#{Nobility Envisioned}

[tenojan-in-tevinter]

hilarious how much my hawke goes on and on about how blood magic is evil and blood mages suck and there's never a good enough reason to use blood magic. My guy. What was all that shit you did back in Kirkwall then huh? What did you do when you ran out of magic? I guess every time you pulled the blood up from corpses to keep yourself alive was just nothing then huh. Every time your enemies' blood boiled in their veins was just the wind I guess.

[oksurethisismyname]

Cinderella Sanji makes so much sense

CinderSanjis mother dies and his father marries a horrible clown (Cesar) and his siblings are horrible to him. His father lets his siblings be mean to him and forces him to work as a servant in his home, leading to him meeting his fairy god father Zeff.

On the other side of the kingdom we have King Mihawk and King Shanks, with their sons Zoro and Luffy. They throw a birthday ball / celebration and Mihawk (being a nosy drama loving bitch) invites “all eligible nobles” to the party just to see his son squirm at the idea of dating.

Blah blah blah Cindersanji is told he can’t go because he’s more servant than actual nobility, Zeff gets the kitchen staff to work together to get Sanji spruced up and on his way to the ball.

Sanji gets to the party and goes to the balcony to avoid his family, but sees some asshole set his plate down with food left on it. He walks over and says typical sanji stuff (“hey fuckface, some people don’t have enough to eat in this god forsaken kingdom, you better eat the rest of that before I shove it down your throat”) and zoro is immediately smitten. Absolutely in love. He obviously fights back, their bickering is fun but suddenly this mysterious blond leaves without an explanation.

Second night of the celebration, Zoro is actively scanning the crowd for his mysterious mouthy blond. He spots him talking with some pink haired girl with the same stupid eyebrows and notices her pushing him to leave. He follows sanji to the gardens where Sanji is hiding from his siblings (thanks to reijus warning). They end up talking about all sorts of things, but it becomes pretty apparent that this blond guy doesn’t realize he’s been flirting/fighting with a prince. once again Sanji runs off without a goodbye.

On the last night, Zoro begs for his name and Sanji gives him the name Sora. They keep flirt bickering and Zoro is about to mention the whole “you do know I’m the prince right?” , but now it’s midnight. when sanji’s fleeing zoro catches his hand and accidentally pulls his glove off, with Sanji getting away but having to leave his glove (it’s leather and he has really long fingers, so don’t come at me saying gloves fit multiple people)

Blah blah zoro and Luffy go searching for the guy from the ball, see sanjis shitty siblings and they are (unlike traditional Cinderella prince) not that fucking dumb and recognize their faces as the face of the guy from the ball. He’s invited to have tea, with judge trying to get Zoro or Luffy to notice Reiju or maybe Ichiji.

Judge calls for Sanji to serve tea and BOOM, eye contact, sparks fly, because Sanji immediately is yelling “what the fuck you followed me to my home???” And zoros yelling “you’re so stupid, of course I came looking for you! I want to marry you, asshole!” Record scratch, silence, all hell breaks loose with yelling from pretty much everyone BUT Reiju and Luffy. Sanji, finally noticing Zoros outfit and the coat of arms on his clothes, realizes WHO he’s been talking to, is gonna leave because holy shit nope he is clearly hallucinating.

Luffy and Reiju tag team getting everything calmed down, stopping Sanji from running and keeping Zoro from stabbing one of the Vinsmoke boys. Something something Zoro confesses that he’s never felt so challenged and wants to get to know Sanji better, Sanji gets to leave his shitty home life and after a year of courtship they get married

Someone who is more talented take all this mumbled gunk and turn it into the fanfic I’m envisioning!!!!

[verperina]

On The Throne

Pairing: Dorian Havilliard x f!reader 

Summary: Dorian fulfills your fantasy of being fucked on his throne.

Warnings: 18+ smut

Word Count: 2,943

Author’s Note: I’m not 100% satisfied with this, but I’m still proud of myself for finishing it. I stayed up until 4:00 in the morning to finish writing and editing, and then put it in my drafts. And please ignore how boring/dumb the title is. I couldn’t come up with anything else.

“Everyone out.” Dorian’s voice rang throughout the room, echoing off the marble floors. The guards quickly left, including Chaol who sent a glance toward his friend and then to you before shutting the doors behind him. The room was completely empty now. It was just you and Dorian, who still had his eyes on you.  

Chaol had fetched you from the library, informing you that Dorian had requested your presence in the throne room, but did not say why. When you asked if something had happened, Chaol had quickly reassured you that the king was fine and had simply wanted to see you. 

The way Dorian was currently looking at you—a predatory look in his eyes—made your heart skip a beat, and you took a moment to study his clothing. He always dressed immaculately, but today he showed to be the perfect portrait of royalty. His black hair neatly combed with a gold crown placed perfectly upon his head, a fitted black jacket embellished with red and gold, a silk tunic, black trousers and black knee-high boots. The wedding ring adorning his finger—a silver band with a sapphire jewel that matched your own—gleamed in the sunlight.

Your body started to feel warm, your dress too constricting.

The corner of his lip tugged upwards and he reached out a hand, gesturing for you to step up the dais. “Come here.”

You remained still. His eyebrows faintly rose at your defiance and you could see a sliver of amusement in his eyes.

“Ask nicely,” you said, a small grin starting to form on your lips, “and then maybe I will, husband.”

He chuckled, the noise coming out breathy. “Please, come here my dear wife.”

After a moment of mock contemplation, you obliged, slowly walking up the steps so you wouldn’t trip over the fabric of your dress. 

Once you were within his reach, you grabbed his hand and laced your fingers together, looking at his wedding ring before speaking. “When Chaol came to get me I was worried at first—I thought maybe something had happened.” Dorian’s gaze softened. “He was quick to reassure me that you were more than fine, although he didn’t share why you wanted to see me.”

Dorian started to smile. “I didn’t tell Chaol why I wanted to see you.”

“And why is that?” you asked, head tilting to the side.

“Because I didn’t want him to know that I would very much like to fuck you on my throne.” You choked out a laugh and felt your face begin to warm. His smile widened at the sound, sapphire eyes bright. A few weeks ago, laying in your shared bed after hours of passionate love making, you had confessed to Dorian about your fantasy of having sex on his throne—with no one else in the room, of course—and he had only laughed and playfully teased you before fucking you once more. You thought he had forgotten all about it. Apparently not. He added, “But I’m sure he will figure it all out rather soon.” And then a sly grin came across his face. “If he doesn’t, then I’m sure the noises will be confirmation.”

“Your mother would be horrified if she found out,” you mused. It was no secret that Georgina Havilliard wasn’t overly fond of you. When envisioning a future wife for her eldest son she favored the idea of a princess or at least a woman of high nobility, not a commoner like you. But Dorian didn’t care about her opinion and had no problem voicing it. He loved you and that’s all that mattered.

Your husband only shrugged before lightly tugging your hand. You saw the mischievous gleam in his eyes and knew that he wanted to indulge you in your fantasy. You lowered yourself onto his lap, straddling his hips and his large hands immediately gripped your thighs. Bringing your hands to cup his jaw, your thumb lightly traced the sharpness of his cheekbone, and then brushed it against his bottom lip.

You let yourself take time in admiring his features. His beauty. Just Dorian himself. Your Dorian.

Removing your hands from his face, you lowered them to his shoulders, and then to the firm muscle of his abdomen through his clothing. His stomach tightened at your touch and with one last glance at his face, your lips found his in a soft kiss, one so at odds with the burning desire that snapped through the air. Your entire body was tingling from excitement and the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

Dorian’s tongue meets yours tentatively, waiting for you to lead the kiss, letting you decide how you wanted it. You let yourself take control. You alternate between gently nipping his lips and stroking your tongue against his while running your fingers through his thick hair. 

Your heart was racing and your face warm. Dorian pulled away to rest his forehead against yours. His lips were swollen from your kisses and his tanned face was a light shade of pink. “Tell me what you want,” he breathed, sapphire eyes glazed over with lust.

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “You.”

“Want me to make you feel good?” he murmured.

“Yes.” You nodded eagerly, and not bothering to wait for him to take control, your hands grip the collar of his tunic as you drag Dorian in for a kiss that’s desperate and a little sloppy. His tongue in your mouth once again, and his hands move to cup your ass, kneading the flesh. A pleased sigh leaves you.

He deepens the kiss. It’s demanding and ravenous. You let yourself melt into him, let yourself just be here in the now with him. Unashamed and happy. You teasingly roll your hips against his hardness, causing a wave of pleasure to shoot through you, and a low, rough groan escapes him. You repeat the motion again, feeling arousal pool between your thighs.

His lips began to plant kisses along your jawline, and then leaves a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. Sucking the skin before harshly biting, a gasp leaves you at the slight stinging sensation. “I want to see my marks on you.” And you wanted to see his marks on you too. You wanted everyone to know that no one could touch you like Dorian could. That no one would ever be able to please you like Dorian did.

His hands started to untie the front laces of your dress, your bare breasts now exposed, and your nipples hardening from both your arousal, and the cool air. His lips leave love bites on your neck and collarbones, and then your breasts. You looked at him to see that his eyes were already on you, pure hunger shining in them.

And when Dorian brought your nipple to his warm mouth, you couldn’t stop the strangled moan that left you. Your back arched as your hands came to rest on his broad shoulders. He continued his torturous teasing; the rough sucking, the gentle biting. Your head tipped back as his fingers tugged at your other nipple. “Dorian,” you mumbled. Your cunt was wet, the lace fabric starting to become uncomfortable.

He wasn’t using his phantom hands. He wanted you all to himself. 

He lips wrapped around your other nipple, continuing the same ministrations but even more harsher this time. Your thighs tightened around him. He shuddered when your body moved against his, a debauched sound escaping his throat—a sound you wanted to hear more of. 

You continued to slowly grind yourself on him, desperate for some kind of relief. A pathetic whimper was voiced when your sensitive clit rubbed against the fabric of his pants. 

“I need more.” The words came out as a plea. It wasn’t enough. Your body craved more. 

Dorian released his mouth from you, looking into your eyes and said, “Tell me what you need and I will give it to you.”

“You inside of me.”

Your fingers trembled as you quickly undid the button to his pants and then his zipper. He pushed the skirts of your dress further up until your panties were completely visible, and without hesitation he pushed the material to the side and slid a finger through your folds, a breath leaving him at the feeling of your wet cunt.

You brought Dorian in for another kiss, one that left you breathless, and then pulled back to look at him. His hair was messy from your fingers running through it, pretty flushed cheeks, and swollen lips. He still had the pale band around his neck from where the collar had been, but it did nothing to diminish his beauty.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed. 

Dorian laughed, his eyes glimmering with mirth, and your heart skipped a beat at how joyous it sounded. “I prefer devastatingly handsome.” He paused to kiss you once more. “But thank you.”

You smiled and opened your mouth to respond, but a moan came out when he slid a finger inside of you, purposefully slow. You looked down to see his finger sliding in and out, gathering more of your slick. “You like seeing me touch you?”

You nodded, slightly rocking your hips and bringing your hand down to rub your clit at a steady pace. A silent hiss left your lips at the contact, and pressure started to form low in your belly, a bundle of nerves starting to become more intense. His other hand kneaded your breast, adding more stimulation, making your orgasm grow nearer, even more so as a second finger entered you.

Your cunt started clenching rhythmically, eager to find that release you desperately wanted. You started rubbing your clit faster, feeling a sheen layer of sweat on your body and hairline despite the room being a little cold. You could only imagine how messy your appearance was right now, but you couldn’t bring yourself to particularly care.

Breathy gasps left you as you climaxed, your body shuddering from the intensity as Dorian helped you ride through your high. The feeling leaves you in ecstasy, slightly buzzed. Only when you stopped pleasuring yourself did he gently remove his fingers. 

He brought them to his mouth, sapphire eyes glazed over with burning desire, and tasted your arousal. A pleased sound left him. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he pulls you in for a fiery kiss, your tongues stroking against one another. 

You push down his undershorts, his cock springing free, hard and the tip leaking with arousal. You swallowed. You wanted Dorian to fuck your throat until tears streamed down your face, but that would happen next time when you two had more time, it could wait. Instead, you grabbed his cock and stroked him, and Dorian tipped his head back.

Your thumb collected the moisture at his tip, rubbing it along his slit and he groaned. You could tell that he was restraining himself from bucking his hips. After giving a soft squeeze, you very slowly start stroking him. His brows slightly furrow and his hands tighten their hold on your backside. You give a harsh tug, and then another before picking up your pace a little more.

The restraint that Dorian was holding onto broke free as he removed your hand from his length and tightened a fist over it, giving a few leisure strokes of his own, and then angles himself up with the entrance of your cunt. And when you finally lowered yourself onto his cock, you couldn’t stop the shudder that ran throughout your entire body. The feeling of him being inside you felt so warm and full.

You both paused for a moment to just breathe each other in, and then you began a slow pace, placing a hand around his throat and the other on his chest to balance yourself. The stretch of his cock is a delicious torture; you could never grow tired of this. A shaky breath escapes your lips as you ride him. His hands come to rest on your hips to help steady you.

You could feel a thin layer of perspiration cling uncomfortably to your back, but you ignored it as you lightly squeezed Dorian’s throat and closed your eyes, feeling nothing but pure bliss. 

Very slowly you start to move a little faster, his heavy breathing encouraging you. Each time your hips moved upward you squeeze around his cock, making his eyebrows lightly crease from pleasure and his hands tighten their hold on you. You bring your mouth to his, and heavy, forceful kisses leave your lungs burning for air. Your hands and his own are all over each other, frantic, as if you two can’t get enough of one another. 

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked. “How did I get so lucky as to have you?”

Before you could open your mouth to respond, Dorian’s hand came down to harshly smack your ass and you gasp in surprise. He does it again, but harder this time and it causes you to clench around his cock, and in response he lets out a quiet groan. He lets his nails lightly scratch the side of your ass before slapping you again. You wouldn’t be surprised to find handprints later on.

He stopped your movements by firmly grabbing your hips, and before you could question what he was doing, he slammed you down onto his length—hard. You both let out choked moans and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. He repeated the same motion thrice more before snapping his hips upward. The sound of skin-on-skin echoing throughout the room.

“You can take it,” Dorian panted. 

His hands are still holding your hips in place to keep you in his control. Your back arches in pleasure, a small whimper leaving your lips, and a deep pressure starts building in your belly, tingles rippling through your entire body. You plead for your husband to go faster, desperately wanting to find release. Your mouth hangs open as your forehead falls against his, and a bead of sweat trails down your temple from your hairline. You ignore the uncomfortable feeling of sweat clinging to your body.

Your hands cup your breasts, kneading the flesh before rolling your nipples in between your thumbs and forefingers to add more stimulation. You groan at the sensation. Dorian watches keenly, his throat bobbing. 

Your cunt is throbbing painfully and your walls are pulsing as your body tightens around him. He releases his hold on you so you can move against him, and you bring your hands to rest on his shoulders to ride him faster.

“Take what you want,” he encourages. “Ride my cock like a good girl.”

You whine at the praise, clenching around his cock. He moans at the feeling of your tight, wet walls around him. The sound sent a rush of pleasure to your core. He kisses you harshly before speaking again. “You’re doing so good for me. Always so good for me.”

The knot in your stomach twists. “I’m going to come,” you gasp out. Your movements become chaotic and uncontrolled. You start rhythmically pulsing around his cock and he snaps his hips in a frenzy to help bring your climax closer. 

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come for me.”

With a loud moan, your orgasm rolls through you in an intense convulsion, your vision blurring. Your toes curl so hard in your slippers they begin to cramp as pure ecstasy floods your body. Your limbs tremble and spasm as you hold onto Dorian tightly, burning your face into the crook of his neck. 

He curses, nipping the lobe of your ear as his warm hands grip your thighs. His hips buck frantically, chasing his own release, and when you clench around him again he groans loudly, spilling into you. His breathing is ragged against your neck as his thrusts slow down before coming to a stop. 

The two of you trembled in each other’s arms as you came down from the high. You sigh, closing your eyes, letting yourself rest your head on his chest and listen to the erratic beating of his heart. Dorian lazily ran his hand up and down your back. His touch is soothing and gentle, like always.

The air in the room was stifling, too hot, despite it being chilly when you had first arrived. You swallow, trying to catch your breath and calm your racing heart. You could feel your dress stick uncomfortably to your skin from sweating, and stray pieces of your hair were stuck to your forehead. You were too dazed from your orgasm to care about your appearance.

“Do you think Chaol knows?” you ask softly. Both of you had been in here for more than ten minutes and neither of you had exactly been quiet, and Chaol wasn’t dumb; he saw the way you and Dorian were looking at each other before leaving the room.

“Given how loud you and I were, then yes, I would assume so,” Dorian says. “But if he isn’t aware, then I have no problem fucking you again.”

You laugh loudly at that and he joins you, the sound making your heart skip a beat. You had no problem with being fucked on his throne again, if anything it made you want to do it again. 

“I would like that,” you respond, stifling a yawn.

“I thought as much.” You couldn’t see his face, but you knew that Dorian was smiling, and you felt a smile bloom on your lips too, feeling happy and content with being in the arms of your husband.

[bengiyo]

Peaceful Property: There’s Nothing Noble About Being Poor

Coming off of episode 6 of Peaceful Property, I am feeling some consternation because once again GMMTV has given us a poor character who’d rather be poor than take the money. I’m also frustrated about the baiting of this show, because I don’t like TayNew enough to forgive Home his greed or his cowardice. 

From GMMTV we’ve had Akk having to work his ass off to get to Paris to be with Theo, Mork working his ass off to eventually get back to Day, Sailom not taking money in Dangerous Romance, Sand not taking the money in Only Friends, Kang upending his entire life for Moo in Only Boo! When I looked into stories that seemed to consider the perspective of poor people, only Dark Blue Kiss really seemed to consider the class dynamic of Pete and Kao, and Cooking Crush with Prem taking the needed money. 

This problem isn’t unique to GMMTV, and it’s been something that has annoyed me in global media for decades. We get these kinds of storylines where poor people would rather be poor than take the money of a rich person because rich people fund the media. For them, not taking their money is the harshest punishment they could envision because it’s their primary mechanism for solving problems. However, I come from the Brian Kinney school of thought that “There’s nothing noble about being poor.” On top of that, we know that Pang and Peach have no money, because they’re living in a goddamn bar that Home owns because they have no money. How could they go back to the apartment they got evicted from for lack of payment if this was so? Sure, it’s a TV show, but damn is it annoying that I’m asked to empathize with Home being sad about losing his friends over freaking out about housing security for the people whose lives he ruined.

Now, let’s talk about the lives he ruined. It’s actually so, so much worse that Home was completely sober when he hit Peach and fled the scene. He’s lived a pleasant life this entire time, when he had every reason to believe he killed someone and let his uncle cover it up. I care a lot about the future of cities, and car violence is one of the biggest violent killers of poor people in cities. The fallout of this accident led to Peach’s ongoing terror of ghosts, screwing up badly at work, and his sense of culpability in the death of his mentor. Peach and Pang’s lives are measurably worse because of his injuries, and it baffles me that the show would have Peach take zero compensation from the people who hurt him when he and his sister are struggling. I get Peach being proud in the moment, but I just don’t see a person faced with scarcity of that level choosing to walk away from money that he’s more than owed.

Speaking of Peach, I am so confused by the plotline that has him trusting Home with the food safety of a man he almost killed the last time he worked in a restaurant. It feels like this show just doesn’t take its own violence seriously. The drama of this episode is about Home losing his friends because he wasn’t forthright about the violence he inflicted on them, and they risked Chai-un’s safety to prove that Peach could trust home? Please be serious. They should have tossed out both of those bowls and started over rather than risk that man’s life again. Peach wants to become a chef again, and this is a huge misstep!

I just don’t think I really enjoyed this last episode much at all. I liked seeing Peach not crumble in front of ghosts, but that’s about it. I feel like the show is relying on Newwie’s charm (and TayNew shipping) to have the audience root for his redemption, which I am on the side of Peach wanting nothing to do with that man ever again. He deserves to be angry, and it felt so weird to me that the one lashing out at the end was Home as our focus point. Next week they’re going to be working near each other, and I’m just gonna be irked that once again we have a story about the inherent nobility of poor people who can afford to turn down much needed money to make a rich person sad.

[himbeereule]

Орлёнок (Eaglet)

Орлёнок (Eaglet) is an interactive story set in a country similar to 1910s-1920s Russia. You're a member of the overthrown Imperial Family, shaping the future of the Empire by virtue of arms.

It aims to be equal parts role-playing, dress-up and strategy game, with an emphasis on romance.

Although there will be no explicit nsfw scenes, it does include graphic descriptions of the horrors of war as well as personal tragedies, so please refer to the content warnings at the end of this post.

(as the project is still a wip, this overview is somewhat incomplete and will be gradually updated in tandem with the progress of writing)

DEMO: here (v0.0.2a, 21.06.2024)

Forum post: here

Number Spelling Function (IF writer resource): here

Secondary project: @a-dying-wish-if Tertiary (mini-)project: @perceptron-failure-if Quaternary project: [redacted]

The Empire of Nevetskiya - old, proud, and utterly dilapidated. While the Industrial Revolution has enabled other Monarchies - after a few quickly suppressed workers' uprisings - to become modern colonialist superpowers, exerting their influence all over the world, Nevetskiya is still overwhelmingly agrarian, and barely holding onto its outlying territories acquired in golden times long past.

Your Father Emperor, while ruling with an iron fist and unquestionable authority over the common people, is completely dependent on the shaky loyalty of the High Nobility, who frustrate any attempt to modernize the economy or administration, out of fear upstart merchants might, in time, replace the old Aristocracy.

When a sloppily executed coup d'etat eventually leaves your family dead and you a refugee, it becomes time you grab the reins of your destiny and amass an army to liberate and rebuild the country in the way you envision.

(this is meant to be a concise overview - a more exiting and detailed description of features can be found in the offical Interest Check Thread post)

extensive character customization

extensive army customization - both in a strategy and in a dress-up game sense

focus on story over stats - success is determined on the battlefield, not by your character's personality

five distinct regions with a wide cast of characters

complex personality system - for example, how your character actually feels and what they show to the world are separate things

several ways to rule - will you become a traditional Monarch, a Military Dictator, a democratically elected Head-of-State, or maybe proclaim yourself a Living Saint?

choose how much modernization is needed - will you allow women to bear arms, at the cost of offending the traditionalist nobles? Introduce tanks at the cost of foreign powers gaining influence?

how far will you go for victory? A political police, mass executions and the use of special types of weaponry might give you an edge, but is your vision really worth it?

a total of ten romanceable characters

(this naturally might contain slight spoilers)

The ROs

★ Yakov Tymofiyevich Sokolovskiy / Liliya Tymofiyevna Sokolovskaya ★

The Intelligence Director (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. As a member of the High Nobility, you've met them before - maybe you've even been childhood friends?

But even if you know them, it's hard to tell what they're truly like, as they seem to switch personalities effortlessly depending on the situation.

Their work is a mystery to seemingly everyone, but they always get results: as long as you let them act freely, no enemy agent has any chance to harm you or your cause.

