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the delicate line between friends and lovers ft. alhaitham — in which the akademiya’s scribe and the bimarstan’s head nurse develop some serious feelings for each other in between hook ups. evidently, neither of them are very good at being able to communicate these feelings, though.

contains: 14.0k word count ; female reader ; explicit content—not suitable for minors ; fwb to lovers ; mutual pining ; banter and teasing ; angst with happy ending (this one goes out to all the girls who wonder if their fav would choose them: they would!) ; reader is the (very overworked) head nurse at the bimarstan ; mentions of blood and injuries (alhaitham) ; reader has insecurities ; jealousy ; dry humping—and kaveh being a major cockblock unfortunately ; alcohol drinking—4ggravate (minus alhaitham) appearance! ; clothed sex ; unprotected vaginal sex ; no prep ; creampie

the akademiya is well connected in its networks. meaning one thing: gossip travels fast. against his will, alhaitham learns far more about people than he wants to, details upon details that travel even through his soundproof earpieces at times. 

today, for example, he learns without meaning to that the akademiya has decreased the previously approved funding for the bimarstan. this piece of information is able to irritate him enough that he almost itches to demand for the title of acting grand sage once more. sumeru, a nation of free healthcare, couldn’t possibly hope to underfund one of the pillars of the citizens and their well-being. not unless someone who’s as incapable and underdeveloped in critical thinking as the last grand sage himself (before alhaitham, of course) was in office. 

he walks to the bimarstan, footsteps heavy in the dead quiet of the night as he trudges through the door of the hospital. you’re already there to greet him, eyeing the way the arm under his cloak is tense and curled under the fabric. 

“another eremite attack?” you murmur, walking towards an empty room as you gaze at him over your shoulder to follow.

he does so wordlessly, eyeing the tired, overworked, and disarrayed nurses along the hospital as he walks past them. 

you’re no different, he studies, watching as you stifle a yawn, taking in the darkened circles under your eyes as he sits on an examination table while you bring out the necessary supplies to clean his wound. 

the akademiya—no, sumeru was blooming under his lead. that much he was aware of. you’d said it yourself, too, the first time he came. 

oh, it’s you! we’re most grateful for your changes, acting grand sage, you’d smiled at him, they’ve really helped improve things here at the bimarstan.

he wasn’t expecting that. the only reason why he’d stopped at the hospital for care instead of going home was because he’d run out of bandages, nothing more. one look at you had all but changed that, the tilt of your lips as they smile spinning his world on its axis in a completely new direction. you tend to his cuts that night, and even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t, he returns after the next expedition. 

and the next. and the next. and then it becomes routine. 

for a while, alhaitham told himself he only came to the hospital for his wounds instead of patching himself up after long expeditions in the desert because it was nice to see how the bimarstan ran. it’s important for him to be aware of necessary changes that must be made as acting grand sage—however temporary the job may be, he has every intention of doing it properly. so he studies and assesses the functionality of the hospital and makes decisions accordingly. those things can only happen if he visits frequently. 

but then he starts to notice that his feet truly only carry him here on the nights you work. though you work often and late into the night, too. being head nurse requires as much, of course, but he notices all too quickly that he’s begun to memorize your schedule. 

slowly but surely, he resigns himself to fate. he comes for you. 

“it’s just a light graze,” he mumbles after some time, revealing the small gash on his arm under his cloak. your eyebrows crinkle in concern for a moment before you set off to work, methodically and expertly cleaning away at the dried blood and disinfecting the wound. 

he doesn’t talk for a while before he finally says, “you’re short-staffed.”

it’s a question presented as an observation—he has a habit of doing that, of speaking his mind and waiting for an explanation to follow. 

you sigh, bandaging his arm as you murmur, “people are quitting. it’s been hectic in here—and the funding cut doesn’t exactly allow for a pay that seems worth the grueling hours.”

you love your job. it’s the first thing alhaitham knows about you. you take it very seriously, scolding anyone, even the acting grand sage, about proper care and healthy habits. 

did you stitch these yourself? you’d gasped when you first noticed the scars on his chest, that’s dangerous! do you know the infections you could contract from an improperly tended wound?”

it’s not as amusing now to watch the other nurses listen awkwardly as you scold him. he’s back to being the scribe, no longer tied to the title of sage. the nurses aren’t as alarmed anymore by your lack of formality—although, he’s sure by now, they’re a bit used to it too. 

“and i assume you’re not resting properly?” he gives you a knowing look, reaching forward with his free hand and brushing a callused but gentle thumb under your bruised eyebags. 

you close your eyes at the fleeting touch, humming before giving him a guilty smile. 

“i can’t let things get out of hand here.”

“you should take your own advice,” he snorts, “what was it again? something about proper rest and sleep to ensure a healthy lifestyle?”

“if you’re here to throw my words back in my face, i recall also mentioning getting into less trouble,” you huff, momentarily glaring at his arm before meeting his eyes. “what happened to being more careful?”

“like i said,” he shrugs, hissing slightly when you press on his wound to prove your point, “it’s just a graze.”

you and alhaitham are, no doubt, an unexpected match—if you can call yourselves that, even. it’s a complicated relationship you share, you and the former grand sage turned scribe. 

you patch him up late at night one day, and he so chivalrously accompanies you on your walk home after your shift. that’s all it was supposed to be…but, well, things are never as simple as sticking to the original plan. 

you invite him in for drinks, he accepts, you clumsily trip on your rug, he catches you swiftly, and somehow, in the mix, both of your lips end up meeting in the most heated kiss you’ve ever shared with someone. clothes are easy enough to shed, and stumbling to your bedroom is hardly complicated, and in a far from ideal turn of events, you sleep with the akademiya’s scribe. 

multiple times, in fact. 

by now, his visits to the bimarstan to see you are as frequent as your visits to his house to see him. the only difference is that his visits tend to be for medical reasons, and yours are…personal to say the least. it’s, of course, as these arrangements tend to go, one that’s strictly physical. 

being physically involved with a patient is scandalous enough, but romantic involvement would be nothing short of unethical. and he’s not a very romantically inclined individual anyway, so not toeing the line of something more is easy enough for the both of you. 

still, you’re quite fond of him—he’s funny when he wants to be and a gentleman underneath the blunt responses and straightforward remarks. you like to consider him as a good friend. one who knows your body a bit too well than most friends should, but a good friend nonetheless. 

you look at him unimpressed as you finish tending to his wound, scoffing and rolling your eyes as you point out, “you’d call it a graze even if your arm was dangling off the bone.”

that gets a chuckle out of him, his head tilting up as he looks at you. if you weren’t in a hospital with your work attire, this would feel oddly domestic: cleaning tenderly at his wounds as he looks at you softly. 

you and alhaitham never toe the line of something more, but you do take steps dangerously close sometimes. 

“when do you finish your shift?” he asks, voice a low rumble. 

“now,” you grin, giving him a mock glare as you add, “you have me working past the clock.”

“let me walk you home, then.” he’d do it anyway, regardless of whether or not you accept. still, you never turn him away. 

“how kind of you,” you say sarcastically—you know better than he does what he means, what he wants, and you can’t exactly say you don’t want it yourself. 

“i can be rather giving when i want,” he shrugs. 

“oh, yes,” you snort, “quite the giver.” the grin he sends you is nothing short of fond. 

the line blurs a little like it’s been drawn in the sand, grains carried away by the wind and leaving the faintest trace of the border you draw. somehow, even though you shouldn’t, you step closer to it, just at the edge. 

but it’s never enough to cross it. 

“am i?” he muses, “i’m glad you think so.”

“you know, most people would believe you talk too little. but i think you talk too much.”

his cloak falls back in place over his arm as he stands, lips curled in a rare smile—well, rare to anyone other than you, that is. he walks out, and you follow.

it almost feels like you're getting closer and closer to stumbling past the line against your will every day. 

——————————

alhaitham knows your home well. well enough that he knows to drop his cloak in the basket you keep for laundry so you can wash away the blood soaked into the fabric for him. 

is it normal to do the laundry of your fuck buddy? you’re not even sure. it’s not like you’d ask anyone, anyway. 

but it doesn’t matter—not when his lips find yours before you can think about it too much. it’s a slow kiss. he’s good with his mouth in more ways than one—good at kissing, good at pleasing, and he’s even good at talking. he’s a linguist, anyway, so it only makes sense. 

“eager,” you murmur in between kisses, nipping at his lips as he shivers. “did you miss me that badly in the desert?”

“of course,” he rasps, gently guiding you to fall back against your bed, his hand cupping the back of your head like you’re fragile as glass, “eremites don’t have as enticing of a touch as you do.”

“maybe if you ask nicely, they’ll be less rough with you,” you wiggle your brows, giggling.

he clicks his teeth, angling your jaw to trail kisses along the slant of it as his hands travel to your hips, gently rubbing the bare skin of your hips under your shirt. you hum appreciatively, closing your eyes and sighing at the soothing feeling of his warm palms seeping heat into your skin. your fingers thread into his hair, tangling into the locks for some sort of means to hold on and ground yourself. 

it’s like warm drizzles of syrup, his touch sinking into you as you absorb his sweetness. 

“and why would i need that when this is far better?”

every word alhaitham alhaitham says is punctuated with the warmth of his lips pressed into your skin. it’s almost soothing—he feels calming. it doesn’t feel heated, not the passionate kind that kindles something carnal in you. 

it feels warm, the soft and gentle kind that makes everything feel a bit lighter. a bit cozier. something more homely in this house of yours. 

“mhm,” you hum, your fingers slowly slipping from his hair as they fall to his shoulders, barely holding him in place as your eyes remain shut. it’s soothing, everything about him. enough that you don’t even realize you’re dozing off until he chuckles. 

“did i bore you into sleep?” he pecks your cheek. 

“no,” you tug your eyelids apart, giving him a sheepish grin, “sorry, you’re just warm.”

“oh yeah?” he grins, amused. he’s climbing off of you, much to your dismay, making a soft whine run past your lips as your hands chase him. 

he’s quick to replace the lack of him, though, planting himself beside you as he pulls you into his chest. 

cuddling isn’t new for the two of you. usually, it’s a post-coital activity, though—you start to think alhaitham is just as bad at drawing a clear line in the sand as you. he’s gentle as he pulls your covers over you, pressing one more kiss to your head before he sighs and relaxes. 

“i’m not tired,” you protest weakly. 

“no, you’re not,” he agrees to satisfy you, eyeing your drooping eyes knowingly. “i am, though. it’s been a long trip.”

“right,” you nod, humming. “weak.”

he rolls his eyes, though fondly—you barely make out the action through your half lidded eyes as you glance at him one last look before your eyes force themselves shut. he’s warm, smells like that spicy hint of harra fruit in his cologne, and feels painfully safe when he lets you curl into his strong arm as it wraps around you. 

normal people don’t cuddle when they’re just fucking like this—you and alhaitham are anything but normal. it’s a mutual sort of agreement, though. you allow the small domestic tendencies to slip past the line, only to let the shore wash it away from the sand. 

it never stays for long, this feeling of intimacy. real intimacy, the kind that’s far more personal than seeing each other nude and feeling each other at your rawest. the kind where you both fall asleep beside each other, tangled, safe, warm, trusted. 

but you’re just friends. you think. you can’t afford to be anything more—alhaitham isn’t the sort of man to grant you something like that. you’re sure of that. he’s kind, good natured, even. but there’s not one romantically inclined bone in his body—you’ve seen it yourself. 

he’s rejected one too many brave women with her heart on her sleeve. never cruelly, but always definitively. 

sleep doesn’t let you think about it all for too long. you resign yourself to a peaceful slumber beside him, breath slowly evening out as he rubs the small of your back. 

and, when morning comes and you awaken, you don’t think about it for too long then, either. because he’s gone. because, of course, he wouldn’t stay—not when this is physical and nothing more.

you’re not disappointed, you think. you’re aware of the nature of things. and he’s a gentleman, as always, leaving you a note on your bedside. 

i had to file some reports from my expedition. i believe i’ll be needing my cloak back. 

you chuckle, shaking your head. it’s an invitation—bring me my cloak, and we’ll finish what we started. 

it’s how things are with you and alhaitham. you do his laundry with yours, he walks you home and forces you to rest, and sometimes, you happen to partake in some debauchery in the process. there’s nothing wrong with it. 

and even if your toes dance along the edge of the line, they always drag along to draw it sharper in the sand. 

——————————

coming to alhaitham’s house seems like second nature these days. he comes to you at night, and you come to him in the afternoon of your day off—luck would have it that yours happens to coincide with his. you knock three times and he opens as soon as your knuckles pull away from the cool surface of his door. it’s like he expects you, maybe even waits for you. 

you step in and let the door close behind you, grinning when he steps closer and cages you against the tight corner that is his front entrance. 

“i brought over your cloak,” you hold up the cloth, gesturing for him to move so you can put it on him. he looks at you incredulously, like you’re out of your mind. 

“why would i put it on now?” he asks in confusion. 

you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow, “you always wear one?”

“and why would i dress when we’ll only be undressing in a short moment?” he quirks his own brow like it’s obvious—which, to be fair, alhaitham is not exactly wrong. but it doesn’t make you any less flustered when he says it. 

“you’re shameless,” you huff, looking away in embarrassment. he chuckles lowly, leaning down and trailing his nose along your collarbone, breathing in your perfume. 

“i think i’m more practical, is all,” he murmurs into your skin. you sigh, goosebumps traveling across your body at the fan of his breath against you. 

“if only people knew how unstiff the akademiya’s scribe can truly be,” you grin, finger tracing the sliver of skin showing from his chest window. “did you know i overheard a few patients discuss how bad you are at conversing?”

“i don’t get paid to partake in small talk,” he says, voice a low vibration as he shivers at your touch. “i have things to finish when i’m on the clock apart from socializing.”

“what, you’re that concerned when you have your lovely pay raise? i’m sure you could afford a few minutes,” you tease, making him roll his eyes. 

alhaitham certainly won’t admit it, but he finds a good amount of amusement from your quips—the small grin on his usually downturned lips tells you as much. 

“if you want me to spend my earnings on you, there are better ways to ask,” he shoots light-heartedly. 

“you’d accuse me of such shallow schemes?” you pout. “do you think me to be after your mora?”

his answer is instantaneous, coming in the form of a delicate kiss pressed to your lips as his hands grab your hips. your arms have a habit of their own, always wrapping around his neck before you can even comprehend the action, and just like always, you both end up a tangled pile of limbs that can’t even make it past the doorway, let alone the rest of the house. 

you like it this way, perhaps even love it. something about him being unable to wait the time it takes to walk to his room fills you up with a sense of glee. 

“being the scribe is a much simpler job than sage,” he mumbles between kisses, “there happens to be much more time for other things.”

“things like taking the head nurse against the door of your home?” 

“perhaps,” he smiles with a chuckle. 

who would’ve thought alhaitham could smile so painfully charming? just a few weeks ago, you had never seen him smile before at all, willing to bet that he’d never smiled a day after stepping into adulthood with that seriousness he holds so dearly. 

“i don’t have much time,” you hum in between kisses, fingers fiddling with the short hair at the nape of his neck. 

“we’ll make do, i’m sure,” he says through a breathy groan, already semi-hard as your thigh slots between his legs, rubbing against the forming tent in his pants. 

your head tilts up as his head buries into your neck, lips branding searing kisses into your skin. you wonder if this is what it feels like to be his, to be stamped with his affections one kiss at a time until no one else could hope to have you. your eyes flutter shut, sighing as he sucks attentively to your sweet spot. 

“don’t leave marks,” you scold, “i can’t show up to the bimarstan looking so scandalous.”

you’ve felt his lips against your skin enough times that you can tell them by heart. you don’t have to look to know they’re pouting against your neck—you can feel it against your skin. you giggle, cupping the back of his head as your fingers delicately thread through his hair. 

“i’m meant to hold back then?” he grumbles. it’s almost petulant, but he still softens the nipping against your skin, careful to leave no evidence of his existence against you, however disgruntled he might be. 

“don’t be so whiny,” you laugh. archons must have it out for you, though, because as soon as you say that, his hardened cock brushes against your crotch, making you whine at the friction. it’s something, but it’s hardly anything at all—the separation from the fabric makes everything not nearly enough. 

he seems to know it, too, because he pulls away, eyeing you with a certain gleam in his eyes that looks like a cross between smug and amused. 

“i’ll try,” he says smugly. you glare, but you’re cut off by the brush of his cock against that sensitive spot between your thighs once more, his hips grinding against you as you fall slack against the door. you can feel him rub against your clit, sending shockwaves along your spine as your back arches and you breathlessly moan his name. 

at first, he only does it to tease you, but after the first few rolls of his hips, it’s evident he can’t bring himself to stop. it’s not enough, not for either of you. the ache settling between your legs can’t be quelled with a few simple rolls of his hips with fabric separating you both from each other. but alhaitham’s sense of control seems to wash away with the tidal waves of pleasure, each thrust of his hips brushing his cock against your heat and leaving him panting into your shoulder. 

“m-more,” you plead, grabbing at his cape and fisting the material as you hold onto him tightly, “i need more—please.”

alhaitham, for all his composure and self-preservation, is simple to take apart when his throbbing cock is pressed against your cunt, rubbing against the length and building the pressure he so desperately needs. 

he doesn’t even seem to hear you, hot breath fanning against the crook of your neck as he buries his head and groans, hips sloppy and rough as they rut into you. you can feel the outline of his cock clearly even through his pants and yours, hot and undoubtedly hard. the bulge in his pants brushes against your clit through yours—and even if it’s nowhere close to feeling him inside of you, you can feel yourself just about to break. 

“sorry,” he gasps, “sorry—c-can’t stop. i-i’m c-close. so close.”

the last part comes out like a plead. it’s like he’s begging you to free him of this torment, like he needs you to make him fall over the edge because he can’t bring himself there. you think that might be the case, so you wrap your fingers around his hair and tug. 

he moans—maybe if you were feeling teasing, you’d call it a whine and watch his cheeks flush as he scowls. but there’s no chance for that. not when you’re both so close, so achingly close that you can just make out the twitch of his cock in his pants. 

and then the doorknob twists. 

a series of muffled curses can be heard through the other side of the door, and you both pause—rigid, tense, stiffly alert as your eyes widen. his head perks up from its place in your neck, staring at the doorknob in equal parts rage and equal parts confusion, like he blames it for cutting you both short of a much-needed, much-wanted orgasm. 

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” you hear a voice groan exasperatedly through the door, “again?”

you’re completely lost. who could be trying to enter alhaitham’s house at this hour? 

the only hope you have for answers is, of course, alhaitham—one look at the recognition and irritation on his face, and you can piece together that it’s certainly no stranger. alhaitham, if his cold glare could freeze anything where it stands, could potentially risk turning sumeru into the next snezhnaya. his eyes are hardened, and his jaw is clenched as he breathes out a heavy sigh through his nose. 

“and you’re kidding me,” he mutters bitterly. “now?” 

“hey! i know you’re home! open this door and stop pretending like you can’t hear me,” the voice demands, tapping on the door with more conviction than the last time. 

you furrow your eyebrows and look at him expectantly; an explanation demanded through the crinkles of your forehead as you look at him in confusion. he pulls away, jaw still tight as he adjusts himself in his pants, trying his best to hide the still painful erection he sports. 

“my roommate,” he says quietly. deadly. 

you almost feel bad for the poor soul that must be waiting on the other side of the door, unaware of the pure wrath he must be about to face judging by the look on alhaitham’s face. 

you hear the voice again, “ugh! you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? you—”

“calm down,” alhaitham calls, unimpressed and unamused as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. he seems to hold it for a moment like he’s fighting the tension in his body, before he slumps and lets out another sigh. this time, it’s much more defeated as he gives you an apologetic look when his eyes open. 

you both adjust your appearances, erasing any trace of debauchery before you step aside and let him approach the door. 

the swing of the door opening is a rather aggressive one, and alhaitham stands taller and straighter than you’ve ever seen him, like he’s trying to tower over the figure that enters the house. 

you recognize him immediately. 

“oh!” you gasp in awe, “you’re that architect! the one who designed the palace of alcazarzaray!”

both men look equally as haunted by your statement. alhaitham’s eye all but twitches as he takes in the breathless admiration in your voice—you’re no doubt praising kaveh’s work. as for the latter…well, he looks like he might just about launch himself into the blade of an eremite willingly the first chance he gets. 

“wh-who are you?” kaveh demands, “and what are you doing here?”

“she’s obviously a guest of mine,” alhaitham shoots coolly, tone as condescending as ever. “have you lost all manners? that’s no way to greet a guest.”

“what did you say to me? i want to hear nothing of the sort from you—god knows your temper isn’t one to speak on my manners.” 

kaveh turns to you, taking one better look at you, squinting as he thinks for a moment before realization flashes across his features. he seems to recognize you—though most people in sumeru do know you quite well. the nurses at the bimarstan are limited, these days. 

“ah! you’re the head nurse from the bimarstan! you looked at my wrist,” he recalls. 

you smile, nodding as you gesture at his hand and ask kindly, “is it better now? i do hope it’s not as sore anymore. did you apply heat as i suggested? and i hope you’re taking ample rest in between sketches—architects are very prone to sore wrists as is, you know.”

alhaitham rolls his eyes at your lecture, grumbling, “as if he would follow anyone’s advice. he’s far too stubborn.”

“i’ll have you know that i followed her advice quite closely,” kaveh says pointedly. he turns to you, voice much softer as he smiles and adds, “and my wrist is much better, thank you.”

“of course,” you nod. and then you pause, staring between the two unsurely as you falter and ask, “but…i wasn’t aware you two were friends. alhaitham tells me you’re his roommate—he’s never mentioned you before today, though.”

they both glare at each other through the corners of their eyes. something tells you maybe friends was a bit of an exaggerated term. alhaitham makes no moves to speak, crossing his arms and staring expectantly at kaveh—the blonde scoffs, shaking his head with a scowl. 

“friends…is a generous word. we’re roommates,” he nods in confirmation, “i’ve…ran into some trouble for the time being, so i’m staying here for a bit. won’t be much long, however. i need a space less…suffocating.”

“and how well is that plan faring for you?” alhaitham’s words seem to poke at kaveh, riling the blonde up further as you watch the scene before you awkwardly. 

“you—” but before kaveh can finish whatever retaliation was on the cusp of his tongue, he pauses. it’s like all at once, the situation hits him before he’s staring between the two of you, instead. “hang on a moment. how do the both of you know each other? i didn’t know alhaitham was acquainted enough with the head nurse for her to pay a visit.”

“well,” you start, trailing off as you cough lightly, tensing as the question throws you off guard. “umm…alhaitham visits the bimarstan sometimes after his trips to the desert. so…”

so what? how would that explain your visit to his home? it’s not as though you become friendly with all your patients and drop them a visit—in fact, alhaitham is the only one you’ve ever done that for. and of course, it’s not just a visit that you’re doing here. but kaveh doesn’t need to know that. 

that would be quite the scandal—getting so intimate with a regular patient. and apart from that, you and alhaitham aren’t exactly in an ideal situation. what would you tell kaveh? that you come over just to hook up? it’s not exactly a rare occurrence to have a beneficial relationship with someone like this, but still…admitting it like that is a bit too shameless for your liking. 

and then there’s a much more complicated, much less easy-to-tackle problem, too. you’re not even sure if you can confidently say you don’t have feelings for the scribe. that’s not something you were counting on, ever. saying you only partake in intimate activities with no strings attached might just hit you too hard in the gut, even if it’s not exactly a lie. but admitting the words out loud isn’t something you’re prepared to do. 

almost like he senses your turmoil, alhaitham steps in, bless his soul. he almost looks a bit conflicted, studying you carefully. you don’t have time to dwell on it, though, before he speaks. 

“so she came to check on a wound she patched up,” he finishes for you, quick and easy and confident enough in his words that it makes up for your nerves. he quicks a fleeting glance at you before raising an eyebrow to kaveh. “i left in a hurry and didn’t really let her properly tend to it last time. not that it’s your business, of course. i’m perfectly within my rights to bring guests over to my house.”

“be careful,” kaveh glowers, “anymore attitude, and you’ll risk showing your guests your true colors if you’re not cautious. you wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on the same person who tends to your wounds, do you? that would be fatal.”

“you two are quite the duo,” you chuckle, shaking your head, “it seems alhaitham has finally met his match verbally. you truly don’t let him have the last say.”

alhaitham almost looks offended, looking at you in disbelief. “i am not outmatched by his—”

“if it’s not too much trouble,” kaveh laughs nervously, cutting alhaitham off with a sharp look, “could you keep this…uh arrangement of ours a secret? i don’t really want this getting around and such.”

