tahojiki

Latest Posts by tahojiki

you are all i need

summary: you were the only person who knew the crown prince of Kremnos from this side — his careworn gaze locking onto your sick form, silently begging for you to get better. Mydei always said he doesn’t need mercy from the gods, yet now his hands were interlocked in a desperate prayer, searching for any kind of help.

cw: gen. neutral reader, hurt/comfort, angst, health issues, unconfessed feelings, Mydei is absolutely whipped for reader. || wc: 4k

your body stirred into consciousness, but you didn’t open your eyes yet. there it was again — that awful ache, seeping through all of your muscles, making you wince whenever you moved. the room was unbelievably suffocating, and you felt the unpleasant way sweat clung to your skin, forcing you to push the covers away. short relief washed over your senses before shivers began to shake your bones — you grimaced, frustrated by your body’s indecisiveness. needless to say, you were absolutely sick.

it began as innocent coughs and sneezes, making you think it would eventually pass — after all, those symptoms rarely evolved into anything serious. Mydei chastised you for dismissing it, and kept insisting you take a few days off to rest. with how things stood now, it wasn’t difficult to guess whether you decided to listen. you regretted not doing so, because as it turns out, the illness turned into something way worse than common cold. you’ve been bedridden for the past eleven days, and the remedies hardly worked on you.

a sudden dryness squeezed at your lungs, making you break out into a fit of coughs. you cracked one of your eyelids open, and your heart almost jumped out from the sight of your friend leaning over you with a concerned expression, his face barely illuminated by the weak oil lamp.

"Mydei?" you forced out through your coughs, trying to sit upright. "what— cough — what are you doing here? it’s way too late, you should be sleeping!"

his hands immediately found their ways onto your arms, pushing you back into the pillows. you didn’t even have the strength to protest. "your temperature got higher, so i decided to stay for a little longer." he explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, pouring you some fresh water. you observed the man’s face for a while, taking note of his disheveled hair and dark circles, hanging lowly under the golden eyes. he was worn, and you felt guilty.

your gaze flickered over to the bedside table, stopping on the empty bowl. Mydei brought you soup around the evening hours, if you weren’t mistaken. when you’re sick, the flow of time starts to distort, and as you’re snapping in-and-out of consciousness the clock hands begin to jump around its face. it’s day — you closed your eyes for two seconds, and now it’s nighttime.

"listen, i appreciate how worried you are about me, but-" you paused, clearing your throat, "you don’t have to be there all the time, you know. i’m sure you have better things to do than looking after me." a chuckle escaped your lips, though it quickly died down when Mydei’s brows narrowed together.

"i can do whatever i wish to." he responded, obviously unamused. you blinked twice at his reaction, feeling the sweat start to become unbearable once again. arguing with Mydei was usually no use, as he was stubborn as a donkey, however this time you really felt inclined to have it your way.

"well," you began, pushing yourself up on the pillows to a half-sitting position, "what if you get sick too? who will be taking care of us, hm?"

"i guess we’ll both die then." he deadpanned, cocking one eyebrow up at you, expression still unimpressed. since Mydei was immortal, he definitely cared less about his well-being, and no matter how hard you tried to change that awful mindset of his, you still couldn’t.

"you’re really something…" a disheartened mutter left your lips as your eyes trailed after his hand, now pressing to your forehead. you felt weak, the late hour of the day filling your muscles with more pain than usually. the man retracted his palm with an unsatisfied frown, making your stomach squeeze with a bit of anxiety.

even though you joked about the situation, there were moments when intrusive thoughts took over your fatigued mind, and you wondered — is this how you pass? it was unlikely, alas you couldn’t help but feel slightly paranoid. eleven days of fevers, sometimes so high they changed into delirium. they kept tormenting your body, and no matter how much medicine you stuffed yourself with, it seemed to be only a temporary solution. at the start, no one aside from Mydei took it seriously. Phainon kept teasing you about your weak immune system, saying how poor and fragile you were. six days later he stood at your bed’s side, holding a big bouquet along with a letter of good wishes from everyone. back then you laughed at his careworn expression, though now you see it definitely wasn’t baseless.

as for your other friend — he kept visiting you regularly, although as of late it turned into something bordering on obsession. constantly checking your temperature, coming up with new remedies, calling up every single doctor in the area, then practically dragging them by collar into your room. none worked, and it seemed to only push him further up the wall. you didn’t know why he was acting like this. whenever you inquired about his odd behavior, he’d always mutter something about being "responsible" or whatever nonsense he managed to conjure up at that moment. to be completely honest, you personally saw no point to his actions. how was exposing oneself to a potentially dangerous virus sensible?

on the other hand, it’s not like you minded the attention he was gracing you with. it felt nice in a way, when you kept on coughing and whining from pain, and he’d always be by your side, that solicitous look painted across his face. he’d bring you food, sometimes starting to read out loud to occupy your mind. as you were close to drifting away, he would press his palms to your neck and cheeks, checking whether you were burning up. day after day, never losing focus of his goal — bringing you back to health.

right now as you were scanning his downcast expression, you began to wonder if such behavior was normal. you remember that one time when Mydei got sick — him and Phainon were both being irresponsible, which led to them getting food poisoning. you were worried, sure, you even went as far as to changing his compresses and running a few errands for him, but never to this extent. is that how a friend should act?

did he even perceive you as a friend? were all of those touches merely a gesture of platonic affection? all these stolen glances, and words, and—

your mind started to spin for a short while, and you fell back onto the bed with a huff. no matter how hard you wished to repress those feelings, they’d always find a way to resurface. it’s not like you were infatuated with him, but whenever your eyes locked, a sudden surge of something foreign would run through your spine, making you wonder where the line between everything started to blur.

"i’ll bring you some painkillers. the ones you took earlier probably stopped working by now." the man announced in a quiet voice, but before he could get up from the chair you grabbed his wrist, securing him into place. the sudden action made your muscles ache once again, evoking a wince.

"wait, Mydei— wait." for what? "i— just don’t go. you don’t have to bring me anything." you explained, your words slightly slurring.

he sent you a wary glance. "why not?"

because you’re obviously just as tired as me, you fool, and i don’t want to use you as my personal nurse!

"well, uhh…" a nervous snicker escaped you as you mulled over your options, “i’m obviously starting to feel better, so i don’t think i need any painkillers. stay for me, please?" you lied quickly, hoping it sounded believable enough.

that made Mydei sigh heavily, his shoulders hunching with resignation. you sent him a smile of approval, fighting through the pressure building up in your sinuses that slowly made your head pound with pain. you’ll grab the medicine by yourself later.

"sometimes i feel like you care more about my well-being than your own." he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. you couldn’t exactly deny the statement — you’ve known Mydei for a while now, and grown rather fond of him (perhaps too fond for your own liking).

"why, is that a bad thing?" you asked, pulling the sheets down. you felt overly hot, even though the room itself probably wasn’t humid. "i don’t mind if you’re immortal. you’re not separate from every other thing, and you deserve the same care."

the man’s lips opened as if he wanted to say something, but no sound left his mouth.

if he were to be honest, you had this weird effect on him — whenever you said something kind, his heart immediately clenched. more often than not he felt like a lovestruck fool, even though it made no sense to him. it’s not like he lacked in attention to desperately cling onto every syllable of your words — yet here he was, constantly by your side, taking in your restless form fatigued by fever as his hands clasped together in prayer, hidden from your sight. the curse of undying made it even more tangible how fragile human lives were.

