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gyuuberryy · 7 months ago

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prince charming's mismatch

pairing: prince!heeseung x princess!reader

synopsis: you and prince heeseung have been rivals for as long as you can remember. what began as childhood clashes has grown into a deep-seated animosity over the years. but when your sister runs away on her wedding day, you're forced to take her place and marry heeseung—the last person you ever wanted to call your husband.

now bound in an unwanted marriage, you’re faced with navigating the tension between your unresolved hatred and an unexpected attraction. as palace intrigue and looming threats surround you both, you must confront the truth of your feelings. will the bitterness between you tear you apart, or will it ignite something far more powerful?

genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, arranged marriage au

warnings: highly suggestive content!!! kissing, hee and reader are mean at first, insecurities, jealous!hee

note: i've been meaning to write this plot for an year now, im happy with how it turned out! e2l with hee is always soo fun to write. enjoyy

word count: 11.5k

royally yours masterlist | next: jay

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the first time you met prince heeseung, it was at a grand summer garden party hosted by your parents in the palace’s sprawling grounds. you were barely six years old, and he wasn’t much older, yet even then, the air between you crackled with something akin to competition. your governess had dressed you in your finest lace frock, with your hair tied in perfect ribbons, but none of that mattered. you were too busy building a grand sandcastle near the fountain, your little fingers carefully patting the turrets into shape.

that was when heeseung appeared, his shadow falling over your castle like a storm cloud. he crouched beside you without so much as a polite greeting, his royal title apparently excusing his lack of manners. his eyes, sharp for a child, surveyed your handiwork critically.

“that’s not right,” he declared, reaching out to touch one of your towers. “the walls need to be thicker, or it’ll fall.”

you frowned, already bristling at the unsolicited advice. “it’s my castle. i know what i’m doing.”

he smirked, a small, superior thing that made your blood simmer even at that tender age. without asking, he began "fixing" it, his hands too rough as he demolished what you had so carefully crafted.

“stop!” you cried, shoving him back with all the strength your little body could muster. heeseung stumbled, landing awkwardly on the grass, but instead of being chastened, he merely laughed.

“see?” he said, gesturing at the collapsed sandcastle. “i told you it would fall.”

tears of frustration welled in your eyes as you glared at him. “you ruined it! i didn’t ask for your help!”

heeseung stood, dusting off his fine clothes, a boyish smirk still plastered on his face. “you should thank me. i was doing you a favour.”

from that day forward, any time your families met, it was as if an unspoken rule had been established—whenever you were in the same room, you and heeseung would find something to argue about. it didn’t matter if it was who deserved the biggest slice of cake or who could recite their latin conjugations faster; the two of you were constantly at odds.

as the years passed, your mutual disdain only deepened. by the time you were ten, heeseung had already earned a reputation as the golden boy of his kingdom, a future king who excelled in everything he touched. your own accomplishments were always impressive—your parents had ensured you were well-versed in languages, history, and the fine arts—but whenever heeseung was around, it felt as though all your achievements paled in comparison.

“did you hear?” one of your tutors asked one morning as you sat in the drawing room, diligently practising your embroidery. “prince heeseung has been awarded top marks in his studies again. he’s to receive a commendation from the royal academy.”

you didn’t look up, but your needle paused for the briefest of moments. “how wonderful for him,” you muttered, the words heavy with sarcasm.

that evening, at another royal banquet, you couldn’t help but bring up your own accomplishments, eager for even a crumb of recognition.

“i’ve been practising my archery,” you said proudly to the gathered guests, though your eyes couldn’t help but flick toward heeseung, who lounged nearby, looking as regal and aloof as ever. “i managed to hit the bullseye several times this week.”

heeseung glanced up lazily, catching your eye with that familiar, insufferable smirk. “impressive,” he said in a bored tone, “though archery isn’t quite the same as, say, fencing. that requires real skill.”

your fists clenched under the table, your pride wounded by his casual dismissal. but this was the way it always went. no matter what you did, heeseung always found a way to make it seem insignificant, as though he were the sun and you were merely a star dimmed by his brilliance.

by the time you were both teenagers, the animosity between you had grown more complicated, though no less intense. you found yourselves at the same royal gatherings, balls, and court functions, and each time, it was as if the entire room held its breath, waiting to see what you and heeseung would clash over next.

at one particularly grand ball, you had been feeling proud of your debut. you wore a gown of the finest silk, and you’d received more than a few admiring glances from the eligible noblemen in attendance. you were certain this was your night to shine—until heeseung approached.

