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fckwritersblock · 2 days ago

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I Never Told You (part 1 )

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x black reader

Description: ( unedited af ) You and Stack have been in love for what feels like forever, but neither of you has had the courage to speak up. Stack is convinced that your heart belongs to Smoke, and as for Smoke? He’s exhausted from trying to show you both that the love you seek is right in front of you.

Word count.: 3,852

A/n: this was originally one part, but I thought it’s a break it up into two because when I tell you, it’s getting a longer and longer 😭 I don’t wanna rush the way I want it to end but the way I’m craving these Sinners fic and I know some of y’all are too. I thought it would be nice to drop it now. Couldn’t contain my own excitement 😂

Enjoy ! 🩷

Part 2

As soon as you stepped off the train, a smile broke across your face. The familiar sights and sounds of home wrapped around you like a warm embrace. You were excited to finally be back, but a flutter of nerves danced in your stomach at the thought of seeing your sister for the first time in ages. Yes, you guys had written to each other, and she had tore your ass a new one in a few of them letters back home bout to running off with the twins without a word. Nevertheless, you knew regardless of how upset she may be with you, she’d always welcome you home with open arms. You missed your sister. You also missed the twins, who you were eager to reunite with. It had been almost a year since you’d all been together, and just thinkin' about Stack made your pulse quicken.

Steppin' aside so other boarding the train would have access to the front door, you made your way toward the center of the station, your eyes scanning the crowd. You were sure Stack knew you was comin' at this time, so you had a feelin' he’d be lurkin' around here somewhere. Just then, you heard it—a voice that sent a thrill of nostalgia through you. You turned around, curiosity piqued, and there he was, front and center.

But your heart sank a little when you noticed the woman standin’ in front of him. Fair-skinned and confident, she had that undeniable charm—Mary. Of course she would find him, you thought bitterly.

You watched as Stack’s gaze followed her, a solemn look crossing his face as she walked away. You should’ve known he’d seek her out the moment he arrived. You’d bet money he could find her in a crowed room, without fail.

You loathed Mary.

It wasn’t a secret. You couldn’t stand her presence and that gnawed at you deep down. It wasn’t just jealousy; it was that gut-wrenching belief that Stack cared for her more than he did for you. He looked out for her in a way that was different from how he looked out for you. The attention he gave her was the kind you had secretly longed for, and judging by the way he stood there, it seemed nothin' had changed.

Oh, how wrong you were.

“Old habits die hard, huh, Stack?” you snarked from behind him, the playful edge in your voice barely masking the hurt you felt.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes in resignation. He knew he was caught.

He didn’t even have to turn around to know it was you. Stack could tell by the sound of your voice that you was pissed, especially with the faux sugary sweet smile you wore when he finally faced you. That, and when you were at him, it was the only time you called him Stack and not Elias.

Turning around to face you he could barely contain the smile that wanted to break out.

It had been a year since the two of you had seen each other, but for him, it felt like a lifetime. For six years, y’all had traveled the world together. You had taken care of him and Smoke, watchin' their backs, makin' sure he stayed outta trouble. You had put up with his antics for so long, and he’d never understood why you stuck by his side. That was until you decided it was time to carve out your own path, to prove you could stand on your own.

So you left them. You left him. You promised to return within a year or come runnin' if he called.

But Stack didn’t call.

He figured you didn’t want him to. Not really. A part of him was upset with you for abandoning him. He knew Smoke had written to you a few times, and he tried not to let the green-eyed monster show. Smoke would tell him when he received a letter, sometimes even havin' one for him too. Stack never wrote back, but he always read the ones you sent for him. Several times in fact. He wanted to know how you were, what you had been up to, even if he fronted like he didn’t care. You were miles away and all he wanted was you near..

And now you were back, standing right in front of him, looking as breathtaking as ever. The sun-kissed brown skin of yours practically glowed in the light. The apples of your cheeks rounded as you smiled, dimples showing, and the curves of your hips called out to him as he admired your frame in the flowy yellow dress you wore. It reminded him of your favorite flower, magnolias, and coincidentally, yellow was his favorite color on you too.

You were home for him, and you didn’t even know it.

“It wasn’t even like that, Bam,” he said, tryin' to brush off the tension and butter you up with the nickname he gave you.

“It never is, is it, Stack?” you shot back, crossin' your arms, though a smile tugged at your lips.

“Come on now, after all this time, that’s the mood you wanna get off on?” He hand taken a few steps toward you and grabbed your hand.

“A brotha can’t get no love first?” He flashed you a smile he knew you couldn’t resist.

Despite yourself, your smile grew bigger as you felt the warmth of his presence pulling you in. You wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking into the comfort of his embrace.

“I missed you,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper as you melted against him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he replied, his words a gentle way of sayin', 'I missed you too.'

“Who’s this?” you asked, eyeing the guitar-totin' boy standin' next to them after you two finally pulled apart.

“The boy,” Stack replied, nodding in his direction.

“The boy—Little Sammie, is that you?!” you exclaimed, shocked.

“Miss Y/n?” he said, his eyes wide with disbelief.

You laughed, pulling him into a warm hug. God, he was all grown up. You used to help his ma look after him and his siblings sometimes, and you even sang in his daddy’s church for a while. That was until you started hangin' out with Smoke and Stack more and stopped goin' to church. You didn’t want to hear no sermons about how the devil had his hands on you and how you needed to come back to the Lord.

It was a bittersweet feeling, thinking about how much you missed them and how much Sammie had grown. You could see he still had to get his head on straight, but it warmed your heart that he was still playing the guitar Stack had given him.

“Well then, there will be plenty of time to catch up later. You boys finish up here. I’ll be in the car,” you announced a beat after pullin' away. You knew they was up to no good.

“Little Sammie, help Stack with my bags, will ya?” You pinched one of his cheeks playfully before giving the other a quick kiss, treating him like the youngin' he still was in your eyes.

“Oh and drop the ‘Miss’.” He stared after you, bewildered, as you walked past Stack, givin' him a wink while you patted his chest slowly, draggin' your hand away.

“That’s really Y/n,” Sammie said, still in disbelief, causing Stack to chuckle.

He hadn’t seen you since he was a boy, and he couldn’t believe how different you were now. You were just a teen girl girl in his eyes back then, but now you were a grown woman—an extremely attractive one, at that.

“She’s—”

“Way too much woman for you to handle, lil nigga,” Stack stated matter-of-factly, a smirk playin' on his lips.

Not too much for me, though, he thought to himself, wordlessly pickin' up both suitcases and handing his little cousin one. You would probably fit real pretty in the front seat of his ride right about now, knowin' you and those pretty pick pocketing hands of yours had already snatched the keys from his coat pocket.

“Well, are you?” Sammie quizzed.

“Am I what?” Stack frowned slightly.

“Handling it?” The corner of Preacher Boy’s mouth twitched just a little, and Stack knew the younger man could tell you were vexed with him, and he wasn’t handling shit.

“Bring yo ass on, smart ass.”

As a result of those endless hours of travel, you were exhausted. You hadn’t gotten much sleep on the train, not wantin' to doze off around strange white folks. Your father had raised you and your sister to always be aware of your surroundings. After hearin' Delta’s wild stories about the men he knew from the side of the road, you needed a moment to decompress. So, you let the sounds of Sammie’s guitar and the rhythm of the car rockin' gently lull you into a well-deserved rest.

You weren’t sure how long you had been asleep, but soon you felt somethin' soft brush against the side of your face.

“Bam,” you heard softly as you began to stir.

“Bam.” This time you felt a poke to your cheek.

With a soft groan, you opened your eyes to see Stack standin' outside of the car, looking at you with that soft smile that always made your heart race.

“There’s my girl.” He smiled down at you.

“What you want, Elias?” You tried not to blush at his words.

“We made it. Come on.” He extended his hand for you to take.

You took it, pullin' yourself up to stand. Prepared to jump over, he surprised you by lifting you up in the air out of the back of the car.

You squealed, caught off guard as he held you slightly above him. You looked down at him for a minute, and he slowly set you back down, your body sliding against his.

“Thank you,” you said bashfully, pretendin' to fix your hair in the mirror.

He stood directly behind you, just close enough for you to catch a glimpse of his smirk in the car mirror.

“Anytime.”

“I—” you began, but were cut off by another car pullin' ahead. Once you noticed it was the truck Stack had said Smoke was in, you started walking quickly toward it. Stack told you the two of them had to split the work and that Smoke had a few stops and you knew it wouldn’t be anywhere else, but to see Annie. It was one thing for Smoke to be gone; of course then, he and Annie couldn’t be together. But while he was home, he wouldnt go anywhere without her.

“Annie!” You called as soon as your older sister came into view.

“Y/n?” Annie couldn’t believe her eyes as you ran toward her the biggest smile on your face.

“Surprise.” You spoke tearfully, as you slowed down taking the last few steps before crashing' into your big sister. You embraced her tightly, the two of you holding onto one another as if the other would disappear if you let go.

“Look at you.” She ran her hand up and around your face, cuppin' it affectionately.

“Look at you.” You repeated, mesmerized by your sister’s loving eyes.

Eyes that always looked at you with understanding, compassion, love, and support. Annie didn’t always agree with the choices you made, but she always supported you in choosin' your own destiny.

“Don’t you ever leave me like that again,” she fussed, swattin' lightly at your butt.

“Stop, girl, I’m grown,” you laughed, spinning around in a circle to dodge her playful swats.

“Girl, I don’t give a damn.” Annie fixed you with a stern look. “You’re still my baby sister. You don’t just run off and leave me without notice like that. You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. It’s not that I wanted to; I just—” you paused, searchin' for the right words.

After a moment, you realized you didn’t need to say much. Annie would understand.

“Mine doesn’t have a mojo bag; he just has me,” you said, your voice wavering, knowin' she would know you was referring to the more reckless twin.

She smiled and nodded in understanding. You stood there for a little while longer, embracing each other, tryin' to wipe the tears from each other’s eyes, gigglin' like school girls as you did so.

“We’ll take more later ya hear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pullin' away, you angled your body a little more to the left to finally get a good look at Smoke.

“My girl!” he said with a small smile of his own, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey Smoke.” The two of you wrapped your arms around one another.

You missed the way Stack’s jaw clenched as you embraced Smoke. The latter didn’t as he grinned at his twin. It was an asshole thing to do, but he couldn’t help it. He had been watching the two of you pine after one another for years. If Smoke had a dime for every time he tried to convince his brother that you felt the same way about him that he felt about you—or to get Stack to confess his feelings for you—boy, he’d be rich.

It was your last night in town, and the three of you went out. You were currently dancin' with some random nigga from round the way. Stack watched you like a hawk, grillin' the hell outta the man who had your attention. Smoke couldn’t do anything but laugh at his brother’s expense.

“Nigga you got it bad,” he said with a chuckle.

“Shut up, bitch. You got it just as bad for her sister,” Stack shot back.

“Sho’ll fuck do. Don’t give a fuck who knows either.” Smoke shrugged blowing a cloud in Stack’s direction.

“Yeah, whatever.” Stack muttered, takin' a sip of his beer.

“Mmhmm, whatever shit, nigga. Could be you out there dancin' with her, tryna cop a feel. Instead, you’re here,” Smoke teased.

“It ain’t like that with us, Smoke.” He denied.

For the life of him, Smoke couldn’t understand why Stack was in denial about you. It was like he was purposely standing in his own way, unwilling to accept a good thing.

“Have I ever been wrong about a woman tryna throw her pussy at you?”

“Nah,” Stack grumbled, his defenses slowly crumbling.

“Aight then, nigga. Listen for once.” Smoke said, playfully mushing the side of Stack’s head as he stood up to head to the bar.

“Aye, watch out.”

“Girl follows you around the world, and you still questionin' shit,” Smoke called over his shoulder.

He could only shake his head at the memory. Smoke swore dealin' with y’all shit was gonna put him in an early grave.

Once the two of you released one another from the hug, you walked back toward your sibling, and Smoke did the same.

“You good, man?” Smoke asked, knowing full well he wasn’t. He just wanted to see if he was ready to be honest with himself.

“Yeah, uh, I’m good.” Stack cleared his throat before repeatin', “I’m good.”

“Good.” He patted his brother on the back. “Now let’s get to work.”

Now, you knew you was comin' to work, but you ain't expectin' to be put through the wringer! As much as y’all got on each other’s last nerves during the setup, it was all part of the charm. Smoke being the bossy one, always puffin’ up his chest like everybody ain’t already know he ran the place; Cornbread, with his big ass, ain’t stop complainin' 'bout how heavy them boxes was; Delta always droppin' “back in my day” stories like they was gospel every five minutes. And Stack? He was slick, finessin' Preacher Boy into doin' part of his work in the name of “respectin' your elders.”

Not to mention you, Grace, and Annie, makin' one little complaint 'bout the heat, which led to Bo shakin’ up a bottle of beer and lettin' it spray all over y’all like a makeshift sprinkler system to “cool y’all off.” But this? This was the stuff you cherished. These were the moments you missed. After hours of busting your backs, the grand opening was here, and the party was in full swing.

You found yourself wrapped up in Stack’s arms, your back pressed against his solid front. The sweet sound of southern blues wrapped around you like a warm embrace. Ain’t nothing like live music from home, and tonight, the air was thick with rhythm. Effortlessly, your body flowed with the beat, swayin' in a circle until you found yourself once again meetin' Stack's chest. One of his arms hung loosely around your waist, his fingers barely grazing your skin, followin' the pace of your movements like it was second nature.

“So, this is new,” you teased, glancing back at him.

“What’s that?” Stack’s voice was low, his eyes glued to the way your hips moved, like he was tryin' to memorize every curve.

Stack thought you was downright gorgeous, and it drove him crazy. He wished he could tell you every single day how beautiful you were. Your body? It made his heart race. Big hips, thick thighs, and those legs that seemed to go on for days. That dress you wore? It gave him a perfect view of your curves, and he found himself lost in thoughts he shouldn’t be havin’.