Mydei couldn’t remember where or when it all began. perhaps when the summer sun shone onto your head so brightly it started to resemble a halo, your beckoning voice calling out to him. you wanted to show him the butterfly sitting atop your hand — he said it looked beautiful, even though his gaze was glued to your beaming eyes the whole time. you giggled as the insect fluttered away, murmuring how you wished it would stay forever. Mydei nodded along, thinking your words were more relatable than ever.

then again, maybe it was when that thick-skulled, ignorant lion started to spread rumors about him, and you would stand in front of its brass head, arguing and defending Mydei’s name for three full hours. others eventually got sick of your back-and-forth with the lion, trying to drag you away, yet you stood your ground, threatening to take it out in a fight after your patience ran thin. the man observed the charade from a distance, chuckling under his nose. discussing with the spirit usually lacked in any meaning, but you simply wouldn’t give up. when you succeeded, all sweaty and out of breath, you turned to Mydei with the proudest smirk on your face, bragging how he could always depend on you. he ruffled your hair in response, saying that he would from now on.

it could have been when you both were baking a cake. you were terrible at this, so you asked for Mydei’s assistance, since his cooking-skills are definitely higher than yours. in the middle of the process you ran out of flour, and you decided to go and buy it, even though the sky was overcast with dark clouds. wind blew straight at your faces as you sprinted for the closest vendor, trying to win the race against the upcoming storm. it seemed that day you were out of luck, and soon you were completely soaked, stumbling back into the kitchen with defeated looks. you dumped the flour packet onto the countertop, its wet contents now depraved of any use. Mydei was sure you were going to complain, yet all you did was laugh at his irritated expression, saying how you’d try again tomorrow. you spent the rest of the day conversing about the silliest of things, watching as the trees outside bent under unrelenting rain.

for all he knows, maybe his feelings started to pop and bloom in all colors when you first looked at him, your name slipping so nonchalantly from your lips as you introduced yourself, and he just mistook it for curiosity.

that’s what you were. caring, respectful, with a will seemingly made out of stainless steel. Mydei lived through ten thousands of tragic events, trauma after trauma piling up over his shoulders, keeping him pinned to the ground under its sheer weight. even though his body lacked in any kind of wounds, he felt as if his whole mind was covered in scars. never needing any kind of authority nor condolence from others, he kept the thoughts of comfort tucked away in the furthest corners of his mind. every single ounce of Mydei’s resolve shattered the moment he got a taste of your kindness, warmer and more forgiving than any other. you were the sun, and you were the night, and the ground held you up proudly, and so he simply couldn’t bear the thought of life without you.

for all those years he spent by your side, he never quite came to terms with his own sentiments towards you. taking everything for granted quickly melted into dubious anxieties as he sat by your bedside, counting your breaths, the thermometer in his hand clearly indicating a serious febrile condition. he’d trade hundreds of his deaths just for one life — yours. it was as simple as that.

his dark trail of reveries suddenly got interrupted by your coughing, making him jump up in the chair. "hey, are you okay? you didn’t even—" you paused, reaching for the glass of water, taking a few sips, "you didn’t even answer me. maybe you should really go to sleep, huh?"

"sorry, i just got lost in thought. and i’m not tired. on the other hand, why don’t you go back to sleep?” Mydei retaliated, his gaze flickering over to the clock. it was well after three in the morning, and you definitely should rest some more.

you pretended to consider his words for a second. "hmm, but knowing you, you’ll stay up — doing gods know what — and later i’m just gonna feel bad about leaving you alone.” a weak chuckle escaped your chest as you took in his careworn expression. seriously, he was way too worried for his own good.

the man shook his head, leaning back into the chair, his eyebrows tugged together in defiance. that evoked a sigh from you as you fell back onto the pillows, internally cursing him for being so stubborn.

"Mydei, listen, i’m trying to understand you here - but this time i cannot wrap my head around you." you chided, observing his attitude shift into something softer. perhaps you shouldn’t be scolding him like that, but you couldn’t help yourself. "why do you care so much? i don’t see Phainon, nor anyone else constantly hovering by my bedside."

the man seemed to take a moment of contemplation, the look on his face turning grim once more. for a second, you genuinely thought you offended him, but soon his quiet voice cut through the deep silence between you. "have i ever told you about Hephaestion?"

"i— i’m sorry, but i don’t think so." you replied, a bit surprised to see Mydei starting to open up before you. even though you were pretty close with him, he never attempted to reminisce about his past, so you didn’t ask.

"Hephaestion is—" he began slowly, mulling over his next choice of words, "a late friend of mine. he was my most trusted companion, and still is to this day."

you nodded in understanding, listening with intent to his story. there was a tangible sadness laced through Mydei’s tone, and you gripped the sheets a little tighter, trying to stop the multitude of words that kept pushing themselves onto your tongue. it’s better if you hear him out first before you start jumping to conclusions.

the man took a heavy breath, as if merely speaking about it brought him physical pain. "unfortunately, on the eve of my duel against my father, he got taken by sickness. we were supposed to celebrate together, and yet—" Mydei paused, his hands clenching around nothing, "—and yet, he passed the same day. there was nothing i could do. if only Hephaestion didn’t hide his condition away from me, then i’d surely… surely, i’d…"

he trailed off, as if debating whether he should continue. in his mind, the things he was telling you were not all that interesting, nor did you exactly care — even if you did, truly.

you stared at Mydei with wide eyes, suddenly forgetting about the insistent ache that kept pulling at your muscles. all of your previously prepared condolences rapidly died in your throat, leaving you speechless. the darkness and grief swirling in his golden irises rendered you unmoving, trapped between offering him any sort of comfort and remaining silent. what should you do? Mydei’s confession felt like a slap to your face, keeping you in a limbo, as you never expected him to go through such awful things. there were moments when he would look into the distance with something foreign to you in his gaze, however you never dared to inquire.

"perhaps that’s why i’m so concerned about your well-being.” he mumbled, his line of sight flickering away from your face.

"Mydei, you—“ your brows knitted together as you tried to form a coherent sentence, "i’m so sorry, i never knew…"

he shrugged, trying to gather himself and appear more impassive. "well, now you do."

a bit unsure, you reached out for his hand, linking your fingers with Mydei’s before he managed to suppress all of his vulnerable emotions back. you didn’t want him to hide, shying away from being perceived. it wouldn’t be fair.

a short moment of fright passed through his face as he noticed your action, though he didn’t point it out. "honestly, i don’t know what else you went through, or what awaits you in the future, but i need you to know that i’ll always be there for you. i- i know it’s not much, compared to all the suffering…" you stopped, trying to gather your thoughts, "you have the others too. i’m sure that-"

"alright, alright." Mydei huffed, interrupting your troubled rambling. "i understand what you’re trying to convey." although his voice was still low, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, making your chest just a bit lighter.

no matter how much he appreciated the sentiment, there was still a big problem hanging over the whole situation like an inevitable thunderstorm — you said you’d always stick by his side, but that simply wasn’t true. holding on with all his might to other people usually resulted in vain. he’d live to see all of them pass, fragments of his heart crumbling and chipping off as the time progressed. his friends long gone, leaving a deep, hollow cavity behind — your fate will be the same, eventually.