“my lips are sealed,” you promise. kaveh perks up, relief sagging into his shoulders at that before he nods, giving you a friendly smile as he waves at you. 

“i’ll be off to finish a project, then. nice seeing you.”

as soon as he walks away and you’re certain the door to his room shuts, you let out a soft breath of relief. 

“that was close,” you whisper, “he could’ve figured it out.”

“right,” alhaitham says vaguely. he doesn’t say much else, arms still crossed as he stands there and looks at you—something about the way alhaitham stares at you is too uncomfortable for your liking. 

not because he looks at you weirdly or even inappropriately, but because it almost feels like he can pick apart every thought in your head just by his gaze alone. 

you shuffle on your feet before you give him a tight smile. 

“i should go—the patients are never-ending these days,” you chuckle nervously. 

“make sure you don’t overwork yourself,” he nods. 

you linger for a moment. you’re not sure why. it’s not as though you can expect him to give you a goodbye kiss—that would be preposterous. and far too wishful. 

so instead, you give him a small wave before turning towards the door—but he stops you before you can reach for the door handle, pulling you flush against him, your back to his chest. 

“will you come back tonight?” he whispers, voice low and husky as he presses his still-hard crotch against you. you shiver as he nips at your skin to get his point across. 

“what about kaveh?” you ask softly, biting your lip, unsure. the little voice in your head screams, who cares about kaveh?

“he’ll be dead asleep,” he snorts, “last night was the third all-nighter he pulled. there’s no chance he’ll make it past seven pm today.”

“you’re insatiable,” you tease, shaking your head as you snort. “do you know that?”

“i’ve never had a decline on your end,” he shoots back. 

“i have a shift later tonight,” you say apologetically, sighing as you think about the extra hours you’ll have to put in soon, “there aren’t enough people tonight without me.”

“you should really speak to someone about this funding cut,” he frowns, slumping against you, “it’s getting out of hand.” 

“no one listens.” your voice is so defeated, so uncharacteristically tired. you’re sure he notices it in a heartbeat—you notice it yourself. “but i’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“sure,” is all he says. 

hesitantly, you pull away. his hands leave your hips reluctantly, too, like they’re most comfortable when they have you to house them. but neither of you say anything, simply nodding at each other as you look at him over your shoulder and exit through the door. 

the footsteps down his steps and away from his home are the heaviest ones you’ve taken all week. 

you decide you hate the sand. and that stupid line you both seem to have drawn.

——————————

it takes two failed attempts at fucking alhaitham to realize you’re not strictly only after the physical pleasure he brings. 

the first time, you weren’t even disappointed you didn’t get that far. it was only a disappointment that he was gone when you woke, and you realize it’s because the absence of him is why you’re even let down in the first place. the second time, you’re unhappy because you have to keep the nature of your relationship a secret—that’s a more complex problem. 

it’s secret because it has to be, because of how lewd it is by nature and how partially unprofessional it is. but you decide you also hate it to be a secret. no one knows that you see alhaitham bare and at his most vulnerable, and you can’t handle that anymore. especially when you watch a nurse flirt so poorly with him right before your eyes. 

“oh, it’s you, acting grand sage,” she giggles, “what can i do for you today?”

“i’ve actually returned to my previous position as scribe,” he corrects, entirely unaffected. 

“oh, is that so?” she gasps—you know it’s all for show. everyone is aware of his stepping down. “well, i, for one, think it’s a shame. you were so capable as a leader.”

alhaitham doesn’t like leading. for all he claims it’s because it’s too much trouble and far more work than he appreciates, you know that it’s also because the easiest way to never be swayed by power is to stay far away from it. he keeps himself grounded this way. he uses his smarts for only what’s necessary and only enough to quell his thirst for knowledge and never anything more. his principles are admirable.

and should the next grand sage also abuse such power like the last, he’ll step up from his humble position as scribe and fix the problem again—because that’s what he knows to do best. use his genius to solve issues as they arise, not control the situation entirely. 

of course, she wouldn’t know that. she doesn’t know anything about him. 

you fight back the roll of your eyes with the last shreds of self-preservation you have left. 

“the position wasn’t really for me,” he says plainly. “any idea where the head nurse might be? i have some business to discuss with her.”

it shouldn’t satisfy you as much as it does when she deflates at at his dismissal. but does—enough that you saunter up with a grin on your lips as you greet the two. 

“why hello. what business does the scribe have with little old me?” you hum. the nurse becomes background noise when your eyes meet his teal ones, staring at the small fleck of amber in his pupils while his piercing gaze rakes over your face as if to study you. 

you feel oddly seen under his stare—he’s seen you stripped and bare, at your most vulnerable under him. but somehow, you’ve never thought about it much in the moment like now. right now, he sees you with a clear mind, without the clouding haze of lust to fog his mind. right now, he can see you for every flaw and every imperfection, so up close. he can notice the way your fingers fiddle with themselves to calm your nerves. he can catch every nervous shuffle on your heels as you fight the urge to lean into him from the proximity. 

finally, you break out of your trance when the nurse clears her throat and mumbles, “i’ll uh..i’ll be off, then.”

he blinks at the same time as you, shaking his head slightly to bring himself back to the present as he clears his throat.

“can we speak somewhere more private?” he asks quietly. you don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad. but you nod nonetheless, leading him to an empty room as he follows. 

it’s a long, painstakingly dreadful walk. your mind is filled with too many possible scenarios that it’s a miracle your brain is even functioning properly. it should short circuit. what if he wants to end your arrangement? what if he’s aware of your slowly shifting feelings (if you can even call them that)? what if he’s found someone he’s interested in? what if his roommate has pieced together something, and now he needs to come up with a cover? 

the possibilities are endless, and they plague your mind so heavily that your lip is chewed raw by the time you enter the room and shut it behind him as he follows you in. 

“you wanted to talk?” you ask hesitantly. 

he doesn’t say anything—the only thing he does is press a folded piece of paper in your hands as you stare at him, confused. 

“open it,” he insists.

so you do. and reading over it makes you pause as you glance up at him in disbelief. the bimarstan funding—more than doubled. 

“what?” you breathe, in absolute awe, “how…how is this possible?”

“i’ve pulled a few strings,” he says plainly, shrugging. as always, he brushes off his actions as though he hasn’t just changed your entire job for the better. “it’s a nice perk of being an ex-sage.”

“you’ve used corruption just to help me?” your words are a playful jab—but there’s still an underlying question that you really do mean to ask. why go to such lengths for me? 

“it’s hardly corruption,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. the dust of red over the tips of his ears is the only thing that gives away the slightly flustered part of him, “i had a few favors owed to me, and the conditions here play an important role to everyone in sumeru. it was a simple correction to their terrible decision-making skills.”

“oh, haitham,” you chuckle. this time, the nickname really does make him flush more obviously, his eyes darting away to look off to the side as he clears his throat again. 

“well, that’s all,” he says stiffly, “i have to go home and…and make dinner. kaveh is of no help.”

“sure,” you beam, looking at him knowingly. you pause for a moment, contemplating before you cave and add, “and thank you. really.”

“it’s really nothing to look into,” he says awkwardly, “hopefully, now you can work fewer hours.” 

“the other nurses will also really appreciate it,” you say softly, “i’ll be sure to let them know—they’ll really have the hots for you this time,” you snort, making an indirect reference to earlier. he shivers, like the thought leaves him unnerved. 

“that one nurse of yours hasn’t left me alone since i stepped up as grand sage for that short while,” he grumbles, making you snort at the troubled look on his face. it shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does to see him so disgusted by the affections of someone else, but you’re only human. “doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.”

“oh c’mon, she’s sweet,” you tease. now that you know he’s uninterested, it’s fun to mess with him and get under his skin, giggling as you reach over and poke at his arm. 

“perhaps,” he shrugs, “but not very good at keeping her emotions in check. i’ve known her since my student days—i don’t think i could last one day with her lack of…composure.”

“what, you’re too above emotions?” you ask amused, “i would disagree. you’re a rather grumpy man, you know.”

“am i?” he fights back a grin, “i hardly noticed.”

“without your morning coffee, yes,” you quip. 

he laughs, shaking his head as he stares at you with something that looks oddly close to fondness in his eyes before he murmurs, “i do really need to make dinner. kaveh will truly whine my ear off if i don’t tonight.”

“have fun,” you pinch his cheek. he rolls his eyes, and with that, he nods to you and leaves, swiftly walking away and leaving you to yourself in the empty room with the slip of paper in your hands, a lovesick smile still on your face. 

you don’t even know where the line starts or where it ends anymore. all you know is that you’ve undoubtedly crossed it all on your own—and it might be the end of you, truly.

——————————

it takes one nice gesture from alhaitham to make you realize you’ve fallen hopelessly hard for him. before, every small action of intimacy was always just the two of you being friends, amicable and good-natured in between sex. 

now, you’re not sure you could spend a single minute next to him without wondering what it would feel like to do those things as a couple. 

sometimes, after sex, alhaitham likes to read. because it’s hard for him to sleep, and he doesn’t want to disturb you from your much-needed rest after a long day at the hospital. you don’t realize how reliant you’ve become on the sound of his pages flipping until you lay in bed alone, tossing and turning under your sheets as you try your hardest to sleep.

you can’t. not when all you think about is him. him, him, him. he’s all your mind drifts to nowadays. 

but you know alhaitham—better than a lot of people, in fact, seeing as you get to see parts of him that are otherwise… off-limits. being in a relationship is the last thing he wants, especially with you. otherwise, he’d have told you by now. you’re scared of a lot of things, scared to speak your mind, and tend to overthink too much for your own good. 

but alhaitham? he’s blunt and to the point. if he’d wanted something more with you, if the line had blurred and blurred for him until it risked being nonexistent like it did for you, he’d have said something. but he hasn’t—and neither can you. 

because you know as soon as you do, it’ll be over. the kind gestures, the gentle touches, the heated kisses, the nightly visits, all of it. gone with the wind as it blows the line in the sand away for good—not because he wants to cross it, but because it simply doesn’t need to exist anymore if he never speaks to you again. 

 alhaitham is not a romantically inclined guy. he’s good-looking enough that not just a handful of girls have tried their hand at confessing to him, and he’s always turned them down instantly. you’ve seen it, heard about it, know it to be true. and apart from that, are you both even that compatible?

sure, you get along great as is, but a relationship is much deeper than that. you’ve always appreciated how honest he was, how straightforward he put things. but relationships come with a lot more vulnerability and emotions than you’ve ever shown him. his bluntness will be too easy to mistake for casual cruelty when you’re in over your head. he’s quiet; he doesn’t appreciate too much interaction—would he even enjoy going on dates? what if you insisted on an evening out, and all he wanted to do was stay in and read? would he want to do all that stuff? everything you want seems like it would be something of a chore for him, something that makes him see you as a chore. 

he even said it himself the other day, calling that nurse too emotional for his liking. sure, it was an off-handed comment, but you’re one emotional day away from potentially being too much for him too. you couldn’t handle that. not when you like him so, so much. not when you want him so bad, you couldn’t handle him not wanting you just as badly. 

would he even want you that badly? logic tells you no—and logic is at the forefront of his mind at all times. your emotionally charged outlook on life would be a bleeding mess of color in his neutral, logically categorized approach. 

you’d be dooming yourself to loving a man who would hardly know what to do with your affections. 

so you do the only sound solution to this predicament of yours—you end things before he can do it himself. it’s inevitable, of course. whether it’s in a few weeks or months, eventually, alhaitham will grow bored of your casual fling. and he’ll end things, completely fine and normal while you fall apart at the seams. the best thing you can do for yourself is let things end on your own terms, and early on, too, before the feelings fester into something all too serious. 

it’s not as though you love him yet—things are still early on enough to make sense of them. 

or is it? some part of your mind asks viciously, are you sure you don’t love him? 

you push away the thought as quickly as it pops into your head. rolling your shoulders back, you straighten your posture, taking a deep breath before you knock on his door. 

he opens it instantly, smiling that small, ghost of a smile of his. you falter immediately. 

“hey,” he hums, swinging his door wider, “come in.”

“no, that’s okay,” you say stiffly, not meeting his eyes, “i…can’t today.”

“oh.” you hate that you can hear the frown in his voice and practically see the confused crinkle of his eyebrows. “did you want to talk about something, then?”

yes, you want to say. there’s a lot i want to talk about. 

there’s a lot you should talk about—and if you were keen on discussing this like an adult, you would lay it all out on the table. 

instead, you blurt out, “i think we should stop.”

he eyes you carefully, raising a questioning brow as he asks, “stop what?”

“this,” you point between the two of you, “whatever…whatever this is we’re doing.”

and just as you expected, his face is blank, so neutral and so hard to read you want to scream at him. yell at him for making you want him so bad when you can’t even tell if he’s even a fraction as crazy as you. does he want you? he certainly treats you well sometimes, but maybe that’s just because you get his dick wet and stitch up a few wounds here and there for him. does he actually even toss and turn and stay up thinking about you the way you think about him? 

the answer is probably no. you don’t even want to find out if you’re right or not. but he’s never made you believe he has, so you don’t entirely think you’re wrong in your assumptions. 

“and what are we doing?” he must be playing dumb, you think. 

“hooking up,” you hiss, “having sex. fucking. whatever you want to call it, alhaitham. we have to end it. now.”

“and what brought this on?” he crosses his arms. 

you want to ask him why he’s being so cruel, so intent on keeping you when you clearly can’t stay, when there are so many women who would throw themselves at him for a chance to get in bed with him if a physical partner is what he’s so hellbent on keeping. but you can’t be that for him any longer, not when your emotions are tired of being a jumbled mess that slowly but surely eat away at your decaying soul. 

“we…we’re just…it’s not—we just have to, okay? i don’t appreciate you treating me like i’m easy.”

“wha—when have i ever treated you as such?” he looks at you bewildered, getting defensive. 

“that’s not what i meant,” you pinch your nose, groaning as you try to process the words you want to say in your spinning head. everything is too much—the way he’s close, the way your body feels aflame from just standing near him, the way your eyes are involuntarily misting over. “this…this is just an easy arrangement, that’s all. for both of us. but i don’t want to be someone’s quick and easy hook-up for the sake of convenience. i need…i need something more from someone, so we should stop while we can so i can find myself that.”

there’s a minimal twitch of his jaw as he clenches and unclenches it, nodding slowly.

“you want something more, is that it?”

“w-well, yes—but that’s not what i entirely meant, so don’t read into it—”

“so how would ending this get you that, then?” he challenges. you hate that he makes you feel stupid, that he looks at you like you’re not thinking when that’s all you’ve been doing these last few…archons know how long. he’s plagued your mind for so much time you can’t even pinpoint for how long. 

“i want something more, but not from you,” you spit, slamming your hands to slap against your thighs in frustration, “that’s obviously why i’m ending it! must you always make everything difficult?”

he doesn’t speak, silently stunned a bit at your outburst. so you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down before you collect your thoughts better. 

“i just…i’m sorry, okay? i didn’t mean to yell at you like this is your fault. i…i can’t say i can get into bed with you anymore without wanting us to actually mean something to each other, and i know that’s not what you want—”

“who said that’s not what i want?” he interrupts, looking at you with the first hints of emotions all day. there’s a small etch of frustration building in the twitch of his brows as he continues, “you’ve just decided for me how i feel, and that’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

“you’ve never said anything about how you feel,” you shoot back.

“well, neither have you, but that doesn’t mean—”

“i may not have said it, but you’re telling me you never noticed? i do your laundry for you, for crying out loud, alhaitham! and you’ve never so much as dropped a hint!”

“i see,” he nods slowly, going back to the blank slate that is his face. still so infuriatingly neutral and unbothered by it all that you can’t help but lose it a little. 

how can he be so unbothered? how can he be so calm and collected when you feel like you might need to check yourself into the bimarstan yourself from the stress of it all? you’ve spent weeks, months in each other’s beds. familiarized yourselves with every part of each other’s bodies. he knows about that birthmark no one else sees, and you trace that mole on his left pec every night before you sleep. you’ve slowly but surely been dying to cross the threshold of just friends (with a few perks, of course), and here he is, nodding along as you tell him you want him, want more of him.

and he’s got nothing to say. because, for some reason, after months of feeling you, spending nights and days tucked away against you, he doesn’t seem to feel the same, so he doesn’t have much to offer you. how can he be so unbothered by your presence after months with you? is it really that easy not to be affected by you? 

some part of you lets go of the hold on your control as you snap, “and this is why we can’t have anything more.”

“why’s that?” he tilts his head, voice an uncharacteristic edge to it, “enlighten me.”

“because…because…because you’re you!”

finally, a flash of hurt crosses his face, making itself home in his eyes and forehead as it crinkles at your words. he studies you, quiet. unnervingly quiet that you almost wonder if you’re just deaf.

“are you trying to say there’s something wrong with me?” he presses, looking so lost that you almost feel guilty. 

not as much as you feel like you’re about to cry, though.

“yes,” you say without thinking—and the way hurt settles into his eyes more makes you scramble to reword things so you don’t sound like a total jerk, “i mean no! i mean…i mean you’re just you, and you and i won’t mix.”

“we won’t mix,” he repeats, blinking. “interesting—”

you can’t stop yourself from going on the tangent now that you’ve begun, spilling your every thought one by one as you cut him off, “you’re so quiet, and it’s unnerving, you know? you never speak a single thought on your mind, you’d rather just read than talk about your day. and everything you say is so painfully to the point—would it kill you to soften the blow sometimes? people don’t always need the cold, hard truth, okay? sometimes, saying what someone wants to hear can make all the difference. and…and…i don’t know, okay? i need someone who can work with my emotions without applying logic to everything, and that’s not you so…so we have to end things because it’s not fair to either of us. i want it to actually mean something with someone when i’m with them, and you don’t want someone to taint everything with their fragile feelings, so we need to go our separate ways. okay?”

you’re practically panting when you’re done speaking, and alhaitham is just standing, thinking, processing everything you’ve said in that painfully complex head of his. 

finally, he breaks the silence and says, “i didn’t know so many things about me bothered you.”

“they didn’t,” you sigh, “not until recently. i guess…i guess it just hit me how difficult it would be to get along in a proper relationship.”

“you know that because what? you think it?”

“i know it because i’m actually looking at things realistically,” you say exasperatedly, “just because we had sex for a few months doesn’t automatically mean we’re a compatible pair.”

“we haven’t really gotten to know much outside of sex to decide that,” he shakes his head, “i’m not understanding how you can so easily dismiss these feelings by deciding it won’t work—”

“look, alhaitham,” you cut him off, voice so uncharacteristically small, he pauses to look at you in shock, “i’ve been slowly losing it for weeks, okay? the last thing i need is for you to make things difficult for me. you’re a good guy, and i really, really wish things were different, but i just need more than what you can give me without completely changing yourself. neither of us should have to compromise anything about ourselves for things to work.”

“you don’t know if i’d be willing to give you what you need or not,” he says quietly, “maybe i wouldn’t be changing a thing.”

“then what about that girl?” you scoff, “the one you said was too emotional for you to handle? you think i’m just being crazy? you said it yourself, so what else should i believe?”

“her? she’s different—”

“why? because she’s not me? because she doesn’t let you in her bed? you’ll find my emotions just as burdensome as hers one day, and then what? we fall back on sex to keep the spark alive?”

something about him is defeated. shoulders slumped, eyes dim, and arms uncrossing to lay limply at his sides. he takes a deep breath before nodding, looking at you so intensely you almost feel frozen in place. 

“okay,” he whispers, “if this is what you want. that’s fine.”

his door closes, and your first tear slips. 

——————————

nine days. that’s how long it’s been without alhaitham. your mind tells you this is for the best, but your heart is practically on its knees, begging you to reconsider. 

a part of you wonders if you were being unfair like he said, judging him before you could properly give him a chance. the other part of you thinks it’s important not to let attachment cloud your better judgment. alhaitham is a good man; there’s no doubt about it. 

but is he a man good for you? that part is a difficult question to answer. protecting your heart seems like the safest option. still, you can’t help but miss him horrifically often. it doesn’t hit you how badly you’ve fallen for him until you don’t see him anymore. no more late nights at your place, no more afternoons at his, and no more routine bimarstan visits. 

your life has at least gotten a bit easier, though—more funding means more people to hire, and more people to hire means fewer grueling hours for you. though, when you really think about it, you owe this small win to the exact man who’s been plaguing your thoughts. 

you intend to drink your woes away, but it seems even in the tavern, you can’t escape him—well, not exactly him, but his roommate. but kaveh still reminds you of alhaitham, so the cleared head you hoped for is out of the question for the night.

the thing about kaveh, though, is that he’s loud. painfully so, and especially when he’s drunk. you could hear him from the other end of teyvat, you think—it’s hard to ignore him even if you want to. 

“he’s been insufferable lately,” kaveh huffs, “worse than usual. that awful temper of his needs to really get a check because i’m not sure how much more i can take.”

you didn’t know kaveh was friends with the general mahamatra—seeing cyno loosened up with a deck of tcg cards was not on your list of expectations for the night, but you can’t help but listen in when he adds, “his last few reports to me from his investigations were not up to his…usual work ethic, either. i’m not sure what’s up with him.”

“maybe he’s overworked,” tighnari suggests—you know him as a fellow amurta scholar, recognizing him from your student days. you hadn’t realized alhaitham was friends with such an interesting assortment of people—well, you don’t know if kaveh fits as a friend, but the other two seem like safe bets. 

“i don’t think so,” kaveh grumbles, “he’s hardly been sleeping. it’s not like he takes work home with him, you think he’d be the type? but he’s been drinking all the coffee—i actually work into the night. shouldn’t he at least leave some for me?”

“i wonder what’s up with him,” cyno hums thoughtfully, “he must really be brewing in his emotions.”

you snort at the poor pun, watching as the other two around him wince and groan. 

finally, kaveh sighs, rubbing his temple as he mumbles, “i don’t know. i’ve never seen him like this. i think it’s serious.”

that makes guilt pool in your gut, making you feel so full that even one sip of your drink feels like too much. you’ve lost all desire to drink your sorrows away—you couldn’t have possibly dampened someone like alhaitham so deeply, could you? he’s always been unaffected by things more than others, and you’d never imagined him to care that deeply about your relationship. if you could call it that, even. 

“what do you suppose has brought this on then?” tighnari’s ears twitch in worry, “he’s…not exactly the most emotionally available.”

well, at least you’re not alone in your beliefs. 

“i don’t know,” kaveh says quietly—and even if they claim not to be friends, you don’t think they hate each other a fraction as much as they let on because his voice seems to be twinged with clear worry himself as he adds, “his eyes have been red in the mornings. it can’t be something small.”

that’s all you can stomach to hear before you slam your glass down and swiftly make a beeline for the tavern’s exit. some part of you, weak and bound to alhaitham, is unable to listen any longer about his misery. the misery you caused. the misery you brought yourselves both because insecurities ebbed and flowed into the deepest crevices of your mind and rotted away at the reasonable parts. 

of course, you’re different. of course, there’s a chance things will go sour. of course, it won’t be easy. but isn’t that the case for every relationship? love was never meant to be a simple feat—otherwise, it would never be half as scary to take the fall. 

but you’ve been careful, too careful. so careful that you forgot to let yourself try and be happy, and so careful that you’ve stomped on someone’s feelings enough that his friends exchange their worries over drinks instead of having a good time with him. 

so you decide that enough is enough. if alhaitham isn’t meant to be yours, then celestia themselves will have to take him from you—because you’re not risking losing him a second time. 

not again.

——————————

contrary to popular belief, alhaitham has never been difficult to track down if you simply know where to look. he might be good at making himself scarce, but there’s only a handful of places he could be. the light of his home shining through the window tells you that your first guess is not very off.

you knock, silently staring at the tips of your shoes as he slowly opens the door.

“hey,” you murmur as soon as the door swings open. you haven’t even looked up yet, but you’re certain he has the same neutral expression on his face. but kaveh is right about one thing—his eyes are definitely a little red.

“hey,” he says quietly. 

it’s awkward for a moment. you don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t have any intentions to fill the silence. some time ago, that worried you. his quietness came across as an inability to keep up healthy communication. but now, you miss it—the quiet flip of his pages as he sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. the way he let out a soft little breath when you lay on his chest, rubbing his palm slowly in circles against the small of your back. the soft, peaceful silence of his presence. 

you never appreciated it enough, the comfort of knowing you’re valued without having to say anything at all. 

“listen, i—”

“you don’t have to—”

you both stop, pausing when you speak at the same time. 