“You dancin' with me,” you said louder, breakin' him outta his daydream.

“I’ve danced with you before,” he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone.

You leaned your head back further, givin' him a smirk. “Not like this.”

Stack’s grip around your waist tightened, the two of you still swayin’ to the music. “What’s this?” His breath brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine that you tried your best to ignore.

“Like you tryna work your way into my drawls,” you shot back, playful but with a hint of seriousness.

“And if I am?” he shot back, spinning you around so you faced him, his gaze intense.

You were momentarily stunned, your eyes searchin’ his for any signs of this bein' a joke, you arms now loosely around his shoulders.

“Smoke told you.” you said, his words heavy like a weight on your chest, but it felt more like a statement than a question.

You knew Smoke couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it came to his brother. Stack had ditched you and Smoke for the night to run off with some floozy and you were hurting bad. Especially after the way he had been flirting with you day after day. After an attempt at drowning your feeling in a bottle of whiskey, you had confessed your undying love for Elias Moore to his other half after the world became a bit too blurry. The truth came spillin' out like vomit, then afterwards, literal vomit. You could curse the ground Smoke walked on for lettin' it slip.

Stack watched as the gears turned in your head, his eyes dropping to your bottom lip, which you had pulled between your teeth. He chuckled softly, still swayin' with you, but the tension was thick.

“Smoke been tryna tell me for years,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again.

He wasn’t sure if he was talkin' 'bout Smoke tryin' to get him to accept his own feelings or the ones you held for him.

It was the way you cared for him. In every way. You checked on his well being constantly. The effects of the war on smoke were clear. He had his issues and one of them Stack always took care of. Rolling his cigarettes, making certain shit easier for Smoke every chance he got. Stack was the suffer in silence type. No I didn’t know the trauma he had suffered. He preferred everybody think he was OK. But you saw right through him. You seem to be able to tell every time something took him back there the lifeline you’d reach out of your hand, holding his gentle caresses to the top of his hand, which is the tiniest of squeezes that will bring him back and remind him that he was here and safe and with you. Stack was the type to suffer in silence, keepin' his struggles close to his chest. But you? You saw right through him. You could tell when something haunted him, and each time, you’d reach out, holdin' his hand, givin' him that gentle squeeze to remind him he was safe with you.

You were everything to Stack.

The air between you two shifted, thickening with unspoken words and feelings.

“When did it click?” Your heart raced, the world around you fading away.

Y’all had stopped movin’, probably the only two still in the crowd of people dancing and signing having a time.

“The one you left.” Stack admitted, feeling a bit guilty for only realizing how deep his feelings and love for you really were.

Speechless you pulled away from him completely, mouth opening and closing as you stuttered trying to find the right words to say. Overwhelmed with emotion and not quite sure what to do with yourself you turned around to scurry away when he grabbed your hand and pulled you back to him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on now. Why you runnin'?” He was holding you again, bobbing his head around trying to catch you eye as you avoided his.

“Elias, you drunk,” you said, your voice shaky.

“Baby, I ain’t had a sip of liquor,” he replied, his grip on your chin gentle, forcing you to look at him.

Big brown eyes searched yours, filled with a truth that made your heart swell with love.

“Y/n,” he started, but just then—

“Stack!” Smoke’s voice cut through the moment like a hot knife through butter.

You two pulled apart at the sound of his brother calling.

“Let me holla at you for a minute,” Smoke beckoned, clearly oblivious to the tension hangin' in the air.

You could see Stack was ready to protest, but you stopped him, gently cupping the side of his face in your hands. Stack might not have been running off liquid courage, but you had dug deep for some courage and found enough bravery to push through.

You pressed a soft kiss to the side of his cheek, and then another right next to the corner of his mouth, lettin' your lips linger just a moment longer.

“Go. We’ll talk later,” you assured him, pulling away with a grin as you turned to find a seat at the bar y’all had been swayin’ next to.

It wasn’t long before Stack's arms wrapped around you from behind.

“Count on it,” he whispered, kissing the side of your neck, sending warmth flooding through you.

You flushed at the feeling of his lips on your skin, that deep baritone voice igniting a fire you didn’t know you had.

You couldn’t wait until later. But unfortunately, later never came.

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kazucee · 22 hours ago

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WRITING THIS DOWN ON MY NOTES.

REN. REN. REN. LET ME JUST SAY YOU ABSOLUTELY COOKED WITH THIS FIC. Here is my commentary on every part of it Mwheheheheh. You can see how it gets from me commenting rens beautiful writing to me just going absolutely feral with every banger line.

Re: ACT I.

First of all. Reader is so true to life, the awkwardness? The clumsiness? Idk there really is something about the way you write the reader that makes her so animated and so relatable 😭 I love how she tries to get close and how mydeimos just lets her because he couldn't be bothered enough to care.

MYDEI. HOW YOU WRITE HIM MAKES ME WANNA GIGGLE AND PUNCH THE WALL. WHEN HE CAUGHT YOU BEFORE FALLING, FAVOURITE CLICHES OF ALL TIME AND IT STILL MADE MY HEART RACE. he's so silly, this emotionally constipated man will be the end of me istg.

—

lots of pretty scenery descriptions in the gardens part, Ren can I just say that your writing is akin to watching a storybook come to life right infront of me? The words twisting and contorting to an entire world as I read,.

—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.

> God I love this description. Pls let me make a home out of these words.

“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."

> FORK ME. FORK ME BRO. I CAN IMAGINE IT NOW. IM CRYING. HO. NOW KISS. I CAUGHT YOU FAKE IDGAF-ER. HE'S SO STUPID I HATE THIS (live reaction)

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.

> Chat is this a reference to the first part? The one about how pink suits him so well as well? The one about how softness suits him? The one about how //you// suit him? If this was a reference to that part. It's golden. Loved this. I love it when parts of the fic relate and reference each other and mesh into a cohesive whole.

Re: ACT II.

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.

> PHAINON MENTIONED. (sorry just had to add this. ROYAL KNIGHTS PHAINON MY BELOVED)

“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.

> LOVED HOW YOU WROTE THE TWO'S RELATIONSHIP HERE. MY FAVORITE DUO IN THE HISTORY OF DUOS. The bantering> the action scenes> sighhhs dreamily. I love cocky Phainon sm this stoopid blue eyed bug *grips him and shakes*

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

> Uhm. This entire scene> this entire fic should be in the library of Alexandria. The tenderness- the vulnerability? The //why do you still look at him that way// BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU YOU FOOL! also the part that goes:

“…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.

> OH. OH DUDE. FIGHT BACK BRO FIGHT BACK. LET ME GET UP FIRST REN GEEZ. that killed me inside. Standing forking ovation because this was delicious. A five star meal. Also his darling wife? Yeah okay I see you. I see you.

Re: ACT III.

mydei was super Ultra Mega fine in this bit. Like yes king pop off no on gets to treat your spouse like this 🤭

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."

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH. AHHAEHHAEHWUHAWUAHEUHW. PHAINON WHAT. NO. COME BACK HERE. reader my dearest ily but be so fr rn.

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

“mydei.”

>Giggled like a school girl. MYDEI MYDEI MYDEI. It's simple moments like this that makes me grin till I feel my the skin of my lips split.

(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.)

> He's just our husband. Mydei. THE SOB I LET OUT. OU. I WANNA CRADDLE THIS MAN IN MY ARMS. I WANNA BE CRADDLED IN HIS ARMS. HE'S JUST MYDEI. *Breaks down*

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

> He. He took care of the flowers. Man. I feel single. TF you mean he went to the market to get fertilizer so that he can take special care of the flowers you gave him. Huh. I'm. Ren I hate you sm /pos

RE: ACT IV

OH. AS SOON AS I READ THE TITLE. I WAS SOLD. I JUST KNEW IT'D BE KICKING MY FEET. SIRI PLAY JEALOUS BY NICK JONAS.

I mean no disrespect

It's my right to be hellish

I still get jealous

> Mydei at some point probably. Except he meant all the disrespect.

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.

> THE FACT THAT ITS PHAINON BAHABWHABEJW I LOVE IT. PHAINON YOU SLY FOX YOU. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH TTTT. phainon and mydei interactions my beloved. It's the 'you dare utter those words infront of me? Are you asking to be stabbed?' stare.

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

> WINGMAN PHAINON. YES SIIRRRRRRRE. I SEE YOU. I HEAR YOU. I KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING.

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.

> FORK YOU REN. FORK YOU TO THE HEAVENS BECAUSE WTHUCK IS THIS. YOU CANT SLIP THIS IN CASUALLY. WHAT ABOUT MY HEART. YOU'RE GONNA SEND ME INTO A COMMA. MYDEI LIKES SWEET THINGS? HELLO? WTHFOWBTOWNCOWNG. I CANT EVEN DESCRIBE THE FEELIGNS IM FEELING RN. MY FACE FEELS HOT AND MY HEAD STARTED THROBBING. if I die now, ren is the culprit. MYDEI ARE YOU A CAT. YOU FORKING. SMOOTH CRIMINAL. TOO SMOOTH. LIQUID SMOOTH.

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.

> phainon playing match maker is my favourite thing ever. THIS CONNIVING MAN BWUHAUEHAUW.

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!”

> REN IM SORRY HELP WHY IS ALL MY COMMENTS ON PHAINON. what a whiny baby 😭 Phainon my beloved why must you trump my comments on mydei. Ren Phainon fic when? Rennie I'm begging on my knees. Anyways back to fawning over mydei.

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

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

> Oh dude fork me. I'm sorry that the only compliments I can give is practically just boothill curse words but like fork me to hell because. BECAUSE. EUEUUEE IM GNAWING AT THE SHEETS. MYDEI YOU. YOU FOOL. YOU SOFTIE. YOU SWEETHEART.

Re: ACT V.

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.

> FUCKKK YEAHHHH BROOOOOOO. THIS IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT. THIS IS WHAT THE CROWD WANTS. THIS IS WHAT WE WERE WAITING FOR. I DREAMED OF TIMES LIKE THIS.

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

“if it’s for you,”

> My heart. It's overloaded with pomegranate juice and cake.

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.

> WHERES THE TROPHY. HE JUST COMES RUNNING OVER TO ME

TOUCH THEM CALL THE AMATEURS AND CUT EM FROM THE TEAM.

LITERALLY THIS MOMENT. THIS MOMENT. PINNACLE OF MY LIFE. ALTER OF MY DAY. I LOVE THIS. MOMENTS LIKE THESE MY BELOVED. WELL EXECUTED. FELT EVERY RUSH OF EMOTION AS I READ..

Re: EPILOGUE

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.”

> perfect end. Love forehead kisses till I die. ON MY GRAVE. I NEED THIS FIC ON MY GRAVESTONE. ENGRAVED IN THE MARBLE WHERE I LAY.

—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.

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.

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.”

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."

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.

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 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.

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.

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

#re: fics 🌕#finally got to reading this #my class starts in a couple hours and idk if ill be ablt to focus properly SOLEY BECAUSE OF THIS FIC #Ren screw you /affectionate #also. you encapsulated the song 'can we make this work' so beautifully into this fic #←listened to that the entire time #UGH REN HOW DARE YOU #HAS LYSOL SEEN THIS YET. LYSOL HI YOU'D LOVE THIS #ren im giving you forehead kisses because this was insane #it was gave very much manwha vibes and if i could id draw the entirety of this fic #well done rennie *claps hands like seal*#the wait was very much worth it #we dreamed of fics like this

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moonstruckme · 13 hours ago

Note

hi!! if you’re up for it could i please request a poly marauders (or really any of the marauders) x passively depressed/apathetic reader. like reader being nervous about a doctors appointment and having health anxiety but then saying “oh i don’t even know why i’m scared because it’s not like i’ll care if i die,” and the boys just being like ??? just a lot of comfort pls!! love your work btw!! (sorry if that’s kinda confusing 😖 english isn’t my first language)

Thanks lovely <3

cw: depression, reader has some passive suicidal ideation but it's from an outside perspective

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 850 words

Remus rubs your shoulder after you get off the phone call confirming your doctor’s appointment. You sink into his side like dough softening at rest. “Would you like me to go with you?” he offers.

You hum, quiet and complaisant. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind. It’s after I get off work anyway, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So what else would I be doing but being with you?” He says it with some levity, hoping to inspire a similar feeling in you, but you don’t crack a smile.

Instead, you sink deeper into his side, the collar of your jumper rising up to bump your chin in the process. You look like a tortoise retreating into its shell. Remus kisses your hair.

You’ve been rather in your own head lately. Quiet, passive, not really laughing. It tears at Remus’ heart to see you so upset with yourself, but he’s not very worried. You’ll come out of it. He’ll help you. And he’ll be here with you in the meantime. Even if it doesn’t always seem like you care for him to be.

“Do you not want me to come?” he asks, trying not to let insecurity leak into his tone.

“No.” You finally look up at him, your sweet eyes guilty. “No, I’d like you to come. If you want to. I just, I know it’s not fun, so if you’d rather stay home…”

Remus makes a dismissive sound, relieved. “Don’t be silly, I always have fun with you. Sweetheart, you could make the doctor’s office fun.”

This time you hear the humor in his tone and smile. It looks like it costs you some effort. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

He shushes your thanks away, going back to rubbing your shoulder. “Are you nervous?” he asks.

You sigh as though disappointed with yourself. “Yeah. I don’t know why.”

“That’s alright, lovely. It’s not how anyone wants to spend their time. And you always worry that something awful’s going to be wrong, but it never is.”

“I know,” you say dully. “But I don’t get why I’m worried. I don’t even really…”

You trail off, your mouth wincing like you wish you hadn’t said anything at all. You won’t look at Remus.