Mydei doesn’t like thinking about it. what will the future bring to him? more suffering? more pain? his body will remain the same, youthful face and body depraved of any scars, still overflowing with vigor. but what about you? he couldn’t care less about the changes mortal body goes through, although the sight of a face, worn by years and hardships always reminds him of one ultimate truth all humans share — death. what will he do once you’re gone? it’s stupid. it doesn’t make sense. he should cast aside his humanity and stop himself from becoming attached, and yet he couldn’t. what is a life without feelings and a heart? could it still be considered a 'life' instead of a meaningless 'existence'? wouldn’t he become reduced to a husk, which just happens to breathe and think like the others?

the decades will slip through his fingers, and he won’t be able to stop thinking about how cruel it is that now he’s left without you. he’ll be waiting — even though he shouldn’t be. he’d still wake up with things to tell you, and fall asleep thinking about what you two should do tomorrow. he’s going to stand in front of your porch, watching strangers enter and leave the house, wondering where’d you go and when will you be coming back. his memory will always cherish you, asking about you all the time. that’s not how it should be, alas the curse he bears can’t be undone.

anyway, grieving the loss that’s yet to come is… not rational. it won’t bring him any good, nor will it keep you forever. he should focus on the present, perhaps make you a compress or take your temperature—

"…dei. hey!" his gaze snapped towards you, now squeezing his hand a bit harder than necessary. "for gods’ sake, you’re really out of it. for a second there i thought you really fell asleep with your eyes open." your features shifted into something akin to worry as you took in the man’s expression. he only sighed in response, instantly making you guess what he was dwelling on.

"Mydei, if you’re thinking about- well." you paused, afraid of even speaking the words out loud. "i’ll say it just once — i’m not going anywhere." you consoled him with a smile, so bright it was almost blinding. the corners of his lips twitched upwards, as if he wanted to return the gesture, yet couldn’t.

"but-"

"all things aside — cough — what’s the point in worrying?" you mused watching his downcast face, "everyone loves you, and you’ll always be loved, so you don’t need me to be happy."

his jaw slacked open, as if what you said was the most absurd thing in the world. your words pounded like axes into his heart, and he couldn’t quite believe that you were ever able of mustering up such nonsense. Mydei used to pray and beg for your recovery, constantly coming up with new ways, new ideas, remedies, doctors, food — and you dared to suggest anything like this?

he swallowed, feeling the heat of irritation crawl up on his cheeks and neck. "no, that’s not how it works! none can compare to—"

you raised an eyebrow at his sudden lag, feeling like there was more behind his words. Mydei rarely acted so spaced out and anxious. in front of other people he was the prime example of fierceness, never letting his guard down nor behaving as if his mind was reduced to a mush. he must be tired, yes, what else could explain it? however, his words were thought-provoking — 'none can compare to'. to what? your company? your friendship? your amiability? your…

oh gods.

your mind spurred as the rapid realization hit you. you broke out into a fit of coughs, covering your blushed face with your palm, simultaneously letting go of Mydei’s hand. somehow, it all clicked into place, and you wanted to endlessly berate yourself for letting something so obvious keep flying over your head. of course the man’s actions towards you were never normal — you were simply too blind, stubborn on the idea of keeping your relationship purely platonic. it was the safest bet, after all.

right now Mydei’s face was twisted in distress, his eyebrows knitted together, and once again this night you completely didn’t know what to say. a nervous chuckle escaped your lips as the coughing finally died down, and you decided it would be best to let it go for the time being. you still had so much time left — and you were both weary. nothing coherent would born from you trying to vocalize your own feelings. you cleared your throat, mulling over the next choice of words.

"well, uh— i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to offend you." you muttered meekly, keeping your tone coy. "why don’t we just go to sleep? it’s nearing four o’clock. you’ll be groggy in the morning." a small smile graced your lips as you tried to convince yourself it was the best course of action. once you get back on your feet, you’ll confront Mydei, and resolve everything.

the man nodded slowly, although you could sense the slightest of disappointment painted across his features. he’ll understand. he always does.

you settled yourself more comfortably in the sheets, pulling them over your body when the shivers decided to come back. then, you reached out for Mydei’s arm again, tugging him closer. "c’mon, rest your head. don’t tell me you want to sleep upright?" you beckoned, sensing his resistance. his expression was a bit conflicted, yet he ultimately lowered his torso on the bed, hesitantly placing the weight of his head on your thighs. the position was a bit awkward, with him still sitting atop the chair, and you being confined to lying on your back, but none of you seemed to care.

"thanks for taking care of me." you whispered, briefly running your fingers through his blonde locks. "what do you say we go for a small walk tomorrow? i need to stretch out my legs, else i’ll merge into one with the bed." you snickered breathily, the sleepiness already making your eyelids begin to glue together.

Mydei hummed in response, feeling your body shake with laughter. "i don’t see why not."

you probably won’t go anywhere, as your body will continue to be tormented by fevers, but the empty promise was still nice. "alright. goodnight, Mydei."

"goodnight, [name]."

he closed his eyes at last, forcing his tense body to relax. he was tired, yet with his heart hammering so intensely, there was no way he could fall asleep. your body was so warm even through the sheets, and the slip-up he made earlier haunted his exhausted mind. did you realize what he meant? looking at the way you reacted, it was possible.

truth be told, the affection he held for you terrified him sometimes. what if one day he gets fed up with waiting, and decided to confess — would you reject him? would all years of friendship go to waste, simply because he overestimated the feelings you had for him? he knew it would ruin him. and he also knew he would let it. he’d embrace every ounce of what you could give to him, even if in the end it all led to destruction. still, he didn’t know if he could go another day choking on the ever-present words: "i love you."

he felt it in his shoulders, in his chest, in his stomach. yes, you were everywhere, buried deep within every song and bruise. were his mindscape to take form, it would be a boundless forest where every tree’s bark bore your own initials.

he didn’t know how long you’ll stay. it could be the next sixty years — or maybe fate will decide to separate you just the next month, week, day. there was no telling. still, as his head lied atop your lap, he couldn’t bring himself to fully care. at that moment, he was with you, your body peacefully dozing off into slumber. he did love you. and you were awfully perplexing, and kind, and he’d do anything to protect you from the world’s harm. he could die a thousands of deaths if it meant seeing you smile as you called out for him, waving your hand in the distant fields.

he’ll never get enough of you, won’t he?

the one who knows | mydeimos.

summary ⇢ phainon was no fool. he’d seen the way mydei looks at you, and—being the good, charitable, loyal friend he is—he was determined to help mydei win you over. alternatively, five times phainon tried to ease mydei’s heart, and one time he didn’t have to.

pairing ⇢ mydei x fem!reader contains ⇢ fluff, 5+1 things, friends to lovers!au, phainon in his matchmaking era—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! word count ⇢ 4.6k | art credit ⇢ mimmirii

V. MARMOREAL MARKET.

It had taken Phainon ten minutes to convince Mydei to join him for a walk. Ten minutes that, if Mydei had had his way, he could’ve spent sparring with some of the Okheman soldiers instead. But Aglaea had thought it was a wonderful idea and that the Chrysos Heirs could all do with a bit of a break, and so, Phainon had hauled Mydei by the arm and dragged him out of his chambers.

