Giselle Did Nothing Wrong.

i just think that them <3

Overwhelming Emotions - Grimmjow Jaegarjaquez

A/N: So life has been turbulent and just stressful lately? And amidst the chaos, this little idea popped into my head wondering what it would be like to have Grimmjow comforting me when I'm overwhelmed. So I have been working on this for the last few days! Is it a kind of silly idea just because of HOW Grimmjow is? Probably—but I also like thinking that despite the fact he's an aggressive guy, once he's in a relationship he'd try his best to figure everything out? Even if he's rough around the edges and struggling a bit.

GN!Reader

💗Fluff - Hurt/Comfort💗 Warnings - Swearing, Grimmjow being frustrated/aggressive in the beginning

1,000 Words

He wasn’t sure which was more pathetic—how you looked all curled up on the bed with your blanket pulled up past your head, or how he felt inside looking at you in such a state. Either way? Grimmjow hated it. It irritated him to hear the silent little sobs you were trying so hard to hold back, it pissed him off that you wouldn’t talk to him, and it made his blood boil to not know what was wrong with you or how to fix it.  

Grimmjow moved from his place in your doorway to your bedside, trying gently at first to pull your blanket off—only to be met with resistance. He clicked his tongue, “Hey, what the hell is your problem?” He grunted, using more force in an attempt to rip you out of your cocoon and failing, “Seriously dumbass? Get the fuck out of there and talk to me! Are you sick or somethin’? Come on!” His tone got more and more frustrated as he tried so hard to wrestle that stupid, fluffy barrier that kept you separated from him.  

The Arrancar just wanted to look at you at this point, whether or not you were angry with him after he took the dumb blanket from you? He didn’t care—he just needed to see your eyes, feel your weak little punches on his shoulder, hear you shout at him. Anything but that sad whimpering that somehow seemed to be getting louder and louder in his ears.  

But you didn’t give, pulling the blanket from his grip and tucking it further and tighter around you as you scrunched into an even smaller little ball. Grimmjow roared, kicking the dresser that sat next to your bed with a loud *thunk*, “DAMMIT! STOP BEING SO STUBBORN!” He shouted, only making you weep more; the little lump that was your body violently trembling. 

Grimmjow groaned, clenched fists hitting the top of the now messed-up dresser as he took one long, deep breath. He wasn’t trying to scare you; you were the last person he actually wanted to scare—ever. But he didn’t know how to express or explain that weird, grating feeling that seemed to brew inside of what he thought was a once-dead and empty heart. That strange, uncomfortable, nagging pain that seemed to grow the more you cried in front of him.  

He could feel a pang in his heart as he heard you, an unpleasant and annoying feeling of guilt for scaring you creeping inside of him and making him even more angry. It wasn’t any big secret that Grimmjow wasn’t the best with emotions, nor was he the most comforting or patient person to deal with—much less be in a relationship with. All he knew was chaos and rage, not how to tell from moment to moment how you felt or what to do about it. 

He needed you to tell him what was wrong. You’d guided him through so much in your relationship so far, telling him how to act or what to say in certain situations. He always acted annoyed and bothered by it, teasing you about how dumb it all was. Who were you to give orders to a powerful being such as him anyway? But now, as a wave of stress, guilt, confusion, and anger washed over him, he wanted your nagging words more than anything. 

How could he help you? What could he do to make you stop crying? What could he do to get rid of that aching feeling in his chest? How could he protect you from something he didn’t understand? All he wanted more than anything was to just hold you, keep you safe, feel your heartbeat so all of his nerves could stop standing on end—so he could stop worrying about you. 

Grimmjow sighed, clenching his fists so tight that his knuckles turned white as he heard your cries get even more strained, your breathing labored as you hiccupped in between each sob. “Fuck it.” He muttered to himself, stomping around your room to the other side of the bed. He collapsed onto your mattress with enough force that you bounced upwards, adjusting himself to face what he assumed was your back. 