He knows what you wanted to say.

I don’t even really care.

You don’t care about much these days. What you eat for dinner, how long your commute from work takes, what film your friends want to see at the cinema. But Remus thought you still cared about some things. The important ones. A heavy, sick feeling takes form in his stomach.

“Hey,” he says softly. It takes you a few moments to look at him, but you do. You look the tiniest bit afraid. Not in the same way he is; not for yourself, only for what you might’ve revealed. “Can I give you a hug?”

You frown, nodding like of course. Remus uses the arm already around your shoulders to bring you into his lap, your knees folded on either side of his hips. When he rubs your back, you curl forward to put your face in his neck like you’ve been waiting years to do it.

Your warm breaths tickle against his skin. He loves you so much he thinks he could collapse under the weight of it.

“Thank you for making the appointment,” he says, making broad, sweeping circles on your back. “It matters to me that you’re healthy, and that you’re taking care of yourself. It’s important.”

You deflate a bit against his front. He can nearly picture you shutting your eyes, brows pinched. “Remus…”

“I love you,” he presses his lips to the side of your head, “so much. We’re going to be old and feeding birds in the park one day, you know? I need you to be able to come sit on our bench with me.”

There’s a prolonged silence, wherein Remus begins to worry he’s frightened you into reticence, but then, “We already feed birds in the park.”

He smiles. “We do. But it’ll be much more becoming when we’re all feeble and grey, won’t it?”

“You’re feeble now.”

“Oi,” he laughs. Utterly delighted with you. “When did you get so sharp?”

“Sorry.” Your cold nose bumps his throat.

“That’s alright.” Remus kisses your head again, not wanting you to begin feeling guilty. “I know you don’t mean it. My sweetheart.”

You go quiet again after that. Remus tries again.

“So, it’s a date then? Me, you, park on the corner in fifty years?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” you mumble lazily.

“Mm, do that. See if you can pencil me in.” He rubs your back.

“Who knows if there’ll even still be birds then.”

Remus hums. “God, yeah. I hope there are. We’ll still be there, at least, won’t we?”

It’s transparent, this plea for reassurance. He cringes with the audaciousness of it, worries you’ll decide now to stop sharing anything with him at all, but after a beat of quiet you sit up.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laying a simple kiss on his lips. “Course we will.”

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dearmini · 2 days ago

Text

𐔌 현진 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ step by step, still you.

HWANG HYUNJIN! ⓘ slow dancing with your two left feet and his whole heart.

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ idol𝑏f!hyune ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! I600wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, intimacy, unfunny jokes, cheesy. ┆ ☆ ⋮ drabble .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ hyunjinininin is so cute. super short drabble... i tried very hard to not make this too long lol, enjoy !!!! >< happy reading!

the rain begins like a secret. not a roar, not a storm — just a soft tapping, like someone gently knocking on your window, unsure if you’re home.

you are.

you’re home in the most human, most heart-achingly warm sense of the word. home isn’t walls today.

it’s a person. a rhythm. a quiet that holds space for love.

and hyunjin? he’s humming.

he’s not singing — just letting a half-formed tune rest on his lips as he leans against the counter in your tiny kitchen, sipping tea like he didn’t just spend the last hour curled up with you under two mismatched blankets on the couch. one of them still draped over your shoulders like a cape.

you watch him, bare-faced, pyjama-clad, your socks mismatched — one yellow with a duck, the other navy with tiny stars. his hoodie swallows you, and the sleeves hang way past your hands. you feel warm. ridiculously so.

the kitchen smells like peppermint and citrus from the tea. the air smells like the kind of rain that makes you pause mid-sentence just to listen.

his buzzed hair, still feeling so new yet familiar, glints slightly under the low kitchen light — black and soft, a velvety contrast against the honey-tan of his skin. you can’t stop looking at it. at him. how is he so… him?

“baby, stop looking at me like i invented rain,” he says, without turning around. his voice is warm, teasing.

you press your lips together, dragging your blanket-cape closer around your shoulders. “you didn’t invent rain,” you murmur. “just made it feel like a poem.”

that makes him laugh — one of those deep, unguarded ones. it starts in his chest and spills out slow. he turns, finally, and your eyes meet. he looks like love. not the loud, dramatic kind. the real kind. quiet and certain and soft as breath.

“you wanna dance?” he asks suddenly, tapping his mug against the counter.

you blink. “like… right now?”

“yeah.” his eyes crinkle with mischief. “right here. slow dance with me.”

you squint. “hyune. it’s literally raining. we’re in socks. there’s—no music.”

“there’s always music,” he says, already pulling his phone out. “you just have to listen.”

he scrolls through a playlist, and sets his phone on the counter. a quiet song starts—piano, strings, something soft and sad and sweet. you feel it in your chest before you even process it in your ears.

then he holds his hand out to you, palm open.

no flash. no cameras. no stage.

just him.

buzzed hair, sleepy eyes, socks with tiny moons on them. your hyunjin.

you let the blanket fall. it pools on the floor behind you as you cross the room, sock feet sliding just a bit. he catches your hand with a little grin and places your other hand on his shoulder, like he’s teaching you for the first time.

you whisper, “i’m gonna step on you.”

he grins wider. “i know.”

you do. immediately. your toes crush his the second he moves backward.

he winces dramatically. “ouch. my dancing career.”

you gasp. “oh my god, you’re such a liar—”

“i’m serious. i’m canceling all choreo. no more body rolls. this is the end of jinnie as you know him.”

you laugh so hard you almost forget to keep swaying. but he guides you, gentle, his hands large and warm. the rain drums against the window, and you can feel his heart where your palms rest on his chest — a quiet, steady percussion.

the floor creaks under your steps. the tea steam curls in the air, forgotten. the world shrinks to the two of you swaying unevenly between countertops and leftover crumbs from breakfast.

he whispers, “you know i love you, right?”

it’s so soft, you barely catch it.

your heart stutters, then settles.

you do know.

but you love the way he says it anyway — like it’s a secret, like he’s offering you something precious, like he still can’t quite believe this is real.

you press your cheek to his chest. he holds you tighter. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, reverent. your nose brushes his collarbone, and he smells like your detergent and that citrusy lotion he steals from your shelf.

rain hums on. the piano plays on. and you, sock-footed and sleepy-eyed, dance like maybe time doesn’t exist.

and if it does—it can wait.

so.. a few moments later? you’ve officially stepped on hyunjin’s foot for the fifth time.

and this time, you gasp dramatically, staggering backward like you’ve committed a crime punishable by law.

“i should be arrested,” you say, covering your mouth. “no. i should be banned. exiled. this is treason. against your feet.”

your boyfriend just wheezes, slightly bent over, pretending to limp in circles around you like a wounded soldier.

“tell my fans,” he croaks out in a faux dying whisper, “i died doing what i loved. teaching my girlfriend how to dance. she was beautiful. and terrifying.”

“stop it!” you laugh, swatting at him as he fake-collapses onto the floor like a tragic shakespearean hero. “i feel bad!”

“you should,” he mumbles from the tiles, then peeks up with a grin. “but like… just a little. mostly you should feel lucky. because i’m the best teacher in the world.”

you stick your tongue out. “you’re the worst teacher ever.”

he gasps. “blasphemy. i am the hyunjin of the dance. i have a buzz cut now. i’m even wiser.”

“you’re just bald and dramatic,” you tease, biting back a smile.

“you said bald,” he gasps again, placing a hand to his bare head like you’ve wounded his soul. “wow. the disrespect. after everything my feet have done for your feet.”

you give a tiny, guilty pout and flop onto the floor beside him, your head falling on his chest with a thump. “i really am bad at this though,” you mumble into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “you’re all elegant and floaty. i’m like a penguin in socks.”

he hums, arms curling around you easily. “you’re my penguin though.”

“hyune.”

“pengy.”

“i’m being sad.”

“i know,” he coos. “and i’m still gonna call you pengy.”

you glare up at him with narrowed eyes.

he just kisses your nose.

a warm silence settles — the kind where your breathing slows in sync, where the quiet hum of the rain plays backup to your heartbeat. his fingers lazily trace your spine. your cheek is smooshed against his chest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his laughter every time he holds it in.

then he whispers, “okay. come on. up. one more time. for the honour of penguins everywhere.”

you groan.

but his hand is already tugging you up — gentle, coaxing — like he’s inviting you into a dream. the music still plays from the counter, now a soft guitar ballad, voice husky and full of longing.

“what is this one?” you ask as he helps you up, his hands finding your waist again.

“it’s an unreleased demo,” he says casually. “one i wrote after you stole my fries last week.”

you squint. “that song sounds romantic, not tragic.”

“it was romantic,” he insists. “a romantic betrayal.”

you’re giggling again.

and then he starts guiding you — slowly this time. one step. pause. another step. sway. no pressure. no counting. just movement. his hand on your lower back, his other holding yours loosely like you’re made of something too soft to grip.

“like this?” you whisper.

he nods. “just like that, baby.”

and.. he spins you suddenly, a clumsy little twirl that sends your hair flying as you stumble into his chest with a squeak.

“hey!”

“that was adorable,” he declares, holding you close again. “let’s make that your signature move.”

“you just like it when i crash into you.”

“guilty,” he says with zero shame. “you falling into me is like… peak lover-girl-ism.”

“is that even a thing?”

“it is now.”

your face finds the crook of his neck, hiding from the stupid smile he always brings out of you. his buzzed hair tickles your temple. he smells like mint tea and laundry detergent. and paint. always paint, faintly there in the fabric of his sleeves.

he rests his cheek against the top of your head.

“you’re not bad at dancing,” he says suddenly. “you’re just thinking too much.”

you pause. “that’s rude.”

he chuckles. “no, like—it’s cute. you’re too busy trying not to mess up that you’re missing the fun part.”

“and what’s the fun part?”

he pulls back, just enough to look at you. his dark eyes are soft, all warmth and gravity.

“you’re dancing with someone you love,” he says. “that’s the fun part.”

your stomach flips like it’s heard those words for the first time, even though he says them often. you don’t think you’ll ever get used to them. to him.

he presses your foreheads together. you close your eyes. the guitar melts into piano again. the rain continues, steady and hushed, the windows fogging gently.

“i love you,” you whisper.

“i love you more,” he says, automatic.

“no, i do.”

“i definitely do.”

“hyunjin—”

“okay, okay,” he grins. “we both do. equally. like a truce.”

“penguin truce?”

“penguin truce.”

you stay like that — swaying in the middle of your kitchen, forehead to forehead, no more counting, no more right feet or wrong feet. just two hearts, beating out the same rhythm. the song ends and another begins, and neither of you move to stop it.

and when you step on his foot again? he doesn’t even flinch.

he just smiles.

because even if you’re dancing with two left feet— you’re still dancing with him.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3 © heartsbyani, dearmini '25 ★

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marvelstoriesepic · 1 day ago

Text

Wear My Heart

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Reader (Soulmate Au)

Summary: Bucky discovers his long-lost match in a client. But is he even meant to have you with the mark erased from his own body?

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: angst; loss of limb (non-graphic); prosthesis; PTSD; lots of self-worth issues; insecurities; mild reference to past violence (non-graphic); mentions of self-isolation; chronic loneliness; Bucky is going through some feels

Author’s Note: We had him as a tattoo artist yesterday and we have him as one today haha. This sweet request comes from my beloved tumblr husband! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

He sees you before you walk in.

A blur of reflection in the glass door, sunlight making your hair beam, fingers adjusting the strap of your bag.

The door opens.

He doesn’t look up right away.

Steve has booked this appointment under your name, and Sam had dropped too many hints over the past few weeks that you’d be coming in soon. Nat had rolled her eyes and told him flatly, that either he’d speak to you or they’d all die of secondhand tension.

So now you are here.

And he’s pretending not to care. Pretending to hear the buzz of the needle. The only thing that grounds him anymore. Pain turned into art. Wounds etched into skin like a creation. And he’s great at this because he’s better at translating pain than he is at speaking.

He prefers ink to people. Needles to names. He prefers silence.

“Bucky?” You’re saying his name as if it’s a question, like maybe you’re still not sure you’re in the right place.

He looks up.

And the moment your eyes meet, there is something inside him that flickers. Like a lightbulb that hasn’t been touched in years. Dusty. Forgotten. Still warm.

He nods. Just once.

You smile. Small. Polite. Nervous.

He doesn’t return it. Can’t.

Because your smile, although timid, is the kind of thing that stays with you - like smoke in his lungs. It fills the spaces where oxygen used to be.

He’s never properly spoken to you, but he’s seen you before - at Steve’s apartment, at Sam’s cookouts, in Nat’s too-casual Instagram stories where he already acknowledged how beautiful your smile is. How beautiful you are.

He remembers thinking you got a laugh like a sunrise, making darkness irrelevant.

He remembers thinking you’d never look at someone like him.

He remembers looking away.

He never said more than a word to you. Never trusted himself to.

You’re too good. Too light. And he’s not.

He knows you are out of his league. And maybe you didn’t even notice him. Maybe all the times he saw you - laughing in Steve’s kitchen, sitting cross-legged on Sam’s couch, reading some ancient paperback by the window - he was just a background blur in your story.

So he kept his distance.

It’s easier that way.

“Uhm, hey,” you start a little nervously, and he could kick himself. “I have a design I've been working on for a while. Steve said you might be the right artist for it.”

You hand him a sketch. He barely glances at it. His fingers don’t fumble but something in his chest does.

And then you move. Rolling your sleeve up. Exposing skin.

And Bucky stops breathing.

It takes a second for his mind to catch up. Another second to realize what he’s looking at.

But when it hits him - it hits.

Like an avalanche in his throat.

There, inked into the soft skin of your upper arm, is a mark he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

His mark.

The same symbol. The same twisted loops of black that curved into his skin when he was six years old. The same mark he stared at for years like it might offer answers. As though it could explain why he always felt like a half-finished sentence. As though it might lead him to someone whole.