Age: mid-20s

★ Semyon Ivanovich Orlov / Selena Ivanovna Orlova ★

The Cavalry Officer (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. A war hero and renowned expert when it comes to horses, the only reason they were not yet promoted to a lofty position in the War Ministry is their pragmatic approach to new developments, which hasn't mixed well with the typically very traditionalist views of the old Imperial officer corps.

Possessing a subdued but strong charisma and deeply respected by their soldiers as a wise parent figure, they are a solid pillar of support to you, and will reliably get things done - though some people might consider the cost for that too high sometimes.

Age: early 30s

★ Mikhail Pavlovich Voronin / Marina Pavlovna Voronina ★

The Young Visionary (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. They shot up through the ranks by impressing the War Ministry with bold new ideas for utilizing modern technologies and are hailed as a genius by many - though the older officers dismiss them as a dreamer at best and incompetent fool at worst.

With you, they hope to have found someone who'll appreciate their visions for the future - plus, their relative eccentrism has left them in dire need of a friend.

Their technical expertise might just prove to be the key to your success - if you can secure the foreign support needed to get the modern equipment needed to utilize it.

Age: early 20s

★ Leon Isayev / Leah Isayeva ★

The Noble Academic (gender-selectable)

One of your four original companions. Born to wealthy nobles, they graduated the Imperial Officer Academy with perfect grades, and feel honour-bound to your family.

They were the one to gather your initial force of loyalists and act as your primary advisor. But their loyalty is to the Imperial system, with you just a symbolic representative - can you convince them that you and your vision deserve their loyalty beyond that?

Age: late 20s

★ 'Little' Semyon/Selena Shvets ★

The Hero (gender-selectable)

A young cavalry officer and leader of your Southern Forces. A protegé of the "other" Semyon/Selena, they lack their cynical pragmatism, but make up for it with a firm belief in the triumph of a better world.

Some may call their optimism naive, and their personality has been mockingly compared to a Golden Retriever, but they have proven time and time again that underestimating them on the battlefield results in a crushing defeat.

Age: early 20s

★ Nikola ★

The Rebel (nb)

Leading an anti-authoritarian peasant uprising in the West, Nikola is more likely to be your enemy than your ally - but they don't seem to care enough about politics to refrain from flirting with you, so... there might be a basis of mutual understanding there?

Their personality is pretty sweet, at least - if you ignore the fact they'll cheerfully gun down prisoners if they feel like it.

Age: mid-20s

★ Rakhmil/Rakhilya Feldman ★

The Logistician (gender-selectable)

A member of the Western Rebel Army and best friend of Nikola's adoptive sibling, they've poured their soul (and countless nights without any sleep) into somehow maintaining the rebels' supply network in the face of their rapidly swelling numbers.

Unhappy with Nikola's carefree attitude, they might end up aligning with you instead in order to save their cause.

Age: late 20s

★ Arseniy Matveyevich Lebedev / Amaliya Matveyevna Lebedeva ★

The Enemy (gender-selectable)

Grand Duke Lebedev, the main leader of the Aristocrat faction, stood by and watched when your family was executed. Arseniy/Amaliya is their younger sibling, and serves as military commander of his personal forces that aid several warlords in their efforts to establish their own petty kingdoms.

But they're already uncomfortable with their brother's methods, and if you can convince them that you're not actually "an incompetent little puppet who's trying to ruin the country out of arrogant delusions", they might become a very valuable ally.

Age: mid-20s

★ Lyudmila Demyanovna Naumova ★ (f)

A minor noble who reluctantly turned into a Warlord in order to protect her territory and her people. All she wants is peace - but she'll not hesitate to fight if she believes it necessary.

Unfortunately, you can't just ignore her - all must choose a side in this war - but you have options how to deal with her. Will you subdue her by force? Or fall back on the age-old option of political marriage to secure an alliance?

Age: late 20s

★ Jan/Jana Novotný ★ (gender-selectable, under certain circumstances)

A member of your Personal Guard who has distinguished themself and eventually rises to become its commander. Others might betray or doubt you, but Novotný only cares about one thing - your continued, unharmed existence.

And they will go to any lengths to guarantee it.

Age: mid-20s

CONTENT WARNINGS

...will be added as they become relevant in the demo.

[lathalea]

Entangled 4/10

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit) Rating: G (subject to change) Warnings: ANGST Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past… You can find this fic on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: First of all, sorry it took me so long to update this story but your comments and messages kept me going! TRSB and Real Life™️ hit me hard, but I haven't forgotten about this story. In fact, I have a treat for you: an XXL-sized chapter as a thank you for your patience 💙 Special thanks to @legolasbadass and @absentmindeduniverse for your help. You are amazing and you made this chapter so much better than it originally was! 🤩🙏💙 -*-*-*- KHUZDUL: ‘Urdêk - ereborean variant of Lonely Mountain (referring to the Halls within the mountain) Nadad - brother Nan’ith - little/young sister Zabdûna - the Queen Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain Khagal'abbad - Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor) Tumunzahar - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Broadbeams in this story. The Elves call it “Nogrod”. Gabilgathol - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Firebeards in this story. The Elves call it “Belegost”. Thorinuldûm - Thorin’s Halls, the settlement of the refugees from the Lonely Mountain in the Blue Mountains Iglishmêk - the sign language widely used by all the dwarves -*-*-*-

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

Thorin opened his eyes with a gasp. That cursed dream again. Those eyes…

Several deep breaths helped to banish the haunting afterimages from his mind for good. Deep inside the Mountain — much deeper than the Royal Chambers — the mine bell struck eleven times. One hour before noon. It was later than he expected.

Thorin’s head was pounding, and the bitter aftertaste of rowanberry brandy in his mouth made him yearn for a mug of water. Slowly, he rose, noticing that he was not in his bed but in his armchair, still wearing some of yesterday's clothes. His finely embroidered undershirt and similarly adorned trousers — now crumpled. Parts of his wedding attire. His wedding.

He truly needed a drink.

The only thing he found in his chamber was an empty brandy bottle that lay forgotten on the floor. For a moment, Thorin wanted to ring for a servant, irritated at the fact that he slept so long — and his usual breakfast tray was nowhere to be seen. Had they overslept in the kitchens as well? What could have been so important that… Of course. His wedding.

He grunted. There was not going to be any breakfast tray and no servants. Not until he rang for them, at least. No one would disturb him in the morning after his wedding night. Frowning, Thorin managed to recall that a celebratory dinner was scheduled later that day — not only for the people of ‘Urdêk, but also for the whole royal family and the family of the bride. His wife.

Thorin ran a hand down his face. He was a married Dwarf now. A husband. Years and years ago, in another lifetime, that thought would have made him enormously proud — and happy. And yet, on this very morning, the only thing he felt was that bitter taste in his mouth — and shame; his foolish dreams of youth long forgotten. The weight of a new braid in his hair, the marriage braid, was not a symbol of perfect, eternal love he had foolishly envisioned as a youth. This braid only denoted the contract between the two dwarven houses: the Longbeards and the Broadbeams. 

A memory from the previous day appeared in his mind: pale, small, pale fingers nervously sliding through his hair, braiding a pattern that was unfamiliar to him. The personal pattern of the lady who now occupied the adjacent bedchamber — Lady Mista. The woman he had barely met and knew nothing of. His wife.

He should have felt something about this image, anything — sadness or perhaps the satisfaction of yet another duty he fulfilled as the King; hope or disenchantment. There was nothing — only a gaping hole deep inside him where his feelings should be. He stared with disappointment at the empty brandy bottle in his hand, and placed it on the table beside him with a clank. 

Perhaps everything was as it should be. His was an arranged marriage, after all. The Kingdom Under the Mountain needed an heir to the throne. The future and prosperity of the realm depended on it. It was Thorin’s duty to fulfil, and time was of the essence. As the ancient scriptures stated, only the firstborn son of the firstborn son — of the current king — had the right to the throne of this realm. The Book of Law emphasised that it had to be the direct descendant of Durin — as the line remained unbroken since the beginning of time. If the direct line was to be lost, the next in line was the second son and his progeny. Thorin closed his eyes and Frerin’s kindred face appeared before him — and quickly disappeared. That future perished more than one hundred and forty years ago beneath the East Gate of Khazad-dûm before it even had a chance to come to fruition. As for the other possibilities… they were just as painfully non-existent.

“Is there truly no legal way to name Fili or Kili as my heir apparent, Master Maldur?” Thorin crumpled a piece of parchment in his hand.

“I am afraid not, Sire.” The elderly scholar adjusted the emerald pince-nez on his nose. “They are both the sons of a daughter of Durin.”“Besides, since Fili is married to Lady Fridvi of the Firebeards. According to the treaty between our houses, their firstborn child will rule in the Blue Mountains,” added Balin with an apologetic smile.

“Aye. Even if it’s a daughter,” Thorin said and added, as if to himself, “I have always thought the Firebeards to be more sensible when it came to the laws of succession.”“Yes, well, Your Majesty…” Master Maldur cleared his throat in ill-disguised disapproval, shuffling some parchments in front of him. “The Longbeard laws, however, clearly state that if no male heir is procured by the current king before his 200th birthday, the next Dwarf in line — albeit one who is not a direct descendant of Durin — would be the grandson of your Grandfather’s brother, Grór, the firstborn son of his firstborn son, Nain, your…”

“I do know the lineage of my cousin, Dain Ironfoot, quite well, thank you,” Thorin remarked curtly. Genealogy, lineages, and recounting endless familial connections always made him irritable.

��And hypothetically speaking, if your revered cousin was not there to claim the crown of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, may Mahal give him long life,” Maldur spoke in his hoarse voice that made Thorin think of crumbling stones, “the next in line would be, of course, Lord Balin, the firstborn son of Fundin, the firstborn son of Farin, who, in turn, was the firstborn…”

“Thank you, Master Maldur.” Thorin nodded to him, having heard enough, and then turned to the firstborn son of Fundin. “Balin, how would you feel about becoming the next king?”

“I would rather not. Unless you and Dain plan to drink your way to the Halls of Awaiting together anytime soon?” Balin chuckled, shaking his head. “I have other plans, laddie, and besides, I’m not getting any younger.”

“And yet your wit is as sharp as it was one hundred years ago,” Thorin offered him a half-smile.

“Your Majesty, may I take this opportunity to point out how crucial it is that a direct descendant of Durin sits on the throne of Azsâlul'abad?” The frown on Master Maldur’s forehead deepened. “Additionally, the unfortunate discord between Your Majesty’s Grandfather and his brother, Grór, is vividly remembered by your subjects. Sadly, because of this, Lord Dain is quite an unpopular personage here. Not a favourable position to be in for a prospective ruler. If such an event were to happen, of course.”

“Of course.” Thorin sighed. “Any more ideas, Balin? Lord Bori?”

Balin slowly shook his head.

“May I remind you, Your Majesty, that we have received several offers of alliance through marriage?” said the white-haired chancellor, who — until that very moment — remained silent. Lord Bori always picked the perfect moment to strike.“Very well.” Thorin stood up, signalling that the meeting was adjourned. “It seems that we have run out of heirs. Balin, would you be so kind as to discuss the matter with my sister? I entrust you both with choosing a suitable royal consort for the King Under the Mountain.”

A thud brought him out of his reverie. It came from the adjacent bedchamber. Thorin heard two distinct voices, although he could not quite make out the words. It must have been Lady Mista discussing something with her maid, he suspected. He clearly recognized the soft lilt of his spouse’s voice, so characteristic among the Broadbeams. Perhaps she was readying herself for the day, as he should as well. Thorin was about to ring for his servant when a resonant voice reached his ears despite the thick door between their rooms.

“Why doesn't it surprise me, Mista?!” The voice was definitely feminine. “You had one job…” “Let me explain…” That was Lady Mista speaking. Thorin was able to recognize only one or two words.

“There is nothing to explain!” The first voice returned. “It was your wedding night, for Mahal’s sake! Couldn’t you have made an effort? Just look at yourself! For once in your life…”

“Mother, you don’t understand, I…” Lady Mista’s words trailed off. She sounded tense.

The pounding in Thorin’s head intensified. He glared at the door.

“Have you forgotten how hard your father and your uncle worked to achieve this?! Is that how you repay your family, Mista? By ruining everything? On the very first night?”

Without thinking, Thorin placed his hand on the door handle and pressed. He had heard enough.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

In the silence that filled the room, just after he stepped into Lady Mista’s bedchamber, he saw Lady Mista sitting in her bed. Her face was as pale as the bed linen, her eyes wide, and her quilt pulled up to her chin. She looked at him as if she wanted to disappear underneath it. With her hair tousled and her slightly skewed spectacles, she looked more like a defenceless young maid than an adult Dwarf-woman.

Next to her bed stood a corpulent red-haired matron in a fashionable green-and-gold gown, her hair immaculately dressed, her neck and wrists adorned with elegant jewellery, her fisted hands resting against her hips.

“Your Majesty.” The matron executed a customary curtsy, offering him a sweet but artificial smile. “What an honour to see you in my daughter’s bedchamber. I believe…” “Lady Milva.” He gave her a curt nod of recognition and graced her with a cold stare. “You will have to forgive me, madam, but I do not intend to reciprocate. I, for one, cannot understand why you would choose this particular time to visit Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Ah, but Your Majesty would surely understand that I wanted to see to my daughter’s comfort on the very first day of her rule.” Her smile widened.

“Do you wish to imply that I am incapable of such a feat, madam?” Thorin hissed.

“Oh no, Your Majesty, not at all!” The matron attempted a giggle. “On the contrary, I believe it is my daughter who failed to see to your comfort.”

Thorin’s head seemed to be pounding even more than before.

“Mother, please…” He heard Lady Mista’s strained voice behind him.

“Enough, Mista, you should be apologising to His Majesty for disappointing him!” Lady Milva turned to her daughter and Thorin decided that he had heard enough.

“My lady, you are disturbing me and my spouse in our private chambers. Only because you are my wedded wife’s mother, My Lady, I am going to ask you kindly.” Thorin hissed. “Leave now.”

Silence filled the chamber for several heartbeats. Lady Milva’s gaze moved between her daughter and Thorin before she spoke again. 

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she replied stiffly, abandoning her insincere manner. “Mista, I will return later, to prepare you for dinner.”

“Is that what you wish, My Lady?” Thorin turned to Mista.

“I… Thank you, Mother,” Lady Mista’s words were a mere whisper as she clutched the quilt, “but I think I will manage on my own this time.”

Her mother stood there for a moment longer, her brow furrowed, and then she replied, “If that is what you wish.”

She made another curtsy to Thorin, and then, in a swift flurry of her opulent gown, she stormed out of the bedchamber.

“Forgive me, My Lord, have we woken you up?” The bedclothes rustled, making Thorin gaze at Lady Mista — the woman he wed yesterday. As she left the bed, he caught a glimpse of her bare feet, so much smaller than his, and so dainty. Her sleeping gown flowed elegantly down her body, hugging her figure and revealing patches of smooth skin that only a husband was allowed to see. Quickly, he looked away. He did not feel like one.

“I was already awake,” he offered, glancing around the chamber. “Have you broken your fast yet, My Lady?”

“No, My Lord,” she replied. “I’m afraid I lost track of time. I was reading.”

Thorin followed her gaze to the thick tome that lay open on the bed. It looked like something from the Royal Library of Erebor, but he did not recognize the cover.

“I’ll ring for breakfast for you then. You must be famished,” he offered. 

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Lady Mista replied, her words barely audible, like the chirping of a frightened little bird. “Would you… would you like to join me?”

Thorin shook his head decidedly. 

“I am expected elsewhere. The meeting of the Guildmasters is going to be held quite soon,” he was amazed at how easily this half-truth slipped out of his mouth. That meeting was on his general agenda, but no one expected him to join it, not so soon after his wedding.

“Oh, I see,” Lady Mista’s voice wavered, but she continued after a pause. “In that case, allow me, My Lord, to thank you for your… intervention. My Mother can be tempestuous at times, but she means well.”

“Forgive me, My Lady, but her behaviour was out of place,” he said, attempting to ignore the insistent pounding in his head. “You are not only her daughter but — first and foremost — the Queen. No one is allowed to treat you so, no matter the circumstances. No one. Not even her.”

Thorin took a deep breath in order to rein in his temper. He was abrupt, his words far from courteous, but his patience was wearing thin. The last thing he was willing to endure was a lady on the verge of tears, bullied by her own kin. A half-forgotten memory surfaced in his mind: those sobs, that lavish but abhorred wedding dress, and his sister’s words: “You can’t help it, nadad. This is women’s lot in life.” 

This time, unlike that other time, Thorin could help it — and so he did. That was the least he was able to do for this terrified woman. His wife.

He did not find the strength to look into her face once more and see those glossed-over eyes and those trembling lips. Instead, he excused himself under the pretence of procuring breakfast and left her bedchamber.

He found his reward in the form of a full jug of water in the adjacent parlour. Quenching his thirst, he rang for a servant. Katla, Lady Mista’s new maid, arrived soon after. She was one of the maids who worked for their family when they lived in the Blue Mountains. Now, however, Dis decided that Katla was exactly the person Lady Mista would need. The girl was unusually agitated, and as soon as Thorin asked about Lady Milva’s presence in the Queen’s bedchamber, her countenance wavered. 

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she curtseyed, her gaze lowered reverently. “I had no means to stop Her Ladyship, I asked her not to disturb Your Majesties, but she said that she was the Queen’s mother and the Queen would dismiss me right away if Her Ladyship was not allowed to enter, and I thought…”

“Thank you, Katla, I understand,” he said. “You are not going to be dismissed. However, Her Majesty does not need such disturbances. Should someone attempt to storm into Her Majesty’s private chambers without her consent again, do not hesitate to call the guards.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Katla nodded stiffly. “And… Thank you. For not dismissing me.”

“My Mother, the Dowager Queen, always spoke highly of you. Now, I need you to take care of the new Queen in a similar manner. This is her new home, and we need to make her feel like it. Can I rely on you?”

“Always, m’lord.” A hopeful smile appeared on her face. “Does the Queen need anything now, m’lord?”

“She is requesting a hearty breakfast,” he ordered.

“I’ll be right back with her tray! Shall I bring one for you as well, m’lord?”

“No, thank you. I have matters to attend to.”

With these words, Thorin directed his steps to the Royal Baths. Hot water and steam were exactly what he needed at that very moment. A sizable pile of documents waited for him on his desk, but he needed to clear his head first.

***

“Here you are, nadad! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dis’ voice made him raise his gaze from a parchment.

“Where else should I be?” Thorin tilted his head, observing his sister as she approached his desk. There was only a handful of braids in her modest hairdo — her wavy strands as dark as his own — and she wore a simple day dress. Yet, Dis looked more elegant than many other ladies in their finest gowns. She inherited her noble bearing and facial features from their paternal grandmother, after all.

“Where should you be? Let me see…” she tapped her mouth with her index finger and then asked innocently. “Perhaps with your wife?”

Thorin cursed inwardly. Dis inherited their grandmother’s wit, too.

“If only those trade licences could somehow sign themselves…” he grunted.

“And while you are drowning in parchments, your newly-wed wife is halfway through the second volume of The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad,” she grunted back.

“The second volume?” Thorin’s eyebrow rose as he recalled the size of that monstrous twelve-volume work. He never managed to make it past the first one.

“Yes. Apparently, Mista finished the first one during lunch. Which she ate alone.” Dis folded her arms on her chest. It had never been a good sign when Grandmother Birgit folded her arms like that.

“I ate my lunch alone as well.” He pointed at a plate with a forgotten piece of dark bread left, half-covered by a couple of documents.

“On the first day of your marriage,” Dis retorted.

“These licences are vital for…”

“Thorin…” His sister rolled her eyes.

“Dis…” He sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“Some things need time,” he heard himself say.

“I know, Thorin,” Dis stepped to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Of all the people in the world… I know.”

“At least you knew Vili before your wedding,” Thorin put his quill aside.

“Vaguely. While you managed to spend a whole evening with Mista in Tumunzahar.”

“Which apparently happened a long time ago — and of which I remember nothing.” He admitted with a frown and then drummed his fingers on the desk. “Nan’ith, I may have made an utter fool of myself yesterday.”

Dis sat heavily on a chair beside him, “Let me hear it.”

“Lady Mista was convinced that I remembered meeting her at a feast. Apparently, we danced and talked, and she expected me to…” He sighed. “I don’t know. The problem is that instead of playing along with it, I told her that I did not remember it at all.”

“Nadad, I have always admired your disarming honesty, but…” Dis paused and then grinned. “Well, it looks like you have figured it out yourself. You are an utter fool.”

When she elbowed him, as if they were smooth-cheeked youths again, Thorin simply had to elbow her back.

“Thank you, dearest sister. I know I could count on you.” He let out a lukewarm chuckle.

“How did she take it? Is that why you are hiding in here?” Thorin shook his head, “Lady Mista did not seem offended. I’d say she was perhaps… surprised? Disappointed?”

“I would be too if my future husband first sent me a letter in which he spoke fondly of our meeting years ago and then admitted to not remembering it at all,” Dis waved her hand in despair.

“A letter?” Thorin’s frown deepened.

“The letter. Don’t tell me you haven’t read it.” A frown appeared on her face as well. “Balin and I spent half a day composing it before it was sent along with the marriage contract.”

“For which I am very thankful. I have no head for this sort of letters, as you know.” “That was precisely why you were supposed to read it before it was sealed, Thorin.” She rolled her eyes.

“I knew I could trust you with its contents. Dis, we were rebuilding the Forges at that time! I barely had time to eat or sleep; that letter was hardly on top of my agenda.” 

His sister let out a long sigh.

“It is not me you should explain yourself to. What happened, happened. Tell me, do you truly not remember anything from that meeting?”

“This was one of many feasts I was obligated to appear at. Amicable relations with our allies, and all that,” he offered.

“We were there together, you know.”

“Were we?” Thorin searched his memory. To no avail. All those feasts seemed like a blur in his mind.

“Balin was there, too. And Dwalin, I think.” Dis added. “And Mother. She wore that emerald green gown.”

He tried once more. Still nothing.

“There was lots of food, lots of political scheming… Oh, and there were quite a few mothers flaunting their offspring at me and you. Mostly at you, the Crown Prince,” she snickered.

“You have just described most of the feasts I have attended in the past.” He ran a hand over his face. “Every time I felt like game during hunting season. Did I really spend the whole evening with Lady Mista?”

“Quite a bit of it.” Dis nodded. “You were seated next to a matron who insisted on making you dance with each of her daughters — I think she had two or three of them — and then you did what you usually used to do. You disappeared. When you returned, Mista was with you already, and then you danced. That matron, together with her cronies, was of course appalled, because you never even looked at anyone else. And Mista was not even formally out, she was maybe a few years over half battle-age at that time!”

“It seems that I scandalised the matrons of Tumunzahar and nearly robbed a cradle. What an achievement. And I cannot even remember it.” Thorin smiled wryly, although an image or two flickered before his eyes. A handkerchief with his monogram in a lithe hand. Grey-brown hair adorned with pearls.

