a closet or dark corner, you can do whatever you want with me. And I’ll even let you fuck my throat first thing tomorrow morning for behaving.”

A rumbling, deep groan escaped his throat. His fingers dug in possessively when he gripped the nape of your neck and tilted your head so he could taste your skin. Your body molding against his, soft and yielding against his solid frame, wasn’t enough. There were too many clothes in the way and he wanted to bury himself deep inside you.

“You drive me crazy, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered, lifting his head to look into your eyes.

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Barnes.” You bit your lip once he waltzed you for enough away from prying eyes, the heat flaring between you. “I need you.”

Every nerve ending came to life when he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged past your lips, holding you steady as he devoured you. You melted against him, which only brought forth his primal hunger more. His intensity never scared you and he would be forever thankful for that.

You gasped as your back hit a wall, the sounds of chatter and music from the ballroom muffled. Your nails scraped the fabric of his jacket, both of you lost in sensations of lust and desire. As one of your hands continued its journey to his shoulder, the other wandered down his torso and didn’t stop until you gripped his thick erection through his pants.

He abruptly broke the kiss when you gave him a squeeze, his eyes wild. “Fuck,” he breathed, gripping your wrist and pushing more firmly against your hand. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

With dizzying speed, he spun you so that your back pressed against his front. You panted as his hand ventured through the slit of your dress and brushed along your trembling thigh. “Wait until you feel how wet I am,” you whispered, grinding your hips back against his.

His mouth brushed the exposed column of your throat, alternating between small bites and open mouthed kisses. “Still get wet for me?” He asked, massaging your breast with his vibranium hand and drawing another gasp from you when he pinched your nipple. He marveled at how much he could feel with that hand and how he’d never harm you with it.

“Have you seen yourself? One look from you and I’m soaked.” Your back arched as he bit down again. He wished he saw himself the way you did. “And you’re my husband. That craving for you isn’t going away.”

He rocked his hips against yours, seeking out more contact and friction as his cock throbbed and heart swelled. Marriage wasn’t a constant honeymoon phase. It took work. Effort. Compromise. But you were worth every moment, every struggle, every up and down.

Laughter from a few feet away had him lifting his head, both of you looking toward where the noise was coming from. “Fuck,” he snarled, wanting to scream at whoever it was to go the fuck away.

“There’s a closet around the corner. We just need to pick the lock,” you told him, smiling over your shoulder. “I may have scoped out the place in case this happened.”

He chuckled, utterly in awe of you. “I fucking love you,” he exhaled.

Walking with an aching hard-on wasn’t easy, but he managed to get you both further away from the ballroom. He picked the lock with record speed once you got to the door and moved you both inside. He flipped on the light, wanting to see as much of you as he could. For a moment, you two stared at each other and waited for the other to make a move. He loved the anticipation.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Barnes,” you said, reaching for the doorknob to lock it. He was about to ask what he possibly did to upset you when you smirked. “You didn’t mention anything about me not wearing any panties.”

His cock was ready to burst from his pants. “Because that fucking clown out there interupted me,” he rumbled, pinning you against the door and crowding your body. His nose touched yours as he hiked your dress up, desperate to kiss you again. Eager to feel your wetness. “You trust me?”

It was a question he always asked. You put all of yourself into his care, your body, mind, heart, and soul. It was only fair that he made sure you still wanted him to be the one for you today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Even then a single lifetime would never be enough for him. He wanted a thousand lives with you.

“Always,” you said, an ache in your voice that he couldn’t resist. He fused his lips with yours, building up the fire all over again when his hand found your damp heat. The most intimate part of you where you allowed him to make himself at home. Your hands shook as you went to undo his pants, wanting to free him. “And you trust me?”

It wasn’t just his heart that contracted. His very soul trembled, wanting to wrap itself up in your light and love. “With everything in me,” he promised, sighing when he pulled his cock free from his underwear. “I’ll worship you later. Those gorgeous tits of yours. Your sweet cunt.”

Once you were home, he’d slip off your dress and give every beautiful inch of your body the attention it deserved. He’d draw a bath for you, too, and hopefully join you so he could simply hold you. But he was desperate for you now. He thought he’d burn if he didn’t have you.

You hiked a leg around him, moving your hips enticingly. There was only so much he could take. And who wouldn’t fall under the tempting spell of your body? “I’m ready for you.” Your soft moan echoed in his ears as he trailed a finger along your slit to your clit, barely touching it. He knew it would shoot small sparks through your body until you begged for more. “I mean it, Barnes. Get. Your cock. In me.”

“My needy little wife,” he whispered against your lips as he gripped the base of his cock and probed your entrance. The breathy sound you made when he began to push in had his blood pulsing in euphoria. It was a wonder he fit some days with how tight you were, but your slick heat stretched and welcomed him every time.

“My needy husband,” you smiled as you enveloped him completely, your fingers curling in his hair.

“What kind of man isn’t needy for his wife?” He began to thrust in deep, deliberate strokes. It matched the rhythm of the music in the distant ballroom, the two of you creating your own sultry dance. Maybe he would go up in flames. At least he’d have you to burn with. “Fuck, your body was made for my cock.”

Each snap of his hips tore more moans and whimpers from your throat and sent shockwaves through his system. You clenched around him with a smile, looking like a debauched angel. “My pussy was made for you, so ruin it.”

He groaned, his pulse beating strongly as his grip tightened on your hips. He fucked you without restraint, just as greedy for you as you were for him. Allowing himself to feel you and what you did to him was everything he was denied for so long. His life had only been order. Pain. You let him lose control. You gave him pleasure. Even a home.