“No one—not even the prince of Castrum Kremnos—can refuse an order given by Lady Aglaea,” Phainon reasoned. “Don’t look so glum, my friend! We’ll head to the bakery first, and buy a basket full of those golden honeycakes you like so much.”

“I don’t like them that much,” Mydei muttered, his brows furrowed low as they walked through the sun-warmed square, passing beneath a colonnade dusted in peach blossoms. His cape, lined with embroidered laurels, swayed with the rigid force of his stride. He marched even when he was on a break.

Phainon only smiled. “Forgive me, Your Stoicism. I must’ve mistaken the way you inhale three of them in one go for something resembling pleasure.”

He caught the faint twitch of Mydei’s mouth, but didn’t comment. The sun crept higher as they wound through the marble streets of Okhema. Vendors called out in sing-song voices, peddling pomegranates, olive oil, and silk dyed the colour of dusk. The marketplace smelled of fig jam and roasted almonds, with the faint scent of incense wafting from a nearby shrine. Children laughed somewhere behind them, chasing each other in between the columns. 

It was a wonderful day to spend outside—but none of that mattered to the warrior from Aedes Elysiae.

No, Phainon had only one goal today. A mission, as sacred as any undertaken by the Chrysos Heirs: to help Mydei get over himself and talk to the person he so obviously liked.

Despite his scowl, Mydei’s pace slowed when they neared the familiar bend in the road where pale stone gave way to ochre tiles and the air always smelled faintly like cardamom and burnt sugar. Phainon didn’t miss it. He turned his head, grinning in the way of a conspirator up to no good.

“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “The sanctuary of your soul. The oven-borne paradise of your most secret cravings.”

Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. His scrutiny had already slipped towards the storefront. Phainon followed his gaze and spotted you through the open arch of the bakery’s awning, standing behind the counter with your sleeves rolled up and and your cheeks dusted in flour.

You were frowning over a tray of pastries, fussing over their arrangement. When a breeze swept through the open market street, a lock of hair fell loose from the knot at your neck, and you pushed it back absently with the back of your wrist.

Phainon had eyes, too. But more importantly, he had sense—and he’d seen the way Mydei looked at you when he thought no one was looking. He looked at you with a stubborn sort of reverence, like someone studying a scripture and attempting to understand the words.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

“Look at that.” Phainon slowed and clapped a hand to Mydei’s back. “The bakery’s survived another day without you looming over it like a stormcloud.”

“We’re here for pastries,” said Mydei.

“You’re here for pastries,” Phainon corrected. “I think I’ll go admire the fruit stand across the square. Alone. Without my imposing, sword-wielding companion towering beside me.”

“Phainon—”

But Phainon was already backing away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling some song that Mydei was sure was some great, romantic ballad. Mydei let out a slow breath. He adjusted the drape of his cape, then approached the stall.

You looked up when his shadow crossed the counter.

“Oh,” you said, straightening. “You’re here.”

His gaze dropped quickly. “Phainon wanted pastries.”

Your smile came a second later, soft and uncertain. “Well, lucky him,” you said. “They’re fresh. I just pulled them out of the oven.”

He nodded. Then, realising you were waiting for him to say something else, cleared his throat and tried again. “They smell good.”

“Thank you.”

There was silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mydei shifted from one foot to the other. He thought about what Phainon would say in this situation. Probably something clever. Something witty. Something that would fluster both you and him if it were to slip past his lips. You reached for a basket and began lining it with a square of waxed linen.

“How many would you like today?” you asked. “Six? Or—”

Mydei hesitated. “Seven.”

“Seven?” you repeated, looking up at him.

“Just…” He nodded again, firm now. “In case Phainon drops one.”

You laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, like you hadn’t meant for it to escape. You looked away quickly, but he caught the way your smile lingered at the corner of your mouth.

“I’ll pack eight,” you said under your breath.

Mydei blinked. “That’s—”

“In case you drop one,” you added, looking up again, a little more confident. “Or in case you decide you like them more than you’re letting on.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then—quietly—he said, “I already do.”

You froze for half a heartbeat, hands stilling over the basket. A faint flush crept into your cheeks. Instead of answering, you focused on arranging the honeycakes, carefully and methodically placing them in neat rows.

Mydei shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he had.

Phainon’s voice saved him.

“Have the Titans blessed this day with the sweet scent of ambrosia and gaucheness?” he declared. He draped himself over the edge of the counter, eyes dancing. “Tell me, Y/N—have you discovered a way to bake silence into your pastries? Because my dear friend here seems to have swallowed his vocabulary.”

You covered your laugh with your hand. “Don’t tease him.”

“Would I ever?” Phainon said, looking as innocent as a fox in a henhouse. “I’m simply here to collect our spoils and drag this poor, tongue-tied soldier off to see the rest of Okhema before sunset.”

You handed him the basket with a faint smile, then turned back to Mydei.

“Come by again,” you said quietly. “If you want.”

“I will,” Mydei said stiffly.

You smiled in farewell as they turned to go. Mydei didn’t look back—but his fingers brushed the edge of the basket where you’d tied the ribbon, and he didn’t let go until Phainon took it from him.

“Well?” Phainon said as they walked. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“...She added extra.”

Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “And you managed to remain calm! Incredible. At this rate, you might even ask her to dinner by the next century.”

“Don’t push it,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“Oh, I plan to.”

IV. GARDEN OF LIFE.

Phainon hadn’t meant to stumble into the Garden of Life with Mydei again—but when they cut through the southern colonnade, they saw a few members from the Council of Elders crowding the forum steps, arguing over something trivial with Aglaea and Tribbie. It was a situation neither he nor Mydei wanted to deal with, and so, they took the longer route and let the scent of citrus and blooming oleander guide their way.

He didn’t mind. It was a pretty place. Calm, and peaceful, with a few straggler Chimeras who were slacking off work hiding behind the laurels.

What he did mind, however, was the way Mydei froze beside him, his entire frame tensing like a drawn bow.

Phainon followed his gaze, and—ah. Of course.

You were there, kneeling by the pond at the garden’s centre, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with soil. You were tucking sprigs of rosemary into the earth next to the lilies, lips parted in concentration, a woven basket of herbs placed beside you. The sun caught the edge of your profile, golden and soft, and a smear of green streaked across your forearm.

Phainon blinked.

“Well,” he said, half-grinning, “fate certainly enjoys its comedy.”

Mydei didn’t reply. His jaw clenched once, twice, like he was recalibrating the entire concept of movement.

“I didn’t know she gardened,” said Phainon, crossing his arms over his chest. “How wonderfully poetic of her. Maybe she recites odes to every sprout. Maybe—”

“Deliverer,” Mydei said in warning. “Don’t start.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Phainon said, already walking ahead. “But since we’re both here, and you look like you might sprint in the opposite direction if left unsupervised, I’ll do the civil thing and say hello.”

Mydei grumbled something that sounded like traitor under his breath, but followed.

You looked up when their footsteps approached, blinking once before your expression lifted in slow, pleasant surprise.

“Hello,” you said. “You two again.”

Phainon pressed a hand to his heart. “You sound so thrilled.”