He could feel you tense up for a moment as he snaked one hand underneath your blanket and onto your stomach, pulling you softly yet snugly against his body, leaving no space between you and him. He buried his nose into the blanket, closing his eyes as he took a deep inhale of your familiar and comforting scent. He didn’t know if this was the right thing to do—but all his instincts told him was he needed to feel you, hold you, do something other than just stand there like an idiot 

“Sorry, I got so pissed off and scared you, baby.” He mumbled into you, pressing kisses against your blanketed form “It wasn’t your fault, I...got nervous and didn’t know what to do when I saw you like this. I have a lot of this idiotic relationship shit to still learn, don’t I?” He joked, earning a mixture of a cry and a laugh from you. 

“Yeah...you do.” You finally said shakily, your voice hoarse, putting your own hand over his. He chuckled lightly in response, pulling you even somehow tighter against him. You started to relax a little the longer he held you, your sobs continuing on for a few minutes more as he did nothing but draw little patterns with his fingers across your torso and whispered "Love ya" over and over.  

If you wanted to hide under that dumb blanket? Grimmjow wasn’t going to stop you. But as long as he could be next to you as you hid from the world under there, crying whatever you needed to get out of your system? He wasn’t going to let you do it alone—and he sure as hell was going to murder whatever got you feeling like this afterward.  

Please consider leaving me a like, comment, or reblog if you enjoyed my work! Find my Rules and Request Info HERE

Assistant to the Hero Part II - Amajiki x Reader

Requested and beta'd by @fuzztacular , Part of my Follower Celebration

Part I - Masterlist

3,5 Months as his assistant

There are no more gifts on your desk.

Instead, you find them in front of your room at the most random of times.

One of your favorites, a blue piece of sea glass, sits next to your coffee cup one morning.

Amajiki’s sitting at the table just a few steps away, finishing his breakfast.

“Thank you.” You say, picking up the sea glass. He must have put it there while you went to the bathroom.

“It reminded me of you.” He says, voice almost calm.

“Because I’m blue?” You tease and hold it in front of your left eye as if to look through.

“It’s rare.” He says instead, a distant look in his eyes you cannot place.

-

Amajiki places a DVD on your desk just after lunch.

You glance down at the cover and back up to him.

“Where did you get that?”

“Mirio’s girlfriend lent it to me.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, blushing. “I told her you wanted to see it. It’s for movie night.”

“We can’t always watch what I want to see. You gotta pick the next one.”

He nods, a little smile pulling at his lips.

-

“Here.” You grab two Bento Boxes from the Fridge and present them to Amajiki. “I made us Lunch.”

“Oh?” He opens one of the Boxes. “Octopus sausage?”

“I’ll put the real thing in next time. You just have to tell me when you want Lunch and when you want to eat out, okay?”

“Yeah.” That little smile is back and you wish you could look at it a little while longer without being a creep.

-

It’s Tuesday and you’re on the Couch, hot water bottle on your stomach, chocolate open on the table in front of you.

Amajiki freezes in the doorway. “Did something happen?” He asks, whispering.

“Huh?” You look up from your book, sniffling. “Oh, no, I’m just… I’m on my period and I’m reading this book… This part is just really sad.”

“Why? What happened?”

“There’s this dog… His owner had a pet-food shop but died and he’s defending the shop in case his owner comes back…”

“And?” Amajiki’s now standing next to the Couch, peering down at you anxiously.

“The bad guys just destroyed the shop.”

“Oh no.” 

“Yeah.” You nod, wiping your eyes. “But there’s this guy, he’s a little silly, but he means well, and I think he’s going to help the dog take revenge.”

“Is he?”

“I don’t know yet, I’ve just read this, listen…”

When the chapter ends and your voice is hoarse from reading, the dog’s fate is still not decided.

It might be your Hormones speaking, but Amajiki seems interested in its fate just as much as you are so you pat the spot next to you and urge him to come closer, hold the book out so that both of you can read at once.

When it does end happy, you sink back into the cushions with a happy sigh.

“That was a good book.” Amajiki mumbles next to you.

“It was.” You hum happily, sleep pulling you in. “Do you read too?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of stuff?” You close your eyes as you speak. Just for a second, to rest your eyes, you tell yourself.

“I can show you next time.” He offers and you nod.

“Next Tuesday, kay?” You mumble, words a little slurred.

-

4,5 Months as his assistant

You’re in the middle of making Dinner when Amajiki comes home from the gym.

“I’m going to shower.” He says right after greeting, shuffling off to the bathroom.