I love you.

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you panted, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone as his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to surface. “I love you, too.”

His pace picked up, urgent, frenzied. At this rate, he might explode into fragments from your declaration and how good you felt. “You love me?” He bit out, his eyes opening and breaths harsh as he felt you clench again.

You cried out, his hand flying up to brace your head before it hit the door. “So much,” you moaned as you gazed at him. You were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Fierce in love and loyalty, patient and steadfast. He feared some days he’d need you more than you needed him, but you drove that thought from his mind. “I’m yours.”

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned. He couldn’t with the way you looked at him, the way your walls gripped him, knowing you were his.

“Neither am…” Your mouth fell open as your release hit you, your fluids drenching him. It was a wonder to watch you go over the edge in a blissful orgasm. He wanted to be right there with you.

“There you go. Good girl,” he encouraged, your body still tight around his cock. He erupted in one last thrust, his head falling back with an animalistic roar. “Fuck…”

Bucky braced a hand against the door, the other holding you like a lifeline. If only the two of you were at home so he could properly cuddle with you. His breathing remained ragged for a bit as he came down from his high, your breathing beginning to steady, too. He couldn't help but smile as he took in the sight of you thoroughly ravaged and satisfied. “Worth every second of being here,” he sighed, slowly pulling out of your twitching hole. You inhaled when he moved a hand down and swiped two fingers along the mess seeping out of you. “Clean them off for me, baby,” he ordered huskily, bringing them to your mouth.

Obediently, you parted your lips and allowed him to push his fingers in. You swirled your tongue around them to taste your combined essence, moaning at the tangy flavor. He tucked himself away once you finished up, afraid that he’d fuck you all over again if he didn’t get completely dressed. It didn’t stop him from gazing longingly at you as he fixed his jacket.

And it didn’t stop him from imagining your mouth around his cock the next morning.

“Now.” You grimmaced slightly as he helped you steady yourself and straighten out your dress. He knew that look. It was the look you got for a split second whenever the sticky remnants continued to trickle down your thighs. He loved having that claim on you. “How do you expect me to go back to the gala after that?”

“I don’t,” he smirked, his hands moving back to your hips as he snuck in a gentle kiss. “I think it’s time to get you home and back in our bed where you belong. I promised I’d worship you, remember?”

You nodded, your eyes still slightly dazed. “On one condition.”

He titled his head. “What’s that?”

A slow smile curved your mouth, his heart pounding and cock twitching back to life at your answer, “You put a baby in me tonight.”

So, lovelies, was it okay? I feel rusty. And who wants a future fic of Bucky breeding you? Just me? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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dmitriene · 6 months ago

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continuation to this small work, cw: two freaks in love.

könig finds out you're kind of shy, a meek, pretty thing, sure, you send him such a revealing, unabashed polaroid pictures, but now, with him appearing out of nowhere at your door, giant and rugged, your fingers fiddle nervously at your own clothes, tugging down and trembling at your sides, wide eyes looking at the letter he holds in his gloved hand, from colonel, to you, name written by the way you already memorized, making you understand that it's really him.

the man you sent your nudes to, who would've know that he'd get so obsessed to try and find you like possessed dog, but you welcome him nonetheless, shuffling aside to let him in, bend his head down with a curl to his back so he would get past the doorway to your living room, dirty boots leaving a crumbs of dirt, his gear coated in things you don't want to know about, but his bright, unmovingly focused eyes look at you with a crinkle of delight, pupils could've dilate by now.

sure, könig is a little bit sad you didn't welcome him naked, or undressing at the very first sight of him, but he can work from what he got, from your shy touches when he wraps a hand around yours, for a handshake, that's it, but his by now ungloved, sandpapered fingers rub and circle around your wrist, curious, almost shuddering at the feel of your much smoother, gentle skin against his, and just this is enough to turn him on, cock swelling hard in his cargos.

he wonders if you'll let him bend you over the couch and eat your pussy from the back, or just stretch your pretty hole around his swollen cock, but you ask him questions, how he found you, why, does he wants something to eat, but könig already plans a small wedding for you two so he could make you his forever, an adorable housewife that will take care of her hard working husband with sending him pictures of her holes he could pump full after coming home.

könig tells you everything, how much times you made him cum, that he fantasized about you in any possible situation and position, dreamed of entering his quarters, and instead of a empty, boring room see you curled at his bed, his thumb tracing along your knee all the while he babbles your ears off with all disgusting, horny talks, but it's amuses you, to the point your thighs start to clench together, pressing harsh, as you lean in, watching his eyes nearly eclipse from the very little contact.

you put the letter he brought aside on the table, instead, asking your questions, and then answering his, which only contain of awkward, boyish laugh and stuttering words of if he looks the way you imagined, and könig is, a little bit awkward, in the same time cocky enough to touch you, nearly groping, looking enchanted on the outline of your breasts from beneath your sleeping shirt, before rubbing an sweaty hand against the back of his hooded head, such a silly man.

nearly jumps out of his pants when you offer him to take a bath at your place, voice mellowy and inviting, and könig trots behind you with a wagging tail when you lead the way, filling the bath full of warm water and couple drops of shower gel, making some bubbles that not really suit him, but would make the room smell nice and block out all that reeks out from him when he starts to undress, preening under your touch when you help to unclasp couple of things off his gear, könig holding down from to not shove your hand down his crotch.