“you look well enough,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge that set your teeth on edge. “though i hope you don’t trip during the quadrille like last time.”

your cheeks flushed, remembering all too well the minor misstep you’d taken at a previous ball. “i won’t,” you snapped, glaring at him. “and even if i did, it’s better than fencing yourself into a corner like you did at the tournament last month.”

his smile faltered for just a second, but that was enough to make you feel victorious.

yet, despite the constant barbs, there was something else simmering beneath the surface now—a tension you refused to name. you hated the way your heart raced whenever heeseung was near, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of a room. and, though you’d never admit it, you hated even more that part of you missed the old days when your squabbles were simple, childish things.

it all changed the day your sister’s engagement to heeseung was announced. the prince who had been your lifelong nemesis was now to become your sister’s husband, the future king of your kingdom. it was a match made for political alliance, but it felt like a betrayal. you had expected more from him—well, not more kindness, but certainly more rebellion. yet, heeseung accepted the engagement with the same cool composure he did everything else.

for the first time in years, he stopped seeking you out, stopped picking those fights you had come to expect. he no longer bothered with sharp remarks or smug smiles. instead, he kept his distance, as though you were beneath his notice.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. after all, what did you care if heeseung ignored you now? he was going to be your brother-in-law, and that was enough reason to keep things civil. and yet, a strange, hollow feeling settled in your chest whenever you saw him and your sister together. he was colder now, more mature, but somehow more distant than ever.

little did you know, your rivalry with prince heeseung was far from over. if anything, it was only just beginning.

the night your world fell apart, it started with a simple knock on your chamber door. the palace had been abuzz with preparations—florists arranging garlands, tailors hemming gowns, and courtiers whispering about the grand union that would strengthen two kingdoms. you had spent the evening rehearsing your duties as maid of honour, biting back any remnants of bitterness that still clung to your feelings about the match. it didn’t matter that you had spent your entire life despising heeseung; your sister loved him, or at least, she was supposed to.

you were preparing to retire, brushing your hair by the dim glow of candlelight, when your sister slipped into the room, her face pale and eyes wide with fear. you’d never seen her look so frantic. your heart sank before she even said a word.

“i’m not going to marry him,” she whispered, wringing her hands in the folds of her silk nightgown. her voice trembled, but it was steady enough for you to know she wasn’t joking.

your heart lurched. “what are you talking about? the wedding is tomorrow!”

her wide eyes darted to the door as if she feared someone might overhear. she leaned in closer, gripping your wrist with trembling fingers. “i can’t marry heeseung,” she said urgently. “i don’t love him. i’m leaving tonight.”

the words hit you like a physical blow. “you’re what?”

“i’m eloping,” she said, her voice firmer now, as if saying it out loud gave her courage. “with lucien.”

lucien. you barely knew the man, a minor noble from another court, but he had charmed your sister quickly. he was handsome and witty, but far beneath her station. you stared at her, disbelief mixing with fury.

“lucien? are you mad? you can’t just abandon your duty for—”

“for love?” she interrupted, her voice rising in defiance. “yes, i can. i won’t be trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who cares nothing for me.”

you swallowed hard, your mind racing. heeseung, distant and cold as he had been with you, had shown no signs of affection for your sister either, but this was bigger than personal feelings. the marriage was political, a union meant to secure alliances, peace, and power. your sister fleeing would bring nothing but chaos.

“you’ll ruin everything,” you whispered, your voice thick with the weight of the consequences. “our families, the kingdoms—this is bigger than you.”

her eyes softened with a mix of guilt and determination. “i know. but i can’t live my life for duty, not like this.” she stood, gathering a small satchel you hadn’t noticed before, already packed and ready for her escape.