“Kay, but don’t take too long. I’m making Takoyaki.”

-

Dinner is the time when Amajiki is the least nervous. 

He’s usually focused on his food, doesn’t have to listen, doesn’t have to look at you and you can’t help but use this to your advantage.

It’s the only time you really get to look at him, at the little satisfied smile that curls around his lips when he likes the food or how his nose scrunches up when he’s not that fond of it. He doesn’t have the biggest appetite, but with his quirk, he likes to try new things.

Tonight, his hair is still wet from the shower, a floppy, dark mess that’s only parted by his ears.

Your eyes find them eventually, and not for the first time you wonder if they’re sensitive. They remind you of cats ears and the thought of him as a little Neko has you dig into your food, trying to calm your racing heart.

“Do you want to go out for Lunch tomorrow?” Amajiki asks, voice a little shaky.

When you look up, surprised by his sudden question, the tips of his ears are red and a blush is working its way onto his face.

“I didn’t make a Bento Box yet, so if you want to eat out, that’s no problem.”

“No, I mean, yes… but, do you want to get Lunch… together?”

You blink in surprise. A thought hits you, its implications making your heart skip before you berate yourself. No, it’s definitely not a date, don’t get ahead of yourself.

“Sure. I’d love to. Where did you want to go?”

Amajiki doesn’t talk for a moment, mouth open as if he’s still processing your answer.

“Amajiki?”

“Oh, yes.” He snaps back to himself. “There’s a new restaurant down the street. They make Butter Chicken and you mentioned you like that.”

“Oh, Butter Chicken!” You clap your hands in excitement. “You know me so well.”

He chuckles and nods, turns back to his meal.

It’s a Tuesday, and just like the weeks before, he leaves for his room right after dinner to pick out the book he wants to read tonight. He gets the snacks and the drinks, preps the living room while you do the dishes.

Tuesdays, like Fridays, have become a thing in your household. On Tuesdays you read books, on Fridays you watch a movie. He doesn’t have that many other nights that he’s consistantly home at the same time as Patrol times love to change, but you find yourself next to him at least two times more each week, trying out some new video game his best friend recommended or watching the Hero news together.

It’s cozy and it makes you feel like you’re in a relationship, making it harder and harder to keep yourself focused on the truth. He is just a friend, you’re just his roommate. And his assistant.

-

On your way out of the agency, you meet Kirishima, who beams at you.

“Hey, long time no see. How are you?”

“I’m doing great. Are you going for lunch too? We’re trying out the new restaurant down the street.”

“I-” Kirishima stutters to your surprise. When you glance at Amajiki for backup, you realize why. Amajiki’s leveling Kirishima with a glare you’ve never seen on him before.

“Everything okay, Amajiki?” He seems to snap back to himself, shaking his head a little as if to clear his mind.

“Everything fine. Sorry, I think I zoned out a little. But I think Kirishima’s already busy. He mentioned something earlier, right?”

“Right.” Kirishima clears his throat awkwardly. “But have fun, you guys.”

-

It’s awkward at first. 

You’re used to eating with him, at the kitchen table in your shared apartment, where he’s as calm and collected as he can possibly be.

But it’s different out here. 

He barely opens his mouth, even though you get the table at the back. Once, twice his hand moves across the table as if trying to touch yours but he always pulls back. 

You wouldn’t have minded his touch, not if it would make him more comfortable and even less if it meant he was that comfortable with you.  

But he doesn’t seem to dare and you don’t either.

“This was nice.” You still point out when it’s time to pay. His mouth tells you that he’s getting anxious again, that thin, wobbly line you will always be able to recognize him by. “We should do it again.”

“Really?” He asks, his eyes on your shoulder to avoid eye contact while you watch the fingers of his left-hand play with the sleeve of his cardigan on his right arm.

“Really.” You nod to emphasize your point.

When the waiter arrives with the bill, Amajiki moves to pay.

“I got it.” He points out firmly when you still grab your wallet. “It’s on me.”

“You don’t have to-” You insist, only to be interrupted.

“You two are very cute.” The waiter, a middle-aged guy, all but swoons at your sight. “First dates are so precious, am I right?” 

Amajiki blushes up to the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t deny it.

And even though it’s not real, you don’t deny it either. 