“We saw each other just three days ago,” you said, lips curving upwards. “I didn’t expect company.”

“Neither did we,” Phainon said, nudging Mydei forward a step. “We were merely passing through, but it felt as though Mnestia herself was summoning us.”

You looked at Mydei then—properly—and his shoulders visibly pulled tighter. “You’re not usually in this part of the city,” you said.

“I’m not,” he agreed.

Phainon supplied, “He didn’t know you’d be here.”

“But if he had?” you asked, raising a brow.

Mydei’s mouth opened. Closed.

“He might’ve worn nicer boots,” Phainon answered for him.

You laughed. Just once, but it was enough to make Mydei glance down, as though he was actually checking his boots, then quickly back up like he’d been caught.

“Do you help tend to the garden often?” he asked, surprisingly steadily.

“When I can,” you said. “My uncle oversees some of the Chimeras here. I bring him pastries sometimes.”

Mydei cleared his throat. “You have… dirt on your cheek.”

Your hand flew up and you swiped blindly.

“Other side,” he amended gently.

You blinked, then tried again, slower this time. He nodded. You smiled. “Thanks.”

The pause after was short but warm, filled with birdsong and the murmur of water in the stone channels. Phainon knew there was something—something blooming, something tentative. He rocked back on his heels and made a show of stretching.

“Okay, then,” he said, already backing away, “I think I’ll go find something blasphemous to do near the reflecting pools. You two—talk about dirt. Or gardening. Or destiny. I don’t care.”

“Phainon,” warned Mydei.

“Gone already,” he called, disappearing behind a laurel hedge. He found himself looking down at a pastel pink-coloured Chimera. It blinked up at him with wide eyes. He bent low and patted its head.

He could now hear the murmur of your voices, indistinct but undeniably warm. Your laughter came again, softer now, almost shy, and Mydei—Kephale help him—responded in kind.

It was rare, hearing that from him. So rare that Phainon stood there a moment longer than necessary, not to spy, but to witness. Something tender was taking root. A thread had been pulled taut between you, and it was holding.

He smiled to himself. Victory, he thought, is sweet and golden.

If he listened a little longer—just long enough to hear you say Mydei’s name again, and for Mydei to say yours in return—well. That was no crime.

III. OVERFLOWING BATH, MARMOREAL PALACE.

“Did you know, Mydei,” Phainon began, “that there is an ancient saying in Okhema that says: ‘You can lead a Dromas to water, but you can’t make him drink’? I think it applies to you.”

The bath chamber shimmered with steam, its marble walls veined with gold and silver, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns suspended from the domed ceiling. Water lapped gently against the edges of the vast pool, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the ornate fountains shaped like sea nymphs.

Phainon lounged in the water, submerged up to his chest, the heat loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tilted his head back, letting the steam envelop him, and then turned to regard Mydei, who sat rigidly on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall.

Mydei frowned. “I’m not a Dromas.”

“True,” Phainon conceded, “but the metaphor still stands. Here you are, in a bath designed for relaxation, yet you sit there as tense as a bowstring.”

“I find these indulgences… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary? My dear prince, even the most stoic warrior needs respite. Or are you planning to wage war against relaxation itself?”

“I prefer to keep my guard up,” the Kremnoan grumbled.

“In a bathhouse?” Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Unless you suspect the loofahs of treachery, I think you’re safe.”

Mydei did not reply, so Phainon leaned back, letting the water buoy him, and said, “You know, she was asking about you.”

“Who?” Mydei’s gaze snapped to him.

“The pretty baker,” he answered. “You remember. The one with honey on her hands and sunlight in her hair. I visited Marmoreal Market again this morning. She makes exquisite milk pies, did you know?”

“Yes,” Mydei breathed out, and looked away, the tips of his ears reddening. “What did she say?”

“She wondered if the famously stoic prince ever smiles when he’s with others,” Phainon said, watching him closely. “I told her I’d seen it once, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.”

Mydei didn’t speak for a long time. The steam gathered on his eyelashes. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched, then relaxed.

“She shouldn’t ask things like that,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“It implies something.”

“Yes,” Phainon said, amused. “It implies that she’s curious. About you.”

“That’s the problem,” Mydei replied. “She shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to invite it.”

“You think attraction waits for an invitation? Mydei, please. You’re not a fortress. You can’t control who looks at you, or why.”

“I am heir to a kingdom where sentiment is seen as weakness,” the prince said. “I was raised to command, not to… to stay in gardens and smile at girls who bake bread.”

Phainon leaned forward, the water sloshing gently as he moved. “Yet, you stayed, and yet, you smiled.”

“It’s dangerous,” Mydei said, looking away. He looked troubled. “I wish I could tell her that. I may be immortal, but I won’t be here all the time, not if—not if fate has its way with me.”

“She isn’t asking for divinity, my friend,” said Phainon gently. “She’s only asking if you smile.”

Mydei’s gaze dropped to the water again. He didn’t answer, but his expression softened—imperceptibly, except to someone who’d known him long enough to notice. 

After a while, Phainon leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Just something to think about, Mydei. No pressure. But if you do decide to bring her a flower sometime, may I suggest anything other than hemlock?”

Mydei scowled again and glared at the white-haired warrior. Phainon reached for a fig from the platter placed behind him and shrugged, eyes dancing with mirth. “Hks,” Mydei muttered, but his posture had eased—shoulders no longer braced like shields, hands no longer tense on his thighs. The prince looked away, but his expression had gone distant in a different sort of manner.

As if, perhaps, he was thinking about someone.

II. KEPHALE PLAZA.

Kephale Plaza was a marvel of architecture, its wide expanse paved with sun-kissed limestone that glowed warmly under the afternoon sun. The plaza was framed by colonnades of ivory marble, each column entwined with flowering vines that added bursts of colour to the pristine white. 

Phainon wished he could say that he’d come here to marvel at the scenery. Unfortunately, Aglaea had received a report about a thief who was on the loose, filching bracelets and coin purses alike. Castorice was busy, and Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon were otherwise occupied. That left Phainon, who, in truth, didn’t mind the assignment.

What he did mind, though, was the way he’d caught sight of you and Mydeimos walking together beneath the arch of blooming bougainvillaea and promptly forgotten what, exactly, he was meant to be watching for.

He loitered near one of the shaded stalls, pretending to inspect a display of carved wooden figurines, though he only caught every third word of the merchant’s well-practiced sales pitch. His attention was fixed on the way Mydei leaned towards you slightly, his usually unreadable expression tinged with something that might’ve been—Kephale help him—softness.

You were speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand as you walked, and Mydei nodded along, occasionally offering clipped replies. Even from a distance, Phainon could see that Mydei wasn’t just listening; he was listening—brows faintly drawn, head tilted in that particular way he reserved for things he wanted to understand but couldn’t quite name.

Phainon narrowed his eyes. This wouldn’t do.

With a slow inhale, he pushed off the marble column and approached. His footsteps were light, but he made no move to hide his arrival.

“Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he announced cheerfully, slipping into step beside you easily.

Mydei faltered, immediately shifting half a step away from you. “Phainon.”

You blinked up at him, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”

Phainon shrugged. “Technically, yes. I’m in pursuit of a nefarious criminal. But more importantly, I’m here to rescue you from the silence this one—” he nodded at Mydei— “can’t seem to escape. He’s the definition of a man of few words.”