“you won’t stop me, will you?” she asked, her gaze pleading.

you wanted to scream, to shake her out of this madness, but your throat tightened. she was your sister. you loved her. and you knew, deep down, that nothing you said would change her mind.

“i should,” you said, your voice quiet, brittle. “but no. i won’t.”

your sister smiled, a fragile, relieved thing, before pulling you into a tight embrace. the hug felt final, like the end of something neither of you could come back from. when she finally let go, you stood frozen in the middle of her room as she slipped out the window and into the night, her footsteps fading into the shadows.

the palace remained blissfully unaware of the catastrophe until morning, when your mother’s scream shattered the early dawn peace.

the palace was in chaos the next morning. servants rushed through the halls, panic etched on their faces as whispers spread like wildfire—the bride had run away. you stayed in your chambers as long as possible, trying to gather your thoughts, your emotions, trying to prepare for the inevitable fallout.

when the summons came from your father, it felt like a death knell. the walk to the throne room felt endless, each step heavier than the last. the moment you stepped through the grand doors, you saw heeseung standing beside your parents. his face was a mask of icy calm, but his eyes…his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, cold and unforgiving.

he didn’t even glance at you as your father spoke.

“your sister has disgraced this family,” your father’s voice boomed, his tone laced with anger and disappointment. “but the marriage cannot be abandoned. the alliance with heeseung’s kingdom is too important.”

you stood still, your stomach churning as you braced for what was coming.

“therefore,” your father continued, his gaze hard as stone, “you will take her place.”

for a moment, the words didn’t register. you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. you? marry heeseung? no, it wasn’t possible. you had spent your entire life in a silent war with him. the idea of marrying the man who had been your nemesis since childhood was unthinkable.

your mother’s voice, soft but firm, broke the silence. “the arrangements have already been made. the wedding will proceed as planned. you will become heeseung’s bride.”

“no.” the word slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your heart racing. “i can’t.”

your father’s eyes narrowed, and your mother’s expression hardened with disappointment. “you will do your duty,” your father said coldly. “this is not up for discussion.”

duty. it always came down to that. your entire life, you had been prepared for moments like this, but not this moment. not like this.

finally, you turned to heeseung, desperate for any sign of protest, for him to say something—anything—that would stop this madness. but he was silent. his face remained expressionless, as though none of this affected him. he looked at you as if you were just a piece of the puzzle, another part of the kingdom’s grand design.

“is that all i am to you?” you asked, your voice shaking. “just a replacement? a stand-in for the bride who ran away?”

for the first time, heeseung’s gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, buried deep beneath the coldness. but his words cut through you like ice.

“you’re a princess,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. “your role is to serve your kingdom. that’s all that matters.”

a bitter laugh escaped your throat. “you’ve hated me for years, heeseung. and now you expect me to just—what? pretend none of that matters?”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. instead, he turned away, his indifference stinging more than any of the insults you had traded over the years.

your father spoke again, his tone final. “the marriage will happen. prepare yourself.”

the grand hall was suffused with the glow of flickering candles and soft sunlight filtering through stained glass windows. the scent of fresh roses—your sister’s favourite, not yours—hung heavily in the air, mocking the gravity of the moment. you stood at the entrance of the hall, your hands clenched so tightly around the bouquet that your knuckles were white. the murmurs of the courtiers echoed around you, a constant hum of speculation and judgement. no matter how well you carried yourself today, the whispers wouldn’t stop.

the switch of the bride was the scandal of the century, and you were at the centre of it.

ahead of you, heeseung stood tall, his face as unreadable as stone. the same detachment was in his eyes, his expression cool and composed as if this marriage was merely another political manoeuvre for him, another step toward the throne. he didn’t look at you with warmth, or even a hint of care. to him, you weren’t his wife—you were the replacement for the woman who had run away.

you walked down the aisle, every step heavier than the last, the reality of your situation crushing you. heeseung’s gaze was steady as you approached, but it wasn’t the gaze of a man looking at his bride. it was a look of cold calculation, a man who had resigned himself to duty.