Even if it’s just a silly little fantasy, it’s nice to live in it, if only for a moment.

-

6 months as his assistant

It’s Saturday morning and the sun is peaking through the window.

You need a minute to wrap your head around the fact that you’re sleeping on the Couch.

It’s warm and comfy under the blankets and if not for your bladder screaming at you, you could stay here forever.

As you slowly work at untangling your legs from the blanket, something moves by your side. With a low groan, Amajiki lifts his head, stretches out his arm, and pulls you closer toward him, settling his face in your neck.

You freeze. Are you still asleep? Did your usual dreams become hyperrealistic all of a sudden?

But his breath tickles your skin and you can’t imagine the weight of his arm over your chest, right?

A part of yourself - the part that doesn’t need to pee - tells you to go back to sleep. You’ll never get a chance like this if Amajiki was awake.

But the larger part of yourself screams at you to get up.

If Amajiki wouldn’t do this if he was awake you have no right to use his sleeping body to cuddle. Carefully you pick up his arm and slip out from beneath it.

When he grumbles, you grab a pillow from the floor and place it where you’d been a second before.

He pulls it closer just like he did with you and digs his nose into the soft fabric.

Amajiki looks, there’s no denying it, as cute as a kitten. 

Your hand darts out before you can stop yourself, to push a stray lock of dark blue hair behind his ear. His hair is soft and he sighs at the touch, relaxing further into the pillows.

You sigh. 

“Amajiki.” You whisper. No reaction. “I’m falling in love with you.”

He lets out a tiny snore and you swallow your emotions for yet another day and turn for the bathroom. If he asks about this, you’ll deny it ever happened.

-

You wonder if he can feel it.

The shift in the air. The new awkwardness that wasn’t there before.

How your eyes seem to get stuck on his mouth whenever you talk. 

You’ve always been hyperaware of him, but this is a different level.

Your body cannot decide where it wants to be. Near him, where you can see and smell and touch him, or far far away from him where you can forget that this isn’t a thing. You’re just roommates, coworkers, maybe friends.

There’s no denying that you need a little space, so you skip lunch with him in favor of locking yourself in a bathroom stall and calling Kyoko.

“Are you sure you don’t have a chance?” She asks, always the voice of reason.

“We have a good thing going on.” You say instead. “I work for him. I don’t want to jeopardize that. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself if I was the reason he feels no longer safe at work.”

“Well, you know the theory of getting over feelings like that. But are you ready to put that into practice?”

“What do you mean?” You know exactly what she means. You just don’t want to hear it.

But Kyoko isn’t your best friend because she keeps the ugly truth to herself. 

“You will have to move out. I know that this is part of your ‘good thing’ but you cannot stay there and get over yourself. Imagine how it would be if he brought home a girl.”

Her words are like knives to your heart. Wet stains appear on your skirt and you realize that you’ve started crying, soundlessly.

You really, really, really don’t want to move out. You don’t want to lose what you have, but this is the real world. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

“Okay.” Your voice sounds almost normal and Kyoko does not comment on it. “I’ll start looking. Talk to you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Love you, take care.”

The call ends and you lean back, rest your head on the wall, and pull your knees up to your chest. Not the most comfortable position to sit on a toilet seat, but you’re not at your most comfortable to begin with.

The door opens. You freeze, well aware of how you must look. You put on Mascara this morning, the non-waterproof-kind. You will not show yourself to anyone until your makeup is fixed.

“No one here.” A voice says from the door. “So, what’s the tea?”

“I heard Kirishima started dating someone.”

“What? No.” The first voice groans in annoyance. “I mean he was kinda silly, but he was hot. And he’s going to be one of the major sidekicks in no time. He’d earn so much money. Goodbye work, hello life of a stay-at-home girlfriend.”

“I know, right? Apparently, it’s some girl he went to school with.”

“Ugh, don’t tell me it’s that Heteromorph Pinky. He doesn’t have any taste. But what else is new?”

“Well, Suneater is dating too.” 

Your heart freezes, stops after one painful last thump. What?

“That’s old news. How long has that been going on? I told you that girl only got the job as his assistant because he told Fatgum to put her there. They’ve been dating way before she became his assistant.”

“Do you think so? They didn’t seem that close.”