“At least no one bothered you afterwards,” she put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Now, I hope you find a way to make amends with your wife, nadad.”

Thorin gave her a nod, “You and me both. I simply do not have the slightest idea how to talk to her. I feel as if she is afraid of me.”

“We both know that you are not the greatest charmer when it comes to the matters of the heart,” she offered him a smirk. “And neither am I. I can only tell you what Mother told me once. Marriage is like the endless forging of a sword. If you want to make a great blade, you have to keep the fire going, and work the metal every single day. Draw it, shape it, and then keep on tempering it so that it never breaks.”

“She knew her way around the forge,” Thorin admitted fondly. He liked to think that he inherited his bladesmithing skills from their Mother.

“She knew how to deal with Father, too. I took her words to heart, and it worked for me — for us. Vili and me…” Dis cleared her throat. “We had nothing in common — or so I thought at first.” 

A sad smile softened her features, and Thorin covered her hand with his. 

“He was even younger than me,” she continued, “so rowdy and boisterous, and talked only of mountain goat races and throwing knives. Remember how terrified I was when I had to braid his hair?”

“You? Terrified? You were as decorous as Grandma Birgit would,” he said.

“That was because I knew Grandma Birgit would have been appalled if I fainted halfway through the ceremony. You cannot believe how mortified I was before the wedding night!” His sister chuckled.

“You asked me for two pints of the strongest malt beer we had,” Thorin offered lightly. It was good to see her smile.

“I only wanted to take the edge off things!” Dis grinned. “How was I supposed to know you spiked it with Dwalin’s horrible brandy?”

“You weren't. And you and Vili were supposed to drink them together. How should I know he would down them both at once?” He shrugged as if he had not seen it coming.

“I think I was the first bride in the history of Arda who spent her wedding night listening to her new husband’s loud snores.”

“You should talk with Bombur’s Ronja,” he quipped.

“Nadad! I shall not discuss their wedding night with her!” Dis feigned outrage only to burst out in laughter.

“Be glad that you did not hear his snores during the Quest. Every. Single. Night. He even made us think a storm was coming! And once, in the Misties…” It was so easy to fall back on the anecdotes from the past, and Thorin was awarded with another bout of laughter. Since Dis arrived back to the Mountain — their home — for the first time in years, it was easy to make her smile. There was a new spark in her eyes too, one that Thorin saw in countless eyes these days. A glint of hope for their reclaimed homeland they were rebuilding — and for their future. Was the same glint present in Lady Mista’s eyes last night? He could not say.

“Thank you”, Dis startled him, pecking him on his cheek.

“For what?” He met her eyes.

“For many things… like not terrifying your bride too much.”

Thorin swallowed, “What do you mean?”

“You know how you can be sometimes.” Dis patted his hand.

“Are you going to tell me once more that I scare others away with my ‘brooding’, or whatever you call it?” He rose from his chair and looked down at her.

“Not at all! Brooding is not as loud as snoring.” Tilting her head up, she winked at him. “Do you know you sometimes come off as quite intimidating?”

“I have never heard of such a notion,” Thorin let his lip curl up. “Especially from you.”

“What about that agreement you managed to hammer out last week with those stubborn donkeys, the Guildmasters?” Thorin knew better than to offer a reply.

“I heard your voice all the way to the warehouses! And when the Masters left the council chamber, they were meek as lambs, even the fiery Master Karg!”

“I simply reminded them that the world did not revolve around their coin pouches. Loudly.”

“I am glad you made use of it this morning.”

“You heard about what happened,” Of course. His sister had a knack for knowing things that did not happen in her presence.

“A word or two.” “Lady Mista’s mother needed to be put in her place,” Thorin quickly recounted his confrontation with Lady Milva. 

When he finished, Dis pressed her lips in a thin line.

“What a viper,” she huffed. “Now I know why Mista looked so shaken today. But we are in luck. The whole Broadbeam delegation is leaving in a week or so. We will manage.”

“We have managed worse.” He finished the thought, their private saying, one that they used since the vile Smaug ravaged their kingdom. Last time they spoke it happened just before the Quest to reclaim their homeland. Now, both the current circumstances and stakes felt vastly different, and Thorin could not help but wonder — would he manage?

“I must say you did wonders with the Queen’s bedchamber in such a short time.” Thorin admitted in a hasty attempt to change the subject. “It looks quite… comfortable. Especially with that tapestry from Grandmother’s chambers. And to think it survived Smaug almost untouched…”

“Oh, so you did spend some time with Mista after all?” Dis raised an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Were there two pints of malt beer involved or not? Don’t you make that face at me, nadad! This was your wedding night and everyone will jest about it, whether you like it or not!”

Sadly, she was right.

***

Dis’ prophetic words proved true in the evening at the celebratory dinner. It was held in the largest cavern under the Mountain, the Great Hall. It was as tall as several levels of the Dwarven kingdom, making it easy for people to freely join and leave the festivities, catch a glimpse of the royal family or listen to the music while feasting in their local quarters. Thorin remembered that this natural formation in the depths of the Mountain was where all the largest festivities happened when his Grandfather, King Thrór, ruled. He himself did not expect to celebrate his royal wedding in these legendary chambers as well. After all, marriage had not been a part of his plans for the future.

Upon entering the Great Hall, it was difficult not to notice all the lavish adornments he remembered from the day before, countless tables filled anew with various dishes, lanterns and candles that cast their golden glow on the walls, brightening everyone’s faces — and the fact that all the eyes were now set on Thorin and his new royal consort. They were both clad in matching attires made especially for this occasion; every detail, pattern, and jewel on those black, silver, and gold garments was supposed to symbolise the imperishable beauty and opulence of the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Judging by the reactions of his subjects, the newly-wed royal couple made a favourable impression on them. 

Casting a sidelong glance at Lady Mista, Thorin expected to see the joyful or perhaps even triumphant smile of a new queen. Instead, he noticed the strained lines of her face, the paleness of her cheeks, and her bespectacled gaze set somewhere above the heads of the guests. Only the crown over her temples softened the solemn impression somewhat and lent her a regal air. Lady Mista’s palm rested stiffly on his forearm as Thorin led her through the chamber towards the royal table. He could feel how stiff her muscles were, as if she was a wooden doll controlled by an invisible puppeteer.

Thorin made an effort not to look at Lady Mista’s kin, who had already gathered at their side of the royal table. After what he experienced with the members of this family so far, it was not at all difficult to infer what face — or rather, faces — that puppeteer bore. 

That poor, terrified girl. His wife. The new Queen Under the Mountain.

“Our people are curious about you, My Lady,” he whispered just as they walked onto the stone dais where the royal table was placed.

“Oh?” Quickly, she turned towards him, her eyes wide. “About me?”

“They do not know you yet, and many of them are wondering what they can expect of you, their new Zabdûna,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer to her.

“Of… of course I will do my best to care for them,” she lowered her gaze and a blush darkened her cheeks. Then she added, “There is no Kingdom without its people.”

The last time Thorin heard those words, he was barely a youth, and his days were filled with endless studies and training. One of his Grandfather’s sayings — words of Dagur Sture, an ancient philosopher from Khazad-dûm — spoken in the trembling voice of a Broadbeam lady from the distant Khagal'abbad, the Blue Mountains. 

“Indeed,” he said, shaking off the surprise as they both turned towards the guests, an endless sea of faces before them . “Pray, show it to them, My Lady.”

“But how?” Lady Mista blinked, adjusting her spectacles on her nose. “I do not know what to do…”

“Simply greeting them will be enough,” Thorin attempted to say these words with an encouraging smile. “Acknowledge your new subjects.”

Lady Mista nodded slightly and swallowed, lifting her gaze upon the crowd. He felt her right hand tighten on his forearm, but then her left hand rose into the air, and she waved to the gathered crowd. An avalanche of cheers went through the cavern; some of the guests responded to her greeting in turn, their faces brightening.

Thorin chose this moment to greet the gathered Dwarves in the same fashion, enhancing their jubilation even further. All it took was a wave. A simple trick his Grandfather taught him a lifetime ago, but one that never failed.

When he glanced at Lady Mista’s face again, there was a new glint in her eyes and a timid smile on her lips as she took in the enthusiastic response to her gesture.

“They like you already, My Lady,” he whispered, nodding to her in approval and seeing her features finally soften when her lips curled up slightly. A welcome change, he thought. People needed to see their rulers glad, especially on such an occasion. Appearances mattered more than one’s true feelings; he had learned that bitter lesson well.

After the customary welcoming speech — Thorin somehow managed to keep it short — he led Lady Mista to their chairs at the centre of the table, and then the feast began. Soon, he found himself in a lively conversation with Glóin, Dwalin and Lord Taran, Lady Mista’s uncle, discussing the strategy applied in the siege of an Orc stronghold that happened during the Great War. Various pieces of golden tableware turned into numerous units of dwarven troops, a nearby platter with fruit acted as a mountain range, the octagonal brass salt cellar became the stronghold, and leftover pheasant bones served as Orcs.

“What a battle it was! We hadn’t slept for three days in a row!” Glóin announced as the culinary re-enactment of the battle came to an end. “When we were done with the Orc scum, Thorin looked every bit as tired as he looks now after one night with his bride!”

Thorin grunted.

“Aye, he does, but can ye imagine his state after three nights of storming her stronghold?” Dwalin roared with laughter.

Thorin glowered at his friend, who, in response, laughed even harder.

“With such a meek lass like our Mista, he doesn’t have much storming to do!” Lord Taran bellowed, the tattoos on his cheeks stretching in a wide grin.

Thorin clenched his fist. 

Dis threw him a meaningful glance from across the table. We will manage. Mahal, give him strength. Casting a fleeting look at Lady Mista, Thorin saw that she was deeply immersed in a conversation with Balin, who at that very moment patted her on her hand.

“May Your Majesty strike a gold vein quickly so we have a new reason to celebrate soon, a naming ceremony!” Lord Tair, the new Queen’s father, raised his goblet, meeting Thorin’s gaze. “May Mahal bless this union with many children!”

Other cups shot into the air, and the toast echoed across the hall, countless eyes set on the royal couple. Thorin gritted his teeth. This was not a purely well-meant wish, not in Tair’s mouth. The Broadbeam lord, who negotiated the marriage contract himself, alluded to its crucial clause: children from this union meant prosperity for both of their houses. On the other hand, no offspring by Thorin’s 200th birthday meant the dissolution of the marriage, the end of the vastly profitable trade agreements for the Broadbeams, and the end of the direct line of Durin for the Longbeards — and Thorin. The stakes were high for both houses.

Decidedly, Thorin grasped his own goblet and returned the gesture. A quick glance to his left told him that Lady Mista followed his lead, her fingers stiffly holding her goblet’s stem. He felt her eyes on him, but he found himself unable to reciprocate her gaze.

Another toast came after the first. This time, it was Dis wishing the newly-wed couple a long and happy marriage. A couple of toasts full of platitudes followed, and when everyone in the Great Hall drank their fill, conversations returned. Thorin’s sister was talking with Lady Mista now; he thought he heard them speak of a library when a sonorous voice reached his ears.

“Such a match happens once in a lifetime, Lord Balin, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Mista’s mother gave the older Dwarf a charming smile.

“As you say, Lady Milva. And it is a prosperous one, too,” Balin nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

“I am truly overjoyed that I had this idea! I told my husband: ‘Remember that winter feast we had in Tumunzahar, love? The one when Prince Thorin — for His Majesty was merely a prince then — danced only with my dear Mista?’ He only had eyes for her that night! So many mothers had fits of jealousy, because he did not even spare a glance for any of their daughters!” Lady Milva chuckled.

“That must have been quite an event,” Balin admitted. 

Thorin gritted his teeth, acutely feeling the weight of his crown on his head — and the eyes of his subjects on him. Instead of addressing a few curt words to Lady Mista’s mother, he took a large gulp of wine.

“So it was, Lord Balin, so it was! If you only had been there to see it!” She dabbed an invisible tear from her eye. “They danced, and danced, and afterwards my sweet daughter would sigh, and dream away, and ask if Prince Thorin would attend the next feast! So when the Lonely Mountain was finally reclaimed, I told my husband: ‘My love, if you are not going to send that marriage proposal to King Thorin, I am going to take her to Azsâlul'abad myself!’. And do you know what he said?”

Thorin’s old mentor declared, “I have not the slightest idea, My Lady.” 

Neither had Thorin. He refilled his goblet. Beside him, Dis asked Lady Mista a question he did not quite hear, but she received no answer. Lady Milva’s daughter, the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, sat unmoving, staring at her empty plate, her lips pressed into a thin line, while her relentless mother kept on talking. 

“Well, my dear Tair said ‘No need to do that, my dearest, for I have already sent the proposal!’. I swear, we act and think as one, is it not so, my lord husband?” Lady Milva turned to her spouse and loudly pecked his cheek.

“You speak the truth, my dove,” her husband replied, running his hand down his thick silver beard braid with clear contentment. “It was a great honour that His Majesty agreed to our offer this time!”

“Oh, hush, my gem, no need to bring that up, it happened such a long time ago,” Lady Milva waved her hand. “It is of no consequence now.”

“May I ask what you mean, My Lady?” Óin put his fork aside and brought his hearing trumpet to his ear. “Is there another layer to this charming love story?”

“Indeed, there is! I can tell you in confidence,” Lady Milva clapped her hands, leaning towards Óin, although Thorin noticed that she did not bother to lower her voice, “that we sent a marriage proposal to Thorinuldûm a few years later, but we were informed that King Thorin was not interested. I must admit that we made a grave error that day! You see, dear Lord Óin, we offered the hand of our daughter Adla in marriage instead of Mista! Therefore, it was not at all surprising that His Majesty was not interested. She was simply not the right daughter! The whole Blue Mountains wondered why he would not marry our Adla — for you must know that she is considered one of the greatest beauties of our clan — nor any other lady for one hundred years!”

“A true mystery indeed,” Óin agreed with a chuckle.

Thorin glared into his goblet. It was not a mystery to him. He clearly remembered the day the first proposal arrived. This missive from Tumunzahar came together with another letter from Gabilgathol, the city of the Firebeard Dwarves. The city he vowed never to return to. The memories he buried on the bottom of his mind, never to revisit. The eyes he would never look into again.

“...so when we sent our second offer,” Lady Milva placed her goblet on the table with a loud thud, “the answer came swiftly. And now — just look at these two, My Lord, and tell me this was not a match carved in stone.”

“May Mahal grant them happiness!” Óin said, lifting his goblet.

Lady Milva did the same, stood up and added loudly, “Let us drink for their long-awaited reunion! Will our royal lovebirds sweeten the toast with a kiss?”

“A kiss! A kiss!” Several voices from among the guests were heard at first, and then more and more of them joined in the chant. “King and Queen! King and Queen!”

What a viper, Thorin cursed inwardly. So that was her revenge. He should have seen it coming. At that moment, he could no longer pretend that he had not heard Lady Milva’s words. Neither had Lady Mista. Their gazes met; her spectacles slid slightly down her nose, uncovering a pair of brown eyes — wide open and terrified.

Thorin leaned towards her, whispering into her ear in order to be heard despite the continuous chanting.

“Forgive me, Lady Mista. This is not how I…” He paused, searching for the right words that did not seem to come. “I am afraid that we may need to make a little spectacle of ourselves, if you do not mind.”

“Kiss! Kiss!” The chanting grew louder, just like Lady Milva’s vicious smile, as people started clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and banging their goblets against the tables.

“I understand. I apologise for my mother.” She signed discreetly in Iglishmêk. Her fingers trembled when she added, “Let us turn it to our advantage and give our people the fairy tale they expect.”

Our people.

“Very well,” Thorin signed back, offering her his hand, palm up, and trying to empty his mind of all the importunate thoughts. With everyone in the Great Hall staring at them expectantly, they had to do it. There was no other way. Lady Mista took his hand, and it seemed to him that in that very moment, a spark of understanding passed between them. This was something they had to do together, something they were expected to do as the King and Queen Under the Mountain. A duty. Nothing more.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The guests continued to chant.

Thorin stood up, waiting for Lady Mista to gather her skirts and do the same. A moment later, they stood, arm in arm, before the gathered crowd, their hands joined. The continuous chanting echoed against the ceiling of the Great Hall when he turned to face her. Their gazes met; in the candlelight, her eyes looked like molten amber. The new Queen nodded almost imperceptibly, her fine hand gave his a little squeeze, and he could not stall any longer. Thorin lowered his face towards her and his nose bumped against hers,  so he tilted his head further, mindful of her spectacles, and let his lips gently brush against hers. 

Her breath hitched, and he carefully moved to press his lips against hers, and she must have stood up on her tiptoes because he met the softness of her lips much sooner than expected, and she smelled, or perhaps tasted, like an apple orchard, sweet and innocent, and—

An enthusiastic storm of cheers washed over the Mountain, drowning all the importunate thoughts of his for a long while.

To be continued...

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

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[tokkiwrites]

Could you do Marcus Acacius x princess!f!reader

A Roman Empire has a ball. you are bit nervous around people in the ball.

Your father just wants best for you literally stand beside your father. You are gonna excuse yourself. Get some air. You walk as you trip someone that your apologies He was holding your waist so that you don't trip over. You two eyes are met. But you let go all the sudden. He was quite interested to you.

You walk back as he asked for a dance. You take his hand As you two dance along. You two were talking that about life. He was impressed about you.

Along with dancing, the dance was over as he kisses your hand for honor and wisdom.

(Hope you will write it, thank you and have a wonderful day)

thank you for this request! i hope it's what you envisioned • reqs

marcus acacius x princess!f!reader

The grand hall of the Roman palace was bathed in golden light as the ball unfolded in full splendor. The scent of roses and rich spices filled the air, mixing with the laughter and conversation of the empire’s finest nobility. You stood by your father’s side, your hands clasped together tightly. The elaborate folds of your gown swept across the marble floor, but you hardly noticed. Your heart was beating rapidly, nerves fluttering in your chest.

Your father’s eyes softened as he looked down at you. He only wanted the best for you. You knew that, but sometimes the weight of expectation felt heavy on your shoulders. “You’ll be fine, my daughter. Look around—everyone is here to celebrate,” he said reassuringly, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. You nodded politely, though the pressure didn’t ease. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy these events, but the sea of unfamiliar faces, the expectant glances, and the conversations filled with formality made you feel out of place. You needed a moment to breathe, to escape from the intensity of it all.

“I think I’ll get some air,” you whispered to your father, who gave you a small nod of understanding.

You quietly slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the throngs of elegantly dressed nobles. As you made your way toward the quieter corners of the palace, your mind was occupied, and you didn’t notice when your foot caught on the edge of your gown. You gasped softly as you began to stumble. Before you could hit the ground, a strong hand caught your waist, steadying you with surprising grace. Startled, you looked up, your eyes locking with the man who had saved you from your fall. His dark eyes were intense but kind, framed by sharp, handsome features. His hold was firm, and for a brief moment, the world around you seemed to slow.

“My apologies,” you said quickly, your voice soft but embarrassed as you stepped back, releasing yourself from his hold.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said with a slight smile, his voice rich and smooth. “I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.”

You gave a polite nod, feeling heat rise in your cheeks, and turned to walk back toward the ballroom. But before you could slip away, his voice stopped you.

“May I have the honor of a dance?”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. His eyes were still on you, a curious glint in them. There was something about him—his presence was commanding yet not overbearing, his interest genuine. Despite your nerves, you found yourself giving a small nod. “Yes." He extended his hand, and you took it. His touch was warm and steady as he led you back toward the ballroom floor. The music swelled around you as you both moved into the dance. The crowd seemed to fade away as you glided across the floor, his steps perfectly matched with yours. “What brings you to this ball, then?” he asked as the two of you twirled gracefully. “My father, the king.” you said, feeling the need to be honest. “He wishes for me to be seen, to…make alliances.” He gave a small, knowing smile. “And what do you wish for?”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to answer truthfully. “I wish for more than just alliances. I want to live a life of meaning, of adventure. To do something more than what’s expected of me.” His eyes lit up with admiration. “That is rare,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Most would simply accept the path laid before them, but you want something different.” You nodded, feeling more comfortable with him as the dance continued. “And you?” you asked. “What do you seek?”

“Purpose,” he said simply. “To serve the empire, yes, but to also find something that makes life worth more than just duty. Something, or someone, worth fighting for.” His words stirred something in you, and for a moment, you felt like the two of you were the only ones in the room. As the dance came to a close, the music slowing to its final notes, he gently lifted your hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against your knuckles. “For honor and wisdom,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture. There was something undeniably compelling about him, something that made you feel as though your paths were meant to cross. “Thank you,” you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips. He released your hand, but you could feel his gaze on you as you stepped back. You turned to rejoin your father, the moment lingering in your mind.

As you moved through the ballroom, you glanced over your shoulder one last time, and your eyes met his again across the room. Marcus Acacius, as you had learned his name during the dance, stood tall, watching you with the same interest he had shown when he first caught you. You couldn’t help but wonder what the future held.

[frosted-hyacinth]

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

Yandere!villains are destined to die x f!reader

notice! This book can be read as gn or m reader but I personally envision the reader as a female, however, there are no particular pronouns but maybe some actions that are more feminine.

synopsis. You wake up as a maid for the Eckhart house, the only thing is, you're the adopted daughter's maid. Penelope Eckhart. You had been playing a game 'Daughter of the Duke, Love Project' you'd finished normal mode and started hard mode yet you died, being accused of Yvonne's murder. You felt confident that you could breeze through this, living but there was something off. Penelope Eckhart's personality has completely flipped.

You shocked up from the bed, panting heavily. You looked around. You hadn't been here before yet it felt familiar. You looked more closely at your surroundings, stepping out of the bed to look out the window.

It's the empire from that game... No... This can't be

You shook your head, half expecting this to be a dream and that you would wake up. But you didn't, you were still here in this dark, small room. You lightly slapped your cheeks and when that didn't work either, you hit harder. You wanted to feel the comfort of your own room, your own bed. Instead of that, all you felt was the sharp stinging of the impact slowly fading away leaving you with only the hard reality. This fictional life, one that did not belong to you was now the one that you are in.

- ♥ -

After a while of trying to fall back asleep, you realized that you couldn't, so you decided to be productive. You lit a candle, deciding that you would be productive and decide how you were supposed to behave at this house, a house that seemed to be noble. You'd looked in the mirror a while back and after a while of staring at your reflection, a shard of your memory drifted back. You were a minor maid at house Eckhart.

The maid who's body you were in was a minor character, not much mentioned but the part that this maid played the most part in was with the character Penelope Eckhart. You were the maid that had stood with her even after she had been accused of poisoning the Duke's youngest daughter.

So, in order to survive without either of the male leads or your mistress killing you (not that they could kill a maid before you were charged for maligning nobility and all the other laws in the Eorkan Empire), you must simply play your part and serve the lady Eckhart as you were meant to.

Soon after you had scribbled your thoughts down, the sun had risen. So you stood up off you desk to prepare for the day.

- ♥ -

"Miss, it's time to wake up" The brunette maid spoke to the pink head still sleeping on the bed as she slowly woke up.

knock knock

"... Come in."