It used to be on his left arm. Right over the muscle. He remembers tracing it absently during lectures, during subway rides, during troubled nights when he couldn’t sleep.

It disappeared the day he lost his arm. Gone. Stolen. Scrubbed clean as if he never had a soulmate at all.

He remembers crying - not for the pain, nor for the loss, but because the one thing that tethered him to hope, to someone, was just gone.

He decided then that he was meant to be alone. That fate had made a mistake. That maybe his soulmate was already dead. Or that she had moved on. Married someone else. Tattooed over the mark. Or worse, that the person meant for him would never find him, spending her life thinking she was alone. Marked for no one.

He wonders if you ever felt that way.

He wonders if you still do.

He keeps his face neutral. Professional. He’s good at this. But inside he is crumbling like never before. Collapsing. Splintering into a thousand broken pieces of before and after.

You are talking. He hears the cadence, the warmth, but the words are fog. All he can focus on is the mark. The one thing he never thought he’d see again.

And now you are standing in front of him. And you are real. And the mark is right there on your arm, the exact shape and size of the one that used to be his.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

You’re here. You’re real. You’re his.

And he says nothing.

He stares at it as if it’s a hallucination. But it’s not.

His lungs are tight, cold, hollow. He feels his prosthesis twitch, the phantom ghost of muscle memory in the one he lost.

“This is where I was thinking it would go,” you say, pointing gently to the space around the mark - your mark, his mark, both your marks - “I think it’s one of those soulmate mark things. I got it when I was six. My mom said she always believed in them, that one day I’d meet someone with the same mark. You know, something about being made to match.” You laugh a little awkwardly, tugging your hair behind your ear, probably wondering why you told him this.

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring.

You let out another awkward, breathless laugh. “I’ve never actually seen it on anyone else, though. Guess it’s just one of those things.”

Your words bruise him deeply.

He wants to scream. Wants to tell you everything. That you’re walking around unknowingly wearing his heart. That once, when he was a different man, that mark was the only beautiful thing left of him.

But his mouth doesn’t move. It’s dry.

Because how do you tell someone you lost the piece of yourself that was meant to find them?

What do you say to someone who doesn’t know they’ve been saving your life just by existing?

So he nods. Again. Always nodding. Always hiding.

He’s just the weird guy with the metal arm and the bad temper. The broody dude with a shop sitting behind a laundromat and too many shadows in his eyes. You don’t know that he’s been dreaming of you since he was a kid - before he lost everything but the pieces he could still carry in his chest.

You don’t know that he’s already met you in a hundred quiet ways.

Every time you laughed from another room. Every time he caught you humming while helping Steve cook. Every time Sam made a joke and you leaned in toward the warmth of it instead of away.

He almost speaks. Almost. But the words stick.

You don’t push. You sit. You trust.

And he works.

He sets up the station. Puts his gloves on, machine humming. He doesn’t make eye contact again for the rest of the session.

His fingers don’t shake but his soul does. He lets you sit close, lets you talk about what the design means to you and how long you’ve waited.

And all he wants to do is scream.

What do you say to someone who might run, if you told them the truth?

He tattoos the design carefully.

You wince once and his heart jumps like it wants to protect you from everything. He places his metal hand lightly on your shoulder. Usually, he avoids touch, but you don’t flinch.

That alone nearly destroys him.

You’re so close. Your heartbeat. Your breath. And he keeps thinking about the mark, about the fact that it once lived on his body. About how it had to be removed, torn away, for you to finally appear.

Maybe that’s what fate is.

Maybe it’s not a gentle thing.

Maybe it breaks you before it brings you what you need.

He is memorizing you.

Every breath. Every glance. Every shift.

It feels like something long buried is waking up inside of him. Something ancient. Something inevitable.

When it’s over, you thank him. You say it’s perfect. You pay and leave and smile and wave and tell him that you hope to see him at Steve’s soon and he stands there like a ghost.

He can’t tell you.

Maybe he isn’t even meant to tell you. Maybe fate’s hands were clumsy with him. Maybe it’s not that he lost the arm, or the mark, but that he was always meant to. Maybe that’s part of the story.

Maybe the universe never meant for him to find you. Only to know you exist. Only to touch what he could never keep.

Because what if he tells you?

You might look at him with those lovely wide eyes and smile, say finally, say yes.

But you might also tell him no, look at him with disgust, with disbelief, with disappointment that he is the one you get when you could have gotten someone so much better.

He can’t survive that. He knows it. The heart he stitched back together with flayed rope is easily able to snap when pulled too tight. He’s been holding it together with black thread and stubborn silence and ink. Ink. Always ink. The only thing that doesn’t lie.

He breathes as if he’s drowning. He thinks of your hand on his. The way you smiled. The way you trusted him without knowing why.

He didn’t see the way your eyes softened when he touched your arm. As though his hands were made of something other than metal and self-hatred.

He didn’t see how you leaned in a little closer when he spoke, how you tilted your head as if memorizing the sound of his voice.

He doesn’t see your hesitation at the door. The way you linger. The way you open your mouth to say more but then close it again.

He doesn’t see any of it because his mind is too loud. Too cruel. Too consuming.

It’s whispering to him, claiming that he’s not the man you were meant for. He lost his mark. He lost his right. This isn’t his story anymore.

Maybe the universe gave you the mark and took his, on purpose. Maybe it’s symbolic. Maybe it’s a warning.

Maybe you’re supposed to move on.

Maybe he is supposed to stay behind.

So he watches you go.

Only after the door clicks shut does he exhale.

He peels off his gloves with trembling hands. Walks to the back room. Opens the drawer he hasn’t touched in years.

There, under a stack of unused stencils and crumpled paper towels, is a single sheet. A sketch. Faded. Old. Drawn by hand.

The mark.

He lays it flat on the counter.

His chest feels like it’s holding a thunderstorm. Not lightning. No, that would be beautiful. There only are clouds that never break. Rain that never comes.

His eyes close.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself feel it. Everything. Hope. Fear. Longing. Grief. Wonder.

He presses his palm over the place where his mark used to be. Where his flesh used to be.

He found you. It’s you.

And you don’t know.

But he does.

He brushes his thumb over the lines of his sketch and thinks that he could love you.

That he already does.

And then he thinks, that maybe he was never supposed to.

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nebularsung · 1 day ago

Text

⭑ you're jeno's favourite gift ﹙+18﹚

all that could be heard from that bedroom was soft, breathless whines, muffled moans, the sharp rhythm of skin meeting skin, and the sound of jeno’s voice—low, sweet, and full of reverent praise.

it was jeno’s birthday, and—true to the quiet, homebody heart he had—he wanted nothing more than to stay where he felt most at peace: at home, wrapped in your arms, spoiled by your attention, and fed by your hands. you had made his favorite dishes, laughed with him over wine, curled up in his lap while the candles burned low… but as night fell, his desire shifted.

he wanted his favorite gift of all.

you.

and how could you possibly deny him?

“fuck, baby…” he groaned, voice dropping deeper as he watched the way your body gave in to him. his fingers pressed tighter into the curve of your hips, guiding you back to meet his every thrust, relentless and hungry. “so fuckin’ good to me… always ready for me… mine.”

your face was buried in the pillows, your ass arched high in the air—just how he liked it. the angle let him hit that perfect spot over and over again, and your moans were so high and sweet they came out broken and muffled into the sheets. he’d be smug about it if he weren’t so utterly ruined by the way your body gripped him like a vice, so warm and wet and perfect just for him.

you were going for the fourth round already, but jeno didn’t seem any near to finish what he had started.

he leaned over you, his chest flush against your back for a moment as he kissed your shoulder, then your spine. “can’t believe i get to have you like this…” he whispered, almost to himself. “you make me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

you let out a choked sob of pleasure, and jeno only chuckled softly, hand sliding along your waist, gripping you tighter. “that feel good, baby? you’re doing so well… taking me so good, just like i knew you would. such a good girl for me, even on my birthday…”

you nodded desperately into the pillow, fingers clutching at the sheets as he kept rocking into you with deep, measured strokes now—less frantic, more intense, like he wanted to feel every second of it, draw it out. worship you.

“wanna hear you,” he muttered. “just a little. let me hear my pretty girl.”

you turned your head, gasping, your voice breathy and wrecked. “jeno—feels so good—i love you, love you so much—”

“yeah?” he breathed, hips stuttering slightly at the sound of your voice. “love you too, angel. gonna make you cum so hard. gonna have you creaming all over my cock, just the way i like it.”

and you did.

with a loud, trembling moan of his name, your body tensed beneath him, walls clenching, thighs shaking as the orgasm tore through you. jeno cursed under his breath, hips losing rhythm as he chased his own release, groaning into your back when he finally buried himself deep and filled you up, both of you panting and trembling, tangled in each other’s warmth.

he stayed inside you for a moment longer, letting your bodies breathe in sync, your skin slick and flushed, your heartbeats loud in your ears. then, with a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, he slowly pulled out—watching his seed leaking from you from the previous orgasms—grabbing a warm towel from the nearby dresser to clean you up with the same tender care he always showed.

you whimpered softly, still sensitive, and he murmured a quiet, “sorry, baby,” as he wiped your thighs gently. his hands lingered longer than necessary, though—you could feel how much he loved touching you, even in the smallest ways.

you weren’t sure how long you laid there in jeno’s arms, your limbs tangled, hearts still fluttering from everything you’d just shared. his warmth surrounded you, grounding and intoxicating all at once. you could’ve fallen asleep like that—completely satisfied, safe.

but then you felt it.

a subtle shift in his breathing. the way his hand, which had been resting innocently on your waist, slowly trailed downward, fingers stroking lazy patterns across your hip. his lips were brushing against your shoulder again, softer this time, more tender—like he was savoring every inch of your skin.

you stirred gently, turning in his arms to face him. the look in his eyes made your breath hitch.

“still hungry, birthday boy?” you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

he chuckled, low and warm, but there was heat behind his smile now. “i can’t help it,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you make it impossible to get enough of you…”

before you could respond, his lips were on yours again—slow and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize your taste. he kissed you with reverence, taking his time, tongues barely brushing, the heat building all over again with every slow pull of your lips.

his hand found your thigh, slipping beneath the covers, tracing up until his fingers were skimming the sensitive skin between your legs. you were still warm, still wet, and his breath caught at the feel of you.

“so ready for me,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “even after all that…”

you nodded, heart thudding. “only for you, jen.”

that’s all he needed to hear.

he guided you onto your back, kissing down your collarbone, then your chest—worshipping every part of you with gentle bites and licks, his name whispered from your lips like a prayer. his hand stayed between your thighs, slowly working you open again, fingers curling just enough to make you gasp.

“you’re perfect,” he breathed against your breast, flicking his tongue over your nipple. “i could do this forever. just touch you, taste you… make you feel good.”

you whimpered softly, arching into his touch, hips rolling instinctively into his hand. “please… want you again.”

he looked up at you from between your breasts, hair slightly messy, lips kiss-swollen. “then take me, baby,” he said, voice thick with affection. “i’m all yours.”

and he meant it.

he slid into you with a deep, slow stroke—your legs wrapped around his waist instantly, pulling him as close as he could possibly get. this wasn’t like the last round. this time, he moved slow, savoring the way your body clenched around him. every roll of his hips was steady, deep, his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered praise between kisses.

“so beautiful… god, you feel so good around me…”

“you’re doing so good for me… fuck, i love being inside you…”

“you were made for me, weren’t you?”

each thrust drew soft moans from your lips, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing down his back. the tension built gradually—less explosive, more consuming. it spread like fire under your skin, until you were trembling beneath him, whispering his name like a promise.

jeno’s hands gripped yours, fingers laced tight as he stared down at you, flushed and breathless. “cum for me again,” he murmured. “just one more, baby. wanna feel you around me one more time.”

you couldn’t even respond. you were already there.

your body locked up beneath him, waves of pleasure crashing through your core as you cried out his name, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming emotion of it all. jeno kissed them away, hips stuttering, then slowing as he came with a deep, ragged moan, burying himself inside you completely, like he needed to mark every inch of you as his.

he didn’t pull away immediately.

instead, he stayed nestled against you, his body heavy and warm, his breath evening out against your neck. your fingers traced along his spine, feeling his heart still racing.

“that,” he mumbled, voice hoarse but full of affection, “was the best birthday gift i’ve ever gotten.”

you smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “i’m happy i’m the one who can give you the best gift ever.” he let out a soft laugh, nuzzling his face onto your neck. “happy birthday, baby. i love you.”

he pulled away, looking up at you, soft and glowing, like you’d hung the stars for him.

“i love you too,” he whispered. “so much.”

｜ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 𖹭 have i ever said how much i love jen and how much i fucking wanna sit on his nose??? like, respectfully, but how is this man built like that?? his body proportions are insane and his face fuckk his face man..........

★ @lyvhie @spacejip @zhapire

#jeno.jpg ★#nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct smut #nct dream fanfic #nct dream smut #jeno fanfic #jeno smut #jeno imagines

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lupinqs · 2 days ago

Text

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ━━ All-Consuming

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.8K

❀ ━ warnings: minor injury, smut (oral, fingering)

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: so sorry for the long ass wait i hope it’s worth it

PAIGE SITS at the edge of the bench, her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, watching warmups like she always does. Except today, something feels… different. Heavier. Shittier. She’s got her legs tucked up close, arms wrapped tight around them like it might somehow make her smaller, invisible. Which, obviously, it won’t. Especially not here. Especially not in fucking Knoxville.

The arena is loud. Like, obnoxiously loud. Tennessee fans are built different with their petty signs and cowbells and perfectly orchestrated chants. They’ve got nothing but time and resentment for UConn. Paige usually feeds off that. Normally, she lives for it. The noise, the hate, the pressure. It lights her up. Brings out that twisted little competitive streak in her that wants to drop thirty just to silence them. But she’s not lighting anything up today. She’s just sitting here. On the bench. Like she has been for what feels like her whole damn life now.