“Yeah, but Kirishima was so over the moon when she got the position, I tell you that they had a thing going on. Also, remember how she told me off when I tried to talk to Suneater? I work inAccounting, my role is way more important than hers.”

“Well, cheer up.” Accounting-girl’s friend seems annoyed now. This topic must be old news too. Your mind’s still reeling from what you’ve just heard.

They think that you’re dating Amajiki? You? That you got the job because of him?

“I heard that Lemillion is going to switch to our agency. This is top secret, but apparently, he and his girlfriend broke up and he wants to put some distance between them. It makes sense for him to move to his best friend's side, right?”

“Oh, Lemillion is hot! And he makes even more money than Suneater because he knows how to talk to people. I’ll keep an eye on the books. We have to look our best when he comes in.”

Someone’s phone chimes and shortly after that, silence falls over the room. 

You’re still catching your breath, reeling from all the revelations and your heart’s reaction to it.

If you react like this to the mere mention of Amajiki dating, Kyoko is right. You need to get some distance between the two of you.

And while you don’t know how much of the other gossip you should believe, there’s a point there that you cannot deny.

Lemillion is Amajiki’s best friend. If he broke up with his girlfriend, it would make sense for him to come back, and claim his old room again. You wouldn’t put it against him to want the comfort. But you’re in the way of said comfort.

You know what you must do.

-

7 months as his assistant

Finding an apartment isn’t easy, even when you’re not picky.

You know you can’t move back to where you came from. There is no argument that Amajiki or Kirishima would believe, no reason for you to go back to that. You earn nowhere near enough to be able to afford an apartment in the district you’re living in right now, so you search a bit further away from the agency. 

With your portion of the rent being so low and Amajiki constantly demanding to pay when you go out for lunch, you’ve saved up quite a bit, but you cannot use that to pay for your rent. So you widen your search parameter even more.

When you find one apartment that’s actually feasible, it comes with a one-hour drive and the last train leaves at six. To make that, you’d have to leave early every day and while you know Fatgum won’t mind that once or twice, you can’t ask for a favor like that.

So you swallow all your pride and stop Kirishima the next time you see him.

“Hey, I… kinda need your help.”

“Oh? Sure, what do you need?”

“I…” You pull him to the side, away from possible prying ears and eyes. “I need to look for a new apartment.”

“What?” Kirishima blinks in surprise. “Why?”

“That’s… a difficult story. But do you… know, someone? Like from your class or even younger, who could need a roommate? I don’t mind cleaning and cooking if I can save on rent.”

“Sure, I mean, I know Shoji is looking for a roommate right now. But are you sure? What about Amajiki?”

“He’s fine.” You insist. “I don’t want to bother him any longer.”

“Bother… him?” Something seems to click in Kirishima’s mind, but whatever it is, it clicked the wrong way. 

“I’ll talk to him.” He insists, his voice way too determined.

“What? No, Kirishima, that’s not-”

“I thought he was a good guy.” He’s not listening to you, arms hardened as he moves past you. Your grip just slips off and all you can do is run after him.

You find Amajiki in his office, alone, thank god.

“Amajiki!” Kirishima’s voice booms through the room and you throw the door closed in the hopes of avoiding a scandal. 

“Keep your voice down.” You tell him, but he won’t listen.

Amajiki looks confused. Not scared, which you’re thankful for, but confused. And you can understand that. You’re confused as well.

“What’s going on, Kirishima?”

“How can you treat her that way?!” Kirishima asks, pointing at you. You blink back.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, face burning as Amajiki look over, worry evident in his eyes.

“When you started dating, I told you that if you hurt her, I’ll make sure you hurt even more. Kicking her out? That’s hurting her.”

“What the-” You start, but stop when Kirishima lunges over Amajiki’s desk.

“ENOUGH!” You yell, and to your surprise, Kirishima freezes for the first time since he’s started down this path of whatever he’s trying to achieve.

“WHAT?” He asks, clearly unhappy about your interruption.

“We are not dating!” You point out. “And even if we were, you have no right to play big brother.”

“We’re… not… dating?” Amajiki’s voice is low and quiet, but it still manages to cut through the tense atmosphere like a butcher’s knife.

It’s your turn to freeze, to have trouble breathing. 