You slowly walked into the room, you had arrived to the side of the brown haired maid, Emily, if you recall correctly. Once you finally started taking in your surroundings, you noticed the quality of water that laid on the table beside Penelope. You instinctively reached to change the water but stopped at the sight of your mistress flinching. She rolled up her sleeves just for the three women in the room to be met with the sight of needle marks on her forearm.

You let out a small gasp before stepping forwards towards Penelope seemingly concerned.

"Miss! Are you alright?"

She didn't answer you but she shot her head in Emily's direction. It looked like she tried speaking but stopped, still in a state of distress.

"The bath is ready. Do wash up please, Miss." The brunette haired maid spoke calmly, looking down. Yet when she looked up towards her mistress, a mocking smile was found on her face.

Ah... Did I just get ignored...? You sighed eternally. You hoped that you could have done something yet ended up being completely ignored by both Emily and Penelope, and now, you'd have to leave the room to let your mistress wash up.

From the outside of your mistress' room, you found the food that Emily was about to serve to Penelope. There really wasn't much that you could do but you could at least try, so you put on a calm face and faced the brunette.

"Emily." "Yes?"

"Are you planning to serve this to our mistress? This food is not proper for a duke's daughter. The duke Eckhart could punish you." You said, maintaining eye contact with your fellow maid. A sound of the door beside you creaked open. "Is there a problem?" "No miss." Both maids replied, heads bowed down. You tried grabbing the plate of rotten food away from Emily's grasp but at this point, it was too late, you could no longer stop her from serving the food.

Emily neatly put the rotting food along with a cup of tea on a red checkered cloth.

"Here Miss, sit down. You must be hungry."

With the personality that you'd known the Daughter of the Duke Eckhart had, you expected that you'd have to clean up a fork from the floor or pick up a table after she threw a tantrum. You were definitely mentally prepared for anything but this. She sat in silence and ate the food as you merely stood there in shock, watching her gag slightly as she ate the rotten food.

When she reached the point where she almost vomited, you moved to a spot behind Penelope's chair, grabbing her wrist lightly.

"Miss, you shouldn't continue eating this." You said, brows furrowed, looking at her in concern. You really did hope that she would eating, this wasn't at all good for her health but right at that moment, the young lord; Reynold Eckhart walked in to the room.

"What's going on here?"

He walked up right behind you who was still softly gripping Penelope's wrist, from an angle where he couldn't see anything on the table, he said,

"Hey, what's wrong with..." His voiced trailed off as the table reached his view.

"What in the... ?!" He stared at the food placed on the table with a few small bites in them. He looked up then glared at both you and Emily.

"You were feeding this to her?" His tone was cold enough to freeze your blood on the spot. You had done nothing and you weren't prepared to die yet! You closed your eyes prepared for the impact of either a sword at your throat or guards grabbing you, your ears completely filtering out other words. When you opened your eyes, you were only met with Emily screaming.

"Young Master, no! It wasn't me! I-I wasn't!"

"Get out. Now."

©renwishestofly do not copy, repost, or translate. likes and reblogs are accepted and appreciated! Σ(っ °Д °;)っ Please don't plagiarize this

[septembermorningbells]

again soooooo interesting how Juri’s knowledge that the duels/system are harmful devolves into acceptance and apathy because she literally cannot envision a future outside of it— of course tied to her sense of hopelessness about her love for Shiori/her lesbian identity in general, in contrast to Utena’s naive optimism about ideals of nobility, while still upholding the system, eventually allow her to start thinking outside of it.

This is not a duel to possess the Rose Bride, something Juri admits is ‘probably’ not possible— it’s to reinforce her own view that the system cannot be changed, and therefore everything is hopeless.

[captaindibbzy]

Thinking about how you'd do Thunderbirds in a sort of age if sail setting cause the thing about Thunderbirds is you're trying to save the whole world, and age of sail can NOT get you there fast enough.

So scaling it down.

Envision a sea side town and the Tracy's are basically running the life boats, and the fire department, and any other kind of help you need, out of charity while their industry (whatever it is) keeps half the town employed. Maybe Jeff got pulled off to war, or maybe he "died at sea" in a storm trying to save someone, or fought against a french invasion of the port town. And now Scott is the Lord of the manner. Is he a gentleman or a member of the nobility? Idk. But he has inherited his father's vast estate and industry.

And of course they get stick from the local Rich, like Fischer and Lemaire, for caring about the peasants (though they don't have much of a complaint when it's THEIR ass on the line) but they are backed by the illustrious Lady Penelope who's father is a member of parliament.

Nobody knows who the Hood is. Is he a french spy or a traitor to the crown? They don't know. Nobody has ever seen his real face and lived to tell. But they say he is behind the shipwrecking in the bay, and is running a smuggling ring from the wreckage (if those damn Tracy Boys would just LET HIM WRECK THE SHIPS LIKE HE WANTS TO!), and he has stolen secrets from industry and the crown that he will sell to the highest bidder, be they french, English, or even American. Miss Kayo has her suspicions that her uncle may be involved, he seems to know more than he should, but proof is low on the ground.

Jeff got picked up by a French ship and taken back to France as a prisoner but he can't quite remember where he came from.

Here's to the fanfic I'm never gonna write. 🥂

[senqv]

HOUSE OF KINGS.

blue lock ! royal / fantasy au series featuring : michael kaiser x fem! reader

warning(s) : 1k , none this one is quite cute , lmk if there are any !!

prev. next.

TWO. THE WRATH SING, O GODDESS

the next time you see him, you are seated in the windowed alcove of the palace library, hidden behind the imposing shelves of mahogany wood. you could feel the thick knitted blankets and fox furs beneath your thighs, a fluffy cushion left of your waist.

you leaned against the window, ornate and elegant, cut in frames to let in squares of golden sun. the smooth cover of the book is familiar under your fingerpads, a beloved relic from your father. even with your gaze cast towards the window, you could envision the wine-dark cover in your hands, embossed with a deep gold; the methodical lettering forming words that you could recite like water spilling down the rumbling falls.

faintly, suddenly, like a whisper in the wind, the air changed. the soft hum of divinity, maybe, but you could not have known what that was. it only felt stronger as golden hair came into vision, reflecting off the glass planes of the windows. you blinked, straightening your back. you had thought it to be a trick of the light, but it was apparent how real he was with each languid step he took, steady and sure.

kaiser was not a god, but you can scarcely imagine anything more perfect than him. wherever he went, he drew everything to him like a great flame. and although your spitefulness refused to let you look at him, it could not be helped how your gaze traced his features reflected on the window, the brightness of his hair so lustrous it was lit from within, the steady curve of his face, and the arc of his rose-coloured lips.

you hear his feet stop before you, and his mouth opens, poised and self-assured. "this place belongs to me."

he was referring to this cosy little alcove, and you chide yourself for not noticing how personalised this place was, blanketed in wools and the highest quality of furs and goose-feathered pillows.

only then you look back at him, features screwed with slight displeasure. under his pointed stare, you swing your legs down from the wood carved into the window to face him properly, freeing up half the space. "this is a library. it doesn't belong to anyone," you say with narrowed eyes.

he looks almost like he can't believe the words coming out of your mouth. his arms move to cross over his chest. "the gods have decreed me to be emperor of kings. everything that treads the ground will belong to me one day." he does not say it boastfully, or arrogantly. it is fact to him as much as the stars circle the sky each night.

your lips twitch in search of a response, "not yet," you say weakly, and you stare into the endless blue of his eyes. your tone is stronger; "you are no emperor yet. you have no right to ask me to leave."

that surprised him. he tilts his head at you curiously, like a little sparrow. you may be the daughter of nobility, but he is the prince. he probably had all the rights in the world and more. like a tamed beast, he sits down next to you. he smells of roses and white jasmine, and you dare not to turn your head, glancing at him nervously from the corner of your eye. his gaze darts to your hand.

he shifts again, pressing his head on your shoulder as you fight down a flinch. a strand of hair falls over his eyes, and he blows it away with a huff. cerulean eyes stare up at you intently. like this, he reminds you of those sleek felines in the estate.

"read to me." it was a command, but the way he said it did not feel like one. to you, it was soft but distinct, easy as how one would utter their own name.

your mouth feels parched, but still, you crack the book open, the pages yellowed from their age. the familiar words ease you slightly, and your voice hangs in the air like the willows over a curving pond.

'the wrath sing, o goddess, of peleus' son

achilles'

his eyelashes flutter like the wings of a butterfly, fanning against his cheeks. he blinks slowly, relaxed. your gaze darts from the book to him like a school of fish in the water, but you hardly need to reference the pages, the words carved into your heart like a searing iron.

his golden hair curls around his head, the longer strands pooling at the dips of his collarbone and down the edge of your own shoulder. it drew your eye, glimmering like starlight, so bright against the sun the locks glowed white. carelessly, your fingers smooth over a strand of hair covering the side of his face, flipping the ends up to marvel at the way they lit up in the light. you had no sooner realised your mistake than when his jewelled eyes darted towards you, causing you to release his hair with a jerk of your hand. "i'm sorry, i didn't -"

he silences you with a yawn, pink tongue flashing against white teeth. his lashes flutter again, shifting his head closer to you. then, his eyes close with sleep. it's almost cute, in a way. you know that he is not actually asleep, but you also realise this is his way of permitting you to continue.

hesitantly, your fingers twitch in longing, at his unavoidable beauty, written by the poets. you wipe your hands harshly on your skirt, fearful that the beading sweat might stick to his glorious hair. with trembling hands, your fingers card through the streaming gold strands, smoothing over the top of his head. he makes a soft sound of pleasure, which makes you smile slightly.

you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, and you can't help but think that his beauty is fine as a girl's. his lashes open again, jade white skin parting to reveal the hanging jewels of his eyes, a shifting, dazzling blue.

his eyes crinkle a secretive smile. under the light of the sun, you smile back.

[theriseofthedragons]

MAGNETO REX, ROGUE REGINA Time has swiftly passed for Rogue and Erik, marking a year since they embraced the responsibility of leading Genosha. It proved to be a journey far more fulfilling than either of them had anticipated. Beyond mere human diplomacy, it was also to encourage, guide, and aid the citizens of Genosha in every conceivable manner.

Despite her hesitance in the beginning, Rogue seamlessly transitioned into her role, offering unwavering support and wisdom to Erik. Her resilience, insightfulness, and empathy complemented Erik's vision and also steered a path for the betterment of Human-Mutant relations.

The news of the upcoming coronation of the New King and Queen of Genosha sent shockwaves throughout the globe. Their schedules brimmed with interviews, conferences, and engagements , all advocated towards the cause of Mutant Rights.

The days slipped away in the lead-up to the coronation, the very day arriving with startling swiftness. The ceremony was reverent, and as they processed down the aisle, hushed murmurs and whispers could be heard from the attendance of the people, their eyes beheld much faith and trust. It made her acutely aware of the expectations that were resting on both of them. For a fleeting moment, doubt threatened to cloud her thoughts, but Erik's reassuring grip on her hand dispelled it.

As the sun cast its golden afternoon rays upon the palace balcony, adorned with vibrant flowers and lush greenery. The royal couple stood poised for press photos, and the planned pose had become more of an impromptu one, as Erik, a natural leader, stood proud and majestic, slipped himself behind his Queen, his hand resting on the small of her back as a sign of reassurance of comfort and she leaned gently into his embrace.

Cameras flashed with the silent approval from the photographer. Behind them, the proud insignia of Genosha served as a fitting backdrop, a symbol of unity and strength under their reign.

The citizens of Genosha gathered in anticipation and excitement below, their faces lit with reverence and hope as the royal couple stepped out onto the balcony. At the center of it all stood His and Her Majesties, King Magneto and Queen Rogue, newly crowned rulers of the island nation. More info about the art:

Having the urge to draw this because it was on my mind since forever, and I like to explore the 'What Ifs' of the X-Men's universe. So going into the 'What If' realm of if the Sentinels attack hadn't occur and Rogue accepted Erik's proposition. A Elven attire (Lord of the Rings) and for Erik’s, imbuing certain characteristics from Chinese Fantasy Drama particularly Xian Xia drama. , I sought a delicate balance between functionality and elegance in their garments. Despite my admiration for drapery, I opted for functionality and practicality without compromising on regal charm. For Erik, I envisioned him embodying the wisdom and nobility similar to the Immortals depicted in Chinese fantasy dramas. His robe, carefully tailored to reveal his hand, was draped to evoke a sage-like presence, exuding both majesty and authority. Choosing hues reminiscent of their battle attire, I softened the silhouettes, creating a more inviting and pleasant aesthetic. For Rogue, instead of her usually robust-self, I opted for a more and demure stance but standing in front of Erik, just to show that they’re on equal grounds. GENOSHA Genosha's flag was redesigned as the original one was too "barbaric' to my tastes. How I see Genosha = Earthy + Floral + Otherworldly Red signifies courage and valour. White signifies purity. The symbolism of 3 signifies harmony, wisdom and understanding.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

I know it's been done quite a bit but

Soft!dom Aemond please? Modern or canon era your choice ❤️ maybe some degradation???

is there really any limit to soft!dom Aemond tho? I hope you enjoy this nonnie xx apologies me writing smut is so shit, I wish you guys could just see what I see (that sounds weird but you get me) !!!

Serve Me.

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x Servant!fem!Reader

WORDS: 3,477.

WARNINGS: soft!dom Aemond, degredation kink, p in v sexual intercourse, swearing, fingering, hint of power kink/dynamics.

A/N - I left this in the HOTD universe, but please feel free to request for a modern AU version / HC :) BIG BIG THANK YOU to my soulmate @sahvlren for helping me to jump start this, I was experiencing terrible writer's block and my main girl pulled through. I love you baby <3 sorry if there are mistakes, I'll edit tomorrow LMAO but enjoy this heinous writing for now x

Aemond Targaryen, the notorious one-eyed Prince, was an enigma to many... Including yourself. You had only ever known him as your Lord or Grace, and you as his mere servant. Aemond scarcely spoke to you unless to give orders. Although from much close observation, you'd figured, he hardly spoke to anyone at all, unless to command or vex. His endearing silence, and impenetrable demeanour itself was quite intimidating, let alone the nobility and authority the young Prince possessed, did not help to ease your fears of the man.

Aemond often would use this to his advantage to seek out what he sought for, so you've heard.

You knew from your upbringing and low social standing, not to dare provoke such a man. Being trained the etiquette to serve and obey was all you'd known, and that would remain unchanged. Much to your oblivious nature, however, Aemond had been carefully watching you. He hadn't spotted you initially, amongst the servants that greeted him in the morrow, for it was difficult to decipher who from who, as you all moved about in haste and in identical, ragged uniforms. Yet the moment, you caught his eye, a yearning began to ignite in the pit of his stomach. With each passing day, of your close presence, this feeling began to stir into something more palpable. Whether it was the blatant vulnerability or the innocence in your eyes, [he had yet to determine] something about you had intrigued him to no end.

Not to mention, you were some sight for sore eyes...

In comparison, to most of his servants that he had been raised with, some far older than he and others not suited to his acquired tastes, you, you had captivated him. He had no idea where his mother had found you, and yet he never fathomed to question her decision. Aemond did also often prefer, if given the chance, to gather some background on servants, that had been newly entrusted to serve beneath him. He knew their day-to-day service would mean he'd be exposing himself to vulnerable situations, whether it be to help run a bath, attend to his wound care from training, or even so, if the Prince had fallen into illness [although rarely]... He refused to oblige in trusting others so lightly.

And yet, he made the exception with you. He wanted to directly hear your story from your own words, as he could envision your luscious mouth moving, forming the words as you spoke gently. In actuality, he'd only would’ve granted you the chance to speak so freely, for he knew you were just a helpless maid: he knew could easily overpower you, even if you foolishly attempted something... Aemond felt he could read you like a book, the evidence was blatantly obvious in your frightful, uneasy eyes. The way he gave you orders, he'd paid close attention to how often your eyes would dart and flutter to his voice, your body shuddering when nearby, unable to maintain even a minute of contact. It drove him wild, that he had such a profound affect on a woman. He could understand that perhaps it was an authorative play, and yet, he enjoyed it immensely. His curious mind often pondered over devious thoughts, endless possibilities of what other things he could compel you to do...

Attending to such time consuming, domestic duties, you'd often be accompanied with a few other maids or servants, although after some time, they began to disappear one by one, until only you were the only other being presenting yourself to Aemond in his chambers. It was only after you had questioned your fellow colleagues about there whereabouts after, that they'd openly disclosed, "the Prince has solely requested for you".

Gradually, you began to notice subtle changes in his routine. He would now often, or what you felt, was an attempt to delay your dismissal from his duties as much as possible. Spoling himself longer in your presence, if he had called you in initially for one thing, you'd end up having a thousand other tasks set to do, as he lurked on. During these moments, Aemond remained persistent in not talking, just observing you with a watchful eye, from a reasonable distance, as though not to pounce on his prey just yet...

Unlike his elder brother, Aemond refused to lower himself to such vile behaviours. There was no denying, if he wanted to, he could've easily forced himself onto you. Yet, was adamant to control his urges. Intending to take his sweet time with you, although that primal, almost animalistic part, was weaning less and less in patience. Whether he sat by the fire, immersed in some ancient text, or as he roamed by the windows and balcony of his quarters, he was always there, never ceaselessly leaving you alone. You could always sense his firm gaze subtly lingering over your body.

Now, he got bold...

As you tended to the adjusting the white, soft sheets on his king sized bed, as you did each morning, you’d heard the faint eerie creaking and sudden thud of the door shutting. Your attention snapped towards to see Aemond stood by the door, returning from his familial breakfast feast, watching you unfalteringly, before you refocused your attention to the task at hand.

He had never shut the door before... Always leaving it even just the slightest bit agape, it made it less daunting.

Trying desperately to avoid lurking towards his unnerving direction, you were oblivious to his faint footsteps creeping up behind, as the sheets rustled in your shaky grasp. You felt an instant, light graze against the tight, thick fabric of your waist, an arm snaking its way around, prompting you to straighten your posture up. Feeling his lean body against your frozen state, his firm grip felt incredibly tight around you, although bearable enough to breathe.

"Hmm, tell me who you are...Strange girl."

You remained silent, paralysed in both movement and speech, you felt your courage melt away, if there was even an ounce of it.

His hand that remained free, gently rubbing down the side of your clothed thigh, found its way, firmly clenched around your jaw. Guiding your face slowly towards his menacing gaze, his height over-towering you. Your teary eyes gradually wandered up to find the Prince looking hungrily down at you. You could feel him devouring you, just with his eye.

Qilōni issi ao? [Who are you?] He lowly growled, feeling the warmth of his breath against your tender, flushed cheek.

Pathetically whimpering out your name in a quiet stutter, caused the one-eyed Prince to grin. A wicked grin.

"Gevie hāedar [Beautiful girl]..."

You had no comprehension whatsoever of the meaning to his words, although you were wise enough to know the words he spat belonged to his Mother Tongue, remnants of Old Valyria.

Oddly enough, it sounded poetic to your foreign ear, how eloquently Aemond was able to pronounce the words, the way the words rolled off his tongue.

"You are going to listen to every word I say. If you disobey me, rest assured Y/N, you will be punished."

Again, you struggled to formulate the words nor found the pluck to speak. Simply nodding to his words, as he nudged your body to turn, now completely facing him.

Pathetic, the dreadful thought echoed in your mind... Aemond probably thought the same.

"Take off your rags, you filthy girl," His words spat like venom, and yet the devilish smirk on his face said other wise, as the young Prince found himself comfortably seated on his wooden chair by the fireplace.

Reluctantly your body obeyed, loosening the straps and ties of the run down dress you called uniform. Lost in your thoughts of what was to come next, you hadn't realised that you'd picked up speed, until Aemond uttered "slowly."

You paused for a mere few seconds, registering his words before realising that as the seconds zoned by, you'd given Aemond the faintest idea that you may have been refusing him.

As you hastily resumed, although this time taking extra caution in slowly removing each layer of fabric, you realised you that you did not consider to fight back.

You had heard of rumours, of many servants attempting to fight back against their higher class lieges, only to have either been dismissed, silenced or even some disappearing for good, especially those bestowed upon Aegon as servants. You heard no such accounts of this kind, relating to the Prince that you had served, and yet you so easily succumbed to this. Perhaps you were not as brave, as you had naively convinced yourself to be...

As you finished taking the last of your garments off, nervously standing bare naked in front of Aemond, your eyes reluctantly fell on him. You observed him watching you, relishing himself in the passing time, as he examined each crevice, detail and flaw etched to your body.

Say something, you desperately thought. What is it you wanted the Prince to say, you had not the faintest idea...

"Gevie [Beautiful]."

The foreign tongue yet again, cursed your ears, you remained clueless and at a loss to its meaning. Did he enjoy his view? Was he satisfied with how you were? Did he relish in stripping you bare of not only your rags, though of your dignity?

His stoic expression did nothing to relieve the tension, you could feel your breathing growing heavier, as your bare chest heaved deeply with each long breath.

Instinctively, your arms began to cross, folding over your front, you felt it did minimal help to maintain some last delusional thought of integrity that you'd had. Aemond immediately pounced off his seat, gracefully striding towards you in a few, short steps. There he stood, in all his clothed glory, as his rough, large hands reached over gripping your wrists as he guided your arms back down to your sides.

One hand released its grip over your wrist, reaching up as his palm lightly cupped your breast, his thumb gently stroking, flicking your sensitive nipple.

He was amused at how you winced under his touch, a blatant smirk on his face.

"Hmm-"

Slowly glancing up at Aemond, you could've sworn you saw the young Prince licking his lips lustfully, convinced that there was a slight possibility may-haps, he was satisfied with the sight before him.

"Lay on the bed."

"Yes, your Grace," You softly whipped back, in a timely manner and without much consciousness to your words.

As you were about to turn to kneel yourself into the bed, his grip on your wrist tightened once more, this time tugging you aggressively, as you felt your body pull to face him, in a swift reaction.

"No, 'your Grace'-" He mimicked, in his same, deep tone.

"Just...Āeksio [Master]."

Repeating his words mentally, you were smarter than to dare question Aemond again, not inclined to vex him in the slightest.

Y-Yes... Āeksio" You anxiously stutter. That familiar, devilish grin reappearing on his chiseled face, almost amused by your poor attempt of a pronunciation of his Mother Tongue. He should be insulted, not amused, you figured. Yet you obediently stammered onto the soft bed, sprawling yourself on the newly clean linen, your back towards the mattress, as your hands kept you propped up.

"Spread your legs."

Your breath got caught in your throat at his words, refusing to maintain eye contact, as Aemond unbuckled his coat and leggings. Your legs quivered with reluctance, and he had noticed your delay immediately.

"I said spread-"

Leaning himself forward on the thick mattress, his clenched fists keeping him balanced, his threatening gaze remained fixated on your, showing no signs of mercy or remorse for what he was capable of. He'd exhaled a deep sigh, almost signalling a refusal to jest with commands longer, your legs began to slowly part in distance, exposing your bare cunt to the Prince.

"Do not dare to test my patience ever again, disobedient girl."