“go ahead,” you say instantly. 

he clears his throat, shaking his head as he swallows. “no,” he mumbles, ever the gentleman, “no, that’s okay. you go first.”

you think your nerves might just explode one by one if you have to wait any longer, so you don’t bother putting up much more of a fight, nodding before fiddling with your fingers as you take a deep breath. 

the words spill faster than you can process what you’re saying. a long, jumbled string of thoughts that rattle off your tongue like a dam finally breaking at the leaking crack. 

“i was wrong. for all the things i said, i mean. there’s nothing wrong with you, you know? you’re really kind, and you remember the little things, and you always keep your promises, and those are really nice things. and i don’t hate when you’re quiet, by the way. i used to think it bothered me, but i miss it, you know? just having you sit next to me and read and stuff. i guess…i guess i just never bothered trying to think about how to love you the way you needed because i was so busy worrying if you could love me the way i needed and…and i just fucked a lot of things up. i got in my head and made a lot of assumptions that weren’t fair and just…i got cold feet. and i’m sorry. and i love you—really, really love you. all of you. you don’t have to believe me or even say anything at all. i just needed you to know all that because you deserve to.”

he’s silent. you can’t tell whether from being stunned or from disinterest. both are fair, regardless—you think alhaitham could slam the door shut in your face, and you’d deserve it. but he doesn’t. because just as always, he’s your same, kind, gentle alhaitham underneath all of the blunt stoicism. 

“i lied,” you whisper, “i do want you to say something. anything.”

“i don’t know what you want me to say,” he stares at his feet, still looking as hurt as the day you left him. “you…you just assumed i wouldn’t be able to love you, is what i’m gathering.”

“i just thought…” you swallow thickly, tongue like sandpaper against your dry mouth, “i just thought we were too different.”

“i thought we got along well,” he shrugs, trying to pretend there isn’t as much hurt on his features as there is, “maybe i misread things.”

“no,” you shake your head desperately, “no, i overthought them, that’s all.”

“why did you leave me?” he asks hoarsely, “why couldn’t we have talked about things?”

you want to say because you were a coward, maybe even a hypocrite. you insisted he’d be too constipated emotionally to communicate properly with you, but all you’ve done was decide things for him and avoid the hard, heart-to-heart talk.

really, it’s because you were never brave enough to try and love alhaitham the way he would have loved you. the way he loves you. you were blind to see it—weren’t even willing to believe that he ever would. not until after you let him go and realized what you had. he’d walked you home, made sure you got proper rest, pulled strings, and used up favors just to make things better for you. and you missed all the signs, all because it was so easy to walk away, to label his blunt nature as causal cruelty, to confuse his quietness as disinterest, to assume his logic was the absence of emotion. you never gave him a chance because you were never brave enough to take the fall. 

but alhaitham was always ready to catch you, arms aching to wrap around your form and hold you. not because he wanted you to love him, but because all he’s ever wanted was to love you. 

you think that’s the difference between the two of you. you’ve always wanted to be loved, and he’s always wanted to love. you’ve always wanted to take and he’s always wanted to give. you’ve always wanted him to be enough, and he’s always wanted you to know you’re enough and more. 

it’s too much to tell him though, so you settle on cupping his cheeks and whispering, “because you scare me. the way you make me feel.”

“how do i make you feel?”

not too long ago, you’d think he was asking just to confirm what he already knows. now, you know he’s asking because he needs to hear the words for his own sake. just to be sure. just to ease the uncertainty in his own head. 

“you make me feel a lot of things, haitham,” you murmur, “you make me feel happy. appreciated. very pretty. capable. important. sometimes a little dumb,” you giggle as he frowns, squeezing his cheeks as you add, “but only because you’re so smart. i could list a few other things you make me feel, but…they’re not as proper.”

“i thought…just…d-did i do something?” he asks, voice hesitant. there’s a painful, awful squeeze in your heart at his words. but your heart is the last of your worries right now—it’s the least you can do, putting your feelings aside for his own, seeing as you’ve stomped all over his.

so, in an effort to show him that everything is okay, you smile—you’re sure it’s a pathetic, wobbly little thing, but you don’t have time to care. not when he’s right here, under your fingertips, and one possible moment away from slipping away. 

a watery chuckle escapes you as you whisper, “no. you didn’t do anything—it was me. but i’m not running away anymore…if you still want me, that is.” 

“you’re all i want,” he says instantly. “the only thing.”

“i know,” you breathe, “and you are all i want too.”

you kiss him. because he deserves to feel you choose him, to feel you close the gap and show him you’re here. your lips press gently against his, molding into them like two pieces of a puzzle—except you don’t think neither of you fit anywhere else but each other. incomplete without each other and unable to fit anywhere else. your thumb traces the soft, warm skin of his cheek, soothingly caressing it as if to let him know i’m here, and i’m not going anywhere. 

he stumbles back, and you follow him in, pressing against the door of his home just like those days ago before an unwelcomed interruption. this time, though, you think kaveh could freeze outside all you care—you’re not letting anything interrupt this moment. 

“i’ve been losing my mind for weeks too,” he mumbles in between gasps for air as you kiss, “just so you know. it wasn’t you alone.”

“that’s good to know,” you hum, grinning against his mouth. 

“and i thought i was giving signs,” he adds, “that’s why i went through the trouble to fix your schedule. so i could spend more time with you—i…i apologize if i wasn’t obvious with my intentions.”

“don’t be,” you say softly, “i’m the one who missed them. you did everything right.”

“did i?” he asks, unsure. 

you press your lips firmly against his when you hear the crack in his voice, as if sheer touch alone will express the way you feel. maybe it does, though—because he melts against you, letting out a soft moan as your hands travel to his broad chest, feeling the muscled and toned body he hardly hides under that skin-tight shirt. 

“i get scared easily,” you whisper, “will you be patient with me?”

“i’m not good at expressing my emotions,” he whispers back, “will you be patient with me too?”

“we can be patient together,” you hum, pecking his lips a few times as he chuckles softly. 

“good plan,” he nods, “sounds like it should work.”

“oh, thank you,” you wink playfully, pulling away to wrap your arms around his neck and press your forehead to his as you look at him cheekily, “i’m a bit of a genius.”

“that you are,” he nods, smiling in amusement. and he means it. you’re every bit smart and capable as he makes you feel—inadequacy was never something alhaitham made you feel; it was always something you brought onto yourself. you’re used to shifting the blame, you realize. it’s so easy to blame everything and everyone but yourself for the intrusive thoughts in your head. 

but they melt away tonight, one feathered kiss at a time, pressed to your jaw delicately by warm, familiar lips you’d know blind. 

“your friends are worried about you, you know. kaveh—”

“please do not mention kaveh’s name right now,” he groans, “i’ll hear all about your alarming story of my friends at the tavern, but right now, i only want to hear you say one name.”

“yours?” you wiggle your brows. 

“glad to know we’re on the same page,” he confirms, humming as your hands trail under his shirt, feeling the ridges of his built muscles. 

“i don’t want anymore casual sex,” you murmur, pouting, “it’s driving me mad.”

“okay,” he nods, shivering as your palms glide over his nipples as you pull his shirt up, exposing his chiseled abdomen for you to admire, “will girlfriend suffice?”

“girlfriend would be great,” you nod, beaming. 

“just so you’re aware, i am very concerned with the emotions of my girlfriend, however heavy they might be. i do still think, however, that nurse was on a…unique realm of her own, though,” he adds the last part with a pointed look.

“don’t mention other women when you just asked me to be your girlfriend,” you huff, “don’t forget who stitches you up. don’t get on my bad side.”

“my apologies,” he laughs. 

and then you’re back to kissing him, fervently and so desperately, you think this might be your last day on earth, making the most of it before you’ve breathed your last breath. alhaitham groans into your mouth, lets your hands wander all over him as you feel the tautness of his physique. 

it’s not the first time you’ve felt him, but it is the first time you can take all the time you want, memorizing him because he’s yours to keep locked away in your memory. 

“i love you,” you pant against his mouth, wet, hot kisses interrupting your sweet confession. 

“i,” he kisses your cheek, “love,” a kiss to your other cheek, “you,” a kiss to your nose, “too.”

this time, he leans down and kisses you right over your pulse point, right where your racing heart rate is beating erratically. you gasp when he bites and sucks at the flesh, making you whimper as your knees buckle. 

“how much?” you ask, pleading to know.

“enough to lose sleep,” he murmurs, “because my dreams were plagued with you. i couldn’t escape you in waking hours or in slumber. that’s how much you torment me. take over my body and mind. is that what you needed to hear?”

he’s a linguist—sometimes you forget that. perhaps he’s not so bad at saying what you need to hear, after all.

“maybe,” you hum, kissing his cheek, nibbling affectionately at the soft flesh, “you like me that much? how cute.”

“i’ll like you a lot more if you stop teasing,” he grunts, pressing his hot, searing erection against your thigh as your thumbs toy away at his nipples. you gasp when you feel him prod at you, feeling the heat even through the fabric that separates you. 

neither of you are patient enough to do this properly right now—but you have plenty of time for that. plenty of time to take it slow, explore each other, and map your bodies in ways you never dared to before. scared to cross that stupid, useless imaginary line you drew for no reason at all. you decide from here on out there are no more lines—just endless sand, your footprints next to his as you trek the path of lovers. 

you rub at his hardened cock through his pants, making him grunt before he grabs your hands and pins them over your head. 

“i said love you,” he says intensely, eyeing you with a carnal hunger you’ve never seen in him before, “but i didn’t say i’d be patient tonight.”

with that, his free hand tugs down both of your pants—his just enough to free his aching cock, and yours enough to expose your leaking cunt as he teases your clit with the blunt tip of his length. you whimper, bucking your hips into him, feeling the beads of precum spread along your heat as he shudders. 

“put it in,” you whine, clutching his shirt with tight fists. 

“you’re…not ready yet,” he insists, teeth grit as he gives his all to hold himself back from taking you just like you plead. 

but you’re stubborn—and alhaitham? he’s too weak to you to fight you when you are, doomed to give into any and every whim of yours.

“don’t care,” you shake your head, “don’t care, don’t care, don’t care. i just want you—please, please, please haitham.”

that’s all it takes for him to crack—slowly, so, so carefully, he nudges past your wet folds, inching his throbbing cock into you as you gasp at the stretch. this isn’t the first time he’s split you open—but it’s never something you get used to. the burning stretch still feels as new as the first time. he groans, low and breathless, as your walls clamp down on him as he slowly but surely intrudes into your cunt. 

“so tight,” he murmurs, voice filled with wonder—like this is the first time he’s ever felt you so raw. maybe it is. he’s never felt you as his, as yours. “does that feel good? do you feel me? what you do to me? and you thought i didn’t feel the same? like i didn’t purposely let blades slice my skin just for an excuse to come find you? feel your touch, watch you worry? just for a moment of your attention? surely, you can’t be so blind.”

his words make your head spin, making you throw it back as a soft escapes you when the last bit of his length slips in, filling you full and to the brim as he nudges at the most sensitive spots inside of you. he’s so deep; you think your lungs are filled with him, like every breath you take is filled with him, him, him. 

“yes,” you say through a shaky voice, “yes—so good, you feel so good. i want you, haitham. all of you.”

“you have all of me,” he kisses the words into your neck, “that’s not enough? you want more?”

“yes,” you plead, “more!”

he chuckles, smooth and low and so pretty, you feel an ache in your clit from the sound alone. “well, alright then. more it is—i could never dream of denying such a sweet wish.”

finally, he rolls his hips, all but pulling out completely before pressing back into you, dragging along every ridge of you, nudging his thick tip against the spongey, sensitive at the back of your walls. you’re slack against his door, held up by him and him alone as your body betrays you, unable to keep balance as he fucks into you the way he does. 

it’s been nine days without you. the way his hips snap so desperately into you, you’d think he’s a man thirsty, gone a year without rain in the deepest, more treacherous ruins in the desert. all you can do is cling to him, repeat the same mantra of haitham, haitham, haitham—more, please haitham.

he knows your body well. so, so well, he knows exactly how to toy with your clit, thumb finding the sensitive nub, enough pressure to make you whine with a jolt, but not enough to let you fall over the edge just yet—not until he allows it.

“i love you,” he punctuates with a roll of his hips, “repeat that. so i know you believe it. so i know you believe me.”

“p-please,” you gasp, tugging at his hair, “i…i need to c-cum—”

“say it,” he demands. 

“you love me—oh,” you cut yourself off with a sharp breath, his thumb abusing your clit in faster circles. 

“again,” he says firmly.

“you love me,” you whimper, “you…you love me. only me.”

“good,” he nods, groaning as you squeeze around him at the praise, “and don’t forget it. not for a second.”

“l-love you too,” you stutter, voice cracking as he rolls his hips unforgivingly, the friction making your mind fog with pure lust. “love you so, so much.”

that makes him inhale sharply, breath catching in his throat. his head falls to your neck, hot breath fanning against your skin as he moans lowly, hips sloppy and ungraceful in their pace but never failing in precision to angle right into your sweet spot. his thumb rolls circles into your clit, fast and desperate to send you over the edge so he can follow. 

and you do—you fall off the edge so fast, so hard, your nails dig blunt, raw crescent moons into his skin as you arch your back off the door and cry his name. luckily for alhaitham, his house is built conveniently enough that he has no close neighbors. no one to hear such filthy sounds right against the door for them to witness just by passing by. no one should be at this hour—but even if they were, you hardly could bring yourself to care. 

“c-cumming,” you wail, “cumming, haitham.”

“so beautiful,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, voice strained as he chases his own orgasm, “can’t…can’t believe you’re mine. mine.”

it’s like the realization that you’re his is what pushes him past the edge, his cock twitching with hot, thick ropes of cum into your abused cunt and painting the walls white as soon as he repeats the word mine. 

mine, mine, mine—he doesn’t stop repeating it even as he fucks himself into you and works himself through his high. you can feel the wet, messy trail of his cum and your slick leaking down your thighs, so filthy, so lewd, so devastatingly raw. 

“yours,” you confirm tiredly, kissing his head as he pants into your neck, muffled moans pressed against your skin as you soothe him while he falls apart against you. “all yours. not going anywhere, i promise. i promise.”

finally, he slumps against you, panting as he tries to catch his breath, sweaty and tired but never unsatisfied. 

“if you leave me again,” he quietly admits, “i think i’ll go mad.”

“then i won’t,” you say gently, stroking his sweaty locks. 

“i love you,” he reminds you once more, “do you believe me?”

“i do,” you nod, smiling like he’s handed you the sun, “and i love you too. do you believe me?”

“i do,” he hums, wrapping himself around you tighter. 

there’s a jiggle of the doorknob behind you, followed by an incoherent, slurred string of curses. alhaitham deflates against you, looking up at you tiredly. you throw your head back and laugh, gleeful, and so, so in love. 

“i’m tired of him,” he grumbles.

“let him off easy this once,” you brush back his hair, “it’s thanks to him that i came to see you tonight.”

“then i suppose just this once, i won’t leave him out to freeze,” he relents. 

you realize for a moment, alhaitham had never drawn the line in the first place. perhaps it was always just you, making rules in your head when all he ever did was want you from the start. he waited so patiently for you, so you cup his cheeks and pull him closer, giving him one more firm kiss as a reward for all you put him through. he pulls away, dazed as he stares at you with unfocused eyes. 

“i’ll give you another like that if you run me a warm bath,” you say cheekily. 

“do i get to join this bath,” he raises a brow, eyeing you in amusement as his hands rub soothingly into your hips. 

you pretend to think for a moment, mockingly tapping your chin in deep thought before you murmur, “okay, fine. but no funny business.”

“i wouldn’t dream of it—”

“hello?” kaveh’s slurred call interrupts, followed by rough knocking. 

“he can freeze,” alhaitham says bitterly.

“don’t you dare!” you gasp, fighting back a laugh as he looks at you miserably.

well…….what was supposed to be maybe 4-5k words at best has…..gotten quite out of hand LOL. 14k words later i present to you my official love letter to alhaitham. anyway i suppose this fic stems from sometimes wondering if i would be compatible with the characters i enjoy. but the question is not whether or not you’re compatible, but whether or not you’re willing to put in the work to make compatibility. and alhaitham would certainly do that. anyway!!! i hope you enjoyed. i’m not sure if many peiple will read this, but if you do, reblogs and comments are really appreciated! giving you all a hug and reminding you that your favs would 100% want you <3

Guys.

This movie.

THIS. MOVIE.

WAS SO. GOD. DAMN. INCREDIBLE.

SKLDFGJLSJSFLHKJ I LITERALLY HAVE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER WITH A VIDEO GAME MOVIE IT IS SERIOUSLY SO GOOD

THIS MOVIE IS THE FIRST EVER HORROR MOVIE I HAVE EVER WATCHED AND I AM SO GLAD ABOUT THAT

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO WATCH IT

I am so sad. this fic is so good. I knew that the fic was not finished, but I got so entranced by the fic that I did not realize it was over until there weren't any more words.

yoongi x reader // prince!yoongi // 11.3k words

(don’t read ahead if you hate unfinished fics!)

summary: a mere pawn in a cruel political game, that’s what you are. as a gifted concubine to an exiled prince, you don’t think either of you will last long in this game of thrones. fate however, has other plans.

“Give me time,” Yoongi begs, cradling your face in his palm. “I just need you to trust me Y/N, please.”

Life as a duke’s daughter is grandeur, splendid. Unless of course you’re the daughter to the duke of a county that’s more often forgotten than talked about. Though you think that’s not really the reason for your less than wonderful life. It probably had more so to do with the fact that not only are you 8th in line, but you are merely an illegitimate child, only half a noble. Illegitimate in the sense that your mother was no longer in the service of the duke as punishment for her crimes. It’s perhaps why you find yourself sitting in a carriage, being sent somewhere south.

Your father had presented you as a gift to the emperor, an addition to his harem perhaps but you would find out that you weren’t even worthy of that. Your father had meant to gain the emperor’s favour in exchange for you. Honestly, a small price to pay, in fact not a price at all in his opinion. Sending you away meant he had one less mouth to feed and obviously, that made the choice easy. He got a small upgrade from trading you in, honestly, it’s more than he thought you were worth because the emperor had expanded your family’s territory and now your father’s county is twice the size it previously was. He’s long since forgotten about your existence, in fact you’re quite sure he forgot about you the moment he put you into the carriage that was bound for the capital.

Your stay in the capital is short. You’re only there two weeks or so but just like the coachman had told you while you were on the road, living in the grand palace is a dream. Of course, you only got to stay in one of the smaller palaces within the main grounds, but it was better than being locked up in that room your family had made you stay in. The clothes they gave you were soft and sleek, the baths you got to take were warm, the food you ate was never stale and the bed you slept in was surely an upgrade from the straw mattress you used to own. That dream of a life was short lived however because with no warning, you’re whisked away into a carriage again, sent off to another county. The servant tasked with accompanying you tells you that you’re being given away to one of the princes as a concubine. It was like everyone was playing a game of hot potato with you and you wondered how long it would take before the prince would hand you off to perhaps some lowly duke.

On the road, you learn that you would soon be in the service of Prince Yoongi, who like you is an illegitimate child. A child born of an unrecognized concubine, a child who’s resented by the queen, thus his exile from the grand palace. You wonder if he would show you pity, the two of you suffer the same plight after all.

“He will not,” The servant laughs. “My lady, surely you must know that the act of someone like you being sent to the prince is meant to spite him.”

“What? H-how so?”

“You are being sent there by the queen’s request. It is a silent way to tell the prince that the grand palace thinks that he is not even worthy of a lady of a… better standing,” He mumbles before he licks his lips nervously. “I hope you take no offense to my statement, my lady. You requested for me to be honest.”

“No, no. I’m not offended in the slightest,” You smile. “At least now I know what I am being thrown into.”

You wonder if perhaps you should have tried harder to make a better impression at the grand palace. Maybe then you wouldn’t be used as some pawn in a political game you did not wish to play. Still, you think you’d be able to get out of all of this unscathed. After all, you’ve had much practice in being easy to forget. From what you’ve heard, the prince’s palace was no simple hut, it was a magnificent structure sat overlooking a lake with intimate carvings etched onto its pillars and art painstakingly painted along the beams and columns. With a place so large, with so many servants and lords bustling in and out, you think with time, you surely would slip from the prince’s mind.

//

When you arrived, there was no grand welcome. In fact, the prince didn’t even greet you. Apparently, he was away attending to diplomatic matters in some other county. You were in some way thankful for that. Maybe when he gets back, he’ll forget you were even sent to him in the first place.

Back in the grand palace, the other concubines and attendants had given you a crash course on the royal family, because when you told them you knew absolutely nothing about the family apart from their names and faces, they all but gasped, horrified at your disinterest in your country’s leader. You meant to tell them that wasn’t the case. Truthfully, it was because you never received political or etiquette lessons like your other sisters did. All that you know about the royal family, you learnt or more so rather, deduced yourself. You merely saw their faces when you were allowed a rare trip to town, the royal family portrait sitting on the walls of almost every establishment.

The concubines had told you that Prince Yoongi was the black sheep of the family, sent away to a southern county when he was just 12. His mother had died only 2 years prior to that. They say she went to sleep and just never woke up, but the word on the street is that she was poisoned. Yoongi is said to be a bitter human being and with his luck, why wouldn’t he be? They say if there was one prince they never want to meet, it would be him. You wondered why. Sure he looked… unfriendly in portraits, but so did everyone. Unfriendly? He was more than just unfriendly, they scoffed. They said he had a sinister air to him. He’s cruel and unfair, ruthless and evil, earning himself the title of the Dark Prince. You laughed at the generic title, but it’s a thing apparently. Giving people nicknames that is. It’s a fact you’ll come to know soon when you earn your very own one. One that’s much less… kind.

For someone nicknamed the Dark Prince, his palace surely did not reflect it. Sunlight gleamed through the hallways, life was teeming in the gardens and the servants though apprehensive, were friendly enough. Like in the grand palace, you were treated well here. It was odd. With all that you were told, you had expected to be confined to some dungeon-like wing of the palace, but you were given the freedom to roam. They gave you a free tour of the palace and the surrounding town to boot.

Though you had grown up in the North, you must say that you much preferred the weather here in the South. You liked the long flowy robes you were allowed to wear instead of the heavy fur lined outfits that you used to don. You liked the fact that the landscape didn’t look barren half the time but most of all, you liked that food was not scarce, harvest simply bountiful with the amount of sunshine the land got.

To be fair, you did not see much of the North. You were confined to your room most of the time, your view only of that of what was within the walls of the estate. Maybe what you liked most about the South was the freedom. Back home, even your own estate was a mystery to you, you only had the chance to walk around in the dark night when you sneaked past the sleeping guards outside your door. Here, you walked through the halls freely, already knowing every corner and room of the palace in just a week. Of course certain places were off limits, but you had no interest in them. You spent most of your time in the palace’s gardens anyway, walking through the hedge maze, picking a stray flower or two when you saunter past the flower beds and down to the edge of the lake.

//

In just two weeks, you had befriended basically everyone. Maids, servants, chefs, gardeners, stablemen, you knew them all. You were a curious soul, asking question after question, otherwise often offering your help to them. In fact you would insist on helping with chores because when you ask, they often tell you it’s no job for a lady. Maybe you should’ve told them that this was your first time you got to do… well, anything at all. You’re rather persuasive and so they relent. They let you help with the bread-making, the horse caring and the weed pulling. You’re a very odd lady, they tell you but you had a feeling that they were warming up to you regardless.

By week three, you were on first name basis with the store owners in town. You took care to replace your silk robes for cotton garments whenever you left the palace. The servants and guards had pleaded with you to let them escort you to town but… you much prefer doing things on your own. Your weeks of exploring the palace grounds meant you knew when the guards would switch positions, therefore you knew just the right time to scale past wall and into the forest that surrounds the palace. Aside from the magnificent gardens within the palace walls, you loved your short little walks through the forest. You enjoyed the rustling of the leaves, the chirps of the birds, the low hum of the insects. They were all sounds that reminded how far away from home you were, how far away you were from your previous life and how free you are here.

The town always seemed so full of life. There were people on the streets, chatting, eating, drinking. There were all sorts of things for sale. Fruits and vegetables you had never seen before, noodles and meat cooked in ways you never knew existed. Your face would light up every time you took a stroll through the busy market. You could never buy anything, no. You had absolutely nothing to your name, not a single coin. Regardless, you always took the time to make conversation with the locals, learning more about the region with each time. They jest with you, making fun of your Northern accent but they were kind people, always offering you some food before you go.

For a town ruled by someone rumoured to be the most cruel prince, they seemed to be rather happy people. It was something that really bothered you. Was it because he was away? Was this all temporary celebration before his return? It seemed unlikely. Hand-painted portraits or drawings of him were hung in almost every store and it’s only by week 4 that you ask the question that’s been burning at the back of your mind since your arrival.