it's when you join him that he gets insistent, all your shy act dropping down, your nails raking down the expanse of his toned, tissued back with tiny, reddening streaks, as könig corners you against the bathtub ceramic, moaning raggedly and humping your pussy persistently, messy, hips grinding and twitching, and the way he acts so eager and silly makes you really aroused, mewling right against his wet ear as he sloppily makes out with your neck, his hair and stubble rubbing all over your sensitive, bruised skin, sharp teeth's closing around the warmed flesh.

seems like now, you have a strange kind of boyfriend, a military colonel, a right pervert, and a pussy drunk pup that pumps your soppy, gummy cunt full of his thick, creamy release, one he kept in his balls especially for your meeting, his vision nearly blackening from how long his cock throbbed and spurted, squeezed tight by your pulsing, milking walls, enjoying your palms stroking his face, cooing at him hushed and lulling, everything könig dreamt of.

main masterlist. quidelines.

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shaiyasstuff · 1 month ago

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side effects may include: marriage, blushing, and one shirtless husband. | zayne

synopsis : You never planned on getting married straight out of college—especially not to a broody, absurdly attractive cardiac surgeon with the emotional range of a paperweight. But one wine-infused chocolate, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and an accidental kiss later, you’re rethinking everything.

content : arranged marriage!au, pure fluff, comedy, writer on crack

The letter in your hand crumples with the weight of betrayal as you wave it in front of your mother’s face like a white flag soaked in passive-aggression. “What is this?”

She barely glances up from her tea. “Your marriage agreement,” she says, taking a sip as if she hadn’t just casually handed your freedom over like a lunchbox.

“Why didn’t I know about this?!” you exclaim, arms flailing like you’re directing traffic in a thunderstorm.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed,” she replies smoothly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Which, apparently, to her, it is.

“Mom, I literally just graduated,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face.

She raises a perfectly plucked brow. “I married your father before I even finished.”

You let out another groan, louder this time, before collapsing face-first onto the designer couch like a Victorian heroine with a Wi-Fi addiction.

It probably doesn’t help that your family owns one of the biggest tech companies in the country.

Wealthy, yes.

Emotionally prepared for an arranged marriage? Absolutely not.

“I don’t even know the guy!” you practically shout, sounding one emotional notch away from launching yourself into a soap opera.

“I do,” your mother says, flipping open her book like this conversation is just background noise. “He’s a very charming young man.”

You grab the nearest pillow and dramatically smother yourself with it. “I’m not doing it,” you declare, voice muffled and full of angst.

“It’s already been decided.”

You fling the pillow aside like it personally betrayed you. “No!”

Somewhere in the distance, a rich person’s violinist probably sighed in sympathy.

“You can’t make me do this!” you cry, pointing an accusatory finger at her like you’re about to cast a spell of teenage rebellion.

“You will move into the new house in a week. Pack your things,” she replies, turning the page of her book without even looking at you, as if she’s ordering takeout instead of destroying your life.

You gape at her. “I’m not going to prison, Mom. I’m just trying to live my mediocre post-grad life in peace!”

She sips her tea. “And now you’ll do it as a married woman. Congratulations.”

You consider packing alright—packing your bags and running to a country where arranged marriages are considered ancient history.

Except, here you were—one week, three tantrums, and a very dramatic attempt to fake your own death later—standing in front of your husband.

Tall. Towering. Probably sculpted by ancient gods who had nothing better to do.

In your new marital home.

You blink up at him, still hoping this was an elaborate prank and Ashton Kutcher was going to leap out from behind a curtain with a camera crew.

No such luck.

Your new husband just stood there, looking like he stepped out of a magazine and into your worst-case scenario.

“I’m Zayne,” he says calmly, like you’re meeting at a networking event and not at the start of your forced domestic partnership.

You stare. Tall, brooding, buttoned-up like he’s allergic to joy.

Of course his name is Zayne—the kind of name that comes with a tragic backstory and an impressive skincare routine.

A shudder runs through you.

You’re married to that?

Somewhere in the background, the universe probably gave you a thumbs-up and whispered, “Good luck, sweetheart.”

You gulp, trying to summon the dignity your pajama-clad soul clearly lacks. “I’m Y/N.”

He nods. Nods. No handshake, no smile, no “Nice to meet you, fellow victim of our parents’ power trip.”

And then—he just turns and walks away.

Walks. Away.

You’re left standing there, blinking like a Wi-Fi signal trying to reconnect.

Married. To a man who treats introductions like optional software updates.

—•

“This is what Mom called charming?” you grumble, side-eyeing the empty hallway like it personally offended you.

You replay the interaction in your head—“I’m Zayne”—and resist the urge to punch a pillow just to feel something.

Naturally, you do what any responsible adult in a forced marriage would do.

You begin a full-scale reconnaissance mission.

Operation? Figure Out Who the Heck I Married.

You start with the basics—tracking his schedule, observing his comings and goings like an underpaid spy in a bad rom-com.

The man has the consistency of a German train schedule, the emotional availability of a stone wall, and the mystery level of a locked diary in a teenager’s room.

You have no idea what he does for work. He leaves in crisp suits and comes home even more pressed. He talks to no one. He reads thick books with no covers. You’ve yet to catch him watching a single cat video.

So, naturally, you conclude he must be a rich heir. Or a prince. Or some exiled monarch trying to lay low until his kingdom is restored.

It helps that he’s unfairly attractive—black hair that falls just right, piercing eyes that could probably see through walls, and a jawline that could cut glass.

Yep. Definitely a prince.

A very emotionally constipated, tragically handsome prince.