You responded, whimpering with a nod, sensing hot tears pooling in corner of your eyes, desperately trying to hold them back. One escaped, streaming down your blushed cheek, as Aemond removed his shirt and leggings completely. Now the Prince, just as bare as you, except for the remaining leather eye patch, his body was as you had imagined it, even more perfect in reality.

Chiseled and lean, his muscles prominent from the long days of training had paid off. The appealing sight before you, acted as a distraction to the situation at hand.

"Hmm-" Aemond lowly growled, as he steadily kneeled over the bed now on all fours, his attention spanning from your face to your cunt.

"I own this cunt, just like I own you..Ñuhon [Mine]."

Without a minute to spare, he crawled himself closer, his head hovering above your lower abdomen, as one arm wrapped beneath your tender thigh, tensing under his grip, he pulled your thigh further apart. His other free hand slowly reached towards your entrance, the cold tips of his long fingers, gently tracing over your moist folds. A tingle coursed through between your thigh, his thumb swiping over the skin.

"So you are wet for me? And I haven't even started... My pathetic, innocent girl."

"M-Master- Àeksio-" You squeaked urgently, remembering his command.

"Please, I-I am just here to serve you, b-bid me leave and I shall not tell a living soul."

Immediately, Aemond shot his eyes up at you, and he was far from impressed. Fury streaked across his face, he looked even more forbidding than initially, if it was even possible, his eye slightly squinting as though in shock that you'd even attempt to bargain for freedom.

He exchanged no words, only hastily shoving two, long fingers into your cunt, without even a merciful warning. You could feel his fingers, slowly swirling between your folds, circulating in sensual slow movements, before he began to found some pace, thrusting them in and out.

"A-Aemond-"

"Insolent girl, you were doing so well taking orders. And now that you've given in to me, you've lost all your senses.”

His fingers began to pace faster, although now he added an extra digit, widening your entrance even more, as your wetness began to pool, lubricating your cunt and inner thighs.

As you pleaded for Aemond to stop, refocusing your attention from the stony ceiling, to his handsome face, that wicked smile was once again, struck beaming up at you. This time he even let out a sinister chuckle, amused at how effortlessly your body caved under his touch.

Instantly pulling all three fingers out, his hand had been coated in a viscous clear-white film, eyeing his glazed fingers hungrily, Aemond looked to you menacingly, before lapping your sweetness with his tongue.

"Hmm-" He moaned, closing his eye for a split second as he took the time to savour the taste.

"Just as I thought... Delectable."

Wiping away the last remnants of your taste from his lips, Aemond relished in the moment. His eye fixated on you, he began to crawl himself up closer, your faces now only inches apart, as his fingers reached for your cheek, grazing your soft skin before combing back the mottled strands of your hair.

"Beautiful."

His word nor did his tone feel venomous, you earnestly stared at Aemond, as your eyes scanned over his features in greater depth. You'd never been this close to the Prince, and you'd been working with him for months now. His healed scar now peaked your intrigue, instinctively, your hand reached over cautiously, as though not to startle him, although more as a precaution for you.

Your fingers gently traced over the prominent, scarred line down beneath the patch, careful not to provoke any potential pain, as Aemond had initially winced beneath your touch, only to gradually lean into you.

"Are you frightened by it?" Aemond uttered, almost in a sorrowful tone.

"No, Āeksio."

"Are you disgusted by it?" He once more woefully questioned, his eye yearningly lingered over your lips, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip.

"No," You softly whispered, still reluctant out of fright to speak.

"Where have you been, you."

Hastily he removed his eye patch, flinging the material to the floor, revealing a mesmerising blue, sapphire gem stone carved perfectly, in place of his lost eye. You were not startled at all, although enthralled. And he had acknowledged your response pleasantly. Without a second to spare, Aemond found himself plummeting his lips down against yours, in a passionate kiss. His heavier mass weighing down ontop of you, caused you to lay back completely on the bed for support. His tongue slipping into your mouth, exploring and swirling inside, as his semi-hard cock weighed atop of your lower abdomen just above your cunt.

His breathing became slower and heavier, unable to take breaths in between, similarly your chest began to heave against his, your breasts caressing, pushing in towards his lean chest, as your back gracefully arched.

Your legs instinctively began to pull apart once more, as he adjusted himself below, feeling his throbbing cock, pulsating against your sensitive spot. His lips finally left yours, as he left a wet trail against your soft skin, trialling down the crook of your neck, to your breasts. His hands gripped to your wrists, as he pulled your arms overhead, pinning you down,one hand freed itself, reaching down below as he gripped at his hard cock, causing him to moan, he positioned himself at your entrance, adjusting himself to plunge in, before taking one final glance at you.

That was his warning.

His cock felt long and girthy, as he shoved himself in, your walls stretching to fit his pleasurable mass and length. It hurt, for this was the first time you had laid with a man, unimaginably, it also happened to be the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, it felt so wildly right. An electrifying jolt coursed through your body, although it was tolerable and became enjoyable the more time you spent immersed to this new sensation.

"A-Aemond-" You breathlessly moan, a satisfied look appearing on Aemond's face, as he watched you intently from above, your reaction to his movements: causing you to arch once more, bucking your hips upwards as your face turned up towards the ceiling in retaliation.

"So needy for me, needy for your Prince. You'd be nothing without me, no one."

"Y-Yes-" You agreed bashfully, although at this point you'd agree to anything Aemond proclaimed, so long as he kept this steady and slow pace up.

"Such a needy whore, Y/N. My needy whore, who takes such good care of her Prince."

"Y-Yes, I forever w-will."

His thrusts became faster and he kept steady at it, his endurance was unfaltering [you'd come to be most thankful to all the years of training he endured]. His groans and growls became louder and more frequent, as your walls clenched tighter, feeling more of your warm cum coating his cock inside, oozing from your entrance coating your thighs and his balls.

"Forever mine. You belong to no one else-" He grunted, struggling speak in coherent sentences as he tried to manage his breath.

"Understood?"

No response. This only infuriated him once more, causing his grip on your wrist and one on your waist, keeping you planted, to tighten, as he squeezed firmly for your attention.

"Yes, Āeksio! Yes!" You delightfully cried out, reaching your climax.

A few long minutes went by, and Aemond felt himself releasing his cum inside of you, a breath of relief escaping his mouth, grunting in pleasure, as his grip still remained firm on you.

"Fuck, now you are definitely mine."

You knew the potential consequences, although in the moment you could not fathom nor consider what may occur. You were concentrating on your breathing, just as Aemond was, relinquishing you from his claim, pulling his cock out carefully, he hastily stood himself up out of bed, reaching for some sheet, to clean himself.

"If the Gods be good, you'll carry my child. Bastard or not, you are mine, regardless."

Your breathing now steady, you felt your sweaty body cooling in the air, as the rush had settled, nodding to Aemond's words, although it still felt more like commands.

"Wh-Whhat will the others think of me? What excuse shall I say? Your Mother, the Queen, what will she say if-" You worryingly stutter, as your consciousness begins to return, seating yourself up, as you shakily wrap the dampened sheet around your naked body, still petrified of Aemond's judgement.

"These matters must not concern you anymore, Y/N. I will see to take care of it myself. Your only duty remains the same, to serve me faithfully."

You simply nod against Aemond's words, as he wipes himself with a wet cloth at the basin set by his table. His leggings now on, he remained but shirtless, walking back over towards you, as he comfortably seated himself down beside you. He brings forth a wet cloth to your forehead, wiping away the sweat beads. Lustfully, he gazes over you, a genuine, heartfelt smile on his face, before he succumbed to planting a small, soft kiss on your clean forehead, before refocusing his attention on you.

"Understand this, you belong to no one, Y/N. You will continue to serve me, as I see fit. In return, I will take care of you... Alas, as I see fit."

[queen-haq]

Fic: Never You (Polin) - Part 6

Fandom: Bridgerton (TV show)

Spoilers: S3 released scenes.

Summary: They may have been friends once but his callous words decimated their relationship. Determined not to have anything to do with him, Penelope is ready to move on. But Colin isn’t giving up, not at all. Friends or not, they are connected for life - and he intends to remind her of that.

Excerpt:

“You would hate me for not wanting to court you. You would be that selfish?”

“Of course you would think that.”

“What else is this if not punishment?”

Masterlist (contains links to previous parts and my other stories)

Chapter 6

Dearest Penny,

I hope this letter finds you well.

My journey home was perilous and took far too long. However, I did receive good news upon my arrival. Mother was awake in bed, the worst of her illness having passed recently. It will still take a few weeks but the doctor is confident she will recover fully. I have told her a lot about you. As I predicted, she is excited to meet you. 

I miss you. I remind myself it’s only a matter of time before we can start our new life together, full of adventure and laughter, but it still feels too long.

Once my affairs are settled, I will be traveling to London to see you. I know your Mama will not take kindly to me but I hope to win her over with my intelligence and wit (I’m envisioning the mocking smile on your lips as I write this).  If all else fails, I shall win her approval through jewelry, as you suggested. Hopefully that will alleviate her concerns about an untitled son-in-law.

Love,

Arthur.

Penelope read the letter again, smiling to herself. While she and Arthur could converse for hours, his letters tended to be short and to the point. And though they lacked a writer’s flair, his letters still felt distinctly like him and she appreciated that.

With other men she was shy and tongue-tied, and they were never interested in her anyway, but Arthur Debling had been different. At a dinner gathering in Ayleshire, it was he who had approached her, and once she got over her initial shyness the conversation flowed between them. Perhaps it was because he was a merchant and not a member of nobility, but from the very beginning he treated her with respect and a matter-of-fact stance rarely displayed by others. To him she wasn’t some woman in desperate hunt for a husband or an awkward, shy wallflower to be avoided at all times. She was Penelope Featherington and she was enough.

For the first few weeks there had been no romantic intentions, they simply talked of art and poetry. Over time she came to see he possessed a brilliant scientific mind that he went out of his way to hide. Only when she questioned him did he finally admit he was embarrassed of his intelligence and felt the need to dampen his curious mind from others. That was the first night she started to see him in a different light.

“Penelope!”

The sound of Mama's voice brought Penelope out of her reverie. After hiding the letter, she made her way toward her mother’s chamber in the opposite corner of the hallway. Portia was already dressed for bed and brushing her hair when Penelope entered the room. “Yes, Mama?”

The older woman cast her a quick glance in the mirror. “Lady Violet has invited us for tea tomorrow afternoon.”

Pen paused. Tea at the Bridgertons meant seeing Eloise and perhaps even Colin. “I will be in-”

“And before you come down with a sudden case of illness, I will remind you that personal invitations of this nature have been rare of late. We can not afford to turn down any, let alone the Bridgertons.”

Between the Marina scandal and then Cousin Jack, there were many who no longer wished to associate with the Featheringtons. While that was a relief for Pen, she knew the slow exclusion really hurt Portia even if she did hide the pain behind a mask of angry condescension.

“Yes, Mama. I understand.”

“Good. Now get some sleep, child. I will not have you looking haggard tomorrow.”

Penelope sauntered back to her chamber, her mind still reeling. No doubt Eloise would be present and angry with her. Would she at least pretend to be polite? Pen didn’t know. So far they had mostly avoided each other, except for the ball last week when Eloise had warned her to stay away from Colin.

After entering the chamber, she was busy locking the door when a noise startled her.

“Pen.”

Colin’s throaty growl made her gasp, her body suddenly taut.

Hesitant, she turned around.

It had been two days since she last saw him at the park. And now he was here in her chamber, shamelessly sitting at the edge of her bed. Hair tousled, clothes messy and disheveled, he stared at her intently. His face was unshaven, revealing a stubble growth of a day or two. Instead of taking away from his looks, however, it only emphasized his handsomeness more.  

Her heart started pounding in her chest, both from the anger that flooded through her veins and the knowledge that his hold upon her was still so potent. “How did you get in here?” she asked, keeping her voice steady so he couldn’t sense how much his presence unnerved her.

“I climbed up the tree and through the window.”

As if violating her privacy was a daily occurrence for him.

“You’re so very determined to ruin me, aren’t you?”

“I was careful. No one saw me.”

“Well, that makes it alright then.”

“I didn’t take you as the sarcastic sort, Pen.”

“Add it to the growing list of things you don’t know about me.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes locked with hers.

The silence between them grew more tense by the second while they held still, as if a single movement could ignite a fire that would burn them both.

And then he stood up. “Do you know why I’m here, Pen?”

There was a button missing from his waistcoat, dirt on his breeches, and he had never looked more beautiful than he did at that moment. Her heart flipflopped in her chest. “I don’t care. I simply want you to leave.”

A bitter smile shadowed his lips. “Because it’s that easy for you, isn’t it? You’ve moved on already.”

“Yes.” The strength in her voice surprised even her when all she felt was anxiety twisting up her insides. “It’s time you do the same.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? That I’ve been trying?” Anger laced his words, hurt etched onto his face. “You don’t want to have anything to do with me yet I can’t imagine a single moment of my life without you. Why is that, Pen?”

With a slow and deliberate gait, he swaggered forward.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about you? Your voice, your smile, your taunts...” He tapped the side of his temple erratically, eyes heavy with emotion. “Always in my fucking mind, refusing to give me even one moment of peace. You’ve been torturing me!"

With every step that drew him closer, waves of madness surged through her body. She didn’t want to feel like this, like her mind and body were completely out of her control.

“Why is this happening to me, Pen?” His voice cracked. “Why do I feel this way?” He clutched his heart, his long, lean fingers rubbing the spot over his waistcoat repeatedly. “It didn’t used to be like this, I was fine before! But now I think about you leaving me and it’s like I can’t breathe. Like a part of me will be lost forever.”

Her eyes softened. The man standing in front of her wasn’t the one who broke her heart. In his place was her dear friend, the boy she had known her entire life and loved for as long, and he was pleading for her help. “That empty feeling will go away, Colin. I promise.” She took a furtive step toward him. “You’ve only just returned, your life probably feels untethered with everything changing around you. But give it time, let yourself settle in, and things will be better.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Nothing will ever be the same without you.”

“It will, I promise.” She sent him a sad smile. “You will meet someone beautiful and kind, and she will be everything you ever wanted. The true love of your life. And this sadness that you feel right now will become a distant memory.”

A beat of silence followed as he contemplated her words.

Would the agonizing pain that coursed through her at the thought of him with another woman ever lessen? She didn’t know. Maybe with time and distance she would be free of this curse, but for now he was still very much embedded in her soul and the eventual reality of him falling in love made her want to retch.

“Is that what you think will happen for you, Pen? You’ll marry this Arthur and make me a distant memory?”

There was no outward change in him yet she immediately sensed the shift within.

He cocked his eyebrow. “Do you think I will let that happen?”

She stared at him defiantly as he approached her. “You have no say in my life.”

“But I do, Pen.” The glint in his gaze sharpened, making his blue eyes appear even darker. “Because it’s me you’re in love with. It’s me you swore never to forsake.” He came to a stop in front of her, forcing her to look up at him. “I intend to hold you to that.”

Her anger returned. “And I intend to fight you. Because I will not sacrifice my future to appease your selfishness.”

“I know,” he sighed, regret looming over his face. “I should never have asked you to do that. But that’s why I’m here, Pen. I want to make things right between us.”

Her demand to know how died on her lips as soon as he retrieved something out of the pocket of his waistcoat. Stunned, she stood frozen as he held out an emerald ring, one she recognized right away from having seen Lady Violet wear it occasionally. 

“My father gifted this to my mother on their tenth anniversary.” There was reverence in his voice as he spoke. “I think he chose it especially for the colour. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“This has always been my favourite of mother’s jewelry. I knew one day I would gift it to my wife.”

Her mind went blank.

“And maybe now is that time.” He bent down on one knee in front of her, holding up the ring. “Will you marry me, Penelope Featherington?”

Time stopped.

For so long all she wanted was to be Colin’s wife. In her mind marrying him meant she would finally be happy and fulfilled. He would be the perfect husband, and she would be a member of the happy and loving Bridgerton family at last. All her dreams would finally be realized.

Except she wasn’t happy or even excited. The man she loved was on his knees, proposing to her, and all she could think about was how wrong it all felt. The proposal didn’t come from a place of love. No. Instead it was borne out of fear and a stubborn refusal to grow up. A last resort so he didn’t have to face losing their friendship.

Then there was Arthur. With him she didn’t have to hide, she could be who she truly was and not have to apologize for it. And she could continue to write, whether that be as Lady Whistledown, someone new or even herself, and do so without shame or regret.

Colin may have been her lifelong dream but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have new ones. And with Arthur, the life she wanted was within her grasp. A true possibility rather than simple fantasy.

Immediately she felt a sense of peace, knowing she was doing the right thing for herself.  “I’ve already said this to you before. I’m betrothed to another.”

In one fluid motion he slid the ring back into his pocket before rising to his full height. He had always towered over her but that had never intimidated her before. For the first time she felt a small twinge of fear percolating in her stomach, realizing the stark darkness on his face was also new.

He was quiet, too quiet, stalking her every move with his eyes, slowly pushing forward. A predator enjoying the rituals of the hunt, preparing his prey for the kill. Instinctively she retreated, moving back until the door lodged against her spine. He continued to move in, slowly but ferociously, invading every inch of her space until he was standing directly in front of her. She craned her neck to meet his stare, refusing to bow down.

“Is that a no, Penelope?”

She couldn’t think with him so close but she held strong. "Yes."

“Even though you’re in love with me and not fucking Arthur.” 

Maybe he thought throwing her love back in her face would embarrass her into submission but it had the opposite effect. Infuriated, she stood on her tiptoes to glare up at him. "So what? You think you can use my feelings to manipulate me?" She shook her head no. "I have dreams that matter to me far more than my love for you. And I will not jeopardize my chance to achieve them just for scraps of your attention."

Her words were meant to provoke his temper so he would withdraw. Instead his eyes softened as he hunched lower to look at her, his gaze roaming languidly over her face, a gentleness to them that made her insides dance with anticipation. She trembled when his hands cupped her cheeks while he studied every inch of her features, as if marking her in his memory. And then his thumb gently brushed over her pout, his dark blue eyes following the tremor of her lips, and all she could do was breathe slowly, tentatively, her heart drumming in her chest.

“I used to think you were the sweetest person I knew. Always so kind and agreeable,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “And easily forgotten.”

It hurt. Even though she had always known that that’s how people viewed her, if they bothered to see her at all - but to have him admit it was a different kind of pain. “Then forget me. Leave.”

He didn’t move, his gaze concentrated on her lips, thumb stroking left to right, right to left. “And now I can’t get this impertinent mouth of yours out of my head.”

It came as a shock when she realized Colin was hard, his erection pressed against her body. "You're aroused."

He met her eyes. “I’m aware.”

She swallowed audibly. “Why?”

Irritation surged through him. “You’re here, dressed in a robe with your beautiful hair down, talking to me, arguing with me, breathing around me, and you ask me why I’m aroused?” His hands slid down her body until they were at her waist, fingers curving into her sides as he pressed her tightly against him.

A faint gasp escaped her lips feeling his hardness.

“I want you, Pen,” was his raw, throaty plea. “I can’t stop.”

“Show me.” Her voice was firm, determined. “Show me how much you want me.”

To be contined...

A/N - Thank you for the support on this fic. Hope you're still enjoying it!

[wistfulwanderingone]

🫐Foraging for Mischief🫐

Fandom: Ikemen Prince

Characters: Cassandra Bellarose (OC), Clavis Lelouch, Yves Kloss, Licht Klein

Pairing: Clavis Lelouch x OC

Event: Falling For Fall CC

Hosted by: @violettduchess & @lorei-writes

Prompt: Foraging (Fluff)

🫐Foraging for Mischief🫐

Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of leaves above, a soft, golden glow dancing across the forest floor in playful bursts. Cassandra inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp, earthy scent of the woods. Here, in this verdant sanctuary, she found a tranquil reprieve from the life of nobility and the relentless clamor of responsibility. This was her haven, a beautiful escape—a berry foraging foray into the heart of nature with her closest friends, Yves and Licht.

Yves immersed himself in the task with a seriousness that made her grin. His porcelain brow furrowed in concentration as he moved ahead with purpose, his basket already half-full of glistening berries. His intensity was almost amusing, but endearing all the same. He had declared that only the freshest and ripest would suffice for the dessert he envisioned for their tea party tomorrow.

Cassandra watched him, her heart warming at his quiet dedication. For Yves, it was never merely about the dessert; it was a quest for perfection, a mission as delicate and precise as the ingredients he handled. His passion inspired her, and she admired him for it.

Behind her, Licht lingered a few steps back, his usual guarded expression firmly in place—a silent sentinel amidst the beauty surrounding them. Since their departure, he had remained quiet. Even though it wasn’t unusual, Cassandra cast a glance over her shoulder, her heart tightening at the sight of his stoic, withdrawn demeanor.

Something about Licht always tugged at her heartstrings, an ache that lingered just beneath the surface whenever her eyes found him. She had known both Yves and Licht long enough to recognize the hidden burdens each bore, the quiet scars etched deep within their souls. But there was a stark difference between them—Yves, for all his struggles, had learned to weave his pain into something purposeful, like turning sorrow into a thread of quiet resilience. His strength wasn’t loud, but it radiated through every small action, a subtle defiance against the past that could have weighed him down. He refused to let it define him, instead allowing it to shape him into someone stronger, more resolute.

But Licht...Licht was different. He moved through life as if he existed in a world apart, a place draped in shadows that no one else could breach. It was as though the darkness had claimed him, and he, in turn, had accepted it—resigned to its embrace, believing it was where he truly belonged. He could see the light—it flickered just beyond his grasp, tantalizing in its warmth—but something always held him back, an invisible chain tethering him to the quiet despair he wore like a second skin. He never reached for it, as if convinced the light wasn’t meant for him, as if the shadows were his only refuge.

“Yves makes this look effortless, doesn’t he?” Cassandra said, her words threaded with lightheartedness as she fell in step beside Licht.

Licht glanced at her briefly, his ruby eyes meeting hers for just a moment. “He always finds the best berries.”

She glanced at Licht again, the corners of her mouth lifting in a soft smile. “Trust Yves to transform a humble outing into a display of artistry”

Yves glanced up, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Some of us are simply blessed with natural talent," he replied, the hint of pride in his voice echoing through the trees.

Cassandra chuckled softly, the sound like the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, as she tossed another berry into Licht's basket. like the sun filtering through the trees, casting golden flecks on the forest floor. She gazed at the serene beauty of the woods, the world around them bathed in quiet light. “It’s such a lovely day, Licht. Here we are, together, gathering berries for tomorrow’s tea party. Could it get any more perfect?” Her voice was soft, lighthearted, as if the forest itself had breathed peace into her words. “No burdens, no obligations. Just friends...enjoying the quiet serenity of the woods.”

Licht’s gaze rose to meet hers again, his dark eyes catching the dappled sunlight for a moment. The tension that always clung to him seemed to ease, if only by a breath. Though unspoken, Cassandra could feel the weight of his burdens hovering between them. She didn’t need words to sense the quiet walls he kept in place, the silent resolve that guarded him from fully letting go.