“So, Prince Yoongi… he… does he ever come around?”

“Sometimes,” Mr. Lee, a merchant hums before he slurps at his noodles.

“That’s his favourite spot!” The owner of the noodle store shouts, beaming as he points to a table in the corner.

“Oh,” You murmur. “That’s… interesting.”

“How so?”

“Well, don’t nobility… not frequent places like this?”

Mr. Lee simply shrugs, a smile on his lips.

“Our prince is different.”

And different he is. Everyone you talked to had something nice to say about him. Some were critical of some of his policies but they never spoke about him with contempt or disgust, both of which are the usual emotions tied to those that belong to nobility, be that the royal family or the dukes and earls. You’ve seen it multiple times now and it really shouldn’t shock you anymore but you’re always in awe with how the people didn’t cower away in fear whenever they saw the royal guards roaming the streets, instead they would step aside to bow at them. To you, it felt like you were in some sort of dystopia. It looked like the people not only respected the prince and by extension those who work for him. Instead, it looked like they loved him.

Love is not an emotion most people have for the royal family. They are known to be unscrupulous people, stealing from the poor through taxes only to line their own pockets as well as those of the noblemen. They claim it is to pay for better infrastructure, to pay for the warriors to help keep them safe and yet, the roads are the same as they always were and when war comes, the noblemen sit back at camp, comfy in their tents while the people drafted for the war are on the front line, putting their lives on the line for a kingdom that could care less about them.

You remember the way your people would sneer at your family in secret, their eyes full of hatred as you and your family paraded down the streets of your county. It always made you shiver. Yet, here it was different. They seem to light up at the chance to speak about the prince, almost as if they’ve been brainwashed. They all had on the same warm smile, but they all had different stories about his good deeds, his kindness, his willingness to listen to his people. However, it all seemed too good to be true and perhaps that’s why when you’re called to the entrance to greet the prince upon his return, you trembled in fear as you lowered your head down to bow. Rise, he ordered, voice sounding rather unamused as he walked by all of you lined up in rows. He barely spared you a glance, not even one look before he disappeared somewhere to his quarters. So this was the beloved prince? You scoffed because you knew it was too good to be true. He seemed more like the dark prince you’ve been told about.

//

Despite it being more than a week since his return to the palace, you have yet to see the prince, let alone meet him. You are told that he has many matters to attend to and again, you are if anything glad that you do not have to meet him. If you could keep this up for say, a few more… years, that would be great. While you were at it, how about till your death… or his, whichever came first. If you never had to meet him at all, now that would really be all you could hope for.

In the first few days of his return, you were cautious around the palace, never venturing far from your room but as days to turn to weeks, you slowly returned to your usual antics. The palace staff have long gotten used to your quirky self. The gardeners would barely bat an eye when you quite literally skipped around the garden. You would often stop midway to help them water the plants, so they had no complaints about your presence. Once you were done with that, you would be off to the kitchen, helping yourself to a steamed bun or two… or maybe five as you stopped to chat with the ladies in there. The head chef claims you’re a nuisance but you know that’s a lie because one of the maids had informed you that he had asked where you had gone off to when you were busy hiding in your room two weeks ago.

With the prince now back in the castle, it meant that the guards were on patrol thrice as frequently as they used to. That meant your beloved pastime of sneaking out was no longer a possibility. You were starting to grow anxious, bored because no matter how many times you watched the guards rotate, you couldn’t find a lull long enough for you to be able to scale past the wall undetected. You needed something new to keep you occupied and when you see the resident artist in the palace painting beautiful scenes on long scrolls, you guess you’ve found a new hobby.

Mr. Han, the resident palace artist is perhaps hovering somewhere around his seventies but his hands are steady as ever, his brush strokes so precise that you can’t help but marvel out loud at how good he is. He does not appreciate your company and has made it known after he had caught you staring one too many times. You still admire him and his work but at a much further distance, behind a pillar as per his request. Eventually, he got fed up and called you over to help him add glue to the pigments so he could paint without doing the set-up. You did so diligently, only daring to move when he allowed it.

It turned out that Mr Han is actually quite the talker because he gave you free history lessons as he painted the chronicles of Yoongi’s reign so far. Sure he started his stories halfway through Yoongi’s reign instead of giving you his full backstory but you eventually pluck up enough courage to ask him to start from the beginning. He only sighed and glared at you before doing as you ask. You listened with intent as you mixed the glue in with the pigment, watching as Mr. Han drew effortlessly across the paper, starting with the outlines in black before he filled it in with colour. It was like magic to you and sometimes when he was in a good mood, he would let you add a few strokes to his painting. Honestly, it was just him letting you hold the brush while he forcefully guided your hand but nonetheless, you were honoured. After all, by merely holding a brush, you were committing a crime.

Sometimes during the silent lulls, you read the calligraphy accompanying the paintings. Depending on the piece Mr. Han was working on, it could range from beautiful poetry to just explanatory notes. You loved reading them all the same, often trying to commit them to your memory. With each painting, you see why the people of the county love Yoongi so much. There were stories of him opening up the royal food reserves to the people in times of the drought, stories of him placing sandbags along the banks of the river that ran through the town as heavy rain threatened to flood it and even stories of him celebrating the harvest with his subjects. Basically, it was story after story about how he built the county up from a wasteland to the flourishing state that it is today. Yet, you’re still skeptical. You wonder if this was somehow just some propaganda to get the people to like him. Perhaps pretty paintings and beautiful calligraphy is how he brainwashes them. God knows you’re only another pretty painting away from believing it.

//

Though you love spending time with Mr. Han, you never forget to stick to your routine. Your days must consist of frolicking in the garden and stealing steamed buns from the kitchen before you sat down with Mr. Han. Though he grumbles about your tardiness, you know he likes it when you bring along a steamed bun for him too. Like any other day, that’s what you do. You hand him a steamed bun before you plop yourself down on the chair, ready to mix glue into another pot of pigment. Only this time, Mr. Han places a brush in your hand.

“Bright moonlight before my bed, I suppose there is frost—,” Mr. Han pauses as you stare up at him. He simply glares at you before he speaks. “Are you not going to write?” He questions, more so scolds and now the brush trembles in your hand.

“I-I do not know how to write,” You mumble, eyes downcast.

Mr. Han laughs, taking a bite from his steamed bun, chewing slowly before he swallows.

"Bright moonlight before my bed,” He repeats, disregarding you. “Write. Now.” He demands, as he directs your attention to the paper with only the tilt of his head.

“M-master, I… I cannot write,” You murmur, setting down the brush.

“Now that there is actual work to be done, you cannot do it?” He queries, his bun now set aside. “You cannot or will not write? Deliberate your answer carefully.”

You swallow, unsure what to say. Was this a test? Surely Mr. Han knows that it is a crime for a lady of your stature to know how to write, read or even paint. Ladies who were not of full nobility were meant to only know how to weave or embroider. Sure, you know how to read and write but that is only through your own effort, through stolen books from your family’s library. That too came at an expense because every time you got caught, you earned yourself a few lashes on the back.

You hesitate for a few more seconds before Mr. Han pins you with a stern look, one that demanded an answer.

“I… cannot write?” You answer nervously, as if asking if your answer had been the correct one.

“Then can you read?” Mr. Han asks, as he pulls out a short blade, one that’s usually sheathed and tucked to the side of his robe. He’s seen you read. Many times. You would mouth the words to yourself, head tilting whenever you saw a character you didn’t quite recognize. You eye the blade cautiously as he brings it out into view. He lets it glint in the sunlight, twisting it in his hand. You scoot away further but his other hand pins you in your place.

“Answer the question,” He demands, the knife now peculiarly close to your neck. 

Yes or no? You didn’t know which to say. Which one guaranteed your safety?

“N-no?”

You could feel the cold metal on your skin now.

“Try again.”

“Yes?” You offer, this time hopeful.

“Good answer,” He smiles but the blade still sits on your skin. “You must know that I hate liars because liars more often than not, turn out to be hiding something. More often than not, they turn out to be the enemy to this region’s crown. Is that what you are?”

“No, I… I have no reason to b-be,” You stutter as you feel the knife prick at your skin slightly.

“You were sent here under the Queen’s orders and you are not the first puppet she’s sent here. There is every reason for me to believe that you are.”

“I-I have not spoken to the Queen once! I have not even seen her!” You exclaim, pure unadulterated fear on your face. “I'm— I’m not even quite sure why I’m here at all,” You mumble, your voice quivering.

“Then why lie?”

“It’s a crime to know how to read and write, m-master,” You stutter. “I’m not really a noble lady,” You whisper or more so whimper.

Mr. Han snorts, smiling before he laughs, slowly drawing the blade away from you.

“Is that what the barbarians had imposed on you?” He queries. “Such silly rules.”

You didn’t know what he meant by barbarians. Had he meant the North exclusively or the royal court? It had been the emperor’s decree that non-noblewomen should not be allowed to be educated. Considering that you were born of an unrecognized concubine, you were not exactly nobility. Though you were by name, but in terms of technicalities, you were not.

“Are the rules different here?” You manage to ask, peeking a glance at Mr. Han

“My lady, rest assured that you will not be punished for knowing to write when you are with me,” He grins, but his smile soon disappears. “You will however, be punished if you delay this any further. I will only repeat myself one more time and there will be no mistakes, understood?”

You only nod, scrambling to grab the brush again before you dip it in ink. Mr. Han dictates fast and though you wish he would slow down, you barely have the courage to yawn let alone speak. So, you write his poem with shaky hands… not once, no. He makes you write it over and over, until your hands are sore, until the 4-line poem rings in your head long after you’ve put down the brush. He’s still not satisfied with your work by the time the sun sets and, in the end, he writes the poem himself. You wonder why he had gone through all that trouble, why he had made you suffer if he was going to do it on his own in the end?

//

“You’ve lost your touch,” Yoongi remarks, holding up a piece of paper. The characters drawn on it are not in a straight line and the order of the strokes have been completely disregarded.

“Your highness,” Mr. Han greets, rising from his seat to bow before he makes himself comfortable again. He eyes the paper in the prince’s hand with disgust before he sighs. “That abomination is not mine.”

“Then who’s might it be?”

“Lady Y/N,” He grumbles. “That must’ve been her 50th try. Can you believe it? I gave her 50 chances and she still produced… that,” He shudders, not even wishing to look at the paper again.

Ah, yes… Lady Y/N, the lady his stepmother had gifted to him. You are one of the many ladies that she has sent over the years. She’s sent them over with many purposes. To gain intel, to injure, to spread rumours and a host of many other despicable acts. Yoongi wonders how she still has the energy to be so conniving, so cruel.

There had been nothing but silence from the Queen for about a year and Yoongi had thought that she had finally outgrew the silly little mind games that she loved to play but then came a letter informing him of your arrival to his palace and at that he only shook his head. It was meant to be a practical jokes of sorts, a way to make those in the nobility sphere understand just how lowly she thought of him. An illegitimate lady who was 8th in line in her own family… in political talk, it was the equivalent of sending him soggy leftovers.

If anything, Yoongi felt sad for you. You surely hadn’t asked to be part of this and yet, you were thrust into all of this against your will. However, Yoongi could be wrong. Your status may be true, but you could still be her little puppet. He wouldn’t put it past the Queen to do something like that.

“She’s the smartest imbecile I’ve ever met,” Mr. Han hums as if he’d been reading Yoongi’s thoughts. “The Queen has surely gotten better at choosing her little rats.”

“She hasn’t attempted to get my attention though,” Yoongi mumbles, noting how he’s never actually seen you around at all. If he remembers correctly, the only time he’s seen you was when he had returned from his travels. It was rather unusual behaviour for one of the Queen’s puppet to not try to garner his favour.

“Oh because see she’s smarter than the other ones that have been sent over before. She has the whole palace staff under her pinky,” He sighs, adding the last stroke to his painting. “She’s even befriended the townspeople.”

“So… you’ve just let her do all of this while I was away?”

“It’s been a little boring around here,” He shrugs. “She keeps me on my toes, more so than any of the others have.”

“What if she outsmarts you?”

“Oh she won’t,” He smiles.

“How are you so sure?” Yoongi queries.

“Because I have eyes on her. Always.”

“Is that so? So where is she now?”

“Right there,” He points to a faraway wall, skirting the ends of the palace grounds and there you are, pumping your fist in the air as you manage to throw a rope over a high sturdy branch. “It took her two weeks while it only took me a day to realize that Namjoon takes longer than most guards to reach his station during the rotation.”

“Why doesn’t she just ask to be escorted to town?” Yoongi questions as he watches you struggle to climb up the stone wall, feet slipping every so often.

“She doesn’t want anyone listening in on her conversations, obviously,” He grumbles, shaking his head. How is it that the Prince is so smart yet so dumb?

“She’s been asking about you, you know?” Mr. Han continues. “Prodding the townspeople for details about you, asking me about the history of this county. This one has tenacity,” He smiles as he watches you from a distance.

“So, this is a game to you, huh?”

“Hasn’t it always been?” Mr. Han smirks lazily. “This time, the Queen has finally sent a worthy pawn.”

Yoongi waits days, weeks, wondering when it is you’ll finally make your move, but if he honestly thought about it, you seem to avoid him like the plague. Mr. Han thinks you’re some genius mastermind set out to destroy Yoongi’s legacy and if true, you genuinely had some really odd methods in place. Though you’ve been doing everything in your power to stay hidden from the prince, Yoongi has been getting live updates on your whereabouts for days now. If you’re as devious as Mr. Han thinks you to be then why is it that you spend an hour or so of your day doing nothing but talking to the horses in the stable? Why do you tap at the flowers in the garden and skip rocks on the lake instead of scheming and carrying out your master plan? Why do you make steamed buns in the kitchen in your free time with the maids instead of befriending the court people whom he trusts? Things just weren’t adding up.

It made Yoongi’s head hurt, trying to think of what exactly it was you were planning. Mr. Han tells him it must be an elaborate one, perhaps something like a coup d’état since you were trying to get chummy with everyone that held no social status. It honestly didn’t seem that way to the prince. You looked so unassuming, so carefree… almost like it wasn’t in your nature to be so sly. Yet, Mr. Han is adamant and so when a royal request comes in asking for Mr. Han to travel to the capital to paint a few royal portraits of the emperor, he’s in the carriage before Yoongi could count to ten. He would come back with more details about the Queen’s plan, he promises.

//

With Mr. Han away, the palace seems so quiet. You genuinely miss him even if all he does is grumble about how you could never do anything right. You make yourself comfortable at his desk, looking out the window that had the perfect view of the garden. It was much too hot this time of the day to be out there, so you settle for looking at it from the inside. Your fingers tap at the desk, hand itching to move. You know it’s wrong and Mr. Han would probably strangle you with his bare hands if he found you here, smoothing out a piece of paper and yet, you do it anyway. You peek behind you, making sure no one is in sight before you grab the brush, dipping it in ink softly.

You’ve watched Mr. Han paint numerous times now and much to your disappointment, you find that painting isn’t as easy as it looks. His lines were soft and sharp while yours heavy and unsightly. Perhaps you should’ve picked an easier subject to paint but with the garden right in front of you and the great expanse of water looking back at you, how could you have picked anything else? Your eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, hands moving across the paper in long, calculated strokes. You’re so focused you sometimes forget to breathe.

“Interesting.”

Your hand stops dead in its tracks when you hear that. Your eyes shift from side to side because you didn’t know what to do. If it was a guard, maybe you could talk your way out of it, give him some story about how Mr. Han had requested you to paint this piece while he was away. You turn back with a smile on your face, ready to deliver your spiel but your grin quickly disappears when you see the prince smiling back at you.

You turn back to crush the paper in your hand, quickly rising to your feet to bow. You’re trembling, eyes screwed shut as you await some form of punishment.

“Rise,” He orders and you hesitate for a second before you do. The prince eyes you from head to toe and you shuffle in your spot, hiding your hands behind your back while you kept your eyes trained on the ground.

“Mr. Han will not be happy to find you in here without his permission,” He hums as he steps closer to the table, cleaning up the mess you made when you had hastily attempted to greet him.

You drop to your knees, pressing your forehead to the floor before you sit back on your heels, hands sitting meekly in your lap.

“Your highness, please accept my humblest apologies,” You murmur, the crumpled paper still in your hands. “I have committed a grave crime and deserve any punishment you see fit.”

Yoongi only stares at you, unsure of what to make of the situation. You are almost in tears, lips quivering in fear. You surely were quite the dramatic one.

“Leave the paper and go.”

“S-sorry?”

“The paper in your hand,” He points. “Leave it.”

“Y-yes, Your Highness,” You nod, placing the paper in his hand as you rise to your feet.

You stand there dumbly, blinking as you looked at him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“O-oh, yes… I-I will be leaving now,” You murmur, before tripping over your own feet as you attempt to exit. God, you’re embarrassing. “You are a merciful prince and I am forever at your service,” You mumble before you bow one last time and scamper out of the room.

Yoongi stands there, staring at the doorway, eyebrows furrowed in confusion before he sighs, turning away to smoothen out the paper in his hand. He nods to himself, as he admires your painting. It was almost as if he was surprised. Your work is not the best but it’s definitely good. He loves how detailed the painting is. He loves how you had painted a variety of small different flowers, how you had added tiny waves to the water in the lake, how you had even painted in the gardeners that tended to the hedges. Each time he looked over the painting, there was a new detail to uncover. It’s a shame that some of it is smudged now. His eyes skim across the painting one last time, ensuring he’s caught every last detail before it settles on the writing in the top hand corner and he tilts his head, trying to make sense of it.

Your characters are large and clunky, most of them missing a stroke or two. For someone Mr. Han believes to be trained by the masters at the grand palace, your skills were surely not up to par. After a few more reads, Yoongi finally manages to decipher some of the characters that you had managed to butcher.

Hell is far from home

Hell is not where I belong

In hell a paradise I have grown

In hell again I am—

Born. He thinks you were about to write the word born before he had so rudely interrupted you. Now he wishes he had waited just a few seconds longer before making his presence known to you.

Paradise. That’s what you had titled the poem. Yoongi reads it over and over, as if reading it numerous times could produce answers to the questions swirling in his mind. He assumes the poem is about the palace, but he wonders why you call it hell. As far as he knows, the palace staff have been nothing but nice to you. But if you thought it to be hell initially, then when did you start thinking of it as paradise and why? He sits there staring out open the garden, hoping that some answer would come to him but the fact of the matter is that he barely knew you. He could sit here guessing all day and would get nowhere.

In hell again I am born.

He wonders if that’s because after you accomplish what you set out to do here, you would have your phoenix moment. Is that what the Queen had promised you? That you would rise from the ashes, that you would no longer be nothing but the forgotten daughter of your family? You should know that the Queen is a devious little minx. She would do anything to stay ahead. She would lie, cheat, kill. Her promises are nothing but empty. Yoongi should know. He experienced that first hand.

//

Since your run in with the prince, you try your best to remain unseen. You spend your days hidden in your newfound spot, the library. There are many scrolls and books to learn from and though you do not understand most of them, you flip through them if only to pass time. As you read, your fingers paint imaginary scenes on the floor as if to help you picture the stories. You think having spent your time with Mr. Han is both a blessing and a curse. Perhaps if you did not know how to draw, your hands wouldn’t long to hold a brush so much.

You do a good job of avoiding a prince, though you think that is mostly because he is busy. He reviews documents and consults with his trusted advisers all throughout the week. You on the other hand continue on with your daily routine, hopping between the kitchen, garden and the library. You wonder if this was what life was like for your sisters. You wonder if this is what they did while you spent your days locked in your room.

It’s been a whole two weeks since your last trip to town and you light up when you finally see Namjoon on patrol. See Namjoon was lackadaisical and care-free, which made him a great friend and an even better guard. Of course, by a better guard, you mean only for you because he takes much too long to get to his next post when the guards change positions. You sit silently, waiting for the previous guard to move towards his next post. Once he’s out of sight, you dash to the bushes close to the east wall. Quietly, you fit yourself between the bushes and the wall, crouching down as you crawl to your spot, abandoning your silk robes for your cotton outfit that was underneath. You were keeping time in your head as you pulled the rope that you always kept hidden, from under one of the bushes. Standing up, you took one glance at the branch that stood a feet above the wall before you swung the rope, throwing it upwards. You’ve done this numerous times before and it never took you any more than two tries to get it over the branch and this time would be no different except—

“What are you doing?” You hear someone ask, ever so nonchalantly, as if you weren’t committing a crime at this very second.

By now, you recognise his voice and you waste no time in turning around to bow, not even flinching when the heavy rope that you had thrown comes crashing down onto you.

“Rise,” Yoongi orders and you lift your head but still make no attempt to meet his gaze.

“What are you doing, Lady Y/N?”

“I-I’m inspecting the walls, Your Highness.”

“Yeah? And how do they look?” He asks.

“Sturdy, Your Highness.”

Yoongi simply laughs, nodding as he looks up at the wall.

“So what’s this? Your inspection outfit?” He gestures towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Y-yes, Your Highness.”

“Where did you find such clothes in the palace?”

“It belongs to me, Your Highness,” You murmur. “These were all I had before I was sent to the grand palace.”

Your hands toy with the rope and you stand there, debating what to say as the prince eyes you up and down.

“Get changed,” Yoongi hums. “Your belongings have been packed. We will leave when you are ready.”

“Y-your Highness?” You look up at him wide-eyed before you jump over the low bush, immediately sinking to your knees as you bowed your head. “This lady has angered the prince and may only offer her apologies. This lady a-asks for his mercy.”

This must be about what had happened in the drawing room the other day. You knew you should not have entered the room while Mr. Han was away, let alone attempt to paint anything. The prince was going to send you away now, perhaps even sell you to a brothel. You didn’t want that. You couldn’t have that.

“Y-you were looking for me, Your Highness?” Namjoon appears, interrupting the scene, panting heavily before he stands at attention, spear shaking in his hand.

“Yes,” Yoongi huffs, shifting his gaze between Namjoon and then back to you. He chuckles when he sees you with your head still hanging low. “Rise, Lady Y/N.”

You stand up quickly, only lifting your head once to glance over at Namjoon who’s quite visibly trembling.

“The two of you are accompanying me on my visit to the river delta,” Yoongi begins, before he points at you. “You will be documenting what you see on the scrolls, while Namjoon, you will be guarding her. I expect to see the both of you at the entrance in an hour’s time.”

“Noted, Your Highness,” Namjoon bows, before he stands at attention, only daring to move once the prince waves him away. When he finally does, Namjoon scampers off to the guard quarters, racing to pack his belongings for the trip. Meanwhile you stand there, hands tucked behind your back as Yoongi eyes you from head to toe, as if he was trying to discern what exactly it was you were trying to do at this palace.

“I hope that you will change into your regular outfit before we depart. I don’t want my people to think that I’ve been mistreating my—” He hesitates, unsure exactly what you were to him. A gifted concubine, yes, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with saying that out loud. “—my guest,” He finally hums, completing his sentence. He assumes guest is an appropriate term. After all, like the many ladies the Queen has sent before, they never really do last long at his palace, only ever staying as long as a regular guest would. If anything, in your case, he was hoping to fast track the process. If you had any ill intent, he assumed you would take your chance during this trip. Out on the road, he was exposed, less guarded. If you tried anything remotely suspicious, he could easily have your head off in a second. He had no time to waste, and no interest in playing his stepmother’s games. The faster you were out of his life, the better. Of course, he would milk you for all you were worth first. He needed someone to document his trip to the delta and with Mr. Han away at the royal palace for his portrait duties, you were the next best choice.

//

The carriage you’re riding in is grander than the ones you have previously been in. This one had plush cushions and beautiful carvings etched into the panels. That however, is a sheer reminder of how out of place you felt. This wasn’t normal. Sharing the same carriage as royalty is basically unheard of, but it seems like no one around you seems to share the same thought, none of them batting an eye at the fact that you, someone who is neither essential nor worthy, is a mere hand’s width away from him.

You watch on as Yoongi and his aide, Hoseok, who were both sat across from you, discuss the details of the visit. They plan on visiting the rice farmers and checking on the rice storehouses. They’ve only addressed you once despite being on the road for what must’ve been 3 hours now. All they had told you was that they wanted you to accurately depict the river delta landscape as well as chronicle the scenes from the journey for archival purposes. You had only nodded your head at that.

For most of the trip, you and Namjoon share glances, as if to ask each other why exactly either of you had been chosen to go for this trip. You finally get to ask him the question once the carriages stops for a break to let the horses rest temporarily and drink some water.