“I know you’re there,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered—of course he does, because apparently your espionage skills rank somewhere between amateur squirrel and nosy neighbor.

He doesn’t even look up from his book at first. Just turns a page calmly, as if catching his new wife spying on him is an everyday occurrence.

Then, slowly, he tilts his head and meets your eyes.

Oh no.

That look is lethal—cool, unreadable, and annoyingly attractive. He sets the book down with a soft thud and takes off his glasses like he’s about to lecture you, interrogate you, or casually ruin your life with a single sentence.

“Come in,” he says, and somehow it sounds less like an invitation and more like a challenge.

You briefly consider fleeing the country.

But your legs move anyway.

You let out an awkward laugh, the kind that sounds more like a hiccup caught mid-lie. “I was just… trying to see what you do.”

Zayne arches a brow, amused. “And lurking behind walls was the most effective method?”

You shrug, stepping inside, the door clicking softly shut behind you. “I considered asking. But you don’t exactly give off ‘share your feelings over coffee’ vibes.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, arms folding as he studies you—like you’re a puzzle he didn’t ask for but now can’t resist solving. “And what have you learned from your mission?”

“That you read a lot of intimidating books and might secretly be a prince,” you mutter, eyeing the hardcover he’d set down. “Or an assassin with excellent taste in eyewear.”

That earns you the ghost of a smile. Barely there—but it softens something in his expression.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” he says, and somehow, that doesn’t help.

You step closer, cautiously. “So… what do you do?”

Zayne tilts his head slightly. “Why? Interested now?”

“Trying to decide if I should be impressed… or mildly concerned for my safety.”

He chuckles under his breath—quiet and low, like he’s not used to laughing, but might want to try. “Maybe both.”

And for a moment, just a flicker, the air between you shifts. Less awkward, more curious. Like two strangers on the edge of something not quite comfortable, but not cold either.

“Well,” you say, fiddling with a stray thread on your sleeve, “I figured if I’m going to be married to a mystery man, I should at least get to know the mystery.”

Zayne watches you for a beat longer, then gestures to the seat across from him.

“Then stay,” he says. “Ask your questions properly this time.”

And you do.

You sit down across from him, suddenly hyper-aware of how your knees almost brush beneath the table.

His gaze is steady—too steady—and you gulp like you’ve just asked for his hand in courtship instead of mild information.

“So… what do you do?” you ask, trying to sound casual. It comes out more like a nervous frog asking a favor.

Zayne doesn’t answer right away. He leans back slightly, arms still folded, one brow lifting like he’s debating how much to reveal—or maybe just how much fun he’ll have watching you squirm.

“I’m a cardiac surgeon,” he finally says, voice low and even.

You blink.

“I—what?”

“I operate on hearts,” he says, like he’s talking about changing a lightbulb.

You stare at him. This whole time you thought he was brooding over world domination or writing dark poetry about rain. Heart surgeon was not on your bingo card.

“Wait, seriously? Like… actual hearts? With… scalpels?”

He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Is there another kind?”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wow. I was prepared for ‘billionaire with a tragic past,’ not Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I assure you, there’s still a tragic past,” he deadpans, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s joking.

He doesn’t elaborate—but something in his eyes flickers. Quiet. Guarded.

You lean back, blinking slowly. “Okay… that’s kind of hot.”

That gets him. His lips twitch, just a little. “Are you flirting with your husband?”

You pretend to examine the ceiling. “I’m just saying, it makes the whole mysterious-silent-guy thing slightly more tolerable.”

He lets out a soft laugh—barely audible, but it’s real.

And suddenly, sitting across from him doesn’t feel so heavy.

He stands up suddenly, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape against the floor. You jolt slightly, halfway through processing his laugh, and blink up at him.

His expression has shifted—still calm, but there’s something else now. A hint of gravity in the way he looks at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, catching you off guard. “For the suddenness of all this.”

You sit up straighter, unsure what to say. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged the whole arranged-marriage-against-your-will situation out loud.

Before you can respond, he steps closer, extending a hand—not forceful, just open. “Let me show you why.”

Your heart skips. “Why what?”

“Why our parents thought this could work,” he says, and for the first time, there’s no teasing in his tone—just sincerity. Gentle, but certain.

You stare at his hand. His fingers are long, precise. A surgeon’s hands. Hands that fix hearts.

And here he was, offering them to you.

So, slowly, hesitantly, you place your hand in his.

And just like that, something shifts again. Less awkward. A little warmer. A little more real.

He guides you out to his car—a sleek, polished thing that looks like it probably knows more about taxes than you do. He opens the passenger door for you, which is either chivalrous or unsettling, you’re not sure yet.

You slide in, still trying to wrap your head around this whole situation, when he leans in unexpectedly close—and reaches across you.

Your breath catches.

Then—click—he fastens your seatbelt.

You blink at him, flustered. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. It was clinical. Efficient. Like buckling you in was a task on his daily checklist.

Still, your brain short-circuits a little.

“Thanks,” you mumble, confused by how something so unromantic could still make your stomach flutter.

He simply shuts the door and rounds the front of the car, settling into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.

You glance over. “So… where are we going?”

He shifts the gear with practiced ease, eyes on the road. “To see my parents.”

You freeze. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“As in—meeting the in-laws now?”

Zayne glances at you, completely calm. “You’re my wife. It’s only natural.”

You groan quietly into your palms. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

At your dramatic groan, Zayne gives the faintest hint of a smile—so subtle you almost miss it. Just the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like your misery is a quiet source of amusement to him.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that a smile?”