Bending down beside him, she plucked a few more berries, watching as they tumbled into his basket. A playful glint sparkled in her eyes, her voice teasing as she added, “And don’t worry—no one’s judging you. Well, maybe Yves, but that’s simply his way.”

Licht’s expression softened, his features relaxing ever so slightly. Though his movements were still careful, there was a new ease in them, a looseness in the way he reached for another berry, as if for a moment, his burdens had lessened. Cassandra smiled at the small victory, her heart lifting at the sight of him letting the peace of the moment reach him, even just a little.

Yves glanced up from his basket, a smirk playing on his lips. “I don’t judge. I merely maintain...higher standards.” He winked, plucking another perfect berry. “And if you must know, I’m silently rooting for your success. Though, by all means, continue to place the blame upon me if it brings you comfort.” His voice, teasing yet tinged with that usual air of casual confidence, made the moment feel lighter, as if the sunlight itself responded to his jest.

Cassandra chuckled at Yves’ jest, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “Well, we’re indeed fortunate to have your silent support, then. Perhaps a touch of your perfectionism will grace us from your mere presence.” Her words floated between the trees, carried on the breeze, and the gentle teasing between them filled the forest with a sense of camaraderie, of easy companionship that soothed the soul.

Licht’s lips twitched, the flicker of a smile threatening to escape his otherwise guarded expression. Cassandra, ever attuned to the smallest shifts in him, noticed the subtle change—the way his shoulders softened, the invisible weight lifting, if only for a fleeting breath. She cherished those moments, small as they were, when the shadows that clung to him seemed to fade just a little.

Yves, straightening from his spot a little further down the path, held up a handful of perfectly ripe berries, his usual smirk still in place. “Cassandra’s right, you know. It’s not a contest. But if it were, I would be the clear victor."

Licht let out a small huff, a sound that hovered somewhere between breath and laughter, and Cassandra's heart swelled at the quiet joy of it. It wasn’t often that he let his guard down, but in these small moments—those rare, soft chuckles—she glimpsed the man hidden beneath the stoic exterior, the one who still remembered how to laugh, however fleeting the sound might be.

“You see? We’re all in this together,” she said, her voice warm as she stood, brushing the earth from her hands. “And for the record, Yves, you’re only winning because we’re letting you.”

Yves raised an eyebrow, feigning offense with a dramatic flair. “Letting me? Please, Cassandra, let’s not pretend you don’t admire my impeccable berry-picking skills.”

Cassandra shook her head, her laughter bubbling forth. “Very well, you may excel in berry picking, but my enthusiasm remains unmatched.” Her eyes sparkled, the playful banter weaving between them as light as the breeze that carried the scent of ripe berries and fresh earth.

As their conversation wove through the tranquil rhythm of the forest—the soft whisper of leaves above, the occasional chirp of birds hidden in the branches, and the gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of earth and ripe berries—Cassandra felt the warmth of camaraderie settle around them, like a comforting blanket of peace. The weight of expectations, of the world they had left behind for a moment, seemed to fall away, replaced with the simple, unspoken bond she shared with her friends. Here, in the heart of the forest, surrounded by laughter and light, she could breathe freely.

She stooped down, her fingers delicately plucking dark, plump berries from the nearby bush, each one feeling like a small, perfect jewel cradled in her hand. The satisfying weight of them grounded her as she placed them into her basket. But then, a soft sensation brushed against her ear—a whispering caress, as light as a feather's kiss.

Cassandra froze, her breath catching in her chest. Her hand instinctively rose, fingers grazing the spot where the sensation lingered, tickling the edge of her skin. Was that...a leaf?

A frown creased her brow. She knew the forest wasn’t playing tricks on her. Shaking her head, she tried to dismiss the odd feeling, but then it happened again—a faint touch, followed by a low chuckle, like the echo of mischief in the breeze. 

She sprang upright, spinning around with a sharp breath, her pulse skittering in response. "Who's there?" Her voice, though quiet, trembled with the tension now humming through her.

Yves and Licht exchanged startled glances, the stillness of the forest suddenly charged. "What’s wrong?" Yves asked, his brow furrowing in concern as he studied her face. Beside him, Licht’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, his body poised and tense, his gaze scanning the trees with quiet vigilance.

But before Cassandra could answer, a flicker of movement caught her eye—a shadow, swift and teasing, slipping through the woods like a playful ghost. Her pulse quickened, a familiar spark igniting at the sight, recognition blooming in her chest. A smile tugged at her lips, her heart tightening in that way it always did when he was near.

"Clavis..." she whispered, savoring his name like a secret she cherished. Just saying it stirred something warm and familiar deep inside. His presence lingered in the air like a breeze, invisible but brushing against her skin, sending a thrilling shiver down her spine. “I think we have company.”

“Clavis,” Yves groaned softly, rubbing his temples. "Of course. Just when I thought we might have a peaceful outing..." He trailed off, scanning the trees, fully expecting Clavis to appear at any moment. "Could we truly expect a peaceful day in the forest without Clavis appearing to cause his usual mischief?"

Licht, however, looked more concerned than annoyed, his grip on the hilt of his sword steady, muscles tensed. His brow furrowed, apprehension etched across his features. "You think he’s nearby?" His ruby eyes flickered toward the shadows, his vigilance sharpening. "Is he planning something?"

Cassandra’s smile deepened. "Oh, you know him as well as I do. He’s always up to something." A chuckle escaped her lips, light and carefree. “But rest assured, Licht, he tends to bring more disorder than any true harm." She waved a hand dismissively, her smile easing the tension around them like sunlight melting morning mist. "It’s just Clavis being Clavis."

Yves sighed, casting a weary glance at their half-filled baskets. "Great. Just what we needed—berry-picking sabotage. How utterly delightful."

Cassandra grinned as she bent down to gather a few more berries, her heart still humming with the lingering energy of Clavis’s presence. "Oh, come on, Yves." She plucked a particularly plump berry from a branch as she bit her lip. "At least he keeps things interesting, don’t you think?"

Yves muttered something under his breath—likely a complaint—but his expression softened despite himself. "I wouldn't call it 'interesting.' Annoying, perhaps. Distracting, most certainly,” he quipped, his tone carrying the exasperation of someone far too used to Clavis's antics.

Licht’s gaze remained sharp, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows of the trees, as though expecting Clavis to strike like a hunter pouncing on its prey, ready for whatever mischief Clavis might bring. Cassandra couldn’t help but notice the contrast between his guarded nature and Clavis’s unpredictable energy. "If it’s Clavis," he muttered, his voice low, "we should be ready for anything."

Just as Licht finished speaking, a soft rustling came from the nearby bushes, stirring the quiet air around them. Cassandra straightened, her pulse thrumming in response. "I think not knowing what could happen is half the fun," she murmured, her voice light but laced with anticipation.

“Cassandra,” Licht muttered, shooting her a sideways glance, his expression stern. “You really worry me sometimes.”

Before either of them could protest further, another flicker of movement caught Cassandra’s eye again, followed by the unmistakable sound of Clavis’s laughter. Low, alluring, full of mischief, the sound sent a familiar warmth spreading through her, stirring emotions she could never fully ignore.

Yves groaned, his exasperation evident. "Marvelous. Truly marvelous. He’s bound to turn this  into a circus, isn’t he?"

Cassandra’s gaze drifted toward the treeline, her heart skipping as she imagined him stepping from the shadows. "Oh, most likely," she murmured, climbing onto a rock, her hands trembling—not from effort, but from the sharp awareness of his presence, the way the very air seemed to shift when he was near. She smiled to herself, knowing he was nearby, already scheming. Meanwhile, Licht’s steady gaze never wavering, full of the steady vigilance of someone who knew better than to let his guard down.

Then it happened.

One moment, Cassandra was reaching for an elusive branch, its ripe berries just beyond her fingertips. The next, her foot slipped on the moss-slick rock, and with a startled gasp, her basket tumbled from her grasp as she teetered dangerously to the side.

Before she could hit the ground, a strong arm wrapped around her, pulling her back from the brink. She blinked and looked up to, finding herself pressed against Licht, his arms steadying her.

"You need to be more careful," he scolded, though friendly concern flickered in his red eyes.

"Thank you," she managed, feeling embarrassed by her clumsiness. She reached up and patted his cheek lightly to ease his tension. "I may have gotten a bit overly enthusiastic about the berries."

Before she could say more or stand upright, the air shifted, the familiar voice of mischief breaking through the moment. "Well, well. What a sight we have here—our dear Lady Cassandra, safely ensconced in Sir Licht’s protective embrace."

Licht steadied her quickly with his hands before releasing Cassandra. She turned, her breath catching as her eyes found Clavis leaning casually against a nearby tree. His arms crossed, a wicked grin curling on his lips as though he had been watching them for some time, thoroughly entertained. But there was something else in his eyes—a flicker of something deeper, something that made her heart stutter. She pushed the thought away quickly. This was Clavis, after all—always playing his games. Yet, she couldn’t entirely shake the feeling.

"What fortune, Licht, to be the gallant hero today, rescuing our damsel from her perilous fall,” Clavis drawled, pushing off the tree and strolling toward them with that infuriating, irresistible swagger.

Licht stiffened, stepping back from Cassandra, his eyes narrowing slightly as he straightened. "It wasn’t like that," he muttered, averting his gaze. "She slipped."

"Of course, of course.” Clavis stopped beside them, his smirk widening as he raised an eyebrow.  “Just a friendly rescue. I didn’t realize you had such a gift for rescuing damsels, Licht. Should I be worried?"

"No." His voice was flat as he placed his hands on Cassandra's shoulders, gently guiding her until she stood directly in front of Clavis, his eyes steady, unfazed by the jab.

Clavis blinked, his smirk faltering for just a split second before he recovered, a chuckle escaping his lips.

Cassandra stiffened as she found herself face-to-face with Clavis. Her lips parted, not from surprise, but as if to speak—yet no words came out. She blinked, struggling to regain her poise, but a tangle of emotions caught in her throat. The playful smirk Clavis wore didn’t help, his closeness stirring the feelings she kept trying, and failing, to suppress.

"Isn’t it amusing?" Clavis leaned in, his golden eyes honed in on Cassandra in front of him. "Here you are falling into Licht’s arms, and yet you’ve deftly evaded all of my traps. I must confess, I’m utterly heartbroken. Such a cruel woman you are, my dear Cassandra—leaving me to suffer while you go falling into other men’s arms."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. "It seems I’m simply too quick for your tricks, Clavis," she teased, her voice light, despite the sharp awareness of him that tingled through her. "You’ll need to exert more effort if you ever hope to catch me."

Clavis's smirk deepened, his golden eyes gleaming with devilish delight as he tilted his head in mock contemplation. "Ah, I see now. You’re inviting me to ensnare you in one of my little traps," he mused, leaning in just a touch closer. His grin was full of self-assured charm,but there was something sharper behind it—a glimmer of calculation, as if he was already planning his next move.  "I hadn’t realized we were engaged in such a flirtatious game of cat and mouse. How deliciously unexpected." His voice dropped to a smooth, velvety murmur, the air between them thickening with an undeniable tension. "But fear not, my little forest sprite—I shall catch you when you least anticipate it. Consider it a promise."

Her heart stuttered at the intensity in his gaze, and for a moment, she was lost in the game—his words a tantalizing thread pulling her deeper. Was this all just a game to him? Or was there something real, something deeper hiding behind his teasing?

Just as her lips parted, Yves’s voice sliced through the tension like a sharp blade. "Clavis, must you always turn everything into some kind of theatrical performance?" His dramatic sigh filled the air, his expression that of mild irritation.

Clavis, entirely unfazed, raised an eyebrow and turned toward Yves with a shrug. "Must? No." His smirk never wavered. "Yves, my dear brother, it’s what we call charm. You might consider trying it on occasion." His eyes flicked back to Cassandra, and though his grin remained, there was a glimmer in his gaze—something more tender beneath the surface that made her breath catch. "Besides, I’m merely providing what the people so clearly desire."

Cassandra’s soft chuckle spilled out, cutting through the rising tension. But as she turned back to her basket, her fingers brushed Clavis’s—his hand was already there, as though waiting for hers. The touch, though brief, sent a spark rushing through her, igniting warmth in her chest that she couldn’t quite ignore.

Clavis smirked, his voice lowering into a teasing murmur, just for her. "Do be cautious, young lady. If you continue to touch me like that, we may lose track of the berries...and perhaps a heartbeat or two." Though his words were laced with playful charm, there was a softness in his gaze that made her heart race.

Cassandra swallowed hard and quickly pulled her hand away, her pulse racing as she fought to steady her breath. Her thoughts spiraled, the logical part of her mind trying to push back the rush of emotions. But every time he looked at her like that, every time his fingers brushed against hers, her resolve wavered. 

But then, as he let her hand slip away, his voice dropped even lower, the teasing edge tempered by something more elusive, something almost wistful. "You know...sometimes, the smallest touch lingers the longest. But you knew that, didn’t you?"

The playful smirk remained on his lips, but his golden eyes softened for just a moment, the briefest flicker of something deeper passing through them—something Cassandra couldn’t quite name. His hand remained suspended for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though he was reluctant to let the moment end, before he casually plucked a ripe berry from her basket, the familiar wicked grin sliding back into place.

He plucked a ripe berry from her basket, bringing it to his lips with deliberate slowness, chewing as his golden eyes never left hers. "Mmm," he murmured with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. "Sweet...but not nearly as sweet as the look on your face right now."

Her pulse raced, every heartbeat loud in her ears as the air between them thickened. That glint in his eyes, that challenge—it was becoming harder to brush off, harder to pretend she wasn’t affected.  It was maddening—how easily he unraveled her, how his teasing words left her breathless.

Was it all just teasing? Or was there something more—something real—behind the flirtation? The logical part of her mind urged her to dismiss it as just another one of Clavis’s tricks, a harmless bit of banter meant to make her blush, but her heart whispered otherwise.

Was she simply part of his game, or was there more beneath the surface?

Yves raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the exchange, and shook his head. "I don't know what's more exhausting—watching you two dance around each other or actually picking the berries when they keep disappearing," he muttered, plucking a berry from Clavis’s hand and tossing it back into the basket.

The warmth he stirred within her lingered, refusing to fade despite her best efforts to regain composure. Her hand, trembling slightly, pressed lightly against her flushed face, but the heat clung stubbornly, refusing to fade. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to smile. "Now that you’ve indulged in your fun, Clavis, are you going to assist us in gathering berries, or are you just here to merely observe?" Her voice carried its usual playful lilt, but the quickened beat of her heart was another matter entirely.

Clavis’s smirk deepened as he dusted off his jacket with dramatic flair. "If you insist, I suppose I could lend my assistance...if only to prevent you from tripping over your own feet again." He leaned in slightly, his lips curving into a more wicked grin. "Though, I must say, I’m envious. Had it been me, I’m sure we’d both still be in each other’s arms." His hand brushed hers as he passed, the fleeting contact sending a jolt of electricity through her, igniting a warmth in her chest. "After all," he added, his voice softening as his eyes locked with hers, the playful edge in his tone tinged with something more serious. "We wouldn’t want you falling for anyone else, now would we?"

Her breath caught, her pulse quickening at the teasing edge of his words. Was it all just a game to him? Or was there something real, something lurking beneath the surface that she couldn’t quite reach? Beneath the playful charm, there was something more, something she wasn’t sure if she could trust.

Before she could respond, Yves rolled his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. "For heaven’s sake, Clavis! If you spent half the energy picking berries as you do tormenting Cassandra, we’d have enough to fill the palace pantry by now.”

Clavis let out a dramatic sigh, his hand sweeping theatrically across his chest as if struck by Yves's words. "Ah, the trials of a misunderstood genius," he said, sidling up beside Cassandra once more, his shoulder brushing hers lightly, the brief contact sending another wave of warmth through her. "You misunderstand, Yves. Berries are fleeting, a momentary delight. But...catching someone’s attention, now that’s a much sweeter challenge." His tone softened, the weight of his words settling like a quiet storm between them. “It takes skill and...persistence, wouldn’t you agree, Cassandra?"

Clavis’s gaze lingered, his smirk sharpening, and though his eyes still held that familiar mischief, there was a flicker of something more dangerous, more uncertain, as if he was testing the waters of this game and wasn’t sure of the outcome. But before she could respond, Cassandra caught the flicker of movement from the corner of her eye—Yves, shaking his head in obvious frustration.

"Honestly, I’m amazed you manage to accomplish anything with the amount of energy you dedicate to...whatever this is.” Yves gestured vaguely between Clavis and Cassandra, his tone dry.  "Some of us are actually here to gather berries, not stage a romantic comedy."

Clavis’s grin widened, and he adopted a mock-serious tone. "Alas, the heart wants what it wants," he teased, feigning solemnity, “here I am, the leading man caught in the throes of a grand romance."

With a flourish of dramatic flair, Clavis swooped Cassandra into his arms, spinning her in a grand, theatrical gesture. "And who better to star in this than our enchanting Lady Cassandra?" His golden eyes sparkled mischievously as he twirled her, pulling her closer than she expected, his hold strong, as though they were the stars of some secret, private stage.

Cassandra’s heart leapt, the sudden closeness taking her breath away. Her hands instinctively clutched at his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her laughter bubbling up—part surprise, part something deeper, something that stirred in the very core of her.

She felt his warmth everywhere he touched, the way his hands held her with effortless ease, as though she belonged there, in his arms. His fingers pressed against her waist, firm and solid, igniting a fire beneath her skin that left her both flustered and craving more. Even though she knew she should protest, part of her didn’t want him to let go. She cursed how easily he could unravel her, how his every touch made her lose her footing in more ways than one.

"Clavis!" she gasped between giggles, half-flustered by how her body responded to his nearness. "Put me down!"

Clavis’s smirk only widened, ignoring her protests. “Darling, I’m afraid you're stuck in my arms now. What kind of leading man would I be if I let my lady fall?” He shot a teasing glance at his brothers, still holding Cassandra in his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "We mustn’t forget the supporting cast. Yves, clearly the quirky sidekick in our rom-com, always meddling in the love plot." His eyebrow arched, his grin widening. "And Licht? The brooding figure who pretends he doesn’t care but secretly ships us the most."

There was something about the way his touch lingered—how each brush of his hands sent sparks across her skin, leaving her alive with sensation, her heart aching for more. Even in the midst of his teasing, there was a weight to his hold, something that made her wonder if she was falling into one of his traps, or if they both were.

Yves rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed, though there was perhaps a flicker of reluctant amusement in the corner of his gaze. But Cassandra’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, the idea of her and Clavis playing out this romantic comedy floated through her thoughts, lingering longer than she meant it to. The possibility danced through her mind like a forbidden dream, one she both craved and feared, unable to dismiss it as easily as before.

Licht, stoic as ever, glanced away without a word.

With one last playful wink, Clavis slowly lowered Cassandra back to the ground. Her legs wobbled slightly as they found solid ground, but the sensation of his hands on her skin still tingled, refusing to fade even after he let go. "Careful now, Cassandra. You’re still on stage, and I can’t have my leading lady slipping away before the grand finale," he murmured, his teasing tone undercut by a warmth that felt far more intimate than his words.

Cassandra’s cheeks flushed from both the whirlwind of the moment and Clavis’s relentless charm. Her pulse raced, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she grappled with the realization of how effortlessly he unbalanced her, leaving her vulnerable in a way she didn’t quite know how to guard against. Despite the teasing, the banter, and the theatrics, one undeniable truth swirled within her—she loved him. And that realization both thrilled and terrified her, because in Clavis’s world of games and ever-shifting masks, where could love possibly fit?

Cassandra let out a breathless chuckle, her voice teasing. "I think I preferred it when you were just causing trouble from a distance," she said, though the grin tugging at her lips betrayed the thrill still pulsing through her veins, a thrill she couldn’t quite hide.

Clavis’s smirk widened, his golden eyes gleaming with a dangerous, teasing light. "Oh? What’s that I hear, my lady? A plea for me to sweep you off your feet with a kiss that will haunt your dreams?" His voice dipped lower, smoother, laced with a playful intimacy as he leaned in—closer, much closer.

His lips hovered just above hers, the warmth of his breath brushing against her skin like a soft whisper. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat louder than the last as his gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. Cassandra’s breath caught, and without thinking, her eyes followed his gaze, locking onto his mouth as the space between them narrowed into a fragile thread. She could almost feel the heat of his lips, so close to hers—just a fraction of an inch separating them, one small movement enough to close the gap.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, her body alive with an aching need she couldn’t quite suppress. She felt torn between the temptation of the moment and the knowledge that this was Clavis—playful, unpredictable Clavis. Could she truly trust this moment, or was it just another one of his games? Every fiber of her being screamed for him to close the distance, to make real the kiss she longed for. But the playful game they always danced around suddenly seemed fraught with something far deeper, something far more vulnerable.

Clavis tilted his head ever so slightly, his breath feathering against her skin, warm and intoxicating. His lips hovered near hers, close enough that she could almost feel their softness—so close that it felt like the entire world held its breath, waiting for them to cross that tantalizing line.

Cassandra’s breath caught, not because she believed he would actually kiss her—he was Clavis, after all, a gentleman who lived to play on the edge of things—but because of the way his nearness always seemed to unravel her composure. He wouldn’t cross the line; she knew that. And yet, the heat of his breath lingered, teasingly close, as though daring her to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

"You wouldn’t dare..." Her voice was low, but not from fear—it was almost a challenge, a knowing taunt. She knew he wouldn’t. He was too much of a gentleman to cross that line. But that didn’t stop her heart from racing as she said it.

Clavis's smirk deepened, his golden eyes locking onto hers. His lips curved into a slow, devilish grin, his gaze holding hers captive, glowing with mischief—but there was something more beneath the surface, something dangerous, something real. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw his usual confidence waver, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his gaze. Could he be as affected by this as she was? Was he playing a game, or was there something deeper hidden behind those golden eyes? Her heart skipped at the thought, her pulse quickening. Was this almost-kiss, this moment, more than just another playful tease? The thought stirred something deep inside her, something that made her breath catch.

"Don't be so sure..." he murmured, leaning in just a breath closer, his lips grazing hers in the faintest, most tantalizing way. "Every gentleman has his limits...and you, my enchantress, are dangerously close to testing mine,” he murmured, his lips ghosting across hers with each word, "I might be inclined to prove you wrong."

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her entire world shrinking to the space between them, to the heat of his mouth hovering so temptingly near hers. She wanted nothing more than to close the gap, to fall into him, to surrender to the kiss that hung so dangerously in the air.

"Clavis Lelouch! Are you seriously trying to kiss Cassandra now? In the middle of berry picking?!" Yves’s voice broke through the tension like a sudden gust of wind, his tone that of disbelief and horror. His hands flew up dramatically, as if sheer will could stop the impending kiss.

Clavis paused, his lips still barely brushing hers, the promise of the kiss lingering like a half-formed dream between them. Slowly, he pulled back, but his golden eyes remained locked on hers, gleaming with mischief, yes—but also with something that left Cassandra breathless. "We’ll get to the berries, dear brother," he said smoothly, his gaze never leaving hers, his voice lowering into a more intimate murmur. "But some moments deserve a little more...attention." His words carried a lingering promise as he cast Cassandra a look that sent her heart racing once more.