She’s in her warmup gear. Got the game day braids in. The slick, tight ones that Jo helped her do this morning, even though they both knew Paige wasn’t playing. It’s stupid, really. But the braids make her feel like she might be. Like if she looks the part, maybe she’ll feel the part. She doesn’t.

She hasn’t played in a Tennessee game since her freshman year. She sprained her ankle that night. Her sophomore year—busted knee. Now, junior year—busted ACL. It’s like the basketball gods personally circle this date on the calendar every season and go, not you, girl. And maybe that shouldn’t bother her as much as it does, because the players don’t really care about this rivalry like they used to—none of them were around for the Pat vs Geno era. They’re just here to hoop, not carry the burden of the past. But it does bother her. Because there’s still something about this game that stings extra when she’s on the sideline instead of the floor.

She swallows hard. Tries to blink fast enough to chase away the burn in her eyes, but the tears push their way through anyway.

Her knee feels like it’s mocking her, even when it’s behaving. Her fingers twitch with phantom plays—passes she’ll never throw, shots she won’t take. Her teammates are out there running drills, laughing, locking in. And Paige is just… not. She’s on the outside of her own life, watching someone else live it. It fucking sucks.

She sniffs quietly, looking down at the floor like that’ll hide the way her eyes are glassy and red. She wipes at her cheek with the sleeve of her shooting shirt, hating how it comes away wet. She’s sure some ESPN camera’s trained on her right now, too. She can already imagine Holly Rose narrating it: “Paige Bueckers, emotional on the sideline today. The UConn star still working her way back from injury.”

She rubs at her eyes harder, hoping maybe if she scrubs hard enough, the ache will go away too. It doesn’t.

Then—quietly, gently—Jo drops down on the chair beside her.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans in close, knee bumping Paige’s. It only makes Paige’s throat tighten even more. Because Jo’s supposed to be warming up. She’s playing today. She shouldn’t be over here. But she is.

Jo’s pinky finds Paige’s without making it obvious, just a light brush where no cameras can see. Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. She can’t yet. But her heart softens immediately. She squeezes Jo’s pinky lightly with her own, quick and small, like she’s sorry for making her come over. Jo doesn’t let go.

“You okay?” Jo murmurs, barely audible under the roar of the arena. Her voice is low and sweet and careful in that way she always uses when Paige is pretending everything is fine.

Paige nods, a pathetic little dip of her chin, and then—just to betray herself—another tear slips out. She catches it with the back of her hand and lets out the tiniest laugh, all self-deprecating and bitter. “I’m just bein’ dramatic,” she mutters.

Jo’s already shaking her head. “No, you’re not,” she says, like it’s fact, not up for debate.

“I’m crying on the bench, Jo.”

“You’re crying because you love the game,” Jo says simply. “That’s not dramatic. That’s just… being human.”

Paige finally looks at her then, eyes stinging, throat thick. And Jo’s not teasing or smirking or trying to make her laugh, not yet. She’s just looking back at her like she sees everything Paige is trying to hide and she’s not scared of it. Paige swallows again, and it catches in her throat. She hates how raw she feels right now. Hates how easy Jo makes it for her to fall apart.

Jo bumps her knee again, softer this time. “You know,” she says, glancing casually toward the court, “I heard this team has a really cute assistant coach. Blonde. Kind of annoying. Always got her hair braided in a way that might make her go bald one day.”

Paige snorts, even though the wetness still clings to her lashes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Real menace. Probably got a wicked crossover if she’d ever show it.”

Paige swipes at her cheek again, this time with a ghost of a smile. “I’ll look out for her.”

Jo grins. “You better. She’s hot. I’m trying to impress.”

Paige laughs and it feels like something breaks loose in her chest. Something heavy, something sharp. She exhales long and slow, the way Jo’s presence always makes her do. Jo gives her pinky one last squeeze before she stands back up to rejoin warmups.

By the time the game begins, Paige’s chest doesn’t feel quite so hollow. It starts off hot, fast-paced, high-scoring, kind of chippy. She’s leaned forward on the bench now, elbows digging into her thighs. Her knee bounces involuntarily every few seconds—nerves, adrenaline, phantom muscle memory. She can’t stop tracking every movement on the court like she’s still part of it. Still running, still cutting, still calling plays. Her brain is sprinting at full speed even if her body isn’t allowed to.

Jo’s hooping. Like, really hooping. Which isn’t surprising, since she’s been doing that all season.

She’s shooting lights out from three, and every made basket has the Tennessee fans shutting up a little more. Which Paige finds deeply satisfying. Every time Jo hits, steals, assists, Paige lets herself cheer a little louder, lets herself grin a little wider, even if her chest still aches some from earlier. Jo’s got that look tonight—laser-focused, completely locked in. That stupid wrist flick of hers is crisp, and every time the ball leaves her hands, Paige already knows it’s money.

Aaliyah’s dominating the paint, as per usual. Lou’s curling off screens and hitting daggers. Nika’s orchestrating it all, finding every pocket, every backdoor cutter, every mismatch. It’s beautiful basketball. And it’s theirs.

And Paige wants to be out there so bad it physically hurts.

But she’s happy, at least, that they’re winning. They’ve been leading basically the whole time—not by a massive margin, but enough that the pressure hasn’t really shifted back in Tennessee’s favor. The game’s exciting, but not panic-inducing. The kind where if they just keep doing their jobs, they’ll be fine. It’s that rare sweet spot between competition and control.

It’s the beginning of the fourth, and UConn’s up by ten. Jo comes flying off a pin-down, catches the ball on the wing, rises up, and—bang. Fifth three of the night. Paige whistles through her teeth, claps hard, smacks the padded bench emphatically. She’s about to turn to Ice to say something cocky when—

She sees it.

It’s small. Barely anything, really. Jo comes down and her right foot hits kind of… funky. Paige can’t tell at first if it’s a slip or a twist or just one of those weird stutters. But Jo’s face—only for a second—tightens. She winces a little, and she kind of hops out of it awkwardly before jogging back on defense.

And Paige can see it. It’s not dramatic—Jo doesn’t limp or fall or cry out. She wouldn’t anyways. Jo’s built out of grit and stubbornness and whatever else makes people keep going when they probably shouldn’t. She’s still moving. She’s in position, she’s talking on defense, playing through it. But she’s also shaking out her foot every couple seconds. She’s flexing her ankle just slightly when the ball isn’t near her, just enough for someone who’s really watching to notice.

And Paige is watching.

She sits up straighter. “Yo,” she mutters to no one in particular, eyes still glued onto the brunette. “She landed weird.”

Ice glances over at her. “Huh?”

“Jo. That last three. Her foot twisted or sum. She’s not moving the same.”

Geno glances over at Paige, having heard her observation. He gives her a look and she just nods toward Jo on the court. His gaze shifts back to the game, and Paige watches him squint. The blonde watches Jo again. She can tell it’s nothing major. Not a full-blown injury, probably not even a bad sprain. But Paige knows this girl. She knows her tells. And she knows that if someone doesn’t make her come out, she’s gonna push it until it does get bad.

When Aaliyah picks up a foul on Rickea Jackson, sending her to the line, Geno turns to the bench and waves at Ines. Ines stands, heads to the table, checks in.

Jo comes out.

Paige tracks the girl as she jogs toward the bench, and it’s—yeah. It’s more than clear now. That little limp in her gait, the slight hitch with every step. It’s not dramatic or anything, not a collapse-to-the-floor situation, but it’s there. Definitely there. She wears a half-smile as she walks, slapping palms with the girls down the bench. When she high fives Paige, the blonde wants to grab her and stop her, asking what exactly’s wrong. But she doesn’t. She lets her go to the end of the bench, where she reaches Janelle.

Paige watches as Jo leans in, says something low that Paige can’t hear from this far down the bench. But she sees Jo’s face. The way she scrunches her nose, nods slightly, like she’s trying to downplay it but also knows it’s enough of a thing to need attention. Janelle nods, wrapping an arm lightly around Jo’s back, guiding her behind the bench and toward the tunnel.

Paige lets out a long sigh, biting at the inside of her cheek. It’s not that she didn’t think Jo was hurting. She knew that. But there’s something so much worse about seeing her go back there. It’s probably the trauma—because this has been the story the whole season. Like a sick little cycle of setbacks. Injury after injury. Some minor. Some not. Aubrey’s back. Azzi’s knee. Caroline’s head. Dorka’s thumb. Nika’s concussion. Ice’s knee. And then there’s Paige, the original disaster from the summer with the torn ACL. It’s like the basketball gods are allergic to this team being fully healthy.

A few minutes pass. Paige tries to watch the game, but she finds herself glancing back at the tunnel more often than not. Thankfully, it’s not long before Jo and Janelle are coming back out. The aforementioned is walking slower than usual, but she’s walking. Her step isn’t as light as normal, and there’s still that noticeable limp as she makes her way toward the bench. The ankle’s wrapped now, a large bag of ice securely fastened to it.

Jo approaches the seat next to Paige, where Ines was sitting before checking in. As soon as the freshman is sat, Paige is already leaning in. Not too much—she’s trying not to look all dramatic and clingy about it, especially not with Holly Rowe lurking somewhere behind them and probably reporting every breath she takes—but just enough that their knees touch, and Paige can catch her expression.

Jo isn’t wincing, doesn’t really look all that uncomfortable, and Paige stares at her profile for a second longer than necessary, trying to scan her for signs. Pain. Frustration. Panic. But Jo just looks… fine.

“Hey,” Paige says softly, nudging her shoulder. “You good?”

Jo turns her head and smiles a little, like she already knew Paige would ask that the second her ass hit the bench. There’s something about her smile—lazy and a bit crooked, like she’s tired but trying to reassure her anyway—that actually works. Paige breathes out without realizing she was holding it in.

“Yeah,” Jo replies. “She thinks it’s just a minor sprain.”

Paige nods slowly, eyes dropping to Jo’s ankle, the wrap snug around it, tight but not panic-inducing. That’s ironic, she thinks. She sprained her ankle here her freshman year, too. Tennessee’s cursed for her personally, and now maybe for Jo, too. This court just has bad vibes, Paige decides.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, a little quieter this time, like if she lowers her voice enough, the answer might change.

Jo shrugs, the ice rustling against its wrap. “I’m okay, P,” she says.

And Paige wants to believe her. She really does. The logical part of her brain—the part that’s spent more time in trainers’ rooms and rehab facilities than on the court the past two years—tells her that if it were worse, Jo wouldn’t be out here. Janelle wouldn’t let her. She wouldn’t be smiling, or sitting next to Paige looking more at ease than not.

Paige leans back a little, rests her forearms on her thighs, and watches the game continue in front of them. Lou’s still hot, draining another corner three like she’s trying to set the arena on fire. Aaliyah’s muscling her way through the paint like a freight train. The bench goes wild. The fans boo. Paige doesn’t flinch. She’s still half in the game, sure, but she’s half in her head now too, hyper-aware of Jo next to her, the way her foot bounces slightly even with the ice on it, the way her fingers keep tugging at the hem of her jersey like she’s trying to shake off leftover adrenaline.

Paige wants to teach over. Grab her hand. Touch her knee. Something. Anything. But the cameras are always around, and so are the coaches, and their teammates. They’re not supposed to know about anything between the two of them, so Paige has to pretend like her entire world doesn’t shift when Jo’s hurt or limping or even just vaguely not okay.

“You sure?” Paige whispers, not looking at her this time. “You’re not, like… bullshitting me?”

Jo snorts. “When do I ever bullshit you?”

“Literally every time you say you’re fine,” Paige shoots back, side-eyeing her.

Jo laughs again, a breathy little thing that makes Paige’s stomach ease just slightly. “It’s just sore,” she says. “Janelle said I probably tweaked it when I landed weird, but there’s no real swelling. I’ll be alright.”

Paige nods again. Jo sounds sincere right now. She looks it, too.

The buzzer blares for a timeout and the team on the court jogs to the bench. Jo sits forward a bit, yelling out something at Lou, clapping hard with her free hand. Paige watches her carefully, the way she grits her teeth when she claps too hard and how she subtly tucks her foot under the chair, out of view.

Paige wants to drag her back to the locker room and wrap her in bubble wrap and make her sit still. She wants to ask Janelle again herself. She wants to ask Geno. She wants to do something because she’s feeling kind of helpless, and she’s really tired of that particular feeling lately. Watching games. Watching her girl—Jo limp. Watching, always watching. Never doing.

But Jo’s here, and she’s beside her. And Paige doesn’t miss the way Jo leans into her a little now, their shoulders pressed together, their knees already touching.

So Paige doesn’t say anything else. Just lets herself sit here, heart still uneasy, but warmed slightly by Jo’s closeness. It’s not ideal. None of this ever is. But it’s enough for now.

“IT DOESNT EVEN HURT. Chill, please,” Jo says, chuckling lightly, trying to brush off the overprotectiveness in Paige’s eyes. She shifts her ankle a bit, feeling the wrapped bandage around it. Yes, it’s sore. But she’s dealt with much worse. It’s just a minor tweak, nothing that’s going to stop her from playing or hurt her in the long run.

Paige has been acting like she broke it, though. Since the moment they got to the hotel—where Paige immediately switched key cards with Dorka, Jo’s real roommate who’s unfazed at this point—her eyes have been wide, her hands hovering nervously, like she’s about to jump up at any moment to get more ice or do something else to “help” that she thinks might make a difference. It’s cute, and Jo finds it endearing. But it’s gotten to a point.

Paige’s face softens, the concern still there but less sharp now. She takes a slow breath and finally shifts, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and Jo can see the indecision in her eyes. Paige’s always been the type to jump into action, always thinking of ways to fix things, but sometimes, all Jo needs is space to just be for a second. So she waits.