“I don’t recall,” he says, cool as ever.

You huff and turn your gaze out the window, resigned to what you assume will be an awkward, overly formal afternoon in a mansion filled with judgmental in-laws and porcelain teacups.

But twenty minutes later, when the car slows to a stop, your sarcasm dies in your throat.

Because this isn’t a mansion.

It’s a cemetery.

Your eyes flick to him, your voice suddenly small. “Zayne…?”

He cuts the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt, his expression unreadable again.

“You said you wanted to know why,” he says, gently. “So I’m showing you.”

And just like that, your earlier words—your groaning, your dramatics, your little internal jokes—feel like they belong to someone else entirely.

Zayne steps out of the car without another word, and you follow, suddenly quiet, your footsteps softer on the gravel. The wind tugs at your sleeves as he leads you up a small hill, the world around you hushed, respectful.

The trees part at the crest, revealing an open clearing.

Two gravestones stand side by side, worn but well-kept, the grass around them neatly trimmed. Fresh flowers rest at their bases—white lilies, carefully arranged.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Zayne slows as he approaches, his hands in his coat pockets. He doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at them for a long moment. When he does speak, his voice is low, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“These are my parents.”

Your chest tightens.

You glance at him—his posture still straight, still composed, but there’s something softer now. Something heavy that doesn’t show in his face, but in the silence he carries around it.

“They passed away when I was in my first year of med school,” he says, eyes fixed on the stones. “I visit them every week. I always bring lilies—my mother liked them.”

You stand there beside him, uncertain at first, then quietly fold your arms, the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no edge in his voice. Just truth.

And suddenly, you understand what he meant earlier. Why he said he wanted to show you. Why he apologized.

Because this marriage wasn’t just sudden—it was the first thing in a long time he hadn’t had to face alone.

“My parents made an agreement with yours,” Zayne says, his voice steady as he turns to face you.

There’s no accusation in his tone, no bitterness. Just quiet honesty.

“So in a way,” he continues, meeting your eyes, “we’re both stuck in this predicament. Not just you.”

The word predicament almost makes you laugh—because that’s exactly what it is. A polite, miserable mess you’ve both been handed like a family heirloom no one wanted.

But the way he says it… it’s not cold. It’s not detached.

It’s shared.

For the first time, you see the man behind the silence. Not just the polished stranger with perfect posture and unreadable expressions—but someone who lost his family, who carried grief with clinical grace, who walked into this marriage just as unprepared as you.

You lower your gaze, toeing the earth gently beneath your shoe. “Guess that makes us reluctant allies.”

“Something like that,” he murmurs.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “But I don’t intend to stay strangers with you forever. Not if we’re in this together.”

You feel something small and strange crack open in your chest.

Hope. Maybe. Or just the beginning of something real.

After the quiet moments of prayer—hands clasped, heads bowed, the wind weaving through the stillness—you and Zayne make your way back down the hill in silence. It’s not uncomfortable this time. Just… thoughtful. Like something unspoken has shifted between you.

The ride home is calm, the late afternoon sun casting soft light through the windshield. You glance over at him, watching the way his fingers rest lightly on the steering wheel, the way his profile is bathed in gold.

You hesitate, then ask, voice gentle, “How do you feel about this marriage?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The road stretches ahead, lined with trees and fading light, and you think maybe he won’t answer at all.

But then, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips—small, but unmistakable.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Now that I’ve met you.”

You blink.

It’s not grand or poetic. It’s not a love confession or sweeping gesture. But something about the way he says it—so simple, so sure—makes your heart trip a little in your chest.

You turn back to the window, trying to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

And for the first time, the silence between you feels like something full, not empty.

—•

When you reach home, Zayne unlocks the door with quiet efficiency and steps inside like he’s been doing it for years—even though technically, it’s your first week as reluctant roommates.

He shrugs off his coat and heads straight for the kitchen.

You trail behind him, curious. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says, already reaching for the kettle.

You arch a brow. “Seriously… did you go to husband-training-school or something?”

He glances at you over his shoulder, eyes just a touch amused. “Is that a thing?”

“It should be,” you say, hopping up onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “You open doors, buckle seatbelts, visit your parents’ graves with fresh flowers, and now you make tea? Either you’re weirdly good at this or you’ve been raised by a very intense etiquette instructor.”

Zayne smirks—an actual smirk this time, not the half-ghost of one. “My mother believed in manners. My father believed in precision.”

You nod sagely. “Ah, so you were raised by royalty.”

He sets two mugs on the counter, then adds, “And I believe in not poisoning my wife with bad tea on day seven of our arranged marriage.”

You lift your hands. “Low bar, but I appreciate it.”

He chuckles quietly as he pours the water, and you watch him, a strange sort of warmth settling in your chest.

Turns out, “reluctant husband” looks a lot like “softly competent tea-making mystery man” when no one’s looking.

You watch him as he carefully stirs the tea, trying to look casual, though there’s an edge to your curiosity. “So, have you got a girlfriend? Before all this…?”

The question hangs in the air, a little awkward, but you can’t help yourself. You’re still trying to figure out who he is outside of this whole marriage thing. You need to know what kind of life he led before it all changed.

Zayne doesn’t answer immediately, his movements slowing for just a moment as if he’s considering the question carefully. His eyes flick to you, then back to the steaming mugs.

“No,” he says after a beat, the word simple but loaded. “I didn’t. Too busy, I suppose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Too busy for dating? I find that hard to believe.”