Cassandra’s knees weakened, her pulse still erratic from the near kiss, her lips tingling from the feather-like contact. She forced a shaky smile, trying to steady her breath, but the memory of his lips so close to hers clung to her like a second skin.

Yves’s voice cut through the moment, like a splash of cold water on the warmth between them. "I didn’t think it possible for anyone to be this insufferable," he muttered, his tone half-exasperated, half-amused. "But once again, Clavis, you’ve surpassed all expectations. We are here to gather berries, not to star in some...scandalous affair!"

Clavis let out a dramatic sigh. "Truly, dear brother, you wound me. Here I am, offering a moment of pure romance, and you want to talk about...berries?" He ran a hand through his tousled hair, though his eyes sparkled with unabashed mischief. "Very well, very well. I am a gentleman, after all, no matter how captivating the lady may be.” He cast one last glance at Cassandra. "But mark my words, my enchantress…” he said, his voice dipping into a suggestive murmur, “this scene isn’t over."

Licht, who had been silently watching the exchange with his usual stoic demeanor, shook his head with a resigned sigh. "It’s already been far too long," he muttered, turning back to the task at hand and resuming his berry-picking.

Cassandra struggled to steady her breath, her pulse still fluttering from how close they had come to crossing that line. Clavis always had a way of turning the game on its head, slipping between playful teasing and something deeper before she could catch her breath. Her heart still raced, but she couldn’t let it show—not now, not with Clavis so close and the game still afoot.

With a playful toss of her hair, she tried to shake off the lingering heat between them, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, even though her pulse continued to dance to the rhythm of the near kiss they hadn’t quite shared.

As the group continued picking berries, Cassandra couldn’t ignore how Clavis lingered near, his usual playful energy softened into something quieter, more intimate—as if he was content just being close to her. Her heart thrummed with a familiar warmth, one that had long since taken root whenever he was near. She was utterly, hopelessly in love with this man—head over heels in a way that left her dizzy, her thoughts constantly drifting back to him, always him. His presence was like a gentle hum beneath her skin, igniting a warmth that fluttered in her chest without him even trying.

It was maddening—how easily he unraveled her. How her heart skipped every time his fingers grazed hers, how her entire body seemed to pulse with the awareness of him.  Each fleeting touch was brief, but enough to make her heart stutter—and no matter how much she tried to focus on the task at hand, the sensation of him lingered, like a flame she couldn’t extinguish. Her pulse, wild and untamed, refused to settle.

When they finally gathered what they needed, Yves stretched his arms and let out a satisfied sigh. “Well, it seems we have gathered enough for tomorrow's dessert. Excellent teamwork, everyone—except you, Clavis.”

Licht, always practical, gave a small nod.  “We should head back before the sun sets. We don’t want to be out here too long.”

As Yves and Licht began leading the way, Clavis lingered behind, his presence like a magnetic pull Cassandra couldn’t resist. Her pulse quickened, as though her body knew before her mind caught up—he was going to do something. And, as always, she found herself bracing for the moment—whatever mischievous, heart-racing thing he would do next.

He plucked a perfectly ripe berry from her basket, twirling it between his fingers before holding it out to her with a teasing smile. "Only the finest berry for the finest company," he murmured, his tone softening, the playful spark in his golden eyes flickering with something deeper—something that twisted deliciously in her stomach.

Cassandra’s cheeks flushed as she gazed at the berry held between his fingers, her heart leaping at the way he looked at her—so close, so intent. There was a challenge in his eyes, a silent dare she wasn’t sure she could resist, no matter how much her heart raced.

This was it—their game, the one she pretended not to take seriously. But when he looked at her like that, it was harder to remember her role, harder to keep her heart from betraying her.

Her pulse quickened, the playful tension between them tightening like a coil ready to snap. "Surely, you’re not planning to feed it to me, are you?" she teased, her voice light, though her heart skipped at the thought.

Clavis’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with that irresistible mischief as he held the berry closer to her lips. The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken, a crackle of anticipation.  "I would never deprive you of the full royal treatment, my lovely enchantress," he murmured, his voice a smooth, seductive whisper that pulled her in like a promise.

Cassandra hesitated, her mind warring with her heart. This is just him being Clavis, a game, nothing more, she reminded herself. But she wanted it to be more. She longed to lean in, to let her heart win, to believe that the way he looked at her was more than just teasing. She saw the glint in his eyes—the dare, the invitation—she leaned forward, her gaze locked with his, and took the berry from his fingers, her lips brushing lightly against his skin, savoring both the sweetness of the fruit and the brief, intimate touch.

A soft hum escaped her as she pulled back, her senses alive with the memory of his touch. The berry was sweet, but it was nothing compared to the lingering electricity of his fingers, the thrill that raced through her veins. Did he feel it too? Or was he still playing the same game, one that was quickly becoming dangerous to her heart? It sent a jolt through her that made her breath catch. Her heart stumbled, as if it had forgotten how to beat properly.

"Delicious," she whispered, barely keeping her voice steady, though she managed to meet his gaze with a playful spark of her own. But behind that playful façade, her heart whispered a dangerous truth—she was falling for him, deeper than she ever imagined. There was no turning back. And more than likely, her heart would be broken one day. But she couldnt stop the fall…nor did she want to. Clavis was life to her, freedom, the very breath she took.

"Happy now?" she teased, her voice a little breathless, with nerves and exhilaration.

Clavis's smirk turned sly, his golden eyes glinting as they held her captive. "Ecstatic," he murmured, his voice low, teasing—but his gaze lingered, carrying an unspoken promise."But do not think for a moment, my lady, that I won’t be raising the stakes next time." His eyes swept over her, slowly, deliberately—the challenge in his gaze unmistakable.

Cassandra tilted her head, her breath hitching at the intensity of his stare, but she refused to let him see how deeply he affected her. Even as her heart pounded in her chest, she matched his gaze with a smirk of her own.

She had to keep playing the game, even though every word, every glance from him made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something much bigger. “Oh, I would expect nothing less,” she replied, her voice soft but tinged with a playful challenge of her own. How could she resist? When he looked at her like that, it was impossible to pull away. “But you should know by now...I’m always ready for whatever you throw my way.”

“Good.” Clavis chuckled, his eyes gleaming as he held her gaze, the tension simmering between them, unwilling to break. “My finest mischief always involves you.” The words were spoken with a light tone, but something darker, more vulnerable, flickered in his eyes.

As they fell into step behind Yves and Licht, Cassandra couldn’t shake the warmth still buzzing through her chest. Her thoughts spiraled, caught in an endless loop of his touch, his words—how effortlessly he unraveled her.

Did he know what he was doing to her? Could he see past his own teasing to the truth she tried so hard to hide?

It wasn’t just his teasing, or the way their hands had brushed—it was the way he looked at her—like she was something more, something he wasn’t ready to let go.

Cassandra sighed softly, the weight of her longing settling deep in her chest. How much longer could she play this game with him, pretending it didn’t matter? Pretending he didn’t already have her heart.

--

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🎃 Kinktober 2024: Ruined

Ruined: You ask your long time family friend, Hob Gadling, in helping you find a suitable husband during your first season out as a debutant. It should have gone perfectly, you get a good husband, Hob doesn’t get hounded by eligible ladies… Naturally, it all falls apart.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material, Regency Era.

To Note: Hob Gadling x AFAB!Reader

Prompt: First Time

Word Count: ~8.9k

You step into the grand ballroom, the hum of chatter and the rustle of gowns surrounding you like a warm embrace. Chandeliers drip with crystal, casting a soft glow over the crowd.

The Earl's ball is in full swing, debutantes and their chaperones fluttering about like colorful butterflies. You scan the room, searching for a suitable match. The pressure of finding a husband weighs heavily on your shoulders, but you straighten your back and lift your chin. Tonight could be the night.

A group of young ladies, all giggles and whispers, huddles near a marble column. Their eyes flicker over to you, assessing your gown—a pale silk that surprisingly complements your complexion. One of them breaks away from the group and approaches you.

"Lady Y/L/N, isn't it?" Her voice carries the lilting accent of nobility. "I'm Lady Emily Cartwright. We've heard much about you."

You smile politely. "All good things, I hope."

Emily chuckles, her eyes twinkling. "Indeed. Have you met many of the eligible bachelors yet?"

"Not yet," you admit, glancing around.

She leans in closer. "I must introduce you to Lord Henry Fitzwilliam. Quite a catch, if I may say so."

Before you can respond, she takes your arm and guides you through the throng. You pass clusters of guests—some dancing, others engaged in spirited conversation. The scent of roses and beeswax fills the air.

Lord Fitzwilliam stands near a grand piano, his dark hair swept back with precision. He laughs at something one of his companions says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. When he sees you approaching, he straightens and inclines his head.

"Lord Fitzwilliam," Emily says with a knowing smile, "this is Lady Y/L/N."

He takes your hand and bows slightly. "A pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," you reply.

"Are you enjoying the ball?" he asks, releasing your hand but holding your gaze.

"It is quite splendid," you say. "The Earl has outdone himself."

He nods in agreement. "His gatherings are always impressive."

Emily excuses herself with a mischievous wink, leaving you alone with Lord Fitzwilliam.

"So," he says, stepping closer to be heard over the music, "what brings you to our fair city? If I am not mistaken your family usually remains away from the chatter of crowds."

"My family thought it was time I entered society," you reply honestly and with a gentle smile. "and I find myself wishing to start my own family before I grow to old to be desirable."

Lord Fitzwilliam's gaze sharpens, his eyes flicking over you with calculated interest. "Tell me, Lady Y/L/N," he begins, his voice smooth yet clinical, "what are your thoughts on the responsibilities of a wife in our society?"

You draw a breath, steadying yourself. "I believe a wife should support her husband, manage the household, and uphold the family's reputation," you say, choosing your words carefully.

He nods approvingly. "And your skills in running a household? Are they well-honed?"

"Yes," you reply. "I've been trained in all the necessary duties—overseeing servants, managing finances, and ensuring the smooth operation of a home."

"Excellent." He pauses, as if ticking off a mental checklist. "And what of children? How many do you envision having?"

You swallow your distaste for his directness. "I would be happy to have as many children as God grants us."

Lord Fitzwilliam arches an eyebrow. "A pious answer," he comments. "Do you have any particular views on their education?"

"Education is vital," you say firmly. "Both in academic subjects and in learning proper manners and conduct. Education, after all, does dictate society."

He nods again, seemingly satisfied with your answers so far. "And how do you feel about social engagements? Balls, dinners, gatherings of this nature?"

"I enjoy them," you lie smoothly. In truth, the endless rounds of social events often feel more like a chore than a pleasure. You'd rather be reading or spending time with Hob, something your father greatly disapproves of.

"Good," he says curtly. "A wife must be able to navigate society's currents with grace."

His relentless questioning grates on your nerves, but you maintain your composure. He is scrutinizing you as if assessing livestock at market—an insufferable approach to what should be an introduction.

"And your family," he continues without missing a beat, "are they supportive of your endeavors to marry?"

"Very much so," you answer.

"Your dowry?" His eyes narrow slightly.

"It is substantial enough to ensure my future husband's comfort," you respond, keeping your tone neutral.

Lord Fitzwilliam leans back slightly, studying you for a moment longer. The scrutiny makes your skin prickle. "Well," he says finally, "you seem to meet the necessary criteria."

You force a smile. "I'm pleased to hear that, my lord.”

"Indeed." His tone remains impersonal.

The orchestra strikes up a new waltz and Lord Fitzwilliam extends his hand to you with an air of expectation. "Shall we dance?" You bite your tongue as you force a smile and accept his hand.

You manage to slip away from Lord Fitzwilliam as the waltz ends, offering a polite curtsy before disappearing into the crowd. You weave through clusters of guests, keeping an eye out for potential matches while also plotting your escape. Finally, you spot a side door leading to the garden and make your way toward it, slipping outside into the cool night air.

The garden is a welcome reprieve from the stifling ballroom. Moonlight bathes the neatly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds in a silvery glow. You take a deep breath, savoring the scent of blooming roses mingled with the crisp night air.

"Escaping already?" Hob's voice breaks through the quiet.

You turn to find him leaning casually against a marble statue, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. Your heart aches in your chest from how handsome he is. You clear that thought as he pushes off and saunters over to you, his grin widening.

"You looked absolutely miserable on the dance floor," he remarks, folding his arms across his chest.

"Lord Fitzwilliam is entirely insufferable," you confess, letting out a weary sigh. "He interrogated me as if I were applying to be his wife. Or perhaps a sow?”

Hob chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm not surprised. The man has all the charm of a brick wall."

"He's already on my mental no list," you say firmly, leaning against the balustrade and gazing out at the garden.

"Good riddance," Hob replies, standing beside you. "You deserve better than someone who sees you as a checklist."

You smile at his words, grateful for his presence. Hob has always had a way of making you feel understood and valued—a stark contrast to the endless parade of suitors who only see your dowry and connections.

"I wish finding a husband didn't feel like such a chore," you admit quietly.

"It shouldn't be," Hob agrees, his tone gentle but resolute. "You should marry someone who appreciates you for who you are."

You turn to look at him, searching his face for any hint of jest. But Hob's expression is sincere, his eyes warm with empathy. It pains you to hear that from him of all people, but you force those emotions down and force a smile.

"Thank you," you say softly.

"Always," he replies with a wink. "Now, shall I endeavor to help you find a more suitable husband than Lord Brick?"

You laugh, the sound echoing softly in the garden. "I would be eternally grateful for your assistance, Hob."

"Of course," he replies, his tone shifting to one of mock seriousness. "But I must warn you, my matchmaking skills are untested."

"How reassuring," you tease, feeling lighter than you have all evening.

Hob steps closer, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Let's start with a simple question: what are you truly looking for in a husband?"

You ponder for a moment, considering your words carefully. "Someone who respects me and values my opinions. Someone who sees me as an equal partner, not just an ornament or a means to an end."

He nods thoughtfully. "A reasonable request. And what about love? Does that factor into your equation?"

"Love would be ideal," you admit, your voice softening. "But in our world, it often seems like a luxury rather than a necessity."

"Perhaps," Hob muses, "but it's not impossible." He looks at you with a knowing glint in his eyes.

You feel a pang of longing at his words but push it aside. "So, do you have anyone in mind?" you ask, trying to keep the conversation light.

Hob grins. "Well, there is one gentleman I think might be suitable."

Your curiosity piques. "And who might that be?"

He leans in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Lord Marcus Fairfax. He's recently returned from abroad and has been making quite an impression."

"I've heard of him," you say, intrigued. "But I've yet to meet him."

Hob's grin widens. "Then it seems I have my first task as your matchmaker."

You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Thank you, Hob. I appreciate your help more than you know."

"Anything for you," he says sincerely.

Before you can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention. You turn to see Emily emerging from the shadows of the garden.

"There you are!" she exclaims with relief. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

You offer her a polite smile. "Just needed some fresh air."

Emily nods understandingly before her gaze shifts to Hob. "And who might this be?" she asks with a curious tilt of her head.

"This is Lord Robert Gadling," you introduce him smoothly. “A long time family friend of the Y/L/N’s.”

"A pleasure to officially meet you, Lady Cartwright," Hob says with a charming smile and a slight bow.

"The pleasure is mine," she replies with a gracious nod before turning back to you. "Lord Fitzwilliam was quite dismayed when he couldn't find you after the dance."

"I'm sure he was," you mutter under your breath.

Emily chuckles softly. "I wouldn't worry too much about him." She glances between you and Hob before adding, "I see you've found better company anyway."

You exchange a knowing look with Hob and smile warmly at Emily's observation.

"It seems so," you agree.

The three of you stand in comfortable silence for a moment before Emily speaks again.

"Shall we return to the ballroom? The next dance is about to begin."

As you consider whether to rejoin the throng inside, Hob smoothly interjects before Emily can lobby further for your return to the ballroom.

"Apologies, Lady Cartwright," he says with a disarming grin, "but I have already secured Lady Y/L/N for the next dance."

Emily's eyebrows arch in surprise, but she quickly recovers, offering a gracious smile. "Of course, Lord Gadling. I wouldn't dream of intruding upon your plans."

With a nod, she takes her leave, disappearing back through the French doors and into the swirl of silk and jewels within. You turn to Hob, eyes wide with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"What are you doing?" you whisper as he offers his arm. Your mother will disapprove of this! The corners of his mouth twitch with suppressed laughter.

"Part of the plan," he murmurs back, leading you toward the temporary dance floor set up on the stone terrace.

"Plan?" you echo, allowing yourself to be guided into the world of waltzing couples under the stars.

Hob pulls you a touch closer than strictly proper, his voice low and teasing. "Men always want what they can't have. If they think I'm trying to court you, it will only increase your desirability. Don’t you know that I’ve been the most eligible bachelor the last few years?”

You feel a flush creep across your cheeks at the thought, but there's a certain logic to his words. "So, this is a ruse?" you ask, trying to maintain a sense of decorum as you glide across the ground in sync with him.

"A ruse that serves us both," he confirms, his gaze locked on yours. "You become the sought-after belle, and I... well, I get to dance with the most intriguing woman at the ball. And one who's company I actually enjoy…"

You can't help but laugh, the warmth of his compliment mingling with the cool night air. "And what happens when they realize it's all a charade?"

Hob's smile doesn't waver. "By then, you'll have your pick of suitors, and I'll be off to my next adventure. Free from preying mama’s.”

The thought of Hob leaving for another adventure—as he often does—causes a pang deep within, but you push it aside. This was the dynamic between you two, a dance of friendship and shared secrets, a bond that transcended the societal expectations placed upon you both. A forbidden love you try so hard to bury deep in your heart.

As the music swells around you, you find yourself lost in the rhythm and the steady, comforting presence of your friend. For a moment, the pressure of finding a suitable husband fades into the background, replaced by the simple joy of the dance.

You lean into the charade, letting yourself revel in the attention and the whispers that begin to circulate among the onlookers. Hob was right; his attentions have cast you in an entirely new light. Yet you find yourself not as excited about your prospects as you hoped. You would rather have Hob as a husband than any man in the entire country!

Days turn into weeks, and Hob's charade of courtship continues. At every ball and social gathering, he's by your side, his attentions never wavering. The other suitors take notice, their interest piqued by the mysterious and wealthy Lord Gadling who seems so taken with you. You should be pleased by the increased attention, but it only makes your feelings for Hob more difficult to contain.

One evening, as the two of you walk through a moonlit garden after yet another ball, Hob turns to you with a teasing grin. "I must say, our little ruse is working better than I expected."

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. "Yes, it seems to be."

He raises an eyebrow. "Only 'seems'? Have you not noticed the way every eligible bachelor in town is vying for your attention?"

"I have," you admit. "But..."

"But what?" His eyes search your face, genuine concern replacing the teasing glint.

You hesitate, struggling to find the right words without revealing too much. "It's just... it's all so overwhelming. And none of them... none of them feel right."

Hob stops walking and turns to face you fully. "What do you mean?"

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I mean... I don't feel anything for any of them."

His expression softens, and he takes a step closer. "Feelings can develop over time," he says gently. "Sometimes it takes a while for the heart to catch up."

You look away, unable to meet his eyes. "What if it never does?"

He reaches out and lifts your chin with a finger, forcing you to look at him. "Then they're not the right person for you."

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache even more. You want so badly to tell him how you feel, but the fear of ruining what you have holds you back.

"Thank you," you whisper instead.

He smiles softly and drops his hand back to his side. "Always here for you."

The night air grows cooler as the two of you continue walking in silence, each lost in your own thoughts. You wonder how long you can keep up this charade before your feelings become too much to bear.

Days later at another ball, Hob is once again at your side as suitors hover nearby, watching with envy as he spins you around the dance floor. His touch is familiar now—comforting yet bittersweet because it can never be more than this. Yet everyone who gazes at you believes that you and Hob are indeed in love.

During a brief break from dancing, he leads you to a secluded corner of the ballroom where he pulls out a flask and offers it to you with a conspiratorial wink.

"To surviving another evening of societal nonsense," he says with a chuckle.

You take a sip and laugh softly. "To surviving indeed."

As he takes a drink himself, he glances around at the other guests before leaning in closer to whisper in your ear. "If I didn't know any better," he says softly, "I'd think some of these gentlemen are plotting my demise just to get closer to you."

You can't help but smile at his playful tone despite the turmoil inside you. Being this close to him—feeling his breath on your skin—is both exhilarating and torturous.

"They wouldn't dare," you reply with a smirk. "Your flirting game is far superior."

He laughs quietly and pulls back slightly but remains close enough that your shoulders brush against each other. Then his laughter fades as he catches your gaze, his eyes lingering a moment longer than usual. You can almost see the internal struggle etched in the tight line of his jaw, the way his breath hitches just slightly when your shoulders brush. He’s trying so hard to maintain his composure, but you can sense the turmoil beneath the surface.

"You're thinking about it again, aren't you?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You don't need to elaborate; he knows exactly what you mean.

Hob's eyes flicker with a mix of surprise and something else—something deeper and more vulnerable. "Thinking about what?"

"Finding me suitable match," you reply, your tone light but your words weighted with unspoken meaning.

He looks away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he meets your gaze again, there's a flicker of pain in those dark eyes. "It's just... I worry that you'll end up with someone who doesn't see you for who you truly are. Or treat you as you deserve."

Your heart skips a beat at his admission. "And who does see me?" The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implications.

Hob hesitates, his fingers brushing against yours in an almost imperceptible touch. "You deserve someone who sees every part of you—the good and the bad—and loves you all the same."

You feel your breath catch in your throat. His words are so close to what you've been longing to hear from him, yet they remain just out of reach. "Do you really think such a person exists?"

He looks down at your intertwined fingers before meeting your gaze once more. "I do," he says softly, and for a moment, it feels like he's baring his soul to you.

The world around you seems to fade away as you hold each other's gaze. You can see the battle raging within him—the desire to pull you closer and the fear of crossing that invisible line between friendship and something more.

"Hob..." Your voice trembles slightly as you say his name, and he takes a step closer, his resolve wavering. If only you had the courage to tell him how you really feel…. but you don't, and you probably never will. "I'm going to get some lemonade," you spit out the excuse and the before Hob can even blink at your sudden change in conversation you are gliding away.

The ballroom hums with life, the air thick with laughter and the soft strums of violins. You stand amidst it all, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you. Your suitor, Lord Marcus Fairfax, has been at your side all evening, his attentions unwavering and his conversation genuinely engaging.

Hob lounges near the edge of the room, watching with a satisfied smile. He’s proud, and you know he expects tonight to be momentous. His eyes twinkle whenever you glance his way, a silent encouragement shining in them.

Marcus leads you into another dance, his touch light yet assured. The two of you move effortlessly together, and for once, you feel almost at ease. You catch sight of Hob in the corner of your eye—his approving nod and the slight raise of his glass a subtle cheer from the sidelines.

As the music swells to its final notes, Marcus guides you off the dance floor to a quieter part of the ballroom. Your heart pounds with a mix of anticipation and dread. He turns to face you, taking your hands in his.