when you finally reached him, your heart thudding loudly in your chest, you barely registered the priest's words. the vows—sacred, binding—felt hollow, like a cruel twist of fate. how could you stand here, repeating the words meant for your sister? they weren't meant for you. you were never supposed to be the bride.

heeseung took your hand, and the warmth of his skin was a sharp contrast to the chill that ran down your spine. his grip was firm, not gentle, but not cruel either—just dutiful. he spoke his vows with a steady voice, each word sounding rehearsed, as though they meant nothing to him beyond their formality.

and then it was your turn. you hesitated, the weight of the kingdom on your shoulders, your pulse quickening. your voice trembled slightly as you repeated the vows, feeling the eyes of everyone in the hall on you—expecting you to fulfil your role, to be the perfect princess. you could barely choke out the words, but somehow, you managed. and with every word, you felt the invisible chains of your new life tightening around you.

when the priest finally pronounced you husband and wife, heeseung’s lips brushed yours in the briefest of kisses—so cold and devoid of feeling that it felt more like a business transaction than the union of two people. the cheers of the court erupted around you, but in that moment, the applause sounded like the closing of a cage. you were trapped, bound to him, to this life.

as you turned to leave the altar, heeseung offered his arm, the tension between you palpable. his eyes flickered to yours for a brief moment, but there was no warmth there. just that cold, resigned look you had grown accustomed to. you were both playing your roles, just as you had been trained to do your whole lives.

but this wasn’t a game. this was your future, and it felt like a noose tightening around your neck.

the wedding feast had been a blur—a cacophony of forced smiles, hollow congratulations, and polite toasts that masked the underlying tension. you had barely spoken a word to heeseung throughout the entire affair. he hadn’t made any attempt to speak to you either, remaining as distant and composed as ever.

now, as you stood alone in the chambers that were to be yours and heeseung’s, the reality of your new life settled heavily on your chest. the palace chambers were far too quiet, the air thick with the tension that had been building between you and heeseung for years. as you stood in the centre of the room, staring at the enormous bed draped in rich fabrics, it felt like the walls were closing in. the room was elegantly decorated—ornate tapestries hung on the walls, and the grand four-poster bed was fit for a queen. but none of it mattered. the splendour felt like a mockery of the situation you found yourself in. tonight, this room was not a sanctuary but a gilded cage.

your breath caught in your throat as the door creaked open. heeseung entered, his presence commanding even in the subdued candlelight. the tension between you was palpable, stretching like a thin, fragile thread that could snap at any moment. his gaze flicked toward you briefly, but he didn’t speak, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

heeseung moved with practised grace, his movements calm and deliberate. he began undoing the buttons on his ceremonial jacket, the fine fabric sliding off his shoulders and landing in a careless heap on the chair by the vanity. you stood frozen, unsure of what to say, what to do. this wasn’t how you had imagined a wedding night would feel—though you had never dreamed this night would be with heeseung, of all people.

his back was to you now, his broad shoulders tense, though he did nothing to betray any emotion. you could feel the distance between you both, even though he was just across the room. heeseung had always been composed, guarded, but tonight, his coldness cut even deeper than usual.

he finally broke the silence, his voice low but steady. “it’s late. you should rest.” there was no affection in his tone, just the same sense of duty that had hung over the entire day. you weren’t his bride by choice, and he wasn’t your husband by desire.

you bit back a bitter laugh. rest? as if you could simply close your eyes and pretend this was normal. pretend that this marriage was something other than a trap. “is that it, then?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. “we go to bed and pretend everything is fine?”

heeseung turned to face you, his expression as unreadable as ever. he didn’t answer right away, as if weighing his response carefully. “what do you want me to say?” his tone was measured, but there was an edge to it, a hint of frustration that matched your own.