Amajiki looks confused, Kirishima looks confused and well, you’re not sure what you’re looking like, but you definitely feel confused. 

“I-” You start. “What?”

“Well, my bad.” Kirishima holds up his hand defensively, waves them around as he chuckles awkwardly. “I’ll… I guess I’ll let you two talk this out. If you need me, I’ll be back at my desk and… uh, if you need Shoji’s info, let me know.” He backs out of the room with a tense smile on his face, leaving you and Amajiki to stare at each other.

Well, you stare at each other’s bodies, avoiding eye-contact, but you’re used to that by now.

-

In the end it's the realization that avoiding eye contact might have gotten you into this mess that has you look straight at him. He’s blushing and you feel a little sorry, but you need to make sense of this situation.

“Amajiki?” You ask, voice soft. “Can you tell me why you thought we were dating? I won't be mad, I promise.”

He shrugs and looks down at his shoes. You wait, well aware that he probably needs a few moments to gather himself. 

“Washio-san said you liked me too.” He starts, confusing you even more. Washio-san? Wait, you liked him too?

But before you can ask, he speaks on.

“She said that I should make sure to give you enough attention. And… and that girls like gifts. So I got you stuff, you know.”

“Oh my god.” You whisper, realizing that he's referring to the little trinkets he’d brought in ever since you started working for him.

Wait, if Washio-san was aware-

“Does… does Fatgum know?

“Of course.” Oh my god. “I told him… when you reciprocated.”

You're left stunned and he adds softly: “You brought me that pebble.”

“But we never… I mean, we didn't…” You press your hands together for a lack of words. He seems to understand nonetheless, flushing profusely.

“Mirio said… he said… well, I asked and he… not everyone liked doing… that… I thought you were not into it. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh. My. God.”

Silence falls over the room as you process things.

By the time you come back to reality - your stomach rather forcefully reminds you that you haven't eaten yet, your lunch break wasted on… more pressing matters - Amajiki has drawn into himself. He's sitting at his desk, seemingly occupied by a file, but you can tell he's not reading. 

You swallow your nerves and get up, walk over to his desk until you are right next to him. You push your back into the desk but instead of facing him directly, you focus on the tip of his left ear. It's flushed, the bright red a stark contrast to his dark hair.

“I have had a crush on you for ages.” You confess, forcing your voice to stay calm. “I didn't want to ask for the role as your assistant because in the end, you need to be comfortable with who you are working with, but I was hoping I would get it. Kirishima and I celebrated when I got the job, he might have… he might have told you.” You swallow thickly.

“I don't know if boy crushes are the same but girls… we tend to think that we’re not good enough. It paints everything in a different light. You ask me out on a date and I think you can’t possibly mean that, that you want to be just friends.”

He’s stiff as a board, but he doesn't speak up, so you continue. He told you his side of the story, so you owe him as much.

“If you're still up for it… I’d love to date you. For real this time.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, voice the tiniest bit wobbly.

“Absolutely.” You nod to emphasize your point and slide your hand across the table until it knocks into his. “And I do like… to do… that.” His hand grips yours, warm and strong, fits around yours like it was meant for that. 

Your heart beats loudly in your ears as you lean in, waiting for him to stop you but he doesn't. Your temple touches his, warm skin against warm skin. His eyes are wide open, his skin is flushed. You don't kiss, don't need to. It's enough for now to share your breath, share the warmth and the knowledge of your feelings.

“I really, really like you.” You point out, exhilarated when his lips pull into a smile that can only be described as giddy.

-

9 months as his assistant/girlfriend

The bed is way too warm to leave it, even though your bladder insists on doing just that.

Tamaki is spooning you, his face hidden against your shoulder blades, his messy bed head tickling your skin.

You drag your fingers across the arm that's holding you close. It's the softest of touches, barely enough to register in Tamaki's sleepy brain. But it works and his grip goes slack. You roll out of it, hand already in his hair when the absence of your warmth has him pout, even deeply asleep as he is now. He curls into himself in a matter of seconds, pout still on his face even as he starts snoring.

The shirt he wore yesterday still hangs on his desk chair and you slip into it. You don't want to give your new roommate nightmares.

When you step out of the bathroom, you're welcomed by the clattering of dishes and the smell of fresh waffles.