“You know, I’m pretty sure we’re here because of you,” Namjoon mumbles as the two of you take refuge from the heat under the shade of a large tree.

“What did I do?” You frown, as you squat down to pluck a few blades of grass.

“I’m pretty sure this is punishment for both you and me. You for always trying to escape the palace to go into town, and me for always letting you do so.”

“Well, maybe you should just be better at your job then. It’s not my fault you’re always late to your post,” You roll your eyes before you throw the grass in your hand towards him.

“I have a small bladder, okay?” He grumbles, dusting out the grass from his hair. “I would be on time if I didn’t have to head to the outhouse every time to do my business, but Gardener Lee will give me a hard time if I decide to pee in his gardens.”

“You heathen,” You gasp. “I can’t believe you would even consider doing your business in the gardens.”

The two of you stay there bickering until Hoseok finally calls for both of you as the coachmen signal that they were ready to keep going. Yoongi watches on as he sees the two of you laugh and grumble at each other until Namjoon notices him staring. At that, the guard elbows your side, causing you to fall silent when you realize just who was watching. Silently, the two of you climb into the carriage, head hung low in embarrassment.

//

They tell you that the river delta is only another hour’s ride away and at this point, you take the time to glance out the window, watching the river meander through the lands. The rice paddy fields come into view not long after, and you watch as the farmers who are shin-deep in water, take the time to bow as they watch the royal carriage pass by. The sight is still odd to you. Even this far away from the palace, the people revere the prince. He surely is beloved by his people, you think to yourself. You wonder if the hate that the people hold for nobility is simply a concept reserved for those in the North.

By the time you reach the small town that services the needs of the farmers and their families, the sun is beginning to set. You are told that the official visit out to the fields will begin tomorrow and that all of you would be staying at the inn in town for the week, simply taking day trips to visit the fields and storehouses in the outskirts. To your surprise, it seems your room in the inn is a shared space with commoners and your bed is merely a space on the floor just long enough for you to sleep in. Perhaps Namjoon was right. Maybe this trip was a form of punishment.

As it draws closer to night time, you find yourself at the teahouse just across the street. Of course, Namjoon comes along. After all, he has been ordered to be at your side at all times possible. You bring along your scrolls and brushes and the guard doesn’t say much as he watches you paint the scenes from today’s travel. You find it suffocating to paint under his intense gaze, but considering that the aide, Hoseok, had given you a gentle reminder earlier that you were to paint every single scene, you waste no time in painting every single detail you remember. That included the way the farmers had bowed, to the tall weeds that grew by the roadside, you spared no detail. Of course you do not forget to paint in a few pieces of the Prince greeting the townspeople and also tending to the horses shortly after the arrival to the town. That too was something that surprised you. He seemed to be rather independent. Not even one servant was brought along on this trip. Which contrasted the way your father had done official visits. He would often bring along at least three for himself.

//

After watching you paint for what must be hours, you hear Namjoon speak for the first time since the two of you sat down.

“Let’s take a break,” He hums, hastily placing away all your scrolls and brushes onto the empty table next to you. He doesn’t even let you finish the piece you were currently working on. “It was interesting the first few times you did it, but now it’s getting old,” He grumbles as he wipes at the table with a rag.

“It’s not like I’m doing this for fun,” You chuckle. “In case you forgot, this is what I am supposed to do.”

“I know, I know,” He groans. “But, I’m sure you’ve done more than enough for today.”

“No, you don’t understand. They’re watching,” You whisper, before you point discreetly to a corner on the upper floor of the teahouse. Most of the upper floor is empty except for two people, and they are none other than Hoseok and Prince Yoongi himself.

“Yes, and so if they’re watching, they can clearly see that you’ve done your job for today.” Namjoon laughs, waving away your concern. From a burlap sack, he removes a wooden board along with two wooden containers. “I’m sure they’ll be fine with you taking a break.”

“Go?” You ask, as your hand moves across the wooden board. It’s been quite a while since you’ve played a game of Go. This game was your favourite. You typically played in the dark of the night, the board illuminated with the lantern that your favourite guard would bring along with him. He had introduced you to the game when you were 6, and ever since then, you had loved it.

The game consisted of a wooden board with a 19x19 grid, and black and white wooden pieces that are often called stones. All one had to do in the game was make sure that their stones surrounded more territory than their opponents. If one of your stones was entirely surrounded by an opponent, they get to capture them, further reducing your score. It was simple in theory, but the game required more thinking than one would assume. You’re practically beaming when Namjoon looks up after finally putting away the burlap sack.

“So I take it you’re good at the game?” He asks, as he gestures for you to choose between the black and white stones. Instinctively you move for the white ones. It’s the one you always played with. Odd, Namjoon thinks. Most would go with black since black always starts first. “Noblewomen like you, aren’t all of you masters of the scholarly arts?”

Qínqíshūhuà. The four scholarly arts were what nobility were meant to master.

Qín referred to knowing how to play the guqin, a beautiful string instrument. Being able to play it was something a nobleperson could do with no hesitation. With just 7 strings, one could play tunes that could entertain or in some cases ease another. The movements of one’s fingers had to be graceful and poised, almost like it was effortless.

Qí was another name for the game of Go. Often times, noblemen would play Go together when they would visit each other’s territory. In some ways, a family’s dignity lied in how well they could play Go. After all, it was a reflection of one’s skills in strategical thinking. Thus, being able to play the game well was essential.

Shū, otherwise known as calligraphy, was an art that allowed the complexities of one’s mind to be expressed and understood by others. Both knowing how to read and write, is a measure of one’s intelligence and was indicative of their ability to carry themselves well in their social circle.

Huà, also known as art, has a special place in the upper echelons of society. A painting is worth a thousand words and could be understood across all lands and social classes. History was told by both calligraphy and art. It was universal. A good artist is one that could in a sense, show the power of how a few calculated strokes could tell a story.

You stay silent, and though it may look like it’s because you’re deliberating Namjoon’s first move, truthfully, you’re just trying to think of a response to his previous question. You? A master of the scholarly arts? That was impossible. It seems like unlike the North, not many here in the South understood your circumstances.

Though you are a noble by name, all your life, you had not been treated like one. The four scholarly arts were forbidden to you. Your status as an illegitimate child meant that your family never wanted you to be able to have a claim to their fortune. If you stayed uneducated, it meant that you could never overthrow any of your siblings. It always seemed like your family was just one step away from selling you off as a slave, and you guess what you were doing now was in a way akin to some form of upper-class slavery.

The only thing that forced anyone around you to treat you with respect here in the South, was the fact that you were a daughter of a duke. Sure, he wasn’t the most powerful one around, but his name still carried some weight. To admit that you are nothing but a throwaway child for the family would simply give everyone else the upper hand. It meant that there would be no repercussions to killing you, in fact, they would be doing your family a favour even. After all, they’ve already collected the boon from ‘gifting’ you away.

Perhaps there and then is when you decide to commit to an act you’re not entirely sure you could pull off. You are a noblewoman, and you had to play the part. The question is how? You didn’t entirely know what it entailed, but you guess you would have to figure it out along the way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m a master at the scholarly arts as per se,” You mumble, finally putting your piece on the board. He places a piece in return almost instantaneously. “Perhaps in hindsight, regularly skipping my lessons was not a bright idea… but I guess we live and learn,” You smile, wondering where exactly your brain had found the words that are currently slipping out of your mouth.

“Definitely shouldn’t have skipped out on your Go lessons,” Namjoon laughs, shaking his head as he watches you put a piece in the most ridiculous place. “This game is going to be over before it has even started.”

Namjoon would live to regret the fact that he had said that sentence. His fists slamming down on the table in disappointment after a long drawn 3-hour long game of Go.

//

“I demand a rematch!” Namjoon whines as the two of you finish up counting. “Come on, I was only 2 points short!”

“A win by a narrow margin is still a win,” You shrug, enjoying how Namjoon looked entirely downtrodden.

“It’s just that move you made in the beginning really threw the game off course,” He grumbles. “Who even does that?”

“Well, me obviously because did I or did I not ultimately win with that move?”

“You did, but that’s just not normal,” He frowns, fingers fiddling with the small Go pieces. He sighs and passes you a silver coin, the price he has to pay for losing. You hadn’t even asked but you were not going to say no to money. You pocket the coin, marveling at the fact that it had been quite a while since you last had anything as valuable in your possession.

“You don’t win by thinking like everyone does,” You laugh.

“Alright, so, rematch?” Namjoon presses on, as he gives the board a quick dust.

“That game took almost 3 hours,” You chuckle. “And, we have to be up early in the morning.”

“I promise I can beat you in under an hour,” He beams, and at that you laugh.

“We have a whole week out here,” You smile, stretching your arms. “So, you can try to do that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that because I promise you if you’re going to beat me at Go, it’ll take more than an hour.”

“Wow, confident,” He smirks. “That’s surprising from someone who admitted that they often skipped their lessons.”

“What can I say?” You laugh. “Perhaps I’m just a fast learner when it comes to Go.”

As you listen to Namjoon’s whining, you think maybe you should’ve held back. Namjoon seemed to be very proud of his Go skills and he should be. He hails from a noble family, which to be honest is a little surprising. He seemed ditzy, but from the moves he had played, you can tell that he was anything but that. Over the course of the game, the two of you talked. You did more of the asking while he did the answering. You liked it like that. Though you deduce that he was a smart man, he came from a family of well-respected warriors, thus he was meant to follow the same route. He’s been trying to work his way up the ranks, but he tells you it’s a gruelling task and he isn’t quite sure what awaits him back home if his father finds out that he had failed to make it into the elite warrior taskforce yet again.

Yoongi watches from atop as both you and Namjoon continue to bicker. It seems like that was all the two of you really did. Mr. Han did say that both you and Namjoon were close but he hadn’t quite expected this. Typically, noblewomen, especially one that belonged to a ducal family, would not even bother to humour a guard. You however, seemed entirely comfortable with that fact, even choosing to play a game of Go with him. Sure, Yoongi himself was lax with the unwritten rules of interaction between the social classes, but he hadn’t quite reached your level of casualness. One might argue that letting anyone other than his aide to ride in the royal carriage was close to that, but there was something else about you that Yoongi couldn’t quite put his finger on. It seemed like you had absolutely no care in the world for noble etiquette. In fact, he had expected you to come running to Hoseok to complain about the sleeping arrangement in the inn, but his aide says he hadn’t heard so much as a peep from you. He was beginning to think that perhaps Mr. Han’s impression of you isn’t quite right.

//

You wipe away the sweat that’s dripping down your face but you have resigned to the fact that it is of no use. Fixing the bamboo hat that the villagers had loaned you, you take another long look at the never-ending paddy fields. You watch as those in the field occasionally stop to stare at the prince who’s sat under the shade, deep in conversation with a handful of men. Wading in the shallow waters, you see young children helping their parents with the rice planting. In the distance, there is a buffalo ploughing the fields. You’re stood there, taking it all in for you’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Namjoon laughs at the way that your eyes are filled with child-like wonder.

The children seemed enamoured with the prince, but none of them dare approach him. Instead, they crowd around you and Namjoon. They rarely see such lavish silk robes like the one you’re wearing, and so you let them touch and tug at it. Namjoon for the most part tries to be patient, but you hear him growl a low warning when the children try to touch the sheathed sword that rests at his hip. Instead he let’s them hold onto the shaft of his spear, all of them marvelling at the fact that they were touching a weapon of a guard from the royal palace.

The children pull you towards the paddy fields, imploring you to join them.

“Children, the fields are no place for someone like Lady Y/N,” Namjoon informs, as they continue to lead you. “You all should—”

His sentence dies halfway as he watches you willingly wade through the paddy fields with the children. You’re careful to hold your silk robes up. After all, they were given to you by the palace and you must take care not to soil them. As you follow the children, you feel your feet sink into the muddy ground. You squeal when a fish swims by your ankle and at that the children laugh.

“Lady Y/N!” Namjoon shouts, worried. “Let me help—”

“It’s quite alright,” You chuckle, smiling. “The fishes are friendly, they say.”

The guard is hesitating at the edge of the field, stealing quick glances back to where Hoseok and Yoongi are watching in bewilderment as you continue to walk through the fields, nodding as the children tell you about the rice paddies.

“That’s not why I uhh I—” He stutters as he looks back again at the prince. He merely gives him a simple wave, as if to say he could let you be. At that, Namjoon nods, simply standing by as he watches you warily.

The children lead you further in, showing you how they weed the fields, and take care of the crop. They even let you touch the buffalo that’s busy ploughing the fields. You’ve never felt so free, so intrigued and you—

“My Lady! Forgive the children’s insolence, they don’t know any better,” A man begs, bowing down at you.

“Oh no, please, don’t— I-It’s really quite alright,” You say, using one hand to usher him back to stand upright. You’re stunned, shocked. You aren’t quite sure what he is apologizing for. It is perhaps one of the very few times anyone has ever bowed at you in apology.

“Do forgive the children,” He mumbles. “Truly, I am sorry for the trouble. A-and it’s not much, but I can take you back with that,” He points at the bullock cart not far from where you are. The expression you wear is not one he expects. Instead of distaste, you’re practically beaming.

“Can we really?” You ask, as you walk out of the paddy field, hurrying towards the cart.

“Of course, My Lady,” He chuckles as he notes your excitement.

Honestly, the walk back isn’t quite far but you’ve never been able to ride a bullock cart before. Mostly because they are meant for transporting goods but also partly because you’ve never seen one up close before.

“Can the children come along too?” You question, as you see them with their head hanging low, looking guilty. What for, you’re not quite sure. You should ask Namjoon later on. Perhaps there are some customs you aren’t quite aware of. “After all, I was the one who asked them to show me the fields.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but you deduce that he thinks the children had forced you to wade through the fields with them.

“Of course they can come along,” He nods as he takes off his shirt and places it on the cart and invites you to sit. “It’s— uhh, not much but I didn’t have anything to—”

“Oh, no, please! You don’t have to!” You answer, rushing to pick up his shirt and return it to him.

“No, please! I insist,” He argues, placing the shirt back. “We can’t have you dirtying your robes.”

“Ah, th—thank you,” You smile, bowing slightly at him. It seemed like he wasn’t going to back down so you resign to sitting on his shirt instead.

The children seem rather solemn as they ride the cart with you, but a few questions from you and they are back to their jolly selves, answering every query you have. They’ve never met a noble quite as nice and friendly as you and perhaps they want whatever this is to last a little longer. They cling onto you, reveling in the attention you shower them with. Most nobles that they’ve met want one thing, and one thing only. They were often travelling merchants who were trying to hoodwink them, asking them to sell their rice at low prices. Sometimes, they would resort to violence to get them to agree. Perhaps that was what the elders were discussing about with the prince. Either way, most nobles had no interest in the fields, or their lives. You however, had willingly walked through the shallow water with them, watched on as they showed you how to catch the fishes and even played around with them.

As you get off the cart, the children climb out with you, quickly bowing in apology as their elder demands. You wave it away hurriedly, sternly insisting that the children were only acting based on your demands. If you had known this would cause such a commotion, you would have stayed put. Maybe that’s what Namjoon was trying to save you from when he tried to coax you out of the fields earlier on.

The commotion is pretty much forgotten as you and the royal entourage move to look at the storehouses where the rice is stockpiled. You’re kept busy as the farmers explain how they go from bushels to the final grains that are stored in the storehouses. Namjoon is visibly alert this time around, not willing to let you get into trouble again. After all, his life was on the line too.

As the sun begins to set, the entourage returns to the town centre. As soon as the prince is out of earshot, Namjoon tells you to meet him at the teahouse as soon as possible. Simply by the tone of his voice, it sounded like he was going to give you a stern scolding.

//

“The fields are meant for peasants,” Namjoon explains, pausing to take a sip out of his cup. “It is no place for someone like you.”

“I-I see. Well, I— umm, I knew that of course,” You murmur, lying. “But how else am I supposed to accurately depict the scene if I do not actually go into the fields?”

“You are still a noblewomen, and you shouldn’t be in such lowly places,” He mumbles. “What will the nobles say if they saw you out in the fields? What would they have said about the prince?”

Oh. You understand now. It wasn’t just your image that was at stake, it was the prince’s too. Now, you’re worried.

“D-do you think he’s angry?” You query, nervous. “I mean, I was just doing it for the job after all,” You mumble, pointing at your current painting. Perhaps you should work extra hard, paint in all the details so he would forgive you.

“The prince isn’t very expressive, so it’s hard to say but… I would warn you to be more cautious,” Namjoon hums. He had seen one too many concubines have their heads cut off, and for actions less preposterous than yours. It would be a shame to see you go.

Golden

I once believed love would be burning red. But it's golden

Summary: To save his people, Lucien Vanserra will marry his most hated enemy.

But to love her? Well, that's another thing entirely

My humble @elucienweek2022 submission

13k words

Chapter 2: Luck of the Draw Only Draws The Unlucky

Read More: AO3 | Chapter 1

To her credit, it took Arina an entire week at the Seaside Palace to finally turn that pretty face of hers and ask, “Well? How is he?”

Vassa erupted with laughter, spread across their trio of rafts they were using to float atop the ocean. They’d convinced Lucien to allow a few servants to take the boat out, bored of the pool and the garden and the endless monotony. He’d relented, sword in hand as he went to work off whatever troubled him with Jurian in the sparring ring. Elain and Lucien did not talk to each other about more than the weather, did not confess the things that ate at them.

“I have nothing to compare him to,” Elain admitted, laying in the middle raft, a floppy sun

hat shielding her face from the constant hot, bright sun. 

Vassa’s golden face appeared just above Elain. “But you are finishing, right?”

“Yes.” Gods, it embarrassed her to talk about it at all. They were all so casual about sex and Elain was trying to fit in. 

“I miss sex,” Arina, on the opposite end of their rafts, said the words just a little too loud to be casual. Elain noticed how one of the servants peered down at them, checking, she was sure, to make sure they hadn’t drowned and put himself right in Arina’s eye line. 

“You’re next,” Vassa said seriously, rolling from her back to stomach. “Helion will tire of your antics eventually and then what?”

“I’ll be dead,” Arina said confidently. “I’m not interested in marriage. Especially not after–”

Elain waited for her to finish that thought. “After what?”

“Arina was almost married,” Vassa hedged. “Once.”

“Once,” Arina agreed. “To the prince of the west. It was arranged, like these things are and I was young. So was he. Untested…he needed a wife better grounded in politics and that tied our realms together.”

“What happened?”

Arina’s laugh was bitter. “His father. He couldn’t stand watching his son get a young wife and thought it ought to be him. He changed the terms the week we arrived and I…I ran. I ran all the way back to Naxos and begged Lucien not to make me go through with it. I don’t know what he said to his father but I know he promised to make me his political advisor…for all the good that’s done him.”

“What about their king? Beron, right?” Elain questioned. 

“Oh, they hate us,” Vassa said cheerfully. “Helion stole Beron’s wife, once. Right from beneath his nose. Lady Amera supposedly climbed out of a window and sailed her own ship to be with him. They nearly fought a war over her but in the end, Beron got to keep her son and Helion paid him a lot of money.”

“So Lucien has a brother?”

“Half-brother,” Arina agreed. “Eris. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven Lucien from giving their mother a reason to stay here. I’d be mad, too, if I had to be raised by Beron though. Our history is complicated. Helion doesn’t make any woman who escapes their realm and crosses our border go back though Beron has been putting pressure on him to do so for years. Lots of run-away brides here.”

Vassa looked down at her splayed hands. “I’m technically still married in the west,” she admitted. “Not that I had any say, but…”

“And you’re about to be married in the south,” Arina agreed cheerfully. Elain looked at Vassa, who’s sunkissed skin was flushed with pleasure.

Married? To Jurian, Elain assumed. He was always touching, always watching after the red head with that intense look of his. 

“A week,” she said to Elain’s questioning stare. “I’ve asked Lucien if you can be there but…”

“Right,” she agreed, looking at the crystal water. Lucien hadn’t said so, of course, but she was being cloistered from his home on purpose. “I’ll be fine while you are gone.”

Vassa and Arina exchanged a glance before Arina sat up, hands on her bare thighs. “What if you promised not to…” “To open the gates and let Graysen Nolen in,” Vassa finished, not bothering to mince words. “If Lucien thought you weren’t a threat he’d take you back.”

“You’d like Naxos,” Arina added hopefully. “The palace has a lot more swimming pools, if nothing else.”

“What about his lover?” Elain asked, hating how even asking made her feel uneasy. She kept imagining that pretty woman striding into his arms and kissing him as if he were a regular man and not the crown prince. Hate him as she swore she did, Elain wanted that sort of familiarity with someone. She wanted a man to reach for her as the first thing he did, to sweep her up without caring about his image or reputation or who might see. Lucien swore he wouldn’t take a mistress but Elain didn’t believe him. Deep down, she knew he wanted her to stay out here so he could have his wife when he felt like it and his lover the rest of the time. Elain swallowed her embarrassment, reminding herself she ought to be grateful Lucien did nothing more than touch her with his fingers and his mouth. 

“Jes?” Arina asked, her voice careful. “He can’t hide from her forever.”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t want to see me,” Elain replied. Lucien might not care for her emotionally, might share nothing, but he still came to her each night as a husband ought to. Elain hadn’t been raised to expect any more and in some ways, she found the entire thing fulfilling. Almost enjoyable, given how she woke each morning alone and was allowed to do as she liked. Lucien didn’t bother her, didn’t ask her for anything, barely looked at her at all until he returned in the evening and locked the door behind him. 

“She’s practical,” Vassa assured Elain. “She understands, I’m sure…”

“She knew who he was when they met,” Arina added softly and Elain wondered if they wouldn’t choose Jes once they all returned. They knew her, after all, well enough to know there would be no true hard feelings. That frightened Elain more than anything. She’d never had real friends, friends she thought might keep her secrets. Might like her. To lose them on a technicality, to be left with only Lucien, well…

“I can stay,” Elain said again, too brightly to be believable. Arina and Vassa narrowed their eyes before Vassa rolled between her raft and Elain’s to rest her head on Elain’s shoulder. “I want you to go. You’d like Naxos.”

“I’ll talk to Lucien,” Arina added, the matter decided between them.

And it was only later that Elain realized they’d asked, not because they needed her to be there, but because they wanted her to love their home. 

They wanted her to belong.

LUCIEN:

Elain was waiting for Lucien, her skin tanner than he’d seen it since she arrived. She’d filled out over the last week, though if it was the food or the companionship Vassa and Arina were offering, he didn’t know. What he did know, without a doubt, was that within the span of a week, both Arina and Vassa were willing to go to bat for the enemy. Violently, if his bruised arm had anything to say about. They wanted him to lift her sequestration so she could come to Naxos.

Lucien thought the idea had merit, if only to introduce his people to their new princess during a time of celebration. They’d been denied a wedding between him and her and the next best thing would be to parade her through the city. Elain was a thing of beauty and her smiles were genuine, even if they had never been directed at him. He could understand why Vassa and Arina felt protective and how Elain might draw in others.

He didn’t want Jes to see. Every time he thought about bringing Elain back, all he could think of was the devastation he’d feel, knowing he was rubbing his new wife in the face of the woman who ought to have been his wife. The woman he still wanted, who still plagued his thoughts all day. He was compartmentalizing the woman back home, the one he was still desperate to have and the one in his bed, his wife. The woman he would kill to keep. Lucien couldn’t explain it— he was supposed to protect her, to keep her safe and he knew, as he strode towards the bed, he would do far worse, far uglier, to ensure Elain could lay in silk sheets with a sunburned nose and a soft smile on her exquisite face. It faded when he stepped into the room as it always did, her eyes becoming somber. She’d smile for Vassa and Arina…but not for him. 

“I was starting to think you’d left already,” she said. Only Elain had not asked to go. She had quietly resigned herself to spending the next week alone. 

“Tomorrow,”  he murmured, shedding himself of his clothes and sliding into bed. Elain always wore a nightgown no matter how many times he protested, even after he’d declared their bed a place devoid of clothing. Some habits died hard, he supposed. 

Pulling Elain against his body, Lucien indulged himself in the fantasy that she came. He let himself imagine putting her atop his horse, adorned in gold. As always, his fantasies slanted back to his bedroom. What he really wanted was Elain back in his actual bed, splayed across his blankets, moaning his name for the city to hear. And he couldn’t do it, because he knew Jes would know and the door between them would close forever. A week without Elain or a life with Jes?

“Will you send my letters for me?” Elain added, pulling a stack of neatly addressed letters from her nightstand to hand to him. Lucien paused. 

“You’ve been writing letters?” he asked, noting that she hadn’t sealed any of the envelopes. 