Finally, though, Paige lets out a little sigh, the kind that says fine, whatever, and slowly lays down beside her. She curls up next to Jo, her head finding its way to Jo’s neck, nuzzling into her warmth. For a moment, it’s like everything in the room fades out. It’s just them, in this quiet little bubble that’s theirs, and Jo finally feels herself exhale fully.

“I am chill,” Paige mutters into Jo’s neck, her voice barely above a whisper but still so Paige—a little stubborn, a little sweet, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as Jo. Jo can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she teases softly, the words slipping easily from her lips. Her fingers reach up to gently brush through Paige’s ponytail, not in a hurry, just slowly tracing the strands as they settle in. Paige huffs out a small laugh, her breath warm against Jo’s skin.

“Shut up,” the blonde murmurs, though there’s not an ounce of bite to it. She’s relaxed, melting into Jo’s side, and Jo feels contentment wash over her. This—this is what she’s been wanting. Not for Paige to keep hovering and fussing, but for them to just be close. To just be together, even in silence.

Jo lets out a slow breath, the weight of the day finally starting to lift. The game, the ankle, the worry over whether she’ll be able to play Villanova on Sunday—it all fades when Paige’s hand drapes over her stomach. That small, steady pressure from Paige’s fingertips is enough to remind Jo that everything’s fine. It’ll all be fine.

And then the older girl shifts again, her body rearranging itself to settle against Jo more comfortably. A second later, Paige’s chin is resting on Jo’s chest, and she looks up at her, their faces mere inches apart. Jo’s breath hitches a little, caught between amusement and something deeper, something softer. Paige’s eyes are playful now, and then she grins—stupidly, the kind that always makes Jo blush.

“You’re pretty,” Paige says, the words simple but wrapped in so much warmth.

The way she says it, with that lazy smile and the softness in her voice, it feels like everything Jo wants to hear but still never quite expects. Jo feels heat crawl up her neck, a flush that spreads quickly, like wildfire. She almost doesn’t know how to react, so she does what feels natural—she pushes Paige’s face away lightly, but the movement is gentle, like she’s holding onto something delicate. “Shut up,” Jo mumbles, the words more out of embarrassment than anything else.

Paige, of course, isn’t fazed. She just shakes her head, her hair brushing against Jo’s skin as she does.

“Uh-uh,” she replies softly, almost a challenge, like she’s determined to get Jo to give in to whatever it is she’s thinking, whatever little game she’s playing right now. Before Jo can say anything else, Paige reaches for her head, grabbing it gently but insistently. She brings it up to her lips, pressing a light kiss to Jo’s knuckles. The feeling and the way the blue of Paige’s eyes roam Jo’s face sends something through the younger girl’s chest, something that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

Jo’s mouth goes dry. It’s stupid how much Paige affects her, how easy it is for her to forget about everything else when the blonde looks at her like this.

And then Paige is leaning up, her lips finding Jo’s. Jo exhales softly into it, a slow sigh escaping her lungs like relief. Her hands slide around Paige’s neck almost instinctively, fingers curing in the fabric of her t-shirt like she needs something to hold onto—like if she lets go, it might all vanish.

Paige’s weight settles more fully on top of her, slow and careful. She’s still being cautious, keeping her right side angled away so she doesn’t press against Jo’s ankle. One of Paige’s hands lifts up to cradle Jo’s jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone. She leans in further, nose nudging Jo’s, slipping her tongue between the brunette’s lips. Jo’s heart is loud in her ears, thumping like it’s trying to break through her chest, and her lungs are full of Paige’s breath and her mouth is close as it can possibly get, and Jo sorta forgets how to function.

Then Paige makes a soft sound—a little sigh, a little hum—and Jo feels her stomach flip. She tightens her grip around Paige’s neck, pulling her in closer. A shared breath of want curls hotter between their mouths. Jo’s fingers thread into Paige’s ponytail, the soft strands sliding between them like water. Paige’s hands slide down her sides, fingers slipping under the hem of her hoodie, thumbs brushing skin.

Jo gasps, barely audible, and Paige kisses her again like she’s chasing that sound.

And Jo doesn’t really know how it turns into this—messier, hotter, hungrier. When it stopped being soft and started being the kind of thing that makes her pulse trip in her neck and her stomach tighten. She doesn’t even care, honestly. Paige is on her, pressed flush against her like she’s trying to crawl into her skin, and Jo would let her. Would unzip her whole body and say here, take it if that’s what Paige wanted. Her brain is continuously short-circuiting and her mouth is the only thing truly working right now, still chasing Paige’s like she can’t get enough. Because she can’t. Not even close.

It’s sloppy. All teeth and tongue and misaligned breathing. Paige tastes like toothpaste and something sharp that might be need, might be want. Her hands are everywhere. Raking up under Jo’s sweatshirt, dragging across her stomach like she owns it, fingers digging into Jo’s ribs. The younger girl doesn’t even try to keep still. She tugs at Paige’s ponytail with one hand, not hard, just enough to make tilt her head the way she likes. Paige groans into her mouth and Jo swears she feels it in her spine.

The heat crawls up Jo’s neck, under her ears, blooming like wildfire in her chest. She wants. She wants. More than she ever has. It’s like something broke open in her, some seal that’s been holding back the rawness of it. It’s not like this is new. They kiss. They sleep in the same bed. They’ve been toeing every line for months now, orbiting each other like idiots, letting their bodies say what they won’t let their mouths admit.

But they’d had limits. Unspoken, invisible boundaries they don’t cross. Like, for example, sex—and anything that comes close it. Because they’re best friends. Or more than best friends. Or something tangled in the middle that’s never made sense when Jo’s really let herself think about it.

But right now? Jo doesn’t want those limits. She wants to shatter them. Burn them down and pretend they never existed. Because Paige’s fingers are curling against her ribs and her mouth is warm and perfect and Jo feels like she’s going to lose it.

It’s then that Paige’s hand reaches for her hoodie, tugging just slightly—not enough to remove it, but enough to ask. Enough to test. Jo stills for half a second, kiss faltering, breath catching in her throat. Her heart’s thudding so loud it’s embarrassing.

Jo pulls away from Paige’s mouth, lips swollen and chest heaving. Her voice is so wrecked it barely sounds like her own when she says, almost in a whimper, “Fuck, take it off.”

There’s a beat. Just one. Paige blinks, and Jo can see the way it hits her—how her eyes flash and her mouth parts like she wasn’t expecting to hear it, like maybe she thought Jo would stop her. But Jo doesn’t backpedal. She just looks at her, breathless, and waits.

Paige doesn’t hesitate again.

Her hands are on the hem of Jo’s sweatshirt immediately, slipping back underneath, palms warm and steady as she pushes the fabric up and over. Jo lifts her arms, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere off the side of the bed, forgotten. Paige sits up a little, hovering above her, eyes scanning slowly—not with hunger exactly, but with something closer to awe. Like Jo’s some sort of painting she’s never been allowed to stare at this long.

Jo swallows. Her skin prickles. She’s not wearing a bra. She feels exposed.

“Joey,” Paige breathes, like she forgot how her lungs work.

Jo exhales a laugh. Shaky. Nervous around the edges. “Stop looking at me like that,” she mumbles, grabbing at Paige’s shirt now too, tugging it. Paige just grins, and then takes the liberty of lifting her own arms and taking the shirt off, leaving her in just her sports bra. Jo exhales another shaky breath.

Paige leans back down, slotting her lips against Jo’s again. Her skin is warmer than Jo’s and the brunette shivers a little.

Maybe she’s a little nervous. Not like scared-scared, not in a bad way. But there’s a fluttery sort of tightness low in her stomach, like something big’s about to happen and she doesn’t really know how to brace for it. Like her whole body is buzzing with something like readiness.

And, yeah, it’s kind of scary. Because she’s done this before. Not this. Not with a girl. And not with Paige. Jo’s had sex before, of course. With Asher, who was always so familiar and known. And Paige is familiar, too—in every way except this one. But, Jo supposes, it’s about time.

And Paige is everywhere now. Not all at once, but in that slow, agonizing way that seems almost like she’s memorizing every inch of her, one kiss at a time. Her mouth moves from Jo’s lips to her jaw, trailing heat as she goes. Jo tilts her head back automatically, a soft sigh slipping past her lips. Paige’s tongue flicks out, ghosting along the edge of her skin like she’s tasting, not just kissing.

She continues down Jo’s throat, just under her jaw, then lower, letting her lips drag. She’s so deliberate about it, so unhurried, like she’s not trying to get anywhere quite yet. Like this is the destination.

And Jo just�� lets her. Arms loose around Paige’s shoulders, her ankle forgotten, her brain melted. For once, she’s not overthinking. The only thing her mind can conjure up is now. The warmth of Paige’s breath. The gentle scrape of her teeth. How safe Jo feels under her.

When Paige mouths at her collarbone, Jo has to bite her lip to keep from gasping. It’s not even that’s intense—just a kiss, just lips, just Paige—but it still makes her hips shift, her core tighten. Paige feels it. Of course she does. She hums against Jo’s skin like she’s proud of herself.

“Okay?” Paige murmurs, lips brushing against the top of Jo’s chest now, hand sliding up Jo’s torso.

Jo’s voice comes out breathy and more higher-pitched than normal. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘M good.”

And it’s true. She is. She’s good. She’s more than good.

Because Paige is cupping her tit now, her thumb brushing across the skin like she’s trying to soothe Jo’s heartbeat, not rile it up. But it’s not working—Jo’s heart is slamming. And then Paige kisses over it, warm and open-mouthed, and Jo’s done.

She makes this tiny sound—somewhere between a breath and a moan—and she feels Paige smirk against her chest, the smug little shit. But Jo can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed. She just cards her fingers back through Paige’s ponytail, breathing through her mouth now.

The blonde’s mouth closes around one of Jo’s nipples, her tongue swirling. She palms at the other one slowly, rolling the bud between her fingers. Jo lets her eyes flutter shut, just feeling.

Paige keeps going, and Jo’s getting dizzy in that warm, liquidy way, like she’s not even in her body anymore, like her bones are soft and her skin is buzzing and her brain is just static and Paige. Paige, Paige, Paige.

Paige shifts a little. She kisses Jo’s sternum before ducking further. She trails her mouth down Jo’s ribs, across her stomach, slow, like she’s trying to dial everything down to just sweet and careful. And Jo knows it’s on purpose. She knows Paige is setting that pace for her. Because she gets like this sometimes—amped up, nervous, overthinking even when she’s dying to just feel something. And Paige knows that. She knows her. So, instead of rushing, she’s soft. She’s steady. She’s Paige.

Jo feels the bed shift under her as Paige scoots down, her hands dragging gently along Jo’s sides, not trying anything—yet—just touching, holding. Comforting. Her lips brush lower, ghosting the line of Jo’s hip, her breath warm and maddening right at the waistband of Jo’s pajama shorts.

Paige pauses. “D’you want—?” she starts, voice low and quiet and curious.

But Jo’s already nodding, already lifting her hips a little, like yes, God, yes, just do it. The words don’t come out, but she doesn’t have to say anything—Paige reads her face like it’s nothing. She lets out a soft laugh, not mocking, just amused, like okay, okay, I got you, and then she presses another kiss right above the shorts before hooking her fingers into the elastic.

Paige pulls them down slowly, like she’s unwrapping something delicate. Jo’s underwear comes with it, and—surprisingly—she doesn’t even really care about being fully naked. Not when it’s Paige. Not when Paige is being so fucking gentle about it, like every single part of Jo matters.

She tries to keep her breathing even, tries not to fidget or think too hard. Her ankle twinges a little when Paige moves the fabric past it, but Paige’s hands are immediately there, holding her calf, guiding her foot carefully out of the shirts. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t forget. And once they’re off—tossed somewhere onto the floor—Paige leans down and presses the lightest kiss to Jo’s ankle.

Jo swallows hard. Her throat feels tight.

Paige continues kissing up her leg, slow again, lazy, like she’s got nowhere else to be—which, she doesn’t. Her lips are warm and soft and just a little wet. No feels them drag across her knee, specifically across the scar from her own ACL surgery, then the inside of her thigh, and her whole body shuddered. She bites her lip and grips the hotel sheets, just barely keeping herself grounded.

Paige’s mouth trails over the soft skin of Jo’s inner thigh, her hand resting on Jo’s other leg. The brunette can feel how careful she’s being—like she’s trying to make sure Jo never once feels unsafe or uncomfortable. And that matters—to Jo, it really, really does.

Jo breathes out, unsteady, one hand still tangled in the sheets, the other reaching down to run through Paige’s hair. She can feel the blonde’s breath on her aching and waiting pussy.

“P,” she whispers.

She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say with it Just hi. You. Me I’m here. I want this. I want you. All of it, unspoken, right there in her voice.

Paige looks up at her, her eyes so soft and blue and perfect that it makes Jo’s stomach clench. “Still okay?” she asks, quiet. It’s different—she’s always so loud.

Jo nods. Too fast, probably. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Yeah, I just—” She trails off, because she doesn’t really know what she’s trying to say. She’s not scared. She’s just… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like her body is still catching up to what her heart already decided forever ago: this is safe. This is right.

Paige just smiles. A little smug, but mostly sweet. She kisses the inside of Jo’s thigh again, before trailing her mouth once more—to the final destination. Paige leans in and blows very lightly on Jo’s clit. A shaky breath escapes Jo’s nose as she bites the inside of her cheek. And then finally—finally—Paige’s lips make contact.

The blonde presses a kiss there before her tongue peeks out, sliding along Jo’s slit, between her folds. Jo’s fingers dig into the mattress and her thighs try to shut involuntarily but Paige just holds them open, getting into her rhythm. She hums a little against Jo, as if satisfied, her tongue moving up and down slowly, swirling around her clit and then flicking.