He lets out a quiet breath, placing the spoon down with the kind of deliberation that makes you think there’s more behind it. “It’s not that I didn’t have time. I was just… focused on other things.”

“Like saving lives?” you tease, leaning on the counter.

He glances at you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment before he gives a small nod. “Exactly. I never made time for anything else.”

You hum thoughtfully, but there’s something in his voice that makes you stop. Focused on other things. You wonder if that was his way of avoiding other things. Or maybe he just never let anyone close enough.

You catch his gaze again, and this time, there’s a flicker—an unspoken something in the way he holds it. You can’t quite place it, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, just slightly.

“Well, now you’ve got me,” you say, trying to keep the tone light. “I guess that makes two of us.”

Zayne’s lips curl into the faintest smile. “Indeed.”

That night, you change into something nice—half-expecting a stiff, high-end restaurant with white tablecloths, six forks, and judgmental lighting.

But when Zayne pulls the car up to a quiet little corner bistro tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, you blink in surprise.

It’s not fancy. No valet, no sparkling chandeliers, no menus written in French.

It’s… cozy.

Warm lights glow from inside, casting golden puddles on the sidewalk. Through the windows, you spot mismatched chairs, little potted plants on the tables, and the soft flicker of candlelight.

Someone’s playing gentle jazz on a guitar in the corner, and the air smells like garlic and fresh bread.

“This isn’t what I expected,” you murmur as he opens the car door for you.

He raises a brow. “Disappointed?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. Actually… I like it.”

He doesn’t smile, not really—but there’s a flicker in his eyes, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for.

Inside, you’re seated at a small table by the window. The waiter greets Zayne like he’s been here before, which surprises you even more. You hadn’t pegged him as the “quiet Italian bistro” type. More like “emotionally distant, espresso-fueled loner.”

But here he is. Ordering your meal with quiet confidence, asking if you want sparkling or still water like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And somehow, it feels normal.

As you sip your wine and let the warmth of the room settle around you, you realize this whole evening—isn’t part of some obligation or checklist.

He brought you here because he wanted to.

And that realization sits quietly between you, more intimate than candlelight.

“What did you study?” Zayne asks, his tone casual but deliberate.

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your water glass—not because the question itself is startling, but because he asked it. He, who rarely volunteers anything beyond necessity, is choosing to ask you something personal. Choosing to know you.

And that… that makes your chest feel oddly warm.

“Uhm,” you say, blinking out of your surprise. “I majored in Economics.”

He nods, his gaze steady. “I assume it’s to help your parents, then?”

You smile faintly, setting your glass down. “Yeah. I mean, I was never really pushed into it, but it felt like the logical thing to do. Legacy and all that.”

He hums, clearly understanding. “Pressure has a way of wearing itself like a choice.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “That was poetic.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s true.”

And you find yourself smiling—not the awkward, forced kind you used to wear around him, but a quiet, genuine one.

“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” you ask in return.

He considers for a moment, then says, “No. I wanted to be an architect when I was younger.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I liked building things,” he says, eyes flicking to you with a faint glimmer of amusement. “But life had other plans.”

And just like that, you realize you’re not dining with a stranger anymore.

You’re slowly, carefully, getting to know your husband.

You narrow your eyes at him, lips twitching as you lean back in your chair. “You wouldn’t have made a good architect,” you say, your tone teasing.

Zayne glances up from his plate, one brow arching in mock offense. “Oh? And why’s that?”

You shrug, swirling your water like it’s a wine glass. “Too serious. You’d probably design buildings with no windows. Just perfectly symmetrical, intimidating concrete blocks where joy goes to die.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I happen to like symmetry.”

“Exactly,” you grin. “You’d build dystopian fortresses and call them modern masterpieces.”

He leans forward slightly, voice lower, a touch playful. “And what would you build? Something inefficient with fairy lights and personality?”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “Yes. And they’d be beloved.”

Zayne smiles, really smiles this time—and for a second, you forget the marriage was arranged. Because god damn, he looks good when he smiles.

—•

Zayne drives you home after dinner, the quiet hum of the engine filling the space between you. The city lights blur softly past the windows, and you catch yourself smiling—again.

Not because of the food.

Not because of the warm, candlelit atmosphere.

But because he smiled at you.

Not a smirk, not a polite twitch of the lips—an actual, honest-to-goodness smile.

And it was for you.

You lean your head against the window, trying to play it cool, but your heart’s doing backflips like it’s auditioning for the Olympics.

Who knew one smile from a broody cardiac surgeon could make you feel like you were in a coming-of-age movie?

When he pulls up to the house and parks, he doesn’t rush out or unbuckle your seatbelt like earlier. He just sits for a moment, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, glancing at you through the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” you say softly, turning to him. “For dinner. And… for today.”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “You’re welcome.”

You linger a second longer than necessary, then reach for the door handle.

But before you can step out, he adds quietly, “I’m glad you came.”

Your breath catches, but you manage a soft smile.

“Me too.”

And as you walk up to the front door together, side by side, you realize something strange and terrifying and kind of wonderful:

You might actually be starting to like your husband.

—•

You’re halfway through your bedtime routine—hair tied up, comfy shirt on, emotionally bracing yourself for your nightly existential crisis—when you hear his voice from the living room.

“Y/N. Come sit with me.”

You freeze in the hallway like a startled cat.

Your brain short-circuits.

Come sit with me.

On the couch.

In the living room.

You peek around the corner, and there he is—Zayne, in his neatly rolled-up sleeves, glasses off, looking painfully relaxed and devastatingly unfair with one arm resting along the back of the couch like this is some indie romance movie and not your actual, real-life arranged marriage.