"Lady Y/L/N," he begins, his voice steady but soft enough that only you can hear him amidst the crowd’s chatter. "These past weeks have been some of the most delightful I've ever known."

You offer a polite smile, feeling your pulse quicken. You know what's coming; everyone does.

Marcus sinks gracefully to one knee before you, his gaze never leaving yours. The ballroom falls silent around you as onlookers turn their attention to this unfolding spectacle.

"Will you do me the honor," he continues, pulling out a small velvet box and opening it to reveal a glittering ring, "of becoming my wife?"

Gasps ripple through the crowd. You can feel hundreds of eyes on you, including Hob's intense gaze from across the room. Marcus’s earnest expression makes it clear that he’s serious—this isn’t just another social formality; he truly wants to marry you.

The ring glitters up at you, but it feels like a weight around your heart. You can't breathe. Panic bubbles up inside, threatening to spill over.

"I... I need some air," you blurt out, pulling your hands free from Marcus’s grasp.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and rush out of the ballroom. The gasps and murmurs of the crowd follow you, but you don't look back. Your chest tightens with every step as you flee through the manor, your thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and regret.

You pass through corridors and doorways in a blur, your feet moving on instinct rather than conscious thought. The opulent decorations and flickering candlelight become nothing more than a backdrop to your racing pulse.

Finally, you stumble into an empty library, the quiet sanctuary offering a brief respite from the chaos you've left behind. You lean against the door, trying to catch your breath. Your eyes scan the room—rows upon rows of leather-bound books, the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood calming your frantic mind.

You move further into the room, seeking solace among the shelves. Your fingers trail along the spines of the books as you walk, their familiar texture slowly calming your racing heart. The silence here is almost tangible, a stark contrast to the overwhelming noise of the ballroom.

As you reach the center of the library, you pause and take a deep breath, letting the stillness wash over you. For a moment, you're alone with your thoughts—the confusion, the fear, and above all, the undeniable truth that this is not what your heart desires.

You whirl around at the sound of footsteps, your heart pounding. Hob stands in the doorway, his face a mixture of concern and frustration.

"Why did you run?" His voice is a quiet demand, cutting through the stillness of the library.

"I couldn't breathe in there," you reply, your voice trembling with a mix of emotions. "It was too much."

Hob steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "Lord Fairfax is a good man. He'll treat you well."

Your hands ball into fists at your sides. "Is that all you think I deserve? To be treated well?"

He frowns, clearly taken aback by the intensity in your voice. "What else matters? He's respectable, kind, and he adores you. I know he will take care of you."

You shake your head, feeling tears sting your eyes. "I don't want to marry someone just because they're respectable and kind! I want more than that."

Hob's expression hardens. "What more could you possibly want? Stability? Security? Those are luxuries many don't have."

"I want love!" The words burst out of you before you can stop them. Your chest heaves with the force of your emotion. "I want to marry someone I love, not just someone who checks all the right boxes!"

Hob's eyes flash with a mix of anger and something else—something deeper that he tries to mask. "Love isn't always practical. It doesn't always lead to happiness."

"And marrying someone I don't love will?" Your voice rises, echoing off the library walls. "Do you think I can be happy living a lie every day of my life?"

His silence speaks volumes, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to find a response.

"You know nothing about what I want," you continue, the words spilling out in a rush. "You think you know what's best for me, but you don't understand how it feels to stand there and pretend!"

"Then enlighten me," Hob snaps back, his frustration boiling over. "Tell me what it is that makes you so different from everyone else who's ever had to make a practical choice!"

You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto his with fierce determination. "I love you."

The declaration hangs in the air between you like a charged storm cloud ready to burst. Hob's eyes widen in shock; for once, he’s speechless.

"I love you," you repeat, each word enunciated with raw emotion. The weight of your confession crashes down on both of you, leaving an electrified silence in its wake. "That's why I can't marry him."

The room seems to close in around you, the weight of your confession hanging heavily in the air. Hob's face remains a storm of conflicting emotions—surprise, frustration, and something softer that you can't quite decipher. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your heart races and a few tears slip from your eyes.

Hob steps forward instinctively, his hand reaching out as if to comfort you, then stopping short. His fingers curl into a fist before dropping back to his side.

"You love me?" His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

"Yes," you say, voice cracking with the weight of it all. "I want to marry the man who makes me look forward to waking up in the morning. The man who makes my heart skip a beat."

His eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like he's about to pull you into his arms. The tension between you is palpable, an electric current that draws you closer together. He reaches out again, this time letting his fingers brush against your cheek, wiping away a tear.

"You deserve that," he murmurs, his thumb lingering on your skin. "You deserve someone who makes you feel alive."

You close your eyes at his touch, leaning into the warmth of his hand. "I thought... I hoped that person could be you."

Hob's breath catches in his throat. "Y/N..."

Your name on his lips sends shivers down your spine. You open your eyes to find him looking at you with an intensity that makes your heart ache.

"Say something," you plead softly. "Tell me what you're thinking."

His thumb traces a gentle line along your jaw before he drops his hand reluctantly. "I'm thinking... I'm thinking how much I've tried to deny this."

The words are almost a whisper, but they hit you like a thunderclap. He steps back slightly, putting just enough distance between you that the momentary warmth fades.

"You've always been more than just a friend," he admits, eyes filled with turmoil. "But I didn't want to ruin what we have by wanting more."

"Then don't ruin it," you implore him. "We can have more if we both want it."

Hob looks torn, struggling with emotions he's clearly kept buried for too long. His silence is agonizing as he weighs his next words carefully.

"I want to," he finally says, voice filled with raw honesty. "God help me, I want to."

You take a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "Then what's holding you back?"

Hob's gaze shifts, his eyes dark and stormy. He looks as if he's battling a tempest within himself, the struggle visible in every tense muscle. His fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to find some anchor.

"It's... complicated," he finally manages, voice strained. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You wouldn't," you insist, stepping closer. "Hob, I need to know why you're fighting this so hard."

He closes his eyes briefly, as if summoning the strength to speak. When he opens them again, they're filled with a raw vulnerability you've rarely seen. "I'm scared," he admits. "Scared of losing you. Of losing what we have."

"You are pushing me away because of something that hasn't happened yet?" You exclaim in frustration. "Well I might as well just accept Lord Fairfax's proposal because at this rate I won't ever have a chance to marry the man that I love."

Your words hang in the air, a final declaration that slices through the tension like a knife. You turn to stride past Hob, the urge to escape this suffocating moment overwhelming. But just as you move, his hand shoots out, catching your gloved wrist.

You halt, breath hitching as you look back at him. His grip is firm but gentle, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. For a moment, everything else fades away—the opulent library, the distant murmur of the ballroom, even the turmoil inside you. All that exists is this moment, this connection.

"Hob," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He doesn't respond with words. Instead, he steps closer, pulling you toward him with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the storm raging in his eyes. Your bodies collide gently, and his arm wrapped around you, drawing you into his chest. The scent of him—warm and familiar—fills your senses.

Before you can process what's happening, his lips capture yours in a kiss that steals your breath away. It's passionate and urgent, yet somehow also soft and romantic. His lips move against yours with a fervor that speaks of years of unspoken longing and hidden desire.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping tightly as if anchoring yourself to this reality. The world tilts on its axis, and you lose yourself in the sensation—the warmth of his embrace, the taste of his kiss, the way he holds you as if you're something precious.

Hob’s kiss deepens, his lips moving with a fervent intensity that leaves you breathless. His hand, still holding your wrist, begins to tug at your glove. The fabric resists for a moment before yielding, slipping off and exposing your bare skin to the cool air of the library.

His fingers, warm and calloused, trace the outline of your palm. The touch sends shivers down your spine, a mix of tenderness and urgency in every movement. He interlaces his fingers with yours, skin to skin for the first time. The sensation is electric, a jolt that seems to connect directly to your heart.

Your other hand finds its way to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer. His body presses against yours, the heat between you rising as the kiss becomes more insistent. It feels as if the world outside has ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in this moment.

Hob's other hand slides up your back, pulling you tighter against him. His lips leave yours only to trail kisses along your jawline, each one igniting a spark that courses through you. You can feel his breath hot against your skin, his heartbeat matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark and filled with an emotion so intense it takes your breath away. "I've wanted this for so long," he murmurs against your lips before capturing them once more in a kiss that speaks volumes of his hidden desire.

Your heart pounds as Hob's kisses deepen, his lips moving with an urgency that matches the racing beat in your chest. You're swept up in a whirlwind of sensation, barely able to process anything beyond the way he makes you feel—alive, wanted, loved. His arms wrap around you, strong and sure, and before you know it, he's lifting you off the ground.

You gasp against his mouth as he picks you up effortlessly, his grip firm and secure. Your hands clutch at his shoulders for balance, but there's no fear—only a mix of excitement and desire. The room spins briefly as he carries you across the library, each step resonating with a sense of inevitability.

He sets you down on the edge of a sturdy wooden table, the polished surface cool against your skin even through the layers of your dress. The library's muted light casts soft shadows around you both, creating an intimate cocoon that feels separate from the rest of the world. Hob’s hands never leave your body, always maintaining that vital connection as if afraid to let go.

His lips find yours again, more insistent this time. His kiss is demanding yet tender, a contradiction that sends shivers down your spine. You lean into him, fingers threading through his hair as he presses closer, melding your bodies together. His hands begin to roam—one tangles in your hair while the other slides down to grasp the hem of your dress.

You can feel his fingers tugging at the fabric, hiking up the skirts with deliberate precision. Each bit he lifts exposes more of your legs to the cool air and his burning touch. The sensation is thrilling and unfamiliar, making your pulse race even faster. Your breath hitches in your throat as his hand moves higher, brushing against your thigh with a touch that's both gentle and electrifying.

Hob breaks the kiss just long enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark with desire. "Is this what you want?" he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

"Yes," you breathe out without hesitation. You don't fully understand what's happening or where this is leading, but you know one thing for certain—you want more of Hob and everything he makes you feel. "The only man I have ever truly wanted is you. Ruin me Robert Gadling."

Hob’s eyes darken at your words, a flash of something primal sparking in their depths. His grip on your legs tightens, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress. The library around you fades into a blur, every sense attuned to the man before you.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he breathes against your lips, his voice a mixture of warning and desire.

“Then show me,” you whisper back, leaning into him, your heart pounding in your chest. "Please…"

"As you wish, my lady," Hob purrs, nipping at your lower lip while stroking his thumb along your soft inner thigh.

Your heart races as Hob's fingers continue their exploration, tracing the delicate skin of your inner thigh. There's a new warmth pooling in your belly, a yearning for something you can't quite articulate. Each touch, each caress is a revelation, unveiling sensations you never even knew existed.

You gasp softly as his fingertips graze over the soft fabric of your undergarments, the contact making your body arch involuntarily toward his hand. Your innocence is both a cloak and a currency in this moment; you're utterly inexperienced, yet your reactions are genuine and unguarded, beautiful in their purity.

"Hob," you whisper, your voice trembling with the intensity of the moment. You're not sure what you're asking for, only that you want more of this—more of his touch, more of this feeling of being alive and wanted.

He responds with a soft groan, his lips capturing yours in a fervent kiss that leaves you breathless. His hand moves with more confidence now, his fingers delving beneath the fabric to find the damp curls at the apex of your thighs. The contact is electric, and you can't help the moan that escapes you, the sound muffled by his kiss.

His fingers explore you with a tenderness that brings tears to your eyes. You cling to him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he expertly teases and coaxes new sensations from your body. Waves of pleasure ripple through you, each one more intense than the last.

You're dimly aware of the world outside this secluded corner of the library—the murmur of voices in the distance, the soft crackle of the fire—but it all seems so insignificant compared to the tempest raging within you. Hob's touch is your entire universe, each movement a discovery that leaves you gasping for breath.

Your body moves instinctively, arching and bucking against his hand as he continues his sweet torment. You're lost in a sea of new emotions, each wave crashing over you with increasing force. You can feel a tightening in your body, a pressure that's building with every stroke of his fingers.

"Come for me," Hob murmurs against your lips, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. You don't fully understand his words, but you trust him implicitly. You surrender yourself to the rhythm of his touch, letting him guide you through this uncharted territory.

And then, with a finality that leaves you shaking, the pressure breaks. A rush of pleasure courses through you, so intense that it borders on pain. You cry out, your voice echoing off the library walls as your body convulses beneath his touch.

Your body trembles in the aftermath of the storm Hob has unleashed within you. His lips find yours again, soft and reassuring, as you come down from the heights of your first orgasm. The sensation is still rippling through you, a delicious warmth that leaves you feeling both languid and exhilarated.

You cling to him, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The reality of what just happened—of what you just experienced—begins to sink in, and a flush of embarrassment colors your cheeks. You've heard whispers of such things among the other debutantes, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality.

Hob pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your heart flutter. "There's so much more," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

Curiosity piqued, you gaze up at him, your eyes wide and trusting. "More?" you echo, the word barely more than a whisper.

He chuckles softly, the sound rich and warm in the quiet of the library. His fingers gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your skin. "Yes, my dear Y/N," he says, his eyes dark with unspoken promises. "So much more."

As he speaks, his hands move to the fall of his breeches, deftly undoing the buttons with practiced ease. You watch with a mixture of trepidation and fascination, your heart pounding in your chest. You know that what you're about to see—what you're about to experience—is another step into the unknown, a world that's as thrilling as it is terrifying.

His breeches fall away, revealing the hard length of him. You can't help but stare, your innocence leaving you unprepared for the sight. It's both intimidating and fascinating, a part of him you've never seen before. How was it so… erect?

"Hob..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you struggle to find the right words. You're filled with a thousand questions, a thousand uncertainties. But more than anything, you're filled with a deep, abiding trust in the man before you. Where did one put such a part of his body? "Where…?"

His fingers gentle against your cheek, coaxing you to look up at him. "Don't worry," Hob whispers, his voice a soothing balm against your racing thoughts. "I'll be gentle."

His words wrap around you like a comforting embrace, easing some of the tension from your body. You trust him, this man who has been your best friend and confidant for so long. With a nod, you give him silent permission to continue, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.

Hob's hand moves to the hem of your dress, slowly lifting it to expose your quivering legs. The cool air of the library brushes against your bare skin, making you shiver. His eyes never leave yours, a silent promise of care and tenderness that makes your heart flutter.

He positions himself between your thighs, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill that lingers in the air. You feel the blunt pressure of him against your most intimate place, a sensation that is both strange and compelling. That's were it goes?

Hob’s gaze locks onto yours, a silent promise of care and tenderness. "I'll be gentle," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against your racing thoughts.

With slow, deliberate movements, he begins to push inside you. The initial pressure is intense, and you can't help but tense up. A sharp pain follows, making you squirm involuntarily against him. Your body resists, unused to such an intrusion and a whimper slips from your lips.

"Hush," Hob whispers against your lips, his voice filled with reassurance. He kisses you softly, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw and then down to your neck. Each kiss is a promise, a silent vow that he will take care of you.

The pain doesn't fade immediately; it lingers as Hob continues his slow advance. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as you try to ground yourself. The world narrows to the two of you—the heat of his body, the sound of your mingled breaths, the gentle caresses that follow every whisper.

He pauses frequently, allowing you time to adjust to each new sensation. His lips never leave your skin, planting kisses along your jawline and neck in an attempt to soothe you. "You're doing so well," he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with an almost painful tenderness.

You cling to his words like a lifeline, focusing on the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle pressure of his lips. Slowly but surely, the pain begins to ebb away, replaced by a strange fullness that feels both foreign and intimate.

When Hob finally sheaths himself fully within you, he pauses again, giving you time to acclimate to the new sensation. His forehead rests against yours as he breathes deeply, sharing this moment of connection with you.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You nod slightly, still adjusting but feeling more secure in his embrace. "Yes," you whisper back, trusting him completely.

Hob kisses you once more before beginning a slow rhythm that gradually builds in intensity. Each movement is deliberate and measured; he's attuned to every nuance of your body’s responses. And though it takes time for the pleasure to outweigh the initial discomfort, with every stroke and every kiss he brings you closer to understanding this new facet of intimacy between you.

You cling to him, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he rocks against you. The table beneath you creaks softly with the movement, but you're beyond caring about the noise. The library, once a sanctuary of knowledge and decorum, has transformed into a cocoon of pleasure and discovery.

His lips find yours once more, kissing you deeply as his pace increases. You respond with a fervor that surprises you, your innocence giving way to a passion that matches his own. The sounds of your shared desire fill the room—soft moans, whispered words of encouragement, the rustle of clothing as it shifts and slips with each movement.

You feel a warmth spreading within you, a sensation that's both unfamiliar and utterly captivating. It's as if your very soul is reaching out to his, your bodies joined in the most intimate of dances. The tension inside you builds with each deliberate stroke, a crescendo that's both exhilarating and a little frightening.

Hob’s breath is ragged now, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. He grunts softly with each thrust, a raw and primal sound that sends shivers down your spine. His hand moves between your bodies, fingers deftly finding that sensitive spot that he teased earlier.

The contact is electric, sending shock waves of pleasure coursing through you. Your body arches off the table, a strangled cry escaping your lips as the sensations threaten to overwhelm you. You're teetering on the edge of something monumental, a precipice that both terrifies and excites you.

With a final, powerful thrust, Hob surges into you one last time. His body shudders against yours, a low groan echoing around the library as he finds his release. You sharply gasp, feeling a rush of warmth fill your body. The feeling of him pulsing inside you triggers your own climax, the walls of your sex convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you.

You cling to each other, bodies slick with sweat and shuddering with the aftershocks of your shared passion. The world outside the library ceases to exist; all that matters is the connection between you and Hob—a connection that has irrevocably altered the course of your life.

As your breathing slowly returns to normal, you become acutely aware of the reality of your situation. You're an unmarried debutante lying wantonly sprawled on a library table with your skirts hiked up and your body still thrumming from the most intimate of acts with Hob's pleasureslowly oozing from your joined bodies. The knowledge of what you've done—what you've allowed—sends a jolt of panic through you. Oh your father was going to kill you. Even if you had desired this!

Panic grips your heart as the reality of your situation crashes over you. You feel Hob shift slightly, his movements careful and measured. He seems to sense your turmoil and immediately cups your cheek, his touch gentle yet firm.

“Y/N, look at me,” Hob’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, grounding you in the present moment. His eyes, warm and earnest, lock onto yours. “You have nothing to fear.”

“But… my father,” Your voice quivers with uncertainty and fear. The gravity of what just happened looms large in your mind. "He will—"

Hob leans closer, his forehead resting against yours. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll call upon you with a ring,” he promises, his tone unwavering. “I will propose to you.”

You blink at him, disbelieving. “A ring? You’ll propose?”

“There is no one more suited to become my marchioness than you,” he states firmly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

The sincerity in his eyes soothes some of your panic, though doubts still linger at the edges of your mind. “But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs,’” Hob interrupts gently but firmly. “You’re mine now, Y/N, and I intend to make it official.”

His words wrap around you like a comforting blanket, easing the tension from your body. You nod slowly, allowing yourself to believe him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Hob murmurs, sliding himself gently from your body.

You gasp at the sudden emptiness and and slight sting within your body, you glance down instinctively. Your eyes widen in shock at the sight of blood smeared on both of you. Panic flares anew in your chest. "Oh…"

Hob glances up at your reaction and quickly reassures you. “It’s alright,” he says softly, brushing a soothing hand over your hair. “It’s normal for there to be some blood the first time.”

His calm demeanor helps steady you once more as he carefully helps you off the table. He retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to clean away the evidence of your shared passion with tender care.

You blink up at Hob, his face still inches from yours, and your breath catches in your throat. "Do you mean it?" Your voice trembles as you ask, your heart pounding in your chest.

His eyes soften, a tender smile playing on his lips. "With all my heart," he whispers, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "There’s no one else I want by my side."

His words sink in slowly, like honey pouring over a scone. You nod, the fear ebbing away under the warmth of his gaze. You cling to his reassurance as he helps you straighten your dress and tidy your hair. Every movement is careful, almost reverent, and it feels as though he's not just tending to your appearance but also to the fragile pieces of your heart.

The library is eerily silent now, the earlier intensity replaced by a hushed calm. The crackling fire casts a warm glow over the room, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

Hob’s hand remains gentle on your back as he leads you toward one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace. He eases you into the seat, his touch never wavering in its tenderness. You watch him move about the room with practiced ease, retrieving a blanket and draping it over your shoulders.

"Remain here, I will not sacrifice your honor any further," Hob tells you, his eyes examining your face for discomfort and further. "You have simply found yourself overwhelmed and feeling poorly."

You nod, trusting him implicitly. The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes both of you tense. Someone is coming. Hob’s expression hardens with resolve. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“I’ll slip out and return to the ballroom,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “You stay here. Someone will find you soon.”

Before you can respond, he presses a quick, reassuring kiss to your forehead and then moves towards the library door with swift, silent steps. You watch as he disappears into the shadows, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you wrap the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to steady your breathing. It is a struggle to ignore the lingering sensations within your body, the dull yet stinging ache between your legs, the flush in your cheeks… the silence of the library feels oppressive now, each tick of the grandfather clock echoing loudly in the stillness.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. You strain to hear any sounds from outside the library—voices, footsteps, anything that might signal someone’s approach. Your mind races with a thousand thoughts and fears, but you cling to Hob’s promise like a lifeline.

The door creaks open slowly, and you quickly compose yourself, arranging the blanket around your shoulders to appear as though you've been resting. A familiar voice calls out your name softly.

“Lady Y/L/N?”

You look up to see one of the servants peering into the room with concern etched across their face. Relief floods through you as they step inside.

“My Lady,” they say, moving closer and noting your disheveled appearance with a frown. “Are you alright? We’ve been looking for you.”

You nod weakly, offering a small smile to reassure them. “I felt faint and needed a moment alone,” you explain softly, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the tumultuous emotions swirling within you. "This night has been terribly overwhelming."

The servant helps you to your feet, their touch gentle but firm. “Let’s get you back to the ballroom,” they say kindly. "Your father and Lord Fairfax are ever so worried, as are the other guests."

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you nod in agreement. Your legs feel weak, but you force yourself to stand tall. You can't let anyone suspect what just transpired. As you step into the hallway, the servant by your side, the grand opulence of the manor greets you once more. The sounds of laughter and music grow louder with each step.

You catch sight of Hob ahead, seamlessly blending into the crowd. He glances your way, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes meet yours. A silent promise lingers in that look before he turns back to engage in conversation with another guest.

“Y/N,” your father's voice booms as he spots you from across the room. He rushes over, his face a mix of relief and concern. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” you reply, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I felt faint and needed a moment to collect myself.”

Lord Fairfax appears beside him, his brow furrowed with worry. “Are you alright now?” he asks, his tone gentler than usual.

You nod, offering them both a reassuring smile. “Yes, I’m feeling much better. It was all to overwhelming I do hope you forgive me.”

Your father’s expression softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says warmly. “Come, you look awfully flush with pallor my dear. I fear the excitement of this night has been too much for you."

If only he knew.

Date Published: 10/17/24

Last Edit: 10/17/24

Hob Gadling Masterlist

Kinktober 2024