And Jo thinks she’s maybe going to actually lose her mind. Like, fully. Brain melting, spine liquefying, soul leaving the building. All because of Paige.

Because Paige is there, and she’s not being even remotely shy about it, all confidence and experience and Jo’s never felt anything like this. Not even close.

Sure, she’s had it done before. By Asher. Who… tried. Sort of. On good days. But it never felt like this. It never made her toes curl or her vision blue or her body tense the way it is right now. There was always this weird pressure with Asher, like she was supposed to be reacting more than she was. Or that she was reacting wrong. She never told him that. Didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness, because things were always supposed to be so perfect between them. But there were plenty of times where she just stared at the ceiling while he ate her out or fingered her or even fucked her and she would just think about her math homework or the her latest in-game turnover.

But this?

This is not that.

This is Paige knowing—despite never having done it with Jo—exactly where to touch her. Exactly how much pressure to use. Exactly what pace to go. Exactly when she should lean down and slip her tongue inside and thrust a couple times before pulling it back out and sliding the juices along Jo’s clit. It’s unfair, honestly, how good Paige is at this. Jo wants to laugh about it, but she can’t even breathe properly, so instead she just digs her fingers deeper into the sheets and lets her head fall back into the pillow.

The way Paige is holding her thighs, steady and secure and strong, like she’s not going anywhere—that alone is doing something feral to Jo’s brain. But the way she’s using her mouth, her tongue, her lips? Like she’s actually wants to be here? Like Jo tastes good and Paige can’t get enough of her?

It sends a jolt through Jo’s chest. Because it’s not just the physical part—it’s the feeling of it. The way Paige hums softly like she’s content. Like this isn’t a favor or a performance or a box to check off. It’s Paige being Paige. Careful. Patient. Stupidly hot in that way that makes Jo want to scream into a pillow and then, like, marry her or something, God.

She closes her eyes and tries not to think too hard. Which is difficult because she always thinks too hard. About everything. Especially this. Especially now.

Because it’s not just that Paige is eating her out like she’s her last meal, making her feel fucking incredible—it’s that she’s letting her feel that way. Letting her fall apart and not feel stupid or self-conscious or like she needs to perform in return. And Jo can just lie here, all shaking limbs and flushed skin and half-whispered gasps, and Paige is content to be the one in control. To be the one taking care of her.

And Jo—Jo loves being taken care of. She never says it out loud, but she does. She really does.

Especially by her.

She risks a glance down, her vision a little blurry from how hard she’s breathing, and she sees Paige looking up at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth glistening with her slick, hands still steady on her hips.

Jo thinks she could cry. Or cum. Or both.

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles, barely able to get the words out. Her voice is so wrecked she almost laughs at herself. “You’re… mhm, stupid good at this.”

Paige doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch. But she does smile a little, and Jo feels the smirk against her cunt. It’s dumb and cocky and the exact kind of Paige she always pretends to roll her eyes at but secretly adores.

When Paige takes Jo’s clit into her mouth and sucks hard, Jo’s hand flies up on instinct, finding Paige’s hair again and tugging. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

Paige definitely gets the message. Because she sucks harder and then, all of a sudden, two of her long fingers are sliding inside Jo, stretching her out. Jo hips jerk upwards in response—sharp and uncoordinated, her breath catching in her throat like it’s trying to make up its mind between a loan and a full-body sigh.

Paige’s fingers pump in and out of Jo’s cunt, her tongue still messily sliding through Jo’s folds. Jo lolls her head to the side, eyes squeezing shut, and lets herself feel. The tension curling low in her stomach. The heat building between her thighs. The way her fingers twitch like they’re searching for something to hold onto that isn’t Paige’s hair or the sheets or her own sanity.

Paige pulls her mouth away, still thrusting her fingers, leaning her cheek against Jo’s thigh to watch. Jo watches as the blonde’s eyes flit between the way Jo’s cunt sucks up her fingers and up to Jo’s face.

“Hey,” Paige murmurs, voice low, warm. “You’re good, ‘kay? I gotchu.”

Jo nods, or at least she thinks she does. Her head twitches anyway. She’s not sure her body is even hers anymore. Everything feels hot and electric and floaty, and the pressure in her gut when Paige curls her fingers inside before slowly pulling them out and then thrusting them back in hard has Jo choking out the blonde’s name. She’s never felt like this before. It’s so different and so much better and she doesn’t know how she ever went without it.

“That’s it,” Paige says gently, encouraging. She presses a sloppy kiss to Jo’s thigh, lips still sticky and leaving a residue behind. “Doin’ so good for me. So pretty. C’mon, baby.”

And that—the word, the tone, the way Paige has never said that before but it still slips out like it’s the most natural thing in the world—unlocks something.

Jo lets out another whimper, thighs clenching tighter, hips bucking before she can stop them. Her entire body jolts in time with the pace of Paige’s fingers, and she feels the rush come crashing in, fast and unstoppable.

“Shit—Paige—fuck—” she gasps out.

Paige keeps going, faster, harder. She keeps missing the inside of Jo’s thigh, whispering something that Jo can’t even make out over the roaring in her ears. Paige curls her fingers one last time—and then it all snaps.

When it’s over—when her body finally goes lax, her arms flopping back into the bed like she’s just run a marathon—Jo lies there in stunned silence. Staring up at the ceiling, her chest still rising and falling too fast, her thighs feeling sticky, her cunt throbbing, her mouth parted but empty of words.

Paige rests her chin gently on Jo’s hip and looks up at her, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips shining, eyes so soft and full of something Jo’s learning not to be so scared of.

“You okay?” she asks, lips curling up.

And Jo, still panting, still trying to make sense of everything, doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have words yet. Doesn’t even really have thoughts yet, not anything coherent. So instead of answering, she just reaches down and grabs at Paige.

The blonde, of course, goes with it. No hesitation. She crawls up the bed until they’re face to face, her body draped over Jo’s. Their lips meet again, slow for a second, just a soft press. Jo can taste herself on Paige, and it’s weird and good and makes her heart pound even faster. There’s something about it that flips a switch in her, ignites this new kind of fire in her chest that she didn’t even know she had the energy for.

And then she’s moving—fast. One sharp inhale and she’s flipping Paige onto her back, catching the surprised squeak out of her mouth mid-kiss. Jo ends up on top, straddling her with still-shaky limbs and adrenaline pumping through her blood. When she pulls back to look down at her, Paige is grinning.

That fully, gummy smile—the one she only does when she’s really happy. The one Jo adores.

Paige is staring up at her like she’s the best surprise she’s ever gotten.

Jo looks down at her, breath catching again, but this time for a totally different reason. Her body’s still trembling a little, but not really from her orgasm anymore, just from want.

“Why the fuck was I ever dating a boy?” she asks, genuinely baffled, blinking down at Paige. The thought of Asher now, who she’d been so obsessed with her entire life, seems just incredulous now. So dim compared to Paige.

Paige snorts, eyes crinkling, shaking er head. “Beats me.”

Jo lets out a laugh—one that might be a little too giddy—but then she’s already leaning down again, kissing Paige. This time, it’s not slow. Not careful. It’s fast and messy and full of new urgency.

Paige responds immediately—gripping Jo’s waist, then lower, hands landing firmly on Jo’s ass, squeezing. Jo grins against the older girl’s mouth, biting at her lower lip. Her hands roam across Paige’s stomach, feeling the firmness of her abs, before reaching up.

The brunette pulls back just enough to tug at the hem of Paige’s sports bra. “God,” she mutters, “take this off—”

Her hands are there, fumbling a little because she’s still shaky and a little overwhelmed, but Paige doesn’t laugh or tease. She just sits up a bit, helps her out, eyes never leaving Jo’s.

And when the bra’s finally off and Jo sees her—really sees her—she stares. And then leans down to reattach their lips again, telling Paige, “You’re so pretty.”

That seems to do something to her, and she pulls Jo against her harder, so their bare chests are flush against each other. Her tongue tangles with Jo’s and the brunette moans a little into her mouth.

At this point, Jo isn’t even really thinking anymore. Not in the way that counts. Her brain’s gone nicely quiet, like someone hit mute on all the noise she usually lives with. Right now, there’s only this: Paige, flushed and beautiful and real beneath her. Paige, who just made her feel fucking perfect. And Jo wants to make her feel that, too.

She wants to return the favor. Not because she feels like she has to. Not because it’s expected. Just because she wants to.

So, she reaches down, her fingers brushing along Paige’s lower stomach. Paige doesn’t even say anything, just meets Jo’s eyes and lifts her hips. She helps Jo slide her sweatpants and boxers off in one smooth motion. She doesn’t make it a big thing, doesn’t look nervous or self-conscious—just kicks them off with that stupid confidence that she somehow always has.

Once they’re off, Jo leans back down and kisses Paige hard. Their mouths crash together, open and desperate, all lips and tongue and shaky exhalations. It’s sloppy.

They kiss until Jo feels dizzy again. Until Paige is clutching at her back like she doesn’t want her to go anywhere, ever. Until Jo’s lungs feel like they’re caving in from how badly she wants to be closer.

Jo’s hand moves again, slower this time. Down Paige’s side. Over her ribs. Across her stomach, which is warm and tense and fluttering under her palm. And down. Just enough.

She pauses against Paige’s lips, heart pounding in her throat, and asks in a whisper, “Can I?”

Paige breaths hard against Jo’s mouth. She nods once, then says, completely breathlessly, “Only if you want to.”

And Jo does. She really fucking does.

So, she kisses Paige again and slowly slips her fingers between her thighs.

And she kind of has no idea what she’s doing.

Okay, that’s not totally true—she sort of knows. In theory. Like, she’s not walking in completely blind here. She’s fingered herself before. But this is different. This is Paige. This is the first time she’s ever done this with a girl. All she really has to rely on is instincts and the wild, overwhelming need to make Paige feel as good as she made her feel.

Jo keeps her hand steady, even though her brain is no longer quiet, back to doing backflips. Her fingertips are already slick, and the heat radiating off Paige’s body is unreal, almost feverish. Every tiny sound Paige makes—the hitched breath, the muffed moan, the soft, whispered “fuck” when Jo does something right—sends a jolt down Jo’s spine.

“Right there,” Paige says, breath ragged, voice cracking, when Jo presses her fingers deeper, hitting that gummy spot inside. “Just—yeah, like that.”

Jo nods, kissing the side of Paige’s throat. She shifts her hand slightly, curling her fingers the way Paige guided her, and—

That gets a reaction. Paige arches, hips twitching, and her hands scramble for something to hold onto—Jo’s shoulder, the sheets, whatever. Her fingers dig in.

Jo almost forgets how to breathe. Her heart is hammering in her chest. Not just because Paige is clearly into it—which, thank God—but because of how natural it feels. Not easy, necessarily, because she’s still very much learning, still kind of terrified of doing it wrong—but right. Right in that deeply weird way where something you’ve never done before just clicks into place.

It’s strange. Not in a bad way. Just… strange, realizing how different this is from anything she’s done before. With Asher, everything always felt so scripted. Rushed. Weirdly, kind of detached, too. Like she was there but not really there, going through the motions, wondering if it was supposed to feel better, if she should have enjoyed getting him off more than she did.

But Paige? Here, right now?

It’s all-consuming.

Jo stares—watches the way her sharp jaw clenches, the way her bare chest rises and falls unevenly, the little crease between her brows when Jo hits the right spot again. Paige is so in it, so present. Jo isn’t used to how much Paige is giving her right now—how vulnerable she looks, and how safe Jo feels holding her like this.

“You’re doin’ good,” Paige mumbles, breathless, her arm sliding around Jo’s back again, pulling her closer. Her short nails dig into Jo’s spine. “So good.”

Jo’s stomach flips. It’s stupid how much that means. How warm it makes her feel. She pumps her fingers, a little faster.

“Yeah?” she asks. She leans down, kisses along Paige’s collarbone because she needs something to do with her mouth.

Paige nods, palm pressing harder against Jo, head tilting back. “Mhm. Like, real good.”

Jo grins against her skin, a little proud and a lot relieved. Her fingers keep thrusting, falling into a rhythm that matched the stutter of Paige’s breath. It’s a little bit trial and error, but she’s getting the hang of it. And Paige is being so patient, so kind. Still giving her those little instructions when she needs them—a whispered “softer” here, a breathy “deeper” there. Not demanding, not condescending, just guiding.

And she’s so pretty like this. Skin flushed, lips parted, ponytail all messed up. Jo leans down and kisses her again and Paige kisses her back like she needs it, like kissing Jo is the only thing keeping her here. Her cunt tightens around Jo’s fingers, and Jo feels a thrill shoot through her when Paige moans into her mouth.

She can feel Paige getting close—the way her hips jerk, how her pussy pulses, her breath getting shallower. And Jo wants to see it. She pulls back just enough to look down at her, to take it all in.

Paige’s eyes flutter open. She looks up at Jo with blown pupils and eyes full of need. “Joey—fuck, don’t stop,” she groans, almost begging.

Jo doesn’t. Of course not.

She keeps her pace steady, watches every second of it—the way Paige’s back arches, the way her cunt swallows Jo’s fingers, the way her mouth falls open and the soft, broken sounds she makes as she gushes against Jo’s hand. It’s by far the most attractive thing Jo’s seen in her entire life.

Paige goes still for a moment, then slumps back against the mattress, blinking like she’s trying to remember how breathing works.

Jo pulls her fingers out gently. She wipes them on the edge of the blanket, not bothering to care about the mess. She just wants to look at her. At Paige. At her best friend, who’s actually a lot more than that.

Paige finally turns her head to look at her. She’s still catching her breath, cheeks red, lips kiss-bitten. “Shit,” she says, voice hoarse.

Jo lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Yeah.”

Paige shakes her head before tightening her grip on Jo’s back, saying, “C’mere.”