“You can read them, if you like,” she whispered, her humiliation evident. “Just to my sisters. No code, I…we were close.”

“Sure.” It wasn’t a lie. Lucien would read the letter before leaving it up to his father to decide. Elain only offered him that soft, hurt tinged nod. She was making the best of things, was trying in her small little way. He’d caught her out in the garden a few times digging up weeds just as often as he found curled up by a window staring at nothing. 

“Do you miss him?” Lucien asked impulsively. Elain looked down at her fingers, curling them against her palm.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. The answer irked him. She was his wife, but Lucien only barely considered himself her husband which was the real problem. He could do what he liked, could love whomever he chose but Elain could only want him. She didn’t have to love him, but she couldn’t pine for someone else and certainly couldn’t miss Graysen. 

It was petty, but Lucien, his feelings hurt, said, “You’ll stay out of trouble this week?” She’d stay, if only to salve the wound she didn’t even know she’d made. 

And Elain didn’t look disappointed at all. She didn’t seem relieved, either. Just carefully neutral, nodding as she slid down the mountain of pillows against the bed frame. Lucien set her letters to the side so he could pull her into his arms.  “I’m learning to bake bread,” she told him, pressing a kiss to his neck. “When you return, I’ll have mastered it.” A good little wife. She made the best of things because what other option did she have? Guilt gnawed at him and Lucien silenced it with a kiss to her mouth and then a kiss to other places he far preferred to touch. Lucien drew it out until dawn, refusing to let her sleep until after he departed, telling himself it was kinder, that she could waste a whole day in bed rather than walking the halls of the Seaside Palace alone.

And yet he knew it wasn’t true. Lucien was being selfish, was taking what she was giving without offering her anything in return. He took her letters, he took Jurian and Vassa and Arina and he left Elain with a skeleton crew of servants, a few guards and a warning he’d kill them all if she escaped. Vassa and Jurian said nothing as they’d sailed away but Arina, who was always supposed to be his spy, was livid.

“There is supposed to be a storm this week,” Arina complained, watching the shimmering, iridescent palace fade in the distance. “She’s going to be alone. Has she ever experienced a hurricane?”

“How should I know?” Lucien replied, refusing to feel an ounce of guilt. 

“What if she gets hurt? What if one of the men–”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Jurian interrupted, though Lucien saw the uncertainty in his eyes. They’d hand-picked the guards, men they’d fought alongside for over the years. Men Lucien would have trusted with his own life.

“They wouldn’t dare take their revenge on Ellesmere’s princess?” Arina challenged, turning pleading, green eyes to Lucien. “Please bring her–”

“No.”

“You’re such a coward,” Vassa scoffed from beside Jurian. 

“Since when is this Elain’s court?” Lucien demanded. “You’ve spent a week with her and suddenly I’m not your prince any longer? You follow her commands?”

“Elain asks for nothing,” Vassa protested. “Surely you must have noticed, given how you’re constantly fucking her. She never says no, she just does what she’s told. If we don’t look out for her, it’s not like you will.”

“I resent that. She’s my wife.”

“At night,” Arina snapped. “During the day she’s your enemy.”

“Well,” Lucien began, staring her down with a fury he could only just contain. “Not all of us get to just walk away from a marriage contract.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” she retorted. The four of them lapsed back into stony silence. Lucien was practically simmering by the time he reached the city. Arina stormed off without a word, leaving

Vassa to make some small semblance of apology.

“She’s trying too, Lucien,” Vassa murmured. “You know she doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

“What about Jes?” he demanded but Vassa shook her head. 

“What do you really know about Arina? I mean, really know about her? She’s not outgoing and social like you…like Jes. You should have let Elain come and keep her company.”

“It's too late now. I can’t risk Elain telling Graysen about us, about our court, our home…”

Vassa nodded. “I hope this is worth it.”

It was worse inside the palace. His father frowned the moment he stepped inside, his falling silent to shoo away the courtiers surrounding him. “Where is your wife?” he demanded, the golden throne sitting silent at his back.

“Safe,” Lucien replied. “Far away from the things I love.” Lucien tossed the letters to his father, having read them silently on the journey over. She’d been truthful enough, though if there was a code to speak of, it was far too advanced for him to pick up. Elain spoke of her day, of how she occupied her time, never once mentioning him at all. She very carefully avoided saying his–or anyone else's–name, as if she knew more than just Feyre and Nesta would be reading. She’d said nothing of city landmarks, described nothing that couldn’t be found in a million other places, like the pool and the library, and had generally painted a very rosy picture.

I’m safe. Don’t worry about me. I miss you both and hope to see you soon. 

“So have her sisters,” Helion replied, rising from his throne to beckon Lucien to follow. “You were supposed to bring her for this, to introduce her to the city.”

“I don’t trust her,” Lucien snapped, though that was only partly true. He didn’t want Elain getting in the way of his reunion with Jesminda. His father ushered him into the study to produce the stack of letters, far larger than Elain’s fourteen. 

“Jesminda is gone, Lucien,” he said without preamble. “Your mother has sent her to Rhodes.”

Lucien’s whole body became ice. “What?”

“She swore you’d try something like this. I defended you, and yet here you are. Wifeless, trying to have both women at once. Jesminda is gone. She is not coming back, not in my lifetime. She will move on, will remarry and will remain your subject for as long as she dwells within our borders, but she will never again warm your bed.”

“You should have told me,” Lucien said, turning his back so his father would not see his pain. “I didn’t tell her goodbye.”

He felt his fathers hand on his shoulder, steadying him until his breathing slowed. “I wanted to marry her. I was going to ask when we returned.”

“You could have told me no,” his father reminded him. “I gave you a choice.”

“Peace, though…” Lucien said desperately, turning to look up at the person he trusted most in the world. “How could I ever look at her knowing I chose her over peace?”

“I was a choice,” he replied gravely, walking back to his desk. “One Elain Archeron was not given. You owe her.”

“She wouldn’t even care,” Lucien protested, well aware he won no favor with his father for saying so.

“West and North are not so different,” Helion began, sliding those letters from her sisters—unopened, uninspected. “When I met your mother, she wasn’t allowed to make eye contact with any man that wasn’t her husband.”

Lucien sank into the chair across from his father. He’d never heard this story. Only the sanitized version everyone else got, of how she’d risked her life for love and how Helion had been willing to march to war to keep her. “Dressed in those heavy dresses and so many absurd layers…for her protection, of course. She was young, just like Elain, too. Already had a child and was trying desperately not to have another. Archeron was marching again and Beron and I decided to ally. He set up camp in our city, combined forces so we could shove him back and Amera came to stay, too. You wouldn’t know it, but your mother apologized for everything, things so far out of her control…she was nothing if her husband didn’t say so. Even after she left him, it took time and patience to coax her out. Where is your patience, son?”

Lucien took a breath. “She has scars on her back. Ten of them–I’ve counted. She won’t tell me who gave them to her.”

Helion looked at the smooth, emptied wood of his desk. “It’s an early test of obedience. Girls learn not to make noise. If she has ten, I’d guess she cried, and if she still wears the scars… they likely used more violence than necessary.”

Lucien rubbed his eyes and looked to the heavens. “How am I supposed to care for her when she sleeps in my bed wishing I were the enemy?”

His father only sighed.

“Figure it out.”

ELAIN:

A ship came mid-week with supplies and letters. One from Lucien and one from Arina. Elain opened Arina’s first, giggling at the first line.

I’m sorry Lucien is such an ugly asshole. Arina filled her in on the wedding, her letters clearly passing the scrutiny of Lucien’s gaze. She could see where he’d carefully opened the letter, tearing the delicate parchment without meaning to. He’d resealed it, smoothing the edges and she wondered how many years would be spent this way. Arina ended her letter sweetly—I miss you more than I thought I would—-leaving Elain feeling empty and lonely. It had only been four days since they’d left and yet she could only occupy herself so often with kneading dough. It had to rise, had to proof and then be eaten before she could start over. 

The letter from Lucien was shorter and formal.

I hope you’re doing well.

You are on my mind.

I will see you soon.

Nothing that betrayed anything but duty. Nothing that spoke of the week of nights he’d spent naked in the same bed as her. She still woke at night reaching for him, only to find cold, empty space. She imagined he was doing just fine with Jesminda, that Lucien had gotten what he’d wanted and would return to the island only when he was forced to.

Arina would be back, though. She’d sworn to return with the next departing ship. That didn’t seem to be anytime soon, given the moodiness of the sky. She’d heard the servants murmuring about an incoming storm with wariness. Elain left them to unload, noting how the guards watched her with hateful eyes. Whatever Lucien had told them kept them at their posts, kept them from getting too close…but sometimes, at night, Elain swore she heard footsteps outside her bedroom door and clutched that knife Arina had given her just a little tighter. She didn’t doubt for a moment that they wouldn’t kill her if they had the chance.

The servants, too, kept a respectful distance. Wary. Everyone was just wary of her, the princess of Ellesmere, daughter of their hated enemy, foisted upon their beloved prince. He hadn’t brought her with him and that spoke volumes. She was good enough to have sex with but not a beloved wife. 

Elain went to her bedroom despondently, locking the door as she always did before turning to the rest of the letters. Half Feyre, half Nesta. Only a few had been opened, as if his curiosity had gotten the better of him before guilt won out. Elain read Nesta’s first.

Elain-

I hope you’re doing well and you’re being taken care of. Father refuses to send an emissary to check you though Feyre and I have been applying pressure. Feyre was punished for trying to ride on her own to come get you, to bring you back. She is laid up in bed, miserable and furious. We both are. Graysen swears this is all temporary but you are another man’s wife and we all know you can’t just come back. I’m getting worried…worried enough to look for other allies. 

If you are safe, write us back. I will assume if you do not it is because you are unsafe. I just want to see you. Press upon the prince to meet us somewhere, assure him it is not an ambush. Just two sisters worried about their missing piece. We promise to come unarmed.

Miss you,

Nesta

Elain- 

I know you must miss him, but General Nolan is a fucking bastard. He caught me outside the city and dragged me back and father let him give me five lashes for his trouble. He enjoys it too much and some small part of me is glad you escaped him. He still thinks he’ll be made King but Nesta is looking to usurp him and she is not a viable candidate for marriage. He thinks you’ll come back somehow, that this will all still work out but…if they are treating you well, I think you should stay. DON’T come home unless this is better than whatever you’re facing there. I reached out to some contacts in the east and they say Naxos is a haven for people in the west but I don’t know if that extends to you. 

Nesta and I want to come see you but father won’t allow it. He won’t send the emissary’s, he won’t consent to anything so we write in secret, waiting for you to tell us you’re well, that Lord Lucien is a good enough husband and that you could be happy. 

If that is all true, perhaps we’ll meet again when things settle (and Graysen is dead). If not, though…we should all leave. Things are increasingly hostile and I think war is inevitable. Maybe not this year. But next? There is a summit in the east, a gathering to create a more permanent peace between our four realms. I know father and Graysen intend to go and Nesta has all but secured a spot. I am confident I could figure it out but could you? Would your prince allow you to? Ask him, do what you must. We will meet here, if only to reassure the others we are safe. 

I worry about all of this, about what will happen next. Most of all, I worry they have locked you away somewhere and you don't know that we miss you at all. I worry you’re alone and scared. Have hope, if you’re reading this. We love you, even if Nesta’s letter didn’t say so.

Be strong. Be safe.

Feyre. 

Elain read the others, tears dripping down her nose. She forgot to eat that night, curled in her bed of blankets and papers, rereading Feyre and Nesta’s words until she had them memorized. Graysen whipping Feyre, chasing after her, telling on her…walking around, preening and assuming he could still be king, that she would still somehow be there to marry him. With no concern about her safety, her life, her feelings.

Elain knew if he ever got her back now, he’d punish her for being sullied for the rest of her life. He’d know she liked it, that she’d gone willing every time when he’d told her not to. And Lucien hadn’t been wrong when he’d accused her of letting Graysen kill any children she had while she was here. If he got to her before they were born, he’d merely kill the infant before it ever took its first breath and after, well…Elain could imagine the accidents that might befall a child. There would be no half-siblings battling for rule, no marching to war for a woman. Lucien was likely to hand her over.

Perhaps he would when he returned, if things with Jesminda went well. Maybe that was why Graysen wasn’t concerned with her absence. He’d already reached out to Lucien, had offered another trade. Peace for the woman who he’d offered up in good faith. It made no sense and yet it kept her awake that night, twisting her stomach in knots until Elain fell asleep in the bathroom, wrapped in a duvet, her head pressed against the porcelain tub. 

The sound of glass shattering and a pounding on the door roused Elain. She woke to total darkness which made no sense. “Princess!” a man’s voice barked. “Princess, you need to get up!”

Howling wind and creaking wood groaned around her. Elain scrambled upwards, only to be thrown back by a pulse of something. She screamed, her voice sucked into the yawning world. Rain pelted through the broken windows while wind sent shards of glass everywhere, slicing against her skin as she battled for the bathroom again. It was as if the world had exploded, erupting with furious, ugly violence. She’d never seen anything like this, had never felt as if she might be blown away as though she were a feather in the wind. 

Whoever had pounded at the door was gone, seeking shelter somewhere safer. Elain felt the world tilt, though it was just another gust of wind blowing in, shoving her over the bed to crash against the bed frame. Outside, the sea seemed to stretch for miles towards the sky, whipping water and debris every which way. Elain choked back her fear and ignored the burning bruise against her spine to scramble one last time for the bathroom. The palace was made of stone, could weather this storm but Elain could not. She managed to yank open the door when she heard lightning crack against the sky and the water smash against the shore. Somewhere in the distance, she swore she heard a scream for help. 

Elain reached for the door knob before her fear overtook her and she succumbed to the blackness. 

LUCIEN:

Lucien had just managed to evacuate the city to higher ground when the hurricane ripped through the world around them. He watched, horror turning to dread, as the wind and the sea raced towards them, sweeping away everything in its path. It raged for hours, dumping buckets of water over everything and ruining the beach. Lucien didn’t have to ask Jurian for help when the storm settled, leaving gray gloom and a wash of palm leaves all over the city. The dock was intact given it was made of concrete but the majority of the ships were damaged and would not be usable for days, if not weeks. 

Jurian seemed to realize the same. “She might…she’s fine,” Jurian finally said, eyes unable to see the island in the mist. Lucien ran a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “I’ll row.”

“Are you insane?” Jurian demanded, eyeing the choppy waves around them. He was—so utterly crazed that he might have swam if he thought he could.

In the end, it was a merchant who offered up his ship for a substantial amount of gold in exchange for borrowing it indefinitely. Arina came running after them as the pair quickly untied, leaping onto the deck before Jurian or Lucien could stop them. Vassa was just behind, far more graceful than the panicked Arina. 

“Don’t say it,” Lucien warned her, lips chapped against the wind. Arina only shook her head as if she didn’t dare say I told you so, even though he would have deserved it. Arina had warned him only five days before and Lucien had brushed it off, annoyed and unconcerned. Elain would be fine…and he was more terrified than he was willing to admit that she wasn’t. 

His wife, his wife. 

He’d abandoned her for another woman and instead of just going back, tail tucked between his legs, and asking for absolution, Lucien had licked his wounds quietly at home as if he weren’t married at all.

Everyone noticed, gossiped over the missing northern princess. Frigid bitch was a common refrain. She wasn’t good enough for him and he supposed this was proof. He’d left her to die.

He was no better than Graysen in that regard.

Arina and Vassa both emitted soft screams when they saw the wreckage of the island. The palace was intact but everything else…the glass, the pools, the vegetation and glass…all of it had been ripped apart. He saw more than one body laying face down in the sand and prayed to every God his people had ever worshiped that Elain was not among them. 

The four disembarked silently, sweeping over the palm-strewn beach to gather the bodies. It was miserable work, pulling the people he knew, that he’d left behind, from an inch of sea water to lay on the beach. More burials, more grief…and no Elain. By mid-day, Lucien was drenched in sweat and strung tighter than a bowstring as he made his way indoors. He went to his bedroom first, noting the wreckage of the room, the ruined glass, the battered bathroom door. Their blanket lay crumpled inside, bloodstained and cold. She’d been here, at least. 

“ELAIN!” Arina’s voice shrieked from outside, drawing Lucien from the bedroom to the back terrace. Elain was bruised and cut, pale and exhausted from a night holed up but otherwise okay with the surviving servants. Arina had pulled her to her feet but Lucien noted she hadn’t been cloistered away from the rest of the survivors but bandaging a little boys swinging knee.

“Come here,” he murmured, well aware all eyes were on him. He would have no more gossip about his frigid wife or his hatred of her. Elain stumbled forward and Lucien caught her, pulling her against his chest for everyone to see. Look at her, he wanted to say. She survived. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, lips pressed against her scalp. Elain nodded, stiff beneath his hands. He was certain he’d find more bruises when he checked her over later but for now, she was breathing and safe and he had not entirely failed her. 

It was like pulling teeth, convincing her to leave. Elain stared at the bodies on the beach silently, even when Jurian assured her they would be buried in the city properly where everyone could mourn their loss. She didn’t want to go and he wondered if she didn’t feel a little guilty too.

Naxos had fared better than the island. No one died and only rooftops and ships were damaged. They’d weathered far worse, all things considered. Lucien had Elain walk from the docks to the palace, his hand always on her back. Everyone paused to look, to take in the bruised, battered princess. Their looks of disdain were not for her—they were all leveled at him. What kind of man left his wife alone like that, he knew they thought? What kind of man didn’t keep her safe? He wore their shame like a crown of thorns, eyes cast down so they knew there was no pride in this walk, no pleasure. 

His father was the final test, his eyes burning with disapproval. Lucien’s mother stepped forward for Elain, to sweep her away somewhere safe, to assure her this was unusual and that it had merely been an oversight but Lucien stepped in front of her.

“No,” he murmured, only looking at his father. Was he a good man or not? Did he honor his promises or not? “I’ll take her.”

His mothers russet eyes were rich with sympathy, nodding as she stepped out the entryway, shoulder to shoulder with his father. They’d raised him better and still…and still Lucien had come to try and convince another woman they could be together, leaving Elain to die. 

He couldn’t speak until they were alone in his bedroom, untouched by the damage of the storm. “Take off your dress,” he ordered, his voice hoarse. Elain nodded, fingers trembling as she undid the clasps at her shoulders. The material fell at her feet and Lucien sucked in a sharp breath. Purple blossomed over her tanned skin, spanning her ribs and dotting her spine. Little cuts screamed over the once smooth planes of her stomach and back. “I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “I’m so sorry.”

He waited for her soft forgiveness but Elain, naked in the middle of the room, illuminated by the creeping gloom, didn’t smile or sigh or anything. “Did she forgive you for marrying me?” Elain murmured, her question a punch to the gut.

“It’s over,” he said, not bothering to explain how it ended. “For good.”

Those same cool brown eyes watched him, her expression unreadable. “I want to see my sisters.”

“Done.”

Emotion warmed her cheeks and Elain, as if realizing she was naked for the first time, inched away from him until she had pulled the blanket draped over the end of his bed. Wrapping it around her body, Elain continued. “You’re never allowed to hit me.”

His knees almost buckled. “Done.”

Ask for more, he urged, watching her every breath, her tiny movements as she wrapped her mind around how easy it was for him to agree. She wasn’t asking him for anything he wasn’t already willing to give her.

“I don’t care if you never love me,” she whispered, tugging the blanket tight. “But I want to be your equal. Your partner.”

Lucien’s breath was ragged. “Done.”

“Done,” she repeated. “Just like that?”

Lucien snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

“Then I can come to the Summit with you in the east?”

He’d already intended to bring her, so it was easy to nod. He’d bring Arina and maybe Vassa, too, since Jurian would come. Force Arina to step into her political destiny and give Elain someone to talk to that she could trust. “Yes.”

Whatever wild thing had been writhing in her chest settled. “No mistresses, either.”

Gods and stars, that woman… “I said I wouldn’t,” Lucien all but gritted out, trying so hard to remain patient. His mother, who hadn’t been able to look men in the eyes, who had climbed through a window and battled sea and sky to get to his father, peered through Elain’s big, warm eyes. Elain, who had left her home on the promise of peace, had turned her back on her life, her culture, who had asked for nothing while he made plans for her future and still made friends and apologized for the wounds on his face— “I’m sorry, Elain.”

The cold shuttered from her gaze. “It’s not your fault.”

Forgiveness.

 Just like that. 

Elain only asked for him to consider her humanity though acted as if it were some big sacrifice. He knew he ought to get on his knees and truly beg her forgiveness but Lucien was still wary, too. 

And afraid, too.

 So, so afraid of the thought that he might have lost her. 

ELAIN:

“Run, run, run,” Elain hissed, hiking up her golden skirts to dart through the packed streets. She was late and Lucien was going to kill her when he realized she hadn’t gotten turned around, as she planned to lie, but that her, Vassa, and Arina had been up all night drinking and fell asleep in a park. Hardly princess behavior and yet Elain no longer felt like a princess. She was given far too much freedom that she’d become drunk on it and now…now she was going to embarrass him in front of the city. 

“Move,” Arina all but yelled, shoving a rather large man out of the way so Elain could continue wedging her way up to the palace where Lucien and his family stood, blessing the rising morning sun at the start of their holiest week, Panathenean. Lucien was already there, head bowed beneath the gleaming gold crown that was a larger match for the one atop her own head. He was nearly shirtless—what else was new—, his golden sandals tracking up his muscled calves and Elain had to stop staring at him as she skittered just beside him, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her bare back. Lucien glanced over at her, no smile on his lips even when he reached for her hand to ghost a kiss over her knuckles.

He was always doing things like that. It wasn’t romance so much as practicality. She knew the courtiers called her frigid and imagined her as some sort of ice queen in the bedroom. The regular folks didn’t, though. Their opinion of her had softened after the hurricane when Lucien had brought her back bruised and bleeding. She’d become one of them somehow, a regular person who was occasionally draped in heavy gold. They watched his every move, judging him when he wasn’t soft and sweet and warm like his father. 

“I missed you this morning,” he murmured against the orating priestess. Liar.  “Out again?”

“Sorry,” she lied, eyes cast downward. She’d begun to believe he wasn’t going to strike her, wasn’t going to take another woman if she wasn’t always waiting on her knees. Elain was, perhaps, taking advantage of that, at least a little. Instead of giving her a long leash, Lucien had given none at all. She was free for the first time in her life. He’d been visibly disappointed when she produced proof of her courses the week before but Elain was privately relieved. A baby would confine her back to the palace, would leash her in a different way. She wanted to be a mother…and she wanted to be a person, too. 

Elain laced her fingers through his own, squeezing another silent apology. Lucien squeezed back, raising his head to sweep his eyes over the gathered populace, praying alongside his father for continued peace. One month. In another they’d ride east to the summit and she’d see her father for the first time since he’d handed her over, she’d see Graysen…her sisters. Nesta, who was quietly positioning herself to take the north in a coup and needed support…and Feyre, who had stopped writing letters a week before. Elain wondered if Feyre hadn’t managed to slip through Graysen’s fingers. 

The service concluded with a song everyone but Elain knew the words to. She kept her head bowed and hoped no one looked too closely at her, ignoring how Lucien’s lips twitched every time his eyes cut towards her. The moment people began to scatter, Elain tried to bolt for Arina’s distinct blonde hair in the crowd. Lucien’s arm shot out, snagging her around the waist before she could vanish. He hadn’t been watching to make fun of her, then, but because he knew if he took his eyes off her, he wouldn’t see her for the rest of the day.

“Let me go,” she pleaded as he hauled her against his warm, toned body. 

“You have responsibilities,” he reminded her, his mouth hot against her ear. “You are still a princess.”

“Just barely,” she reminded him, wondering if she could trick him into releasing her by reminding him of their last shared night together in which he’d fucked her so throughly she might have been a whore. His whore, which she supposed could have been worse. I could have been better, too, but she'd take what she could get. 

Lucien grinned syrupy sweet. “You’re stuck with me today. Don’t make me chase after you.”

Elain hesitated, twisting from his grip to look up at him. “Would you?”

His eyes darkened for only a fraction of a moment and like always, he was thinking about sex. It was the one thing they had in common because it was the only thing they actually did together. Elain had her friends and Lucien had his. He did his fair share of running around and drinking though once Elain had caught him with some of the ladies of the court, head thrown back and laughter and had felt the familiar prick of jealousy. 

He wasn’t trying very hard, either, she reminded herself. It was her nature to do more than him and Elain was trying very hard to fight that. If this was all he wanted, it was all she’d give him. 

“Yes,” Lucien finally said, dragging her from her thoughts. “I would, which would hardly look good for either of us. No one wants to see what I’d do to you against one of these buildings.”