“We weren’t silent,” Mydei groused.

“No, no—I’m sure it was romantic!” Phainon acquiesced. “If Y/N here is into hulking, brooding men.”

You laughed which was, frankly, unacceptable, because you were supposed to laugh at Mydei’s jokes, not his. Mydei look exasperated, but his cheeks were dusted red, which Phainon considered a personal victory.

“Actually,” you said, smiling at Mydei, “he was telling me about the coastal patrols in Okhema. They’ve been—”

“—more diligent than usual,” Mydei interrupted quickly. “Nothing worth reporting.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Not even to your dear friend who has spent the past hour avoiding elderly vendors who insist I’d make a fine husband for their granddaughters?”

You looked like you were about to say something sympathetic, but he pressed on. “What I am interested in,” he said lightly, “is how long you’ve both been here, because if you saw anything suspicious—like, say, a person darting between stalls with more rings on their fingers than they started with—I could finally do something productive.”

“We just got her not long ago,” you said, shaking your head. “I haven’t seen anything strange.”

Mydei only said, “No.”

“Of course not,” Phainon sighed. “Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose I’ll deputise the both of you. Consider this your invitation to join me in chasing shadows across the sunniest place in Okhema.”

“Are we being drafted into service?” you asked, smiling.

“Yes,” he said promptly. “It’s terribly official.”

Mydei looked like he might object, but you nudged him gently with your elbow. “Come on,” you murmured, and just like that, the faint stubborn line in his brow faded.

Phainon didn’t miss it.

As you began walking again—now with Phainon very deliberately between the two of you—he leaned closer to Mydei and said under his breath, “You know, if you plan to pine in silence for much longer, I’ll be forced to intervene.”

“I’m not pining,” Mydei muttered.

“Oh?” he said. “So you weren’t giving her a lecture about border patrols as a thinly veiled excuse to spend time with her?”

Mydeimos said nothing, which said everything.

“You’re terrible at this.” Phainon grinned. “Just so you know.”

“Good,” the prince said shortly. “Then you won’t give me advice.”

“On the contrary. I’ll give you too much of it.” He glanced over at you. You had paused ahead to admire a display of ornamental silks. “You don’t want to wait too long, Mydei,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t always give you second chances.”

With that, he strode ahead, catching up with you and saying loudly, “Now, if I were a thief hiding in plain sight, I’d disguise myself as a merchant selling outrageously overpriced scarves. Shall we investigate?”

You rolled your eyes but let him lead you away with a grin. Behind you, Mydei stood still for a moment, his expression hard beneath the bright sun—then slowly, he moved to follow.

I. HALL OF RESPITE, MARMOREAL PALACE.

The Hall of Respite was aptly named—a haven tucked away in the southern wing of Marmoreal Palace, where golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows and dust motes danced lazily in the air like sleepy fireflies. Columns of white stone held up the ceiling, each one wrapped in trailing ivy and blooms enchanted to stay in perpetual spring. A small fountain burbled in the centre. Plush divans and velvet-cushioned lounges lined the walls, draped in silks the colour of champagne and cloud.

Phainon was draped across one such divan, a chilled goblet of pomegranate nectar balanced in one hand, the other idly stroking the embroidery of a nearby cushion. He looked every inch the picture of languid nobility—except that he was not—save for the fact that his gaze was locked on the entrance, waiting. 

When Mydei finally entered, Phainon perked up immediately.

“I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in the training grounds,” he said by way of greeting.

“I was training,” Mydei replied, as if the comment had any need of clarification. He was still in his tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, his hair slightly damp. Even his gait carried the stiffness of someone who had just disarmed three men in a row. 

“Of course you were.” Phainon gestured to the chaise opposite him. “Sit down. Hydrate. Pretend, for a moment, that you’re not forged from granite.”

Mydei did not smile, but he complied, lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise.

Phainon said, “I ran into Y/N earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She was near the reflecting pools,” he went on. “Feeding crumbs to that flock of silver-throated sparrows. You know the ones. She was humming, too, a sweet little tune—something old, sounded Kremnoan.”

Mydei’s eyes flickered. “Her mother used to sing to her in Kremnoan. She told me that, once.”

“Did she now?” Phainon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.

“She said she doesn’t remember the words, only the melody. And how warm her mother’s voice was. Like a hearth fire.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“She also said that she was thinking of asking me to accompany her to the festival next week,” Phainon said, attempting to recover. “Something about needing a partner for the moonlight procession.”

He glanced sideways, hoping to catch a glimpse of jealousy.

But Mydei only tilted his head, thoughtful. “She would enjoy that.”

“...Would she?”

“Yes,” said Mydei, softly. “She likes the sound of drums, and the lanterns—she called them tiny captive stars. She’d probably spend half the night asking about the legends behind the constellations.”

“You know her very well.”

“She listens when you speak,” the prince said, as though that answered everything. “Not because she’s curious—though she is—but because she values what you have to say. That’s rare, and so I try to do the same for her.”

A breath of silence passed between them. Phainon blinked.

“She also makes that face when she’s trying not to laugh,” Mydei added suddenly, and there was a hint of fondness in his voice. “One side of her mouth curls first.”

“Wow,” said Phainon, trying to disguise the dryness in his throat with a sip of his drink, “aren’t you just the veritable poet.”

Mydei said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile he so rarely offered.

Phainon sat back with a sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. “Remind me never to try and make you jealous again. It’s bad for my pride.”

“You tried to make me jealous?” asked Mydei, sounding genuinely surprised.

The warrior groaned. “Forget it.”

“I do think she’d prefer your company to mine at the festival,” Mydei said, standing to leave. “You could always offer her a poem, too. She might keep it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, and with a nod, Mydei strode out of the Hall, leaving Phainon staring at his back, utterly defeated.

The fountain continued to burble. Somewhere in the gardens beyond, a sparrow sang.

O.  PATH OF PARTING.

The Path of Parting curved like a river of stone through the eastern gardens, its flagstones pale and smooth from centuries of reverent steps. It was said that this was where lovers, friends, and comrades once walked when farewells had to be made—with flowers blooming along either side, as if to soften the grief. Today, the air was still and fragrant, golden with sunlight, and the blossoms were at their brightest: starblush vines spilling from trellises, yellow cypress roses nodding in the breeze.

Phainon hadn’t meant to take this route. He’d been wandering—well, brooding, if he were honest with himself—thinking vaguely about nothing and everything.

He rounded a bend and stopped dead.

There, further up the path, you and Mydei walked side-by-side. 

You moved in that unconsciously mirrored way people did when they’d grown too close not to. Your shoulders tilted towards his just slightly. His hand hovered near yours by instinct. Your voice—he could hear it, low and laughing—drew out the kind of smile from Mydei that Phainon had never seen once with the Chrysos Heirs or the sparring ring.

He watched as you leaned in to whisper something. Mydei’s reply was inaudible, but whatever he said made you laugh softly, eyes shining.

Mydei reached up, unthinking, to pull a stray petal from your hair, his fingertips brushing over your temple with the kind of tenderness that could only come from a hundred small moments before this one.

Phainon stood rooted. “Oh,” he said aloud.