"Morning." You greet Shoji, who nods back.

He moved in two weeks ago when it became clear that he couldn't find a roommate and Tamaki wouldn't let you sleep in your own bed anyway. He insisted on sound proofing both bed rooms before moving in, but he's a quiet and friendly guy and you definitely do not mind his expertise in the kitchen.

"I have patrol today." Shoji points out minutes later, putting the waffles on three plates while you pour coffee into cups and do your best in putting the blueberries on the plates instead of into your mouth. "I'll be home late."

"Okay. I'm making curry tonight, I'll put your portion to the side."

He nods and smiles, before muttering: "Amajiki just woke up."

"How did you hear-" You start before you can see it too. Tentacles crawl over the floor, their movement sluggish but their goal clear.

You barely manage to jump to the side and put the coffee pot away before one snatches your legs and pulls.

"Good grief, Tamaki! I'm holding coffee!"

"Come back to bed!" You can barely make out his whining, but you know him by now, have learned quite a bit in the past two months.

There's nothing quite as unfiltered as Tamaki when he's barely awake.

And there's nothing quite as needy as him when he wakes up without you by his side.

"See you." Shoji puts your plates and coffee cups on a serving tray and holds it out for you. You're still struggling with the tentacles wrapped around your bare legs.

"Pull your tentacles back or I'll drink my coffee without you." You try to sound like you mean it, but you've always been an awful actress.

When you get back to the room, Tamaki's spread out on the bed, the arm that produced the tentacles reaching toward the door.

"I don't like waking up without you." He complains as he gets rid of the tentacles. You put the tray on his nightstand and slip into bed, press your now cold toes against his warm legs.

"Like you're already awake." You tease and he grumbles and mumbles, hides his face in your neck. He's on his best way to fall asleep again.

Just as you feel his body going slack, Tamaki moves again. He wakes like a cat, you learned, his nose often awake before the rest of his body follows. Or, like this time, his nose is not willing to go to sleep again.

“Waffles?” He asks, eyes closed. “Blueberries?” 

“And some apple and pear slices.” You point out, kiss the side of his mouth when he tries to move past you to get to the good stuff. His lips pull into a lazy smile and he cuddles back into you, heavy and warm and oh so relaxed.

“Feed me?” He asks. 

You snort but press a warm piece of waffle against his lips, only to kiss the leftover syrup off his lips.

“I could get used to that,” you mumble and he nods and hums and pulls you closer, always closer. 

“Please do.”

...

Half an hour later, when the coffee has trickled into his system and his anxiety is awake again, he's hiding his face against your neck for a different reason.

"I can never show my face again." He insists. "That was so embarassing. What did Shoji think of me, using my quirk for personal gain?!"

"I think he found it funny."

Volume 40 preview page

—how to win my husband over 101

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

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

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

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

is he drinking... blood?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

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

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

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

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. 

well at least he has jokes..?)

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

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

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

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

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

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing. 

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

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

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

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

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

today will be different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a sudden force slams into your back.

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

it’s deeper than you thought.

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

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

the next thing you feel is warmth.

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

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

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

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

did he jump in after you..?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet, here you are.

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

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

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

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

something tugs at the edge of his mind. 

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

so why do you still look at him like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

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

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

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

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

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “y-your highness, i only—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he looks good like this, you think.

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

a half-truth, at best.

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

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"especially when they were a gift from you."

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

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

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

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ah. that does it.

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m not mad i—”

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

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

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just your luck.

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

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

did he just—?

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

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

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

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

oh no.

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

you frown. “phainon—”

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

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

“huh?”

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

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

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

“that’s enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

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

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

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

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

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

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

you blink, momentarily startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... and i wanted one today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“if it’s for you,”

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

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

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

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

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

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

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

the crowd cheers for violence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

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

“i always will.”

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

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

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i love you, [name]."

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

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

Ooh what abt nejire or fuyumi if you still want characters to draw?

she's so pretty 😫

uncle grimm after this drawing my friend said he's probably very patient with kids just like a real cat. ururu would be his favorite methinks because she almost killed him one time and he also doesn't like redheads

BNHA EP 144 promo sketch by Takahiro Komori x

Violence!

Bishoujo Starbee for a friend 🙂‍↕️