You fight the very real urge to scream.

Because—hello?? Attractive, emotionally reserved doctor asking you to sit beside him in dim lighting?

No. Absolutely not. Husband or not, this is a threat to your mental health and emotional stability.

Still, your feet move traitorously toward him.

You sit at the very edge of the couch, posture stiff, like you’re preparing to be interviewed, not casually sitting with your husband.

He glances at you, amused. “You look tense.”

“I am tense,” you mutter, clutching a throw pillow like it’s a life raft. “This feels like a trap.”

Zayne chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “You’re overthinking.”

“You’re underthinking. Have you seen yourself right now?”

He doesn’t answer—just reaches for the remote and switches on a movie.

And you sit there, slowly melting into the couch, wildly aware of how close he is, and wondering how on earth you’re supposed to survive a husband who smiles at you one moment and invites you to sit with him the next like it’s nothing.

It is very much something.

You shoot up from the couch like you’ve just remembered you left the stove on. “I’m gonna go… look for snacks,” you say, your voice a touch too high-pitched to be innocent.

Zayne turns his head slightly, probably about to say something—maybe to offer help or point out where the cookies are—but you don’t wait. You flee the room with the grace and urgency of someone definitely not running from their feelings.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you disappear down the hallway, you swear you see it.

A smirk.

That little—

Nope. You’re not thinking about that. You are not spiraling over one stupid, stupid smirk.

You fling open the pantry door with more drama than necessary and scan the shelves like a raccoon on a mission. And then… there it is.

A not-so-suspicious box of chocolate. Sitting there. Unlabeled. Untouched. Almost like it was waiting for you.

Naturally, the logical thing to do is take it.

You snatch it like a gremlin, muttering to yourself, “If this is his secret stash, he shouldn’t have left it where I could find it.”

Because if you’re going to emotionally unravel over a handsome surgeon who asks you to sit with him, you might as well do it with sugar.

You shuffle back into the living room, trying not to look suspicious even though you’re literally holding the loot in both hands.

Zayne glances at the box, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

Without a word, you plop down next to him again—this time slightly closer, because apparently you’re a danger to yourself—and open the lid. You pick one out, hesitate, then hold it out to him.

He looks at it, then at you.

And takes it.

Just like that—without hesitation, without question—like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to offer him something sweet and for him to accept it.

He pops it in his mouth, casual, like he didn’t just cause your heart to skip a full beat.

You stare at him. “You didn’t even ask what it was.”

He shrugs. “I trust your judgment.”

Great. Now you’re emotionally compromised and flustered.

You quickly shove a chocolate into your own mouth before you say something like “Why are you so attractive when you chew?”

This marriage is going to ruin you.

As the chocolate melts on your tongue, rich and smooth, you frown slightly. There’s something… extra about the flavor. A little too warm. A little too bold.

You squint at the box, lifting it closer to inspect the label. The fancy script mocks you as your eyes land on the fine print.

“Hey, these are infused with—”

You stop mid-sentence, turning to Zayne.

He’s flushed.

Not dramatically—but enough. His ears are a little pink, the tips of his cheeks tinged with color, and he suddenly seems very interested in the pattern on the coffee table.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, holding up the box like a smoking gun. “They’re infused with wine.”

He clears his throat. “Just a little.”

“Zayne.”

“I forgot,” he mutters, and now he won’t meet your eyes.

You blink at him, then at the chocolate, then back at him.

And then you burst into laughter.

“Are you—are you buzzed from one piece of wine chocolate?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real heat. “I’m not buzzed.”

“You’re flushed.”

“I run warm.”

You clutch your stomach, giggling. “Oh, this is so going in the mental scrapbook.”

He shakes his head, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

And suddenly, the couch doesn’t feel so intimidating. The air between you is warm—not from the chocolate or the wine, but from the quiet, ridiculous comfort of two strangers slowly, awkwardly becoming something more.

But fate, in all its twisted sense of humor, decided to laugh directly in your face.

Because as it turns out, Zayne does not do well with alcohol.

At all.

One wine-infused chocolate later, and he’s leaning back into the couch, flushed like he’s been running laps, and visibly warmer—literally and metaphorically.

You glance over just in time to see him tug at the top button of his shirt.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Your brain short-circuits.

You grip the edge of the sofa like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Do not scream. Do not make a sound. You are strong. You are composed. You are—

He exhales, fingers working at the last button near his collarbone, exposing smooth skin and that maddeningly perfect line of his throat.

“I feel… warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You don’t respond. Because you can’t.

You’re too busy having an internal meltdown.

This is not a movie. This is real life.

Real life where your emotionally-reserved, wine-chocolate-flushed husband is currently undoing his shirt on your shared couch like he doesn’t know what it’s doing to your sanity.

You bite your tongue and stare straight ahead.

This marriage is a trap.

This couch is cursed.

And Zayne, evidently, is dangerous in more ways than one.

You try—truly try—to focus on the TV.

You fixate on the screen like it holds the meaning of life, repeating in your head. Not looking. Not thinking. Muscles aren’t real. Buttons are lies. Stay strong.

But then—

You feel it.

A hand around your wrist. Warm. Firm.

You barely have time to register it before you’re turned toward him—face-to-face with all of him.

Half-unbuttoned shirt. Lean muscles. Broad chest. Collarbone on full display like it paid rent to be there. His eyes, slightly glazed but locked onto yours with an intensity that could melt furniture.