He hadn’t meant to say it, but the realisation bloomed sharp and fast, like a candlewick catching light.

Oh.

This wasn’t something that had just begun. It was something that had always been—quiet and steady, like the tide, like the stars shifting across the sky one inch at a time.

Phainon felt something between awe and exasperation fizz inside his chest.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I’m an idiot.”

He’d spent all this time trying to provoke a reaction from Mydei—jealousy, flustered affection, anything—when Mydei had already won the war without even playing the game.

And you? You hadn’t been some wistful maybe, some distant crush. You’d chosen him. You loved him.

Phainon drew a breath, long and slow, and stepped backwards, letting the ivy shadows swallow him. He didn’t interrupt. Not this time. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak, and started back towards the palace with a huff and a half-laugh.

“Five times I tried,” he murmured to himself. “Five. And not once did it occur to me that they were already—” He waved a hand in the air, at no one. “Of course they were.”

He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting the Titans to be laughing, too.

“I hope he writes you sonnets,” he said aloud, mostly to the wind. “I hope you make him eat too many honeycakes and teach him how to dance.”

Phainon was smiling now, rueful but fond.

“Stars above,” he sighed. “You were never going to pick me, were you?”

He walked on, leaving behind the sweet scent of the flowers and the sun warming his back.

a/n ⇢ the names of the various places are actual locations taken from the okhema map, though their descriptions have been changed to fit the story. thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading and making the gorgeous header for this fic! thank you for reading!

—how to win my husband over 101

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

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

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

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

is he drinking... blood?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

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

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

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

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

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

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

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

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

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

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

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

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

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

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

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

today will be different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a sudden force slams into your back.

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

it’s deeper than you thought.

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

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

the next thing you feel is warmth.

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

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

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

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

did he jump in after you..?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet, here you are.

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

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

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

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

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

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

so why do you still look at him like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

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

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

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

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

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “y-your highness, i only—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good like this, you think.

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

a half-truth, at best.

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

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"especially when they were a gift from you."

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

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

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

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. that does it.

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m not mad i—”

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

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

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just your luck.

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

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

did he just—?

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

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

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

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

oh no.

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

you frown. “phainon—”

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

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

“huh?”

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

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

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

“that’s enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

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

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

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

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

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

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

you blink, momentarily startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... and i wanted one today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“if it’s for you,”

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

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

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

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

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

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

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

the crowd cheers for violence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

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

“i always will.”

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

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

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i love you, [name]."

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

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

pairing: mydei x reader genre: fluff fluff wc. 253 a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ this is inspo from game of thrones! that one line from "“you have no right to a braid, you’ve won no victories yet.” anyways enjoying reading hopefully i get to post more abt him soon <3

victory.

a word he knows all too well. it is etched into his bones from years of battle and carved into his skin. the braid in his hair once symbolized triumph, a warrior’s mark earned through sacrifice, pain, and relentless perseverance. 

but those years of battles are over. the battles have quieted. the meaning of his braids has changed.

tiny hands reach up to his hair. his daughters stand on either side of him as he sits patiently, their little brows furrowed in concentration, tongues peeking out in focus. they giggle whenever the strands slip loose and cheer each other on to finish. 

he sits still, his heart full, letting them weave as they please. determination. he wonders if they get it from you or him. they are quite determined to make it as pretty as his braid but he reassures them that his braids will be nowhere as pretty as theirs.

mydei has fought many battles. he has claimed countless victories. but no victory can compare to this. waking up to the soft golden morning beside you, holding you close as the sound of his children's bubbling laughter echoes through the castle halls grow closer and closer before they tumble into bed with you both.

he would stand against the world, if it meant he could cherish more moments like these with his girls. these braids, woven by his daughter, are a sign of victory— a victory greater than any he has ever won in battle.

he has won in life itself.

Throwing wife at wife for taking pity on me and finally coming TF HOME

/pops shaken soda bottle and drinks it

Rly love that one scene sm....ft. fem phaidei cause m me

i 4got to show this……… but ily, tamaki

godslayer — ft. mydeimos

your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave

❤︎ word count: 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss

❤︎ before you read: female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in once scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering

❤︎ commentary: IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly

You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos. 

On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants. 

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not. 

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves. 

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones. 

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength. 

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you. 

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady. 

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders. 

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him. 

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king. 

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic. 

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation. 

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly. 

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh. 

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room. 

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around. 

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break. 

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid. 

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. 

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot. 

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.) 

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him. 

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly. 

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds. 

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side. 

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time. 

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening. 

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.) 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. 

“Goodnight,” you huff in return. 

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos. 

At least, it is for you. 

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head. 

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly. 

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband. 

“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince. 

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown. 

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?” 

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out. 

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do. 

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days. 

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms. 

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly. 

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything. 

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy. 

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves. 

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you. 

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused. 

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them. 

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated. 

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears. 

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence. 

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly. 

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come. 

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I  have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort. 

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire. 

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go. 

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open. 

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic. 

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing. 

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles. 

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout. 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves. 

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment. 

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained. 

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream. 

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you. 

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him. 

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again. 

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos. 

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him. 

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders. 

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely. 

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose. 

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage. 

“Ready to return home?” He asks. 

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth. 

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends. 

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner. 

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest? 

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way. 

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise. 

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you. 

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming. 

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.) 

And you cave. 

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason. 

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff. 

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile. 

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect. 

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist. 

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face. 

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament. 

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects. 

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine. 

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse. 

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point. 

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate. 

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy. 

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping. 

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass. 

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.” 

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you. 

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close. 

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries. 

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive. 

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him. 

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm. 

You blink in surprise. 

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly. 

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties. 

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it. 

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically. 

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!” 

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood. 

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth. 

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles. 

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth. 

He melts for a second, on instinct alone. 

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”  

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it. 

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.” 

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you. 

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back. 

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry. 

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry. 

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first. 

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent. 

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle. 

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.” 

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips. 

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts. 

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze. 

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you. 

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei? 

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin. 

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest. 

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock. 

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.” 

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers. 

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages. 

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls. 

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock. 

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression. 

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you. 

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything. 

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take. 

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him. 

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you. 

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile. 

Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.

────────────────────────

The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day. 

You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is. 

After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.

“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments. 

“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed. 

Then, he walks. 

As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets. 

“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”

“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”

“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”

“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”

That only seems to irk you more. 

“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile. 

“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”

“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief. 

Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you. 

“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”

“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight. 

Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”

“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”

“You torture me,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink in confusion. And then—

Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.

Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)

“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.

He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”

You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”

“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”

“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”

“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.

“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”

“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”

Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft. 

“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”

“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”

“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”

“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”

“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt. 

“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows. 

Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow. 

“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”

“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”

He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim. 

And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill. 

“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”

“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”

“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”

“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)

His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—

“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”

Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly. 

“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.

“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”

He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”

You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”

———————

Mydei does, in fact, return to you. 

Except, it is not in the condition that he left. 

He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat. 

“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers. 

You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound. 

“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”

“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”

“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle. 

“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”

“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”

You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all. 

———————

It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed. 

“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.