“I do,” Elain replied honestly. Lucien fucked her exactly the same without variation and after listening to Arina and Vassa describe their own exploits, Elain wanted to try something new, too. She was only too nervous to bring it up, embarrassed that he would think she was some sort of sex-starved temptress he would find distasteful.

“Let’s revisit that when the sun goes down,” Lucien all but purred, his hand sliding over her lower back with want. Elain squirmed with pleasure which clearly was doing something for him, even as he moved her through the crowd. Still his little trophy only now Lucien needed her, at least a little. He’d displeased his city once by shunning Jes and again by nearly letting her die. Jes was gone and though no one would tell her exactly why Jes had left, Elain suspected Lucien’s parents had intervened to protect their alliance with the north. She couldn’t blame them…she only wished he’d been the one to end things and not his father. It was practical and  Elain couldn’t help but like how hard Lucien had to try, this clearly beloved son, to win back the favor of the people he wanted to rule. All because of her.

Not everyone, of course, and even those who considered her one of them didn’t wholly trust her. She had too much of her fathers features for anyone to ever forget who she was. They wanted to see Lucien become his father or at least embody all the qualities that made Helion so great. And Elain couldn’t deny Helion was a great leader. He was kind and fair and patient and perhaps most of all, he openly loved his wife. It set the tone for the rest of the city and his laws that governed the way women moved through it. If he couldn’t abide by them, why should anyone else? And to that end, if his son couldn’t, what made him fit to take his fathers place? So they watched how Lucien interacted with her, balancing him on a knife’s edge. It was no secret their marriage had happened on a battlefield, no secret that Elain hadn’t known until she showed up or that Lucien hardly wanted it. He didn’t have to love her.

But he had to respect her. 

Lucien was aiming for both, in some measure. Respect and affection, at least. He kept it up in the palace and in the city, always touching, head inclined as if he were murmuring something only she could hear. He was usually boring her with the most mind numbing facts she’d ever heard in her entire life, choosing to share the history of a building while Elain nodded along, pretending he was describing, in detail, how he might lick her later. 

She wished. Equals in name only. Lucien still worked and rarely asked her opinion. She was frustrated by that, though there was little to do other than to start trailing his steps which sounded worse than any idea she’d ever had. Elain swore to herself that those promises had meant something before giving herself permission to run amok with Vassa and Arina.

Just as always, Lucien bowed his head towards her. “Do you see that lamp post over there? Back when–”

“Lucien?” Elain interrupted with that same sugary sweetness he’d hit her with earlier. Lucien’s face was so impossibly close she could have kissed him if she wanted. “Not today, okay? No one is interested in the history of limestone or kerosene but you.”

Surprise flickered over his features. “Well, what does fascinate you, wife?” she hated how he called her that sometimes, saying wife as if it were a dirty word. “Besides my cock, of course?”

“How did you end up here?” she asked with a scowl at his little comment. Elain had heard the rumors, of course, the fairy tales told to children about the evil barbarians to the south who strutted about naked as they stole women and children from their bed.

Lucien tilted his head towards the sun, rambling steps leading them from the palace to the bustling city square. “We came across the sea, like everyone else,” he finally said, hand sliding from her back to take her hand. “In truth, maybe we’ve never had peace…just long periods of a truce.”

Elain opened her mouth to tell him Graysen intended to break the treaty, that he’d promised to come back for her within six months. One had already passed without a word from her father or his prized general. Elain didn’t know if telling Lucien made her sound like a traitor for keeping the secret for so long, or an idiot for thinking he didn’t already know. Lucien certainly acted as if he expected to pick his sword up again someday. She wondered if he’d send her back, too. 

“And your city?”

“We were seafaring people,” he told her. “So a port city made sense. Trading is still our most lucrative source of income.”

He’d begun to share more with her, too. Trust. “We’re told you were once us,” she admitted, catching the smile on his face.

“Yes, I’ve heard about the vengeful barbarians coming to steal pretty princesses in the night,” Lucien teased. “I’ve been stalking you for a long, long time.”

It was his game, to pretend he’d wanted her before in some form or fashion. She thought it made him feel better about losing Jes and being forced to be with her for the rest of his life. The fantasy, no matter how absurd, gave him some small measure of control again. Elain knew without a doubt he would never have looked twice at her and if he had, it would have been to give her the same dirty look, just to be sure she saw his dislike. 

“What would you have done, if you’d gotten me away?” Elain asked anyway, only because he looked so good in his short toga with his gleaming, muscular thighs on display.

“I would have taken you in the woods like an animal and let your family listen to your breathless, panting screams begging for more,” he replied. Elain’s stomach clenched as she imagined his words, causing her to whirl around.

“Show me,” she whispered breathlessly. “I want–”

“Not now,” Lucien replied, eyes lingering over her head. “You can’t distract me from our shared responsibilities. Not yet, anyway.”

Elain inclined her head upwards, her frustration building. A whole day of this sounded like torture. Elain could see Arina and Vassa lingering, nodding for her to ditch him and come spend time with them. Lucien could, too, if the tightening grip on her waist was any indication.

“If we stay, people will start offering me fruit and meat again,” Elain complained, rounding on him.

“You don’t like fruit and meat?” Lucien challenged. Elain let him see her roll her eyes, poking his bare stomach. She almost conceded, nearly just gave in when a strange thought occurred to her.

“Is no one hungry here?”

Lucien’s steps halted, eyebrows knitted. “No. Why should they? We have more than we could ever need.”

And so had her father and yet he still collected coins and other goods four times a year. Lucien  could see it on her face. “Do they go hungry in the north?”

“It's so odd,” Elain admitted, flexing her hands to look at the knuckles, no longer bruised and bleeding from the beatings when she’d been caught dropping coins. Elain decided to tell him, angling her head to look as she said, “I used to carry coins in my pockets everywhere—”

“You still do,” Lucien interrupted, as if she were answering a question he’d been asking since they met.

“And I’d pretend to drop them as we passed. It made father so angry, he’d take this cane and—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Lucien demanded, snatching her hand to examine it. Finding nothing but smooth, unblemished skin, Lucien pressed his mouth against her fingers all the same, his kiss more apology than affection. Elain saw several elders watching, their eyes softened in approval. He was a good prince—a good man—if he could be so soft with his traitorous wife. 

“There’s no need to carry money,” Lucien assured her, keeping her hand in his as they made their way to the vast flagstone square. Bright streamers were hung high above the streets in between little lanterns that would illuminate the night once the sun set. Vendors in stalls sold their wares while throngs of people in brightly colored clothes milled around, weaving around tables and chairs set up for drinking and eating, towards a marked off space that was for dancing and musicians. It was where Arina and Vassa lingered, their patience wearing thin. Lucien had seen them too. 

“If you need anything, everyone will know to bill me your expenses,” Lucien finished. “And if you see someone starving, it is your right to drag me from the palace and make me answer for it.”

Elain tried to imagine dragging Lucien into the streets by the scruff of his neck and atone for his failures. More like, Lucien would go of his own accord and set things right. It was Graysen who popped into her mind, haughty and arrogant and so utterly incensed he would have harmed her for her insolence.

“I like having coins in my pocket,” she admitted as Lucien dropped her hand.

“Yes. You have become quite the wild thing, haven’t you?”

 She waited for his reprimand, his reminder princesses needed to act with more decorum. Instead, Lucien seemed strangely affectionate as he gestured for her to leave him. “Go on, then. Try not to cause too much mischief while you’re at it.”

Elain was already hedging away, eyes bouncing between him and her friends. “You’re sure? I can stay…”

“Are you offering?” he all but teased, watching as she slipped further and further from his grasp.

“I’ll find you later,” she lied. Lucien only waved her away.

“Yes, I’m sure you will. Go on, then.”

Elain did exactly as he demanded.

LUCIEN:

“I saw your wife earlier,” Jurian told Lucien, collapsing into a chair beside Lucien. It was just past sunset, the sky an inky purple dotted with the lanterns hanging around him. Lucien set his goblet of wine onto the table, noting there were still two empty chairs that could be filled—that would have been filled, had he and Jurian not been married. No one dared, now. No one was sure how the princess might react but everyone knew Vassa’s temper was legendary. 

“Staying out of trouble?” Lucien asked, strangely pleased Elain was somewhere in the city having fun.

“Absolutely not,” Jurian chuckled, reaching for a piece of meat on the platter in front of them. Lucien never went without and certainly not when he chose to waste a day mingling in the city. Every time his cup was nearly empty or he’d made his way through a tray of food someone showed up to replenish it without a word spoken. It wasn’t servitude but gratitude. He was their prince and in some ways, he was also their son. “They’re making their way back but it’s slow,” Jurian added. “They’ve had too much wine and sun and not enough water and food.”

Lucien turned his eyes towards the dancers, his mind wandering. Elain was an oddity, the opposite of what he’d expected when he’d gotten her. So casually used to violence and suffering that she just assumed it must be built into the world. He knew he ought to keep a leash on her, but after what she’d endured in the hurricane and his failure to protect her, Lucien had let go. He’d expected her to try and escape, had been vigilant that first week, waking each night to every little sound…and Elain didn’t budge. She’d remained in his bed, body curled around his, and when she woke she tiptoed about, making herself small as she explored.

It was Vassa and Arina who had begun dragging her about, prying her out of that shell…making her laugh and dance and talk. He’d catch them all over the city, talking loudly, making jokes and playing little pranks. Drinking in the park, sleeping beneath the stars…in some ways, he wondered if Elain hadn’t always been born to live here. 

She was wilder now—free. Free of Nolan, of her father, and that wretched, frigid city to the north. Lucien relished it, reveled in her new found sense of self, if only to rub it in the faces of her family. They’d be leaving at the end of the month for a summit he knew was doomed from the start, given Archeron’s inability to uphold the most ironclad of agreements. Lucien had almost refused to attend even after giving Elain his word, unwilling to be made a fool of again.

He’d agreed both to atone and to show Graysen that the meek, timid woman he’d once meant to marry was dead, replaced with a creature of sea and sand and salt. His wife. If Graysen meant to take her back—and Lucien was sure he’d promised to—he would have to fight all of Naxos to have her. Would have to fight Elain herself. 

“Speak of the devil,” Jurian grinned when Vassa and Arina slid into view, Elain just behind them. She had flowers in her hair and her cheeks, as they so often were, had become softly sunburned. Her hair was unbound, her crown missing. Warmth spread through his body as she passed, not seeing him at all until he grabbed her, pulling her into his lap. Elain squealed, twisting to make sure it was him before relaxing into his hold. “Who has been touching my wife?” he mockingly growled, mouth against her neck.

“Who hasn’t?” Vassa grumbled, sitting beside Jurian while Arina took the last seat, twisting to look at someone Lucien couldn’t see. “She is far too pretty to be left to her own devices.”

“To the dungeons, then,” Lucien joked, replacing the cup in Elain’s hand with icy water. Elain gulped it down without a word, her body slick with sweat and warm from the heat. 

“Arina!” Lucien called as Elain took a second glass, poured by an amused Jurian. Arina paused, about to dart into the night towards some man who likely did not deserve a moment of her time.

She scowled. “Have you decided about Velaris?”

Elain perked up. “Are you not going to come?” she asked, her voice rich with disappointment. Lucien caught how Arina’s eyes narrowed on him. Using his wife to manipulate Arina was, perhaps, unfair and yet effective. Lucien hid his smile with a kiss against Elain’s bare shoulder blade. Vassa’s gaze held on her husband, reclining in his chair to watch. “Who will keep me safe from Graysen?”

The whole table stilled at her words, all eyes turning to look. Lucien, too, tugged Elain a little tighter against his body.

“Do you need protection?” Jurian asked, leaning his elbows against the table. Elain, still overheated and drunk, didn’t realize what she’d said.

“He promised to steal me back,” she told them breathlessly, reaching for a thin piece of sliced cheese. “It would be the perfect place.”

Lucien’s eyes snapped to Jurian. They’d bring more guards than planned, then. King Rhysand had been clear—no armies in his city. A personal guard surely couldn’t hurt, not with the tenuous peace between north and south? 

Arina and Vassa seemed outraged at the notion. “He gave you up,” Arina reminded the still upbeat Elain.

“I’m on loan, I think,” she replied as if that were a perfectly normal thing. As if she were merely a book that would need to go back on the shelf one day for someone else to use. 

“Keep her here,” Vassa said to Lucien, earning a noise of displeasure from Elain.

“She’s coming,” Lucien said, if only to keep his eyes on her the entire time. He wouldn’t risk another hurricane situation, not when Graysen might linger and steal into the city. It would take him days to get to her and for all her tenacity, Elain was frustratingly easy to kill given she refused to take sword lessons with Jurian.

“I will,” Arina replied. It was unfair, given Beron’s obsession with her and the disappointment Lucien knew she felt every time she saw his son, who refused to acknowledge her at all. Half-brother. Lucien banished the thought.

“You know we wouldn’t let him take you, right?” Vassa reached for Elain’s hand, squeezing softly. Elain’s body loosened, rubbing sweetly against him. He wasn’t sure she even remembered she was perched in his lap where everyone could watch. And they were. He could feel their curious eyes on the pair of them, wondering what, exactly, lay between Lucien and Elain. 

“I don’t want to go back,” she said, looking down at the table as if she’d just admitted to some heinous crime. Three sets of eyes all fell on him, ranging from surprise (Jurian) to plaintive (Vassa) and annoyed (Arina). 

“You’re not going back,” Lucien said, looking at his friends and wondering if their opinion was truly that low of him. He’d put his penis in her, hadn’t he? Sullied her, as far as the Archeron clan was concerned, would ideally impregnate her, hopefully by the time they went to that stupid summit. Lucien was dying to announce another southern royal, a little prince to one day carry on Lucien’s legacy when he died. Lucien wanted to rub it in Graysen’s face, wanted to thank him for handing over his fertile, willing fiance for Lucien to impregnate and put all thoughts of rescuing the suffering maiden to bed. 

“I’ll go,” Arina finally said, earning a bright, happy smile from Elain. “I want to see him.”

“Well, I don’t,” Elain said plainly, resting her head against Lucien’s shoulder. “Ever.”

He wished he could give that to her. Jurian’s lips curled upwards but it was Vassa who said, “Maybe we could kill him.”

Elain stiffened and Lucien swallowed a groan. “We can’t–”

“Could we?” Elain asked, robbing him of the very air in his lungs.

“Absolutely not,” Lucien snarled, silencing the women before they said something that would get them all banned not just from future diplomacy but his fathers court in general. Openly plotting to murder the general of another territory where anyone might overhear only invited trouble. “Say nothing else. I’m taking Elain to bed.”

“But I’m not tired!” she protested as he stood, hauling her into his arms without another word. He looked at his friends, their faces masks of innocence. 

“I mean it,” he warned them, trusting Jurian to keep them in line. “Not another word.”

Lucien began walking his wife back to the palace, mind reeling. “One month,” he breathed, hating the way each step battled against his growing attraction. “One month and you’re ready to murder your beloved?”

“He’s going to try and take me back,” she told him, every inch of her blazing with defiance.

“I had no idea you were so in love,” he taunted, earning a hard poke in his throat.

“I have never had a friend who didn’t immediately tell my father everything I did or said. I know Arina and Vassa don't tell you the things I say about you.”

“There’s no need, I know my cock is large–”

“And if he does get me back, he’ll hit me and he’ll…he’ll lock me away in the cold until I forget what it was like to be here. I don’t want to go back.”

“You won’t,” Lucien growled, the sound of his shoes on marble punctuating the threat. “You will remain here with me until you die of old age, surrounded by our twelve children—”

Elain wheezed. “Twelve?”

“Yes,” he agreed, dropping her to his bed to admire her form. “I’m being practical. I want you to sit on my face,” he added when she sat up, half tangled in her gold dress. 

“What?” she asked him, watching as he began to shed his own clothes. He’d begun thinking of it when she’d asked if she would have chased him, of what he would have done if he caught her. He’d been too polite, telling himself the princess of Ellesmere did not want to be subjected to his filthy fantasies…but tonight the princess of Ellesmere was begging him not to return her home, to let her stay…and Lucien was tired of fucking her on her back. 

Her eyes snagged on his already hard cock springing out from behind his clothes pooled at his feet. “I want you to sit on my face. Grab the headboard and fuck my face.”

He expected her to balk, to protest and tell him no. He would have relented, would have yanked her to the edge of the bed and eaten her anyway, not that she needed to know. Elain rose up on her knees, pulling her dress up over her head, revealing nothing but vast expanses of tanned, perfect skin, utterly devoid of underthings. She’d given that northern custom up very quickly and Lucien was forever grateful for it. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, scrambling for the bed. He laid himself out flat, groaning softly when her hand slid over his stomach, touching him as if she couldn’t help herself. “Come here.” She swung a leg over his face, lowering her pretty, perfect cunt until she was hovering. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured, as if it were possible. Lucien yanked, hands kneading into her ass.

“Hurt me,” was all he said before he had that first taste of her. No one and nothing had ever been as good as her and even after a month, Lucien was still dizzy at the thought that this woman opened herself willingly to him. He was feral, wild with need as he began to feast, his hands touching every little bit of skin he could, holding her against him. Elain did as she was told, holding the headboard as she adjusted to this new position, to the sensation of his mouth working over her, trying to urge her to move her hips and take what she needed, what she wanted—

“Wait,” she gasped, pulling back. Lucien scrambled for her, determined he would keep her until she’d coated his face in her climax more than once but Elain was quicker, more nimble, determined even as she merely readjusted herself so her back now faced the headboard and her face stared at his rigid cock. He’d never asked her for this, had never once positioned her in such a way that she would have even considered. Not that he didn’t ache for her to crawl between his legs and taste him the way he did her, to crave that taste, to want it like he wanted her. 

She ran her hands up and down his chest, nails lightly dragging the skin. She wanted to touch, he realized. Wanted to explore, to see him in the flickering candlelight, to know what, exactly she had. Lucien’s tongue became lazy, parting her legs in an attempt to watch her slide further down his body, caressing his thighs, peppering little kisses over his abs before finally her hands curled around his cock. 

She wasted no time, licking the length of him with no hesitation, no fear. Lucien’s hips bucked in her hand. “Do you like that?” she asked, her words sultry.

“Yes,” he choked. He liked nothing more than her pillowy soft tongue teasing his shaft, swirling over the ultra sensitive head of him. Elain took her time, treating him like a piece of candy she was enjoying, exploring with her mouth and getting, he suspected, a general sense of him. He replaced his mouth with his hands, turning his head from the gleaming wetness all but shoved in his face to watch, head leaning to the side. He just wanted to see her suck him down, only once, just in case she woke in the morning fully sober and horrified with herself. 

It was obscene, the way her petal pink lips parted and swallowed him. Elain pushed him down to her throat, halting halfway when she realized she could take no more. Lucien had to force himself to not thrust anyway, to gag her on him while chasing his own lurid, burning pleasure. Instead, needing to focus on anything but his wife and her perfect, wet mouth, Lucien yanked her back against his face and began licking with a vengeance. She’d still come on his face before she swallowed the taste of him, too. She was dripping wet, proof of her want, of her enjoyment not just from his mouth but of giving pleasure, too. 

And Lucien knew, as his tongue stroked faster, her hips grinding against his face, that he would have lied, cheated, and even killed to keep this woman, for whatever that was worth. For whatever it even meant. He didn’t want to examine the fear he’d felt when she’d so casually announced Graysen meant to take her back or the relief when she’d said she wanted to stay. It was just arousal, just possession.

And it wasn’t, at the same time. His heart, bruised and broken and hurt, was being knitted back together and it had nothing to do with the exquisite slide of her tongue as she sucked him down or the roll of her cunt against his mouth. It was the easy way Elain cared about things, her soft optimism, her willingness to try even when she was scared. 

Lucien spread her pussy open, drinking in the sight of her, sliding up over her clit, swirling over and over before sucking, his lips soft. He dove into the wet heat, fucking her with his tongue only to repeat the process. He was oversensitive, climax building in his sac and eating her was only making it worse. He couldn’t hold back and couldn’t stop his mouth, couldn’t make himself pull away to take a breath and get a grip.

Elain pressed her hips against him, rubbing faster and faster as she kept pace with her mouth. Lucien groaned, the leash slipping and Elain, blessedly, came with a muffled scream of pleasure, the sound vibrating through his erection. He bowed off the bed, pouring his own hot release into her throat without meaning to. Elain took it all, pulling back when he went limp and sliding beside him on the bed. Her mouth was swollen and red, her eyes bright, her mass of loose curls a perfect, wild halo around her face.

“I want you on my face every morning,” Lucien gasped, grabbing her and dragging her against him. “I want to eat you for breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me,” she whispered, ignoring his crude ask. “Vassa said…I would have crawled under your desk.”

Lucien exhaled sharply. “Tomorrow,” he whispered as Elain rolled away for a nightdress. He grabbed her.

“Naked,” he whispered, his exhaustion settling like a stone on his chest. Elain, too, was fading, her eyelashes fluttering against her sunwarmed cheeks. He expected her to grab one anyway or dive beneath the blankets to hide herself.

The last time he looked over at her, he realized she had fallen asleep, face nuzzled in the crook of his arm, naked body splayed against the mattress.

His.

ELAIN:

Elain woke beside Lucien for once, her cheek sticky against his chest. She peeled off him, naked but happy. He was splayed on his back, red hair half covering his golden face, with one hand brushed against his thigh casually. She was tempted to wake him with her mouth, to take him into her throat like she had the night before.

Later, she swore, noting the time on the wall. She’d made Arina and Vassa a promise, drunk as she was, though not so drunk she couldn’t remember in the daylight. Elain pressed a kiss to Lucien’s stubbled cheek before stealing out of bed. It was usually him creeping about in the first hours of dawn, vanishing before she had a chance to see him. Perhaps he meant it when he’d said he wanted to eat her for breakfast. 

The thought flooded through her, dampening between her legs. Later, she thought for the second time, though every part of her rebelled at the notion of waiting for some metaphorical other time when she could just beg her friends’ forgiveness.

Elain pulled a buttery yellow dress over her head without care or concern that she had no corset, no shift, not leggings or underwear or anything but the fabrics soft slide over her warm body. She’d grown too used to the freedom to move and run and breathe…to Lucien’s hands slipping under her skirt to touch. 

Her hair was hopeless, saved by a series of cords that tied it off her face and down her back in a criss-crossing fashion. It was enough for her purposes, she decided, as she gathered the things Nesta had once packed for her in that brown bag. Lucien stirred when Elain reached the door, turning on his side to look at her. His eye snagged on the bag, rousing him almost immediately.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked, his tone light but his words serious.

“For the moment,” she replied, tempted to get back into bed with him. “Meet me on the beach later?”

Lucien only nodded, his eyes never leaving her bag. It would have been far kinder to just tell him what she was doing, what they’d decided to do with her things from Ellesmere the day before, giggling and drunk as they stumbled over the burning sand. Elain had found it all so amusing the day before but in the early morning light, there was a weight to each step, to the strap slung over her shoulder.

It was rejection, not just of Graysen or her father but of the entire place, their customs, their people. She was shrugging off the life she’d been born into, of the title—princess of Ellesmere.

Elain’s throat was as dry as the sand beneath her feet by the time she reached the beach where Arina and Vassa had begun building a cheerful bonfire. She’d told herself this was her home now, her friends who were quickly becoming sisters.

And Lucien…Lucien, who had, upon hurting her, just let her go. Who swallowed his irritation or readjusted his plans if he realized she was not enjoying herself…who she liked, even when she didn’t want to. He was, despite being her purported enemy, a better match than she would ever dared hope for. 

“Ready?” Arina asked, watching Elain unzip the back and dump the contents to the ground. She only wanted one thing, the ugly iron band with the little blue stone cut in the center. She’d taken it off when she arrived, afraid the sight would enrage Lucien…afraid it would hurt her to see what might have been. It made her angry now, looking at the silver chain holding a promise Graysen had never meant to keep. 

“How does this work, again?” Elain asked, accepting the flask of water Vassa handed her.

“You say one thing you hate for everything you throw in,” Arina explained. Elain wondered if Jesminda had done something similar for Lucien when she’d been sent away. “It’s a cleansing, of sorts, a thank you to the Gods for intervening before you were trapped with someone terrible.”

Elain wrapped her hand around that chain and instead picked up the corset first. It was so rigid in her hand, the phantom feel of it against her ribs immediately drawing panic. Elain threw it into the rising flames, stepping back when the fire crackled, curling the flesh fabric in on itself and blackening it to ash.