Your breath hitches. “Z-Zayne!”

Your voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. Like a cartoon character caught in a romantic ambush.

His hand doesn’t let go.

Neither does his gaze.

“You’re really red,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, as if you’re the one being strange in this situation.

“I’m red?!” you squeak, trying very hard not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere.

He leans just the tiniest bit closer, and his voice drops, slow and low. “Are you feeling warm too?”

You make a noise. Not a word. Just a sound. Because your brain has left the building and taken all coherent thought with it.

This couch is no longer a piece of furniture.

It’s a battlefield.

His grip on your wrist softens, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb brushes lightly—absently—against your skin as he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your entire existence.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he slurs softly, “You’re really… pretty… you know that?”

Your soul momentarily evacuates your body.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

“You are,” he says, a little slower, a little sleepier, his words curling lazily like they’re wrapped in velvet. “Your face is nice. Your eyes do this… sparkle thing. Like the stars. But not, cliché stars. Like… classy stars.”

You open your mouth to reply, but absolutely nothing intelligent comes out.

Because here is your emotionally closed-off husband—tipsy from a single chocolate, shirt halfway undone, staring at you like you hung the moon and casually comparing your eyes to classy stars.

This has officially become too much.

You grab the throw pillow beside you and bury your face in it with a muffled, “Zayne, you’re drunk.”

He hums, leaning back slightly, satisfied like he’s just confessed something profound.

“I’m married to a pretty girl,” he mumbles, like it’s the best realization he’s had all day.

And you? You are one slurred compliment away from combusting.

You reach out without thinking, hand aiming straight for his cheek—half to ground yourself, half because you want to see if he’s real and not just a hallucination brought on by wine chocolate and emotional confusion.

But before your fingers make contact, he catches your wrist again.

Gently. Firmly.

And then—he tugs.

You let out a surprised gasp as you stumble forward, barely catching yourself with your free hand against his chest. He’s solid. Warm. Way too warm.

Your heart skips, then trips, then sprints like it’s running late for something.

You barely have time to react before he looks up at you—eyes soft, dazed, and entirely sincere—and asks:

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s not breathy or desperate. Not bold or teasing.

He says it like a gentleman asking for a dance. Like he’s asking your permission to step into something delicate. Something real.

Your breath catches. The world stills. The TV hums in the background, forgotten.

You’re close enough to see the way his lashes rest against flushed skin, close enough to feel his breath brush against your lips.

And now, you have a choice to make.

Because despite the chaos, the circumstance, the wine-infused madness of it all—Zayne just asked you so politely to kiss you.

And god help you…

You kind of want him to.

You open your mouth to reply—maybe to say yes, maybe to question your sanity—but the words never make it out.

Because his lips are already on yours.

Gentle. Soft. Careful, like he’s still half-expecting you to pull away. Like he knows he’s toeing a fragile line and doesn’t want to break it.

Your eyes flutter shut as instinct takes over, and the world tilts slightly.

You can barely taste the chocolate on his lips, a hint of sweetness tangled with something warmer, something that makes your heart thrum unevenly in your chest.

Your mind goes fuzzy. Not from the kiss itself, but from the feeling that comes with it—the quiet kind. The kind that settles in your chest like a secret you hadn’t realized you were keeping.

He doesn’t rush it.

His hand stays on your wrist, thumb brushing softly along your skin, as if even now he’s asking—Is this okay? Are you sure?

And you are.

Somewhere between wine-infused chocolates, teasing banter, and the way he said Can I kiss you? like it meant everything—you became sure.

And so you kiss him back.

Somehow—somehow—you’re still suspended there, caught in that precarious space between balance and disaster, one hand on his chest, the other still held by his.

And then his hands slide to your waist.

Slow. Sure. Steady.

He holds you like he’s anchoring you—like if he let go, you might float away.

And that’s when the kiss deepens.

No more polite hesitation, no more softness at the edges. It’s still gentle, yes—but there’s more now. More pressure. More heat. More intention.

Your fingers curl against his shirt, and it takes every last ounce of self-control not to start undoing the buttons he didn’t already conquer earlier. Because God, you can feel the strength in him—lean muscle under your palm, warmth radiating like it was meant for you, and he’s kissing you like he’s waited a long time to do it.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like a secret.

Your mind is a whirlwind. Logic? Gone. Restraint? Dangling by a thread.

You are this close to losing all common sense and just undressing him right here on the couch like your sanity isn’t hanging on by a single, wine-infused thread.

But then he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

And he whispers, barely audible, “You taste sweet.”

You’re going to combust.

This man is going to ruin you.

The world blurs at the edges, warm and hazy like honeyed sunlight through half-closed curtains. His breath still ghosts against your lips, his hands still resting on your waist like they belong there, like you belong there.

You feel weightless. Drunk, not on wine or chocolate, but on him—the warmth of his skin, the way he kissed you like it was something sacred, the way he looked at you like you were something more than a stranger handed to him by fate.

Everything is soft. Glowing. Surreal.

Too perfect.

And then—

Blink.

The warmth fades. The light shifts.

You’re no longer on the couch.

You’re standing, stiff, in a room full of flowers and polished silence, your fingers cold at your sides.

Zayne stands across from you, buttoned-up, composed, unreadable. No wine in his system. No flushed cheeks. No trace of that kiss.

Just a man you’ve never met.

And the moment of your arranged introduction.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you don’t know what’s real.

But you do know one thing.

Whatever just happened—dream, vision, or cruel trick of the mind—it’s already begun.

masterlist

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