Jo goes, meeting Paige halfway, kissing her. It’s slow, lazy, lips dragging against each other like neither of them is in a rush to come back to reality. Jo’s hand rests on Paige’s side, fingers moving without thought, tracing the soft, warm dip of her waist. Paige’s skin is damp and flushed beneath her.

Jo feels really good. Like her whole body’s buzzing from the inside out. Like something just cracked open inside her and let in fresh air for the first time in a long time.

Paige’s mouth is at her jaw now, a quick nip of teeth before she kisses her way back to Jo’s lips. Jo smiles against her, dazed and stupidly content. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want anything to change.

But then Paige is suddenly pulling back, jerking upright like she just remembered something extremely important. Jo blinks, caught off guard.

“What?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

Paige’s eyes go wide. “Your ankle, bro!”

Jo stares at her, confused for half a second before it hits her—right. Her ankle. Her sprained ankle.

She rolls it, and yeah, it definitely twinges in a way that reminds her maybe throwing herself around the bed wasn’t the smartest decision she’s ever made.

“Oh,” she mutters, pressing her lips together. “Ow.”

Paige is already moving, gently pushing at Jo’s shoulder so she’ll lie back flat. “Joey,” she says, and her voice has this exasperated fondness in it that makes Jo want to grin and roll her eyes at the same time.

“I forgot!” Jo says, both defensive and sheepish. “You were—we were—I forgot!”

Paige shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. She’s not mad. Not even really worried, just Paige-level concerned, which usually means she’s about to fuss over Jo like someone’s grandma. “You’re so stupid,” she says, laughing under her breath.

Jo hits lightly at her arm, but doesn’t actually argue.

Paige leans down, pressing her lips to Jo’s forehead with this stupidly gentle kiss that makes Jo’s heart go inside inside her chest.

“I’mma go get more ice,” the blonde says, already halfway off the bed.

But just as her feet hit the ground, she stops like she forgot something, turning back around. She crawls back over and kisses Jo again, quick and sweet. Like a reflex. Like she needed to. And Jo’s not expecting it, so her breath catches for the smallest second—and then Paige is already up, grabbing at her clothes so she can go out in the hall.

Jo lies there for a second, dazed and blinking at the ceiling. Her whole body feels warm and worn-out and achy in a good way. The bed still smells like both of them, sweat and perfume and arousal.

She exhales slowly.

Yeah, she’s in so deep.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #dallas wings #wnba #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #wnba x reader #wlw smut #wlw #nobody gets me

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moyazaika · 16 hours ago

Text

blood in the water.

m! yandere prince x gn! knight reader ♡ mdni 18+

cw — blood, betrayal, obsessive themes, lack of autonomy and unbalanced power dynamics. 2.4k wc.

a/n — well well well

you can barely make him out through the mist.

a heavy and decadent cloud of perfume rolls over the warm waters of the royal banya; makes it difficult to chart your course to where your prince is. you narrow your eyes, glimpse the outline of his frame, solid and familiar, beyond the swirling haze that's descended over the pool's surface.

"moy knyaz," you clear your throat. my prince; the title rolling off your tongue like honey. "i've arrived with the supplies you asked for."

he spares you a glance over his shoulder, the movement causing gentle ripples in the water around him. you think briefly, like a fool, that he will wade to the edge of the pool to meet you where you stand. you lower your head, gaze drawn respectfully low.

"ah, sweet knight." you can hear the smile in his gentle words; that familiar lilt of felicity, all soft at the edges. "there you are; i was almost beginning to worry," he hums. "whatever took you so long?"

"apologies for the delay, my prince." you rest a hand over your heart, imbue as much sincerity as you can in the action. "i will ensure that it does not happen again."

you'd never been in the bathhouse before, so it was difficult not to feel like a stumbling fawn. you'd never had any reason to be in this wing of the palace; seeing as you were the prince's knight, and not one of his personal attendants—and yet, you contemplated quietly, this time he'd called specifically for you.

(the thought of it makes you feel strangely special.)

"very well.” he concedes. “you have brought what i asked for?"

"yes, my prince." you nod, hold out your hands over the edge of the pool. present to him upon your palms, folded neatly and perfumed in his favourite scent, the silver silk he uses during his trips to the bathhouse. you wait, expectantly, for the feel of his fingers swiping the washcloth from your hands—and yet, it never comes.

"dorogaya, you do not intend to keep me waiting any longer, i hope?"

you blink, head still lowered out of respect. "i'm sorry, my prince. i do not quite understand."

"eyes up, sweet knight, and clothes off." he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as one does when speaking to a child; "it seems," he sighs softly, "that i am in need of your ministrations tonight."

never one to go against his words, you raise your head, albeit reluctantly. almost immediately, you meet his tar black eyes. his gaze heavy and stifling, as he observes you lazily over his shoulders. you can't help that your attention drifts down to the prominent corded muscles of his back; the strong, solid shape you only just manage to make out through the soft, dreamlike mist.

he smiles at you so kindly, then, as if he is understanding of your appraisal; the curl of his lips feels dangerously close to an invitation to dip into something far deeper than these waters.

"you are already late," his voice, deceptively gentle for how low it is, brings your attention back to the task at hand, and out of your shameful reveries. you swallow nervously, as he turns back; the air in the banya feels colder, then, when your prince's eyes are no longer trained solely on you. "please, luybov moya. do not make me wait any longer."

my love, my love, my love; how gently he calls for you from the water.

the affections fall from his lips like sweet nectar, and you are so helplessly caught in his tenderness that there are no more questions to be asked, even if they weigh heavy on your mind.

your shirt is the first to go. the intricate buttons of your tunic difficult to undo with shaking fingers. trousers, next. stepping out of the fabric as it falls at your feet. working to loosen the lace of your boots.

tentatively, you dip your toes in the water. it's warmer than it looks. a welcome reprieve, though, from the chill of being undressed. the hair on your skin stands on end when the prince speaks up.

"clothes off," he repeats softly, without sparing you so much as a backwards glance. "i will not repeat myself."

"ah," you look down at the flimsy undergarments you still don; the scrap of decency they provide in maintaining a facade of respect in the presence of the tsar's son. thin fabrics that hide the skin on your back, marred by grotesque scars from previous battles waged and lost and won in the name of your beloved prince. and yet—albeit with trembling hands, you reach for the hem. "understood, moy knyaz."

you let yourself sink into the pool, as it envelopes your bare body whole. it's nice, and warm. welcoming, you think to yourself.

you nervously wring the silk in your hands as the gentle undulations of the water naturally push you closer to the prince; and you're silently grateful for the mist of the heavy perfumes and steam that descends over the banya and nips at (as well as obscures) your scarred skin.

perhaps it is because of this veil that it takes you so long to realise your prince is covered in blood.

you still in your movements—taking in the swirling ink-like clouds of deep red in the cerulean water around him; the spray of dark blood over his jaw, and the muscles of his chest; how it drips, thick like sweet nectar, from his hands—held out towards you.

"moya milaya," he murmurs, watching you through low lashes. his eyes are black like heavy tar. you find yourself stuck—sinking into the quiet darkness before you; "won't you purify me?"

you reach out, closer, press the silk against the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. you delude yourself into thinking you can feel the steady thrum of life through the touch; but all you're met with is his warm skin, slick with blood. it smears when you wipe it, stains the fine fabric of the washcloth.

"your highness, are you—" your eyes flicker up to meet his, but your hands don't slow in their pace as you scrub him free. concern pulls the edges of your heart and everything threatens to unravel in the absence of an answer. "are you alright? were you hurt? has the physician allowed you to—"

"i am fine, sweet knight. the blood," your prince's lips curl into a knowing smile, "none of it is mine."

"i don't understand, moy knyaz. forgive me for my ignorance, but who did—" you blink, desperately searching his impassive face for an answer. "our enemies? conspirators against the tsardom? an assassination attempt? because i was never made aware of—"

he places his hand over your own. the touch is careful and light, merely a suggestion—

you still immediately.

realise, with dawning horror, that you've scrubbed his skin raw. the blood pools in the water, your insistent, frantic efforts leaving the skin of his forearm all angry and hot and red—markers of blossoming pain. tense muscles, and all. the silk looks as if it has been drenched in ink.

"not of the tsardom," the prince says lightly, 'but enemies still; and i already know you were not informed because i ordered it so."

the threads your heart was hanging on by are pulled too strongly, too soon. everything comes apart. a sense of betrayal, and then a deep-rooted shame, washes over you. you swore you would follow this man to the ends of the world; and yet, he does not even trust you in his darkest hours?

you wish to sink into the water and never resurface from its depths. beg, silently, for the fog to swallow you whole beneath the weight of your prince's gaze.

"apologies," you manage shakily. "i have failed to protect you, my prince. i understand that you find me incapable of serving you for any longer. as your humble knight, i shall—"

"hush."

fingers skimming up your neck, resting at your jaw. the impossibly soft way the prince forces you to meet his eyes, so kind in their own right. so full of mercy.

"bednyazhka," he whispers under his breath. you poor thing. "you worry far too much. it will be the cause of your undoing, one day."

"it is worth it for you, moy knyaz. i would gladly lay down my life for you."

"yes," he murmurs. "of course, that is what you would think. a shame.”

"apologies, i..." you frown. "i do not understand."

he smiles ruefully. "no. of course, you do not." his fingers fall from your face, and you find, shamefully, that you mourn the touch far more than you should. instead, they brush against your knuckles; raw from hours of combat training. he runs his thumb over the broken skin. "seven, sweet knight. this is the number of attempts made on your life in the past week."

you had...

you swallow nervously, coming to terms with the news. the urge to say something overwhelms you (strangely, an inclination to defend yourself) but the words evade you. your throat closes up.

you had no idea.

(find solace, at least, in not needing to wonder about the sorry sort of fates they must have met at the hands of this man before you.)

he swipes the washcloth from you, continues speaking in hushed tones; "our enemies grow restless as we prosper. they want nothing more than to hurt me. previously, i have not had to worry about this, because of you."

"and now?" you whisper.

"and now, luybov moya, my enemies rejoice." he takes your trembling hands in his own, inspects the blood from his skin that now stains yours by carefully turning over each and every finger in his palm. "they have found a way to hurt me." he confesses, "because of you."

the touch is feather light. barely even there.

"do you understand, my sweet knight? you are the reason i prosper, and yet, devastatingly so, the sole cause of my ruination."

the gentle undulations of the water around you has lulled you into a false sense of security. you feel safe in this moment, knowing your prince is in such close proximity. the two of you stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours; breaths in sync, breathing the same perfumed air in—and out.

in—and out.

you almost think you've misheard the prince when he speaks again.

"and this is why i have decided," he says softly, "that you will never pick up a sword again."

his words instantly break the fragile tranquility of the moment like a delicate thread that's been pulled at for far too long—an inevitable snap that still manages to hurt. you shake your head, affronted by the mere thought of such an absurd idea.

perhaps this is some sick jest. surely, he must know? the value of your sword? what it means to you?

you swore an oath to protect the tsar's son. it is an insult to your very being should you fail to uphold this royal promise. you have already let him down enough.

"i can not be of no use to you, moy knyaz."

"that will never be the case." he smiles. "i have many uses for you in mind, moya milaya."

how can he say it so affectionately? my sweetheart falling from his lips as he takes from you the one thing you can never bear to part with.

"but i have always fought!" you protest. frantic, desperate laughter bubbles past your lips. it sounds wrong and forced even to your own ears. he drinks it in, all the same. "i have always wanted to protect you. it is my purpose and duty and—"

who am i without it?

"yes, and i will always cherish you for it, but now, your fight is over."

your prince has always been the most beautiful man in the tsardom to you. out of an unwavering loyalty, you have followed him through the darkest snowstorms and to the most desolate battlefields. you have raised flags in his name and stared down the barrel of your gun to an innocent child for his legacy.

despite it all, he has only ever been your prince; and you, his most trusted knight.

in this moment, though?

the man before you is unrecognisable. he has forgotten who you are.

"the purpose of my life is fighting." you repeat, hoping to remind him of what your sword represents; a plea for him to let you keep it. "it is why i live. it is what i promised to forever do, until the very end of my life—i exist to serve you.”

"and you will." the prince assures you keenly, presents you with a reminder of his own. "there are other ways to serve."

ah—

so this is what you've fallen to.

"you cannot do this," you cling to him. dig your nails into his skin, forgetting the sheen of blood that already lies there; like a thin film. some impossible barrier separating your reason from his actions. "please, my prince. you can't."

please don't turn me into an accessory.

"my sweet knight," he gently pries your hands off of his shoulders, brings your wrist to his lips. he kisses away the blood on your skin as if this display of affection will wash you clean of your shame. "there is nothing you can do to stop me. it has already been done."

it dawns on you laughably late. of course, this is the true reason he called you to the bathhouse; why else would he be waiting for you? what other purpose for your presence—when he's never needed anyone else to purify him?

how foolish of you to think yourself an exception. the silk washcloth floats in the pool's water that gently ripples from all your shaking. it takes effort to hold yourself together and string the words you wish to say into anything even remotely sensible.

yet, you fall short, even then.

"why?" your strength is futile; any attempt to wretch your hand out of his hold fails. his fingers stay wrapped in place, careful not to bruise you with their strong hold—yet completely unyielding to your every effort. "i don't understand."

why would you strip me of who i am? why would you strip me of who i have always been?

tendrils of dark blood swirling in the warm water around you, your prince only smiles adoringly in response. his black eyes are so impossibly shallow as he watches you fall apart before him; and yet you find yourself drowning in them all the same.

"why would you do this to me?"

this is the first time you will hear this answer from the prince, but you already know—

(even whilst he peppers dozens of soft, sighing kisses into your wrist and up your arm, over your shoulder and down, down, under)

—you already know it will not be the last.

"because i love you."

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