“I hate that he stood by while father made me obedient with that whip,” Elain said, having never dared to admit that to anyone. Her friends went still beside her, eyes wide. Elain reached for another. “I hate that he punished me for trying to help.”

Another. “I hate him for what he did to Lucien's face,” and another, “I hate that he caged Feyre,” and another, “I hate that he never loved me the way I loved him.” It was that confession that broke the tether in her chest. Elain turned towards the sea, storming towards it as vicious as any hurricane, Arina and Vassa just at her feet. Elain screamed, throwing that ring into the crystalline depths, well aware it would likely just wash right back to shore. She should have asked Lucien to melt it into nothing, to grind it into dust. 

Twin hands came to rest on her shoulders and Elain, still staring out at the clear horizon, said, “I would have done anything for him.”

I would rather hang. 

Arina and Vassa pulled Elain into a hug and Elain wept, not for her stolen life or fear but in furious, bitter anger. “I would have died for him and he traded me like I was cattle.”

Elain pulled out of their grasp to look back at the fire and the rest of her things abandoned just beside, waiting to be thrown in, discarded and made ash.

At the top of the cresting sand stood Lucien in his leather armor, Jurian at his side. Sword strapped at his hip, hair pulled from his face though wisps blew in the salty breeze…and he watched without emotion, standing guard. Their eyes met and he nodded, inclining his head in a bow as if he understood why she needed to do this, why she hadn’t just told him. They stood watch, letting Elain, Arina, and Vassa continue their burning until even the bag had been discarded. Elain collapsed into the sand, exhausted and sweating. 

“I think I might be the worst kind of traitor,” she admitted, watching her clothing spew choking smoke towards an otherwise perfect sky. “But every time I imagine Graysen in this city I…”

“Lucien wouldn’t let him,” Arina murmured, clasping Elain’s hand. 

“The north has never come close to our walls,” Vassa added. 

“Lucien wouldn’t let them,” Elain murmured, closing her eyes to imagine what Lucien might be willing to give up in the name of peace. Her. The wife he’d never wanted, that he was still so stilted around, that had forced him to lose love. He could have her back, could go to Jes–

“I can hear your thoughts,” Vassa interrupted. “And you’re wrong.”

“If it was me or peace–”

“It will never be peace with them,” Arina interjected. “And we all know it. You being here…it’s just an interlude. A pretty lie wrapped up in a princesses skirt. We knew it when you arrived, we know it now. Lucien has honor, he agreed to the terms and when they break them as they always do, when they demand you back, the answer will be a resounding, furious no.”

“You’re ours, now,” Vassa added.

“Besides. Even if Lucien wanted to—and don’t look at me like that because I don’t believe he does—he could never show his face in this city again if he handed over his wife, no matter the terms. It’s not done. You protect your wife above your own life and everyone, even his own father, would rather see him die than put shackles on your wrist and give you back.”

“You’re Princess of Naxos, now,” Vassa agreed. “We would not follow him if he sent you to Ellesmere with Graysen.”

Elain turned to look at Lucien, still standing guard, still watching. “I don’t understand him,” she murmured. He would rather keep a woman he didn’t want than have his own well-deserved happiness? Neither Arina or Vassa answered, remaining tangled on the beach instead, until the fire was little more than crumbling embers scattered along the water. Servants came to put it out, to clear it away, leaving the three to trudge to Jurian and Lucien standing between the sand and stone. Was his presence symbolic or had he truly believed she meant to escape? 

Elain understood when she came before him and Lucien swept into a bow. It wasn’t mocking but sincere, and in his hands, unseen from her place on the beach, was the crown she’d lost the day before. Returned by someone who knew what it meant, put back atop her head with a reverent, murmuring, “Princess.”

Lucien reached for her hand, brushing a kiss to her knuckles while their friends witnessed, straightening his spine until he hovered over her. Prince of the daylight, of sun and sea and sand.

“Wife,” he added with a soft breath. “Welcome home.”

Elain exhaled.

Welcome home.

Chapter 12 - Don't be scared, it is mostly fluff

Winter’s grip had slipped enough to allow a bright day in Velaris. It was cold enough still that they needed to bundle up in coats and scarves – which Azriel took great care in tucking around Nesta’s neck and into the front of her coat, peppering kisses on her skin as he did.

The atmosphere had changed. From those first rays of sun that signalled the demise of winter, everybody seemed to have a spring in their step. Each market trader they passed whistled or called out a chipper hello. Children were out with their parents, tugging their hands along.

‘This is lovely.’

Although the late February sun was thawing the world, giving way to the beginnings of spring, Nesta still felt a little uneasy. There were a few looks as they passed. Some looked away then back as if piecing together bits of a story. The Cauldron born sister who’d been ready to die with the general… but was now walking along arm in arm with the wrong Illyrian. Sensing her tension, Azriel squeezed her arm.

‘Our love is ours. It belongs to nobody else.’

If Nesta had said she wanted to return to the apartment, she knew that Azriel would not question it. He’d even winnow them rather than prolong it by walking. It was nice to be out. Not to hide. The apartment had begun to feel like a jail with the four walls compressing in on them. Nesta could not run back to it at the first sign of discomfort. It could become their sanctuary again, a home filled with love. Nesta squeezed the arm she held a little tighter.

‘Where would you like to go?’

‘I have never really been anywhere here,’ Nesta admitted save for the few taverns when she’d been too lazy to cook and they offered hot food at a handful of coins.

Azriel led her along the winding streets, quietly mentioning places they could visit or shops she might like. Nesta was happy to listen. Happy for him to steer them along.

‘George has asked whether I can begin working alongside him at his office,’ Nesta said. Her elderly neighbour had stopped her in the stairwell, asking whether she’d consider the employment alongside his son for a real wage rather than a pouch filled with coins stuffed through her letterbox.

‘That’s great news. Still managing the accounts?’

‘Yes.’

Azriel leaned in to kiss her temple. ‘I’m proud of you. Well done.’

‘I haven’t started yet. I might be awful at it.’

‘I can still be proud of you. And you won’t be awful. Don’t say such lies.’

They walked to the opposite end of the city. It was the most Nesta had walked, ever. They reached a set of gates that were propped open with a wide path running through the middle. Despite the season, all of the flora around them bloomed with colour.

‘What is this place?’

‘A botanical garden kept thriving by magic.’

It was beautiful. There were even bumblebees gathered on the row of lavender growing, butterflies swooping in front of them as they passed from one flower to the next.

‘One of Rhys’ ancestors supposedly planted the first tree here for his love.’

Nesta pulled Azriel in for a kiss. ‘And why haven’t you planted me any trees?’

His lips brushed against her ear as he murmured, ‘If you’re a good girl today, I’ll bend you over the counter tonight instead, how’s that?’

Their sexual appetite had been suppressed at Rosehall. Nesta was almost too scared to even kiss him knowing his mother was in the same house. She was still mortified that Rovena had seen them both in bed together even if they’d been drowsy and not long opened their eyes rather in the middle of a scandal. They had certainly made up for it in the couple of days since they’d returned to Velaris.

‘I suppose that’s satisfactory.’

Azriel let out a noise like he’d been struck. ‘Satisfactory? That’s how you grade me?’

‘Would you like a full report afterwards, Spymaster? I shall judge your stamina, the effort, originality, and of course, how many times I receive my pleasure.’

They walked through an orchard where trees dripped with ripe, swollen fruit. Azriel pulled Nesta in with an arm around her shoulders. A slow, creeping smile made its way onto his face. ‘When I’m done with you tonight, you won’t be able to think about anything but me for a week.’

‘Don’t make such rash promises.’

Azriel blew out a breath. ‘You’re in a teasing mood today. That’s alright. Whatever you give me now, I’ll give to you worse tonight. When you’re on your knees begging me to let you come, know that you started this.’

Despite being in public, despite everything else, Nesta nuzzled her face into Azriel’s neck and let out a satisfied little groan. She ensured that her breasts pressed against him as they walked, with him guiding her steps. ‘You wouldn’t be so cruel to me. And your shadows definitely wouldn’t.’

Nesta had tried her best to reverse her teasing but the male was more stubborn than her. Azriel kissed her simply on the head. ‘You’ll find out tonight, won’t you?’

There was a small vendor in the botanical gardens amongst the waxy plants from hot lands. She sold cones of spiralling pastry rolled in cinnamon sugar and almonds then filled with cream and melted chocolate. Nesta's eyes had gone as large as saucers when she’d saw them. Azriel indulged her whim, choosing to watch her devour it rather than have one for himself.

‘Apparently, they come from Illyria. That’s how they flog them here. But I’ve never seen them there,’ he said as Nesta got stuck in gobbling the edges.

‘It’s so good.’

‘Nesta, stop moaning like this in public,’ he urged, subtly adjusting his trousers. Shadows wreathed the bench they sat on.

The sugar rush was worth it as Nesta ploughed her way through half of it in record time. It dripped onto her fingers. The cream ran down her hands quicker than she could lick it off.

‘Help me,’ she begged before sucking a finger.

Azriel sat with wide eyes. ‘We’ll get called exhibitionists if I help.’

Nesta had never allowed herself to be so undignified in public before. Chocolate was smeared around her lips, sugar had dropped all in her lap, and she had eaten it with absolutely no manners whatsoever. But Azriel remained opposite her on the bench, eyes sparkling with amusement at the state she had gotten herself into. He’d take all of her; even the parts smothered in sugar.

‘I didn’t know it would be quite so messy.’

Azriel gave her one of his rare, true smiles. It lit up his whole face. He was so beautiful, like a hero from a story given flesh. His arm went around her again on the bench to draw Nesta close. With a sigh, he said, ‘My Nesta.’

His body warmed them enough to remain on the bench watching the world go by. And it was nice to let the world move past them, unhurried and undisturbed. Today was a declaration to the world that they were together – and always would be. It would garner wings, no doubt, that the Night Court’s shadow singer had entwined himself with the Kingslayer and spread maybe even further than the court’s borders. But Nesta never cared for gossip. The only one whose opinion had any value was sat beside her with his head tilted against hers.

‘I didn’t know this place existed,’ Nesta admitted on their final amble through the bark-covered paths of the gardens. ‘I should have brought Elain here when she was struggling. It might have helped.’

‘It might have helped,’ Azriel agreed. ‘But what you did was enough. More than enough, Nesta.’

It didn’t feel like enough. Enough would have been stowing Elain safely into Graysen’s arms the second Feyre and the Night Court left their home in the mortal lands. They should have anticipated an attack from Hybern. Enough would have been wrenching herself free from the sentry’s arms and somehow saving Elain before she was pushed into the Cauldron.

‘Hey,’ Azriel said, stroking her cheek. ‘Regrets will eat you up from the inside out. Don’t feed them.’

***

Although both of them preferred the quiet solitude that came with their home, neither was willing to return to it that day. Now that they could be out together without needing to hide or fabricate a tale, it was bliss. After hours spent in every shop Velaris had to offer – including the lingerie one which Azriel was more than happy to spend a fortune in – they finally strolled back towards their apartment. This female had him entirely under her control. He’d follow her off the end of the world. And she was currently mentioning how much she had loved his mother’s cats, and how nice it would be to have one. Azriel gave himself two days before he was bringing one home for her.

‘Oh!’ Nesta stopped in her tracks, turning her face upwards. ‘I know this song.’

She caught his hand and led him down a narrow street to a grimy tavern where music seeped from the open doors.

It was bigger inside than it appeared from first glance, but each table was full of revellers including plenty of lesser fae. The band itself was made up of them; the music was traditional folk music full of fiddles and brass. None of it put Nesta off. Her face had loosened at the first few notes of music she’d heard and her expression had given way to one of relaxation.

They stood with their drinks against a wall. Azriel kept an arm around Nesta’s front as she leant back against him, sipping her ale without scrunching up her nose. Never would he imagine that Nesta Archeron would choose ale, let alone drink it without a fuss. It was cold and crisp. Nesta had slurped the foam top the moment it was in her hands.

Azriel could almost see all of those defences she built slipping away for him. He was privileged enough to see the Nesta who didn’t need to be prim and proper. If she belched in front of him that night, he’d probably laugh himself hoarse after her mess with the pastry. This was a Nesta who was allowed to try new things without judgement, to be the person she wanted to be. And he loved all of her.

When she finished her drink, Nesta didn’t burp. But she did do something else that surprised Azriel entirely.

She began to sing along with the band.

It was a popular enough song that hearing it for five hundred years had ingrained the lyrics to his own memory, but he didn’t even know how Nesta had come across it. She tapped on his hands that were around her waist. She swayed within his arms. Her body tipped back against his as the words spilled out from her lips.

Azriel was mesmerised by her.   

He crossed his arms over her body, keeping his scarred hands on her shoulders as Nesta tipped back her head to look up at him. She continued singing, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth as she did. Her voice was beautiful. Even when she forgot a line and snorted before starting again, Azriel could have listened to Nesta sing all night.

When seats had become free, they joined a table despite the recognition in the group’s eyes as they settled. Late into the night, Nesta had joined their conversations in between lulls of the songs then eventually Azriel did too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out in Velaris and spoke to its people in a non-official capacity. They stayed in that tavern for the entire night until the wearied landlord tossed them all out into the cold streets.

Full of ale and cheer, Azriel carried Nesta home in his arms. She refused flight, swearing her drinks would slosh too much in her stomach – and she was not in a hurry to get back to the apartment with winnowing.

‘I didn’t know you could sing.’

She squirmed a little. ‘Everybody can.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘It was lovely.’

‘If I’m to be a bard, it shall only be in taverns.’

‘I will sing to shadows and you can sing to wearied travellers over a tankard.’

‘A career I’m considering.’ Nesta looped her arms round his neck as Azriel continued carrying her.

With a smell of alcohol on her breath and a flush on her cheeks from the cold, Azriel had never seen Nesta so natural and carefree. She kissed his face in a pattern then he realised it was to the tune of the last song they’d heard, kissing on the beat.

‘I wish I could take you to the Spring Court. Historically, they’ve always been the best at music. Most of the songs we have in Prythian came from there.’

Nesta sang to him under her breath as she closed her eyes against his chest.

‘Or maybe we can get you an instrument.’

‘I play piano. Or I did. And the harp.’

The moment Azriel stopped walking, Nesta forced open her eyes. They were at their front doors of the apartment building – so was Rhys.

‘Why are you here?’

Gently, Azriel settled Nesta onto the ground and put his body in front of hers. He had been too distracted, hadn’t thought to check for any threats in his city. A hand stayed pressed to Nesta even behind his back as Azriel swept the vicinity for signs of Cassian.

Rhys held up his hand. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘We met yesterday.’

‘For work,’ Rhys said. ‘I don’t mean any trouble, Az, you know that.’

‘Then why are you here at this time?’

Rhys picked off lint from his jacket. ‘Because I’m trying not to go in your head and find you that way to give you space. But I’ve been here three times today and you’ve not been home. I just want to talk. To both of you.

‘We’ve been out,’ he said flatly. ‘I don’t appreciate you keep coming here, Rhys.’

It was Nesta who said, ‘It’s alright. We can talk inside.’

Her fingers linked with his and she brought Azriel’s hand to her lips to kiss it. Rhys remained watching their tender gesture then indicated for them to lead the way. Azriel kept his body behind Nesta’s. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Rhys per se, but he wouldn’t risk Nesta in any way.

Azriel waited for Rhys’ lip to curl. For him to make a comment about the apartment – about its damp stairwell or cracked ceiling – but none came. He and Nesta had tried to make this one more liveable. Soon, they’d buy somewhere bigger where they had more space, maybe a library for her, a cushioned reading nook in the sun. Whatever Nesta wanted, Azriel would build for her.

They moved in synchronicity. Nesta always liked her cup of tea before bed, so she boiled the water while he prepared a tray for three. Their wild plans for the bedroom were already on pause after the night spent in the tavern. Nesta’s yawns filled the silence too. Azriel knew the moment her head hit the pillow, she’d be gone.

Rhys had made himself useful and lit the fire in the living room. He’d settled himself in the chair though he looked about as comfortable as if he were having a meeting in the Autumn Court.

‘These are good. Where did you find them?’ He said taking a second jam tart from the little plate on the tray.

‘Nesta made them,’ said Azriel as he settled beside her on the couch.

‘They’re not poisoned,’ she said with a flick of her brows.

‘You know how to bake?’

Nesta shook her head dismissively. ‘They’re very easy.’

‘She does know,’ Azriel said. ‘She can cook very well. There’s about six recipe books in the kitchen. And she has been learning with my mother.’

Rhys didn’t seem to know how to process that information. He had two females in his mind; Nesta, the sister of his mate, and Nesta the partner of his brother. He was trying to marry the two together. His violet eyes took in their proximity to each other nestled on the couch, how Nesta’s hand had snagged in his scarred one, how her thumb massaged one of the thicker scars following it like a valley on a map without revulsion.

‘Did you enjoy your time in Illyria?’

Nesta nodded in response but offered no more information.

The silence was painful. Rhys was trying at least, but there were long-running issues there between them that a couple of questions wouldn’t heal.

‘She wants a cat now.’

‘Your shadows want one, they told me.’

Rhys sat up in surprise. ‘They speak to you?’

Both Azriel and Nesta laughed. ‘No, she says they do to get what she wants.’

At that moment, one had decided to snake itself around Nesta’s shoulders then another in solidarity. It had never been this way with anybody. The shadows always unnerved people. They moved of their own accord and thrived in the darkness. Nesta loved it when they wrapped her up and Azriel heard her talking to them enough as if they were playful children.

Rhys gave a wan smile as he watched. ‘Have you told Nesta?’

‘Yes.’

The fingers in his hand grew cold as they reached the reason for Rhys’ unexpected visit.

‘What is your decision, Nesta, on the mating bond?’

For an unknown reason, Azriel’s heart beat faster. There was a fear that Nesta might suddenly change her mind. Decide he wasn’t worth this. As if she was afraid to tell him the truth for fear of his reaction.

‘I do not want it. My heart is Azriel’s.’

He braced himself for the fall out. For Rhys to try and persuade her otherwise. For Nesta to drive her heels into the ground with her stubbornness and refuse to hear another perspective.

Rhys only nodded. ‘I will speak with Helion. He is best-equipped to sever it. Sorry for disturbing you so late. Thank you for the tea – and the jam tarts.’

‘You can take the rest, if you want,’ Nesta said hesitantly.

‘They are poisoned, aren’t they?’ There was lightness in Rhys’ tone and he kept his expression soft enough for Nesta to see the joke.

‘Next time - now I know what you like.’

 Azriel saw him out, if only to ensure it wasn’t a strange trick and Cassian was waiting in the corridor to ambush them and spirit Nesta away. He shut the door behind him, sensing Rhys would also want to speak privately.

‘This is a mess, Az. It will destroy Cass.’

‘And what would it do to Nesta to be in a bond that would make her miserable?’

Rhys nodded. ‘And you. She was singing, wasn’t she, when you carried her?’

It was almost criminal to admit to Rhys that he had seen Nesta singing as Azriel brought her home like a princess.

‘We’re happy.’

‘I know. I can feel it from both of you.' On instinct, his eyes flicked to Azriel's ruined hands. Yes, he'd seen how Nesta hadn't pulled away from them either. 'It’s unexpected – but I’m so happy for you, Az. Really. I know how much this means to you.’

‘You’re not going to persuade us to give into the bond?’

His high lord shook his head. ‘Nesta and Cassian aren’t even friends at this point. Why would I sacrifice the happiness of you two for the chance that the bond might work out when all signs point to it not working? I love Cass, I do, and I wish things could be different for him.’  

‘But you support us?’

In the dim hallway, Rhys clasped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I had doubts, I won’t lie. I saw you in the gardens today. Then the singing. I haven’t been good to Nesta, I’ll admit that I’m blinded by my love for Feyre. But you are good for each other. I’m glad you’ve chosen each other. To make amends, I’ll handle Cassian.’

@chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @theleafpile @loysydark @rarephloxes @wannawriteyouabook @mis-lil-red

I just wanna grab Time's midrift.

if you have an android phone get newpipe

thank me later.

NewPipe

NewPipe - a free YouTube client

Severance is so good!!!!

OH. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS.

Pov i take your beloved characters and disfigure them until they become near unrecognizable

PLSPSLPSLSLSSSSSSSS

THE SURPRISE IS *drum roll please*...

köNIF FUCKINF DIESS DBWJSJAJAJA😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

i swear ro mtself (not god cuz its getting disrespectful st this ppoint🗿) why the fuck do i do rjis to myself 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Edit: did not regret this tho 🤭🤭

Loved LOVED the love letter au!💘🥹...

... Anyways im abt to ruin ! 😇

Can I ask you to write a cheerful, unassuming letter from König.?

It details his optimism for finishing the current mission and is basically him professing his love and declaring how mucu he misses reader while om deployment, how he will keeo fighting his love. So far, so good, right ?...

...The letter reaches reader long after König's passing, delivered by his colleague believing that it is what König would uave wanted. It's soaked in his blood, some letters are smudged, but it's the final piece of König that tje reader has of him.

Despite treasuring the fragile letter and holding it ever-so-gently in their trembling hands, a few tear drops stain the blood-soaked paper.

Every now and again, reader steals millisecond glances of the letter framed on their wall, yet any longer than that and they'll break down again.

(hate to do this to my hubby 😞💔)

you're about to regret this pookie

To my love, (Name),

I cannot wait to get back home to you, life has been dull without your smiling face staring at me when I wake up. I miss your breakfast meals and soft kisses in the mornings. I cannot wait to be able to remember what the feeling of love and safety feels when I am with you again. I have been so stressed lately and I have been wanting nothing more than to hold you in my arms again and show you just how much I've missed you, schatz. Your smiling face in the photo I have of you is the only thing that's keeping me going. Fighting for you and fighting to keep myself alive has been extremely hard this mission. I find myself in near death situations more often than not

But as you know me, I always manage to get out of them. I will return home to you in 3 days. It will be 1 day when you receive this letter, mein liebling. I hope for the days to go by faster so I can see you again, wanting nothing more than to kiss your lips and hold your waist close to me again. Going through these missions leave me feeling grateful I can still manage to live through the things that happen on the battlefield. But rescuing those who deserve and need it makes me swell with pride on most days. I miss and love you, your touch sets me aflame like no other. I will see you when I get back. I even have a surprise planned for you then.

Love, Your König

My poetry collections:

Field Guide to the Haunted Forest

Love Notes from the Hollow Tree

Leaf Litter

Available from most online booksellers (audiobooks now available).

CryptoNaturalist.com/books

love you goodbye.

— jung jaehyun

･*:༅｡ the one with the story of dysfunctional love between you and jaehyun.

aka, you both want different things and your love isn’t always enough.

inspo: song - love you goodbye.

stanzas in italics indicate flashback/memory.

bold lettering indicates song lyrics.

It wasn’t a secret that yours and Jaehyun’s relationship was the epitome of dysfunctional.

You two had been together for two years which formed quite the surprise between your mutual friends.

You had been close friends with Jaehyun for many, many years which meant you knew exactly the type of person he was.

He didn’t do long-term, nor had he been able to stay in a committed relationship. He was a bit reckless and loved to live in the moment. Thinking about a future and settling down with one person for the rest of his life was out of the question. It scared him, and he didn’t like being scared.

But the moment he met you, he just knew, you were going to be the one to change that.

Keep reading

Claire Novak studies that had to happen at some point, or #everyone within spnverse has major family issues but no one does it like Claire

read on AO3 (2.5k words)

tagging some mutuals:

@holyroad @fellshish @doctorprofessorsong @one-more-offbeat-anthem @dualityofcastiel @corancoranthemagicalman @caduceuzs @carverera @hardcoremisery @angeltiddies @faithcastiel @orionsangel86 @theedorksinlove @deanisbisexual @alivedean @castielscarma @dadstiel @donestiel @smiledean @youchangedmedean @alsaurus-loves-dean @castiels-pussy-main @thecwsniper @bestiarum @rainbowscas @darkshrimpemotions @jellydeans @pieprincess-andthe-fallenangel @wigglebox @ltleflrt @clairenatural @wormstacheangel @thisisapaige @bluefirecas @c-kaeru @seffersonjtarship @nabokovlen @angelwithaslushiemaker @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @shelikestv @miraclecastiel @chaoticdean @floral-cas @chocolatecakecas @transjewdean @starrynightdeancas @casenergies

feel free to ask to be removed :)

Love, close your eyes, there are stories to tell…

DID I FORGET TO REBLOG THIS?!?!

*facepalms*

HOW DID I FORGET TO REBLOG THIS?!?!?

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵 I love this art so much 🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

Day 11 and 12

Music/Dance || Favorite Game

decided to just combine day 11 and day 12

Why am I crying why am i crying why am I

source