“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”

“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”

“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise. 

And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”

One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him. 

“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?” 

He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”

“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”

“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”

“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”

You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against. 

But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.

And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage. 

“Do you not have any faith in m—”

“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”

“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”

“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks. 

“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”

“Do not scare me like this again,” you command. 

“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face. 

“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”

“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”

“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”

“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.

“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say. 

“The sun,” you murmur. 

He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”

Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt. 

“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”

“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer. 

You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”

He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”

WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.

It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.

It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.

First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.

Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.

Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.

Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.

Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.

Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.

For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.

Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily

This was supposed to be a shitpost btw

„Raj’ what’s your deal man??”

HHEHEHE I DREW THEM AS I SAID I’D DO

It was so weird drawing Noah after looking at Anthony Ramos’s face for like 3 years of my childhood straight (iykyk)

The funny think is that I struggled with drawing Noah more than I did with Mirage LOL

Here’s a close up 😌

something old 🏎️🇵🇷

there's a thing from 2023-2024 yep

a long tf sketchdump i started after watching Transformers One last year, which was great btw! (also Soundwave is one of my faves but he somehow didn't make it into this, RIP my guy 🥺 to be fair, most of these are the beginnings of ideas that don't reach conclusion so -shrug-)

also also, i watched TFA for the first time, and i CANNOT believe they really just squished my boy Blurr into a cube while still alive and left him like that 😤 i know the show got cancelled and they had plans to bring him back, but like, hotdang! SO of course i decided to slap some claustrophobia on that sucker. y'know, as a treat ✨

transcript:

(Chitty Chitty Bang Bang design) -Neutral non-combatant

-Came to Earth early, joined the races

-Lost most of her memories after the Crash

-Forgot to act non-sentient around the family who adopted her

(Wander Over Yonder designs)

Hatertron: UgggHH! That STUPID, orange Autobug, GAH, I could just wring his ne-

Peeperscream: SIR!! FOCUS!

-Wander is a Neutral Autobot sympathizer

-Sylvia is an Autobot, but protective of Wander

-Hater messes up so many plans, Peepers is the only reason Megatron hasn't figured it out

-Peepers admires Starscream's intellect, but avoids him at all costs

(TFA comic)

Rodimus Prime: Uhm, Agent Blurr? ..You good?

Agent Blurr: Rodimus-Prime-sir! There's-nothing-wrong, why-would-anything-be-wrong? This-is-a-party; a-celebration-for-the-Autobots'-GRAND-victory-over-Megatron, which-we're-all-overjoyed-about-so-there's-really-no-reason-to-be-worried-about-the-amount-of-mechs-and-femmes-in-this-room-of-which-there-is-a-perfectly-normal-number-for-a-celebration, and-it's-not-as-if-we've-reached-max-capacity-so-I'm-SURE-the-space-is-NOT-too-small-even-if-the-walls-are-getting-closer-and-closer-and-no-one-seems-to-care-that-it's-too-small-in-here-and-can't-vent-I-can't-I-I-c-I-ca-

Rodimus: Whoa, hey! Ok, ok, let's go outside for a bit, yeah? I'm tired of people asking it I'm “still infected” anyway... Like, obviously. It's Cosmic Rust.

Blurr: ...This-is-humiliating, completely-pathetic-behavior. I-am-a-professionally-trained-intelligence-agent-of-the-Elite-Guard, THEREfore-I-should-not-be-losing-my-composure-whenever-I-enter-a-room. But-I-begin-to-feel-trapped-and-I-I-I-I-can't-...

Rodimus: ..Yeah. Sometimes, I just- freeze. It feels like ice is crawling up my arms and legs and chasiss.. it hurts. I mean, I know it's not happening, but that's how I feel. It sucks. But we made it, we survived. It's still hard, but there's gotta be something to that, right? The effort and struggle is worth it, or whatever.

Blurr: With-all-due-respect, I'm-quite-sure-you-are-terrible-at-this-sir.

Rodimus: Dang. Alright, fine, that's fair. But do you feel better?

Blurr: Marginally, thank-you-Rodimus-Prime.

Grrr predaking,,,,

Have a mirage drawing while I work on some miroah doodles

I wish I had a friend who was also a car and an alien

Heyyy.... hey... how you doin'...

so like. ya. i forgot about tumblr.

just watched ROTB so here are Noah and his buddy!

Smile, the camera is filming you 📷

La la drew the reunion before the separation

Trying to draw on my ipad

Messy scribbles cus people wanted them to interact (this isn't canon btw)

Silly Locket doodle based on this

The finale is here! A lovely resolution to all that angst in the last part.

I may be done with this comic but I still have that dratchet itch to scratch. If any of you have suggestions, I'll be glad to hear them!

Start here!

Previous part

Last piece for the year!!! My vtuber and my comfort ship!!!

https://www.tumblr.com/starheavenly/770700367672623104/2-lockets

Hello, hello! I love your content, and I’d like to share some thoughts on how Deadlock/Drift and Ratchet might react to the events in the post above.

I firmly believe that Locket’s death would leave permanent scars on both of them. No matter the timeline, it would be one of their greatest regrets. However, I think it would hit even harder for the parent Locket chose to follow

For AUTOBOT!LOCKET

I imagine Ratchet would be utterly shattered upon discovering that Locket—his child—had died in what was initially reported as a “mysterious work incident.” And later on, his grief would only deepen when the truth was revealed: they were murdered. Possibly brutally. Violently. And he wasn’t there for them.

The last time Ratchet saw Locket was during their fallout. He likely told himself there would be time later—time to mend the rift that had grown between them, to fix things. But now, that time is gone.

His child is dead.

His baby.

The bright spark he and Deadlock/Drift created together has been ripped away, and all Ratchet can do is drown in self-loathing for failing them. He wasn’t there when they needed him most.

(And I absolutely believe Dratchet would become full-on murderous when the truth came out—especially Drift—towards Pharma, their child’s murderer.)

For DECEPTION!LOCKET

Deadlock/Drift would be haunted by the belief that Locket’s ultimate demise is entirely his fault. Locket, his precious sparklet, had followed him after all. He settled the example, showed them how to walk a darker road, and now that choice has cost him everything.

If only he’d done something different. If only he’d been better—a better father, a better example, a better everything. Maybe Locket would still be alive. The knowledge that they died in service to a cause he once believed in would feel like a cruel twist of fate, one he could never forgive himself for.

(Ratchet, upon learning the truth and Locket’s fate, would absolutely let Drift have it. Absolutely beating him down with words, with no mercy. And Drift would take it—every blow, every word—because he knows he deserves it.)

Locket, their spark, their child, was gone, and the weight of that loss would haunt them both for the rest of their lives.

(Thank you for listening to my rambling, and for your time! Have a lovely night or day!)

MY SATURDAY MORNING ANGST!!!! I knew people would go crazy for those AU's..... But thank you for writing these up omg you're totally correct in all of it!! Although I will never admit to who killed Locket, DJD or Pharma, it's up to the fans. I will say.... If you want some extra angst I would like to remind you that Locket literally is a mix of Ratchet and Drift's sparks so.... those two did not need to be told that Locket passes away. They can just feel it.

I really enjoy doing custom fanfic illustrations...

What a bastard.

Finally they're talking!!!

Ok here's my Locket voice claims