“i don’t know,” you admitted, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. i wasn’t supposed to marry you.”

something flickered in heeseung’s eyes, though it disappeared as quickly as it came. he regarded you for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he spoke again. “do you think i wanted this?” his words were quiet but laced with a bitterness that surprised you. “i didn’t ask for this any more than you did.”

you swallowed, feeling a lump rise in your throat. you hadn’t expected this admission from him, hadn’t expected him to show any vulnerability. “then what are we supposed to do?” your voice was softer now, the anger ebbing away, replaced by uncertainty. “how are we supposed to live like this?”

heeseung sighed, running a hand through his hair, a rare moment of frustration breaking through his calm facade. “we do what’s expected of us,” he said, though there was a heaviness to his words, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “we fulfill our duties. that’s all we can do.”

“duties.” the word tasted bitter on your tongue. it had always come down to that, hadn’t it? duty to the crown, to the kingdom, to your family. and now, duty to heeseung.

the silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. heeseung turned away, moving toward the window where the heavy drapes framed the view of the darkened palace gardens. his silhouette was stark against the faint glow of moonlight, his posture stiff, almost defensive.

after a long moment, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. “i’ll sleep over there.” he gestured to the chaise near the window, a fine piece of furniture that now seemed woefully out of place in this awkward, tension-filled room. “you can have the bed.”

you blinked, surprised by his offer. it was the last thing you expected from him, but it was a relief nonetheless. “you don’t have to—”

“i’m not doing this for you,” he interrupted, his voice firm, but not unkind. “i just don’t want to make this any more difficult than it already is.”

with that, he moved toward the chaise, gathering a pillow and blanket from the wardrobe. his actions were efficient, almost mechanical, as if he had already resigned himself to this fate. he didn’t look at you as he arranged the blanket over the chaise.

you stood there, feeling a strange mix of emotions—relief, awkwardness, and something else, something heavier that you couldn’t quite place. this was your wedding night, but it was nothing like you had ever imagined. there was no closeness, no warmth—just two people bound together by obligation and circumstance.

finally, you moved toward the bed, the thick carpets muffling your steps. the soft fabric of your gown felt heavy as you climbed beneath the covers, though they provided no comfort. you lay there, staring up at the intricate canopy above, your mind racing. this bed, this room—none of it felt like yours.

heeseung settled on the chaise, his back to you, the distance between you both feeling vast despite the small room. the silence was oppressive, each second dragging on longer than the last. you wondered if he was as uneasy as you were, or if he had already steeled himself to this new reality.

for a long while, neither of you spoke, the only sound in the room the faint rustling of fabric as you shifted beneath the covers. the weight of the day, of the vows, of your new title, pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe.

finally, you couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “heeseung,” you whispered, unsure if you even wanted him to respond.

he didn’t turn, but his voice was low and steady when he answered. “what?”

you hesitated, searching for the right words. “do you think... do you think this will ever get easier?”

there was a long pause before he responded, his voice quiet, almost resigned. “i don’t know.”

and with that, the conversation ended. heeseung remained silent, his back still turned to you, and you knew there was nothing more to say. you turned onto your side, pulling the blankets tighter around you, though they offered little warmth. the room felt too big, too empty, despite his presence.

eventually, exhaustion crept in, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts. but even as sleep began to claim you, a cold, sinking feeling settled in your chest. this was your life now—bound to a man you barely knew, a man who had been your enemy for years, and yet, somehow, your husband.

and as you drifted off into uneasy sleep, the last thought that crossed your mind was how strange it felt to be lying just feet away from heeseung, yet feeling as though he was a world away.

the morning after the wedding dawned cold and gray, mirroring the lingering tension between you and heeseung. you woke up in the large, empty bed, the space next to you untouched, a stark reminder of the distance that had been established on your wedding night. the air in the room felt thick, suffocating, as if the very walls were pressing in on you, reminding you of your new reality.

as you sat up, the unfamiliarity of your surroundings only worsened the tightness in your chest. this was your new life. not just this bed, but this room, this palace—heeseung’s palace—and you would share it with a man who barely spoke to you, who looked at you with that same cold distance he had always shown.

you dressed quickly, your movements mechanical, trying not to think too much. the maids moved around you silently, well-trained and efficient, but you could feel their eyes on you. it was impossible to escape the fact that everyone knew. the entire kingdom knew the story—the princess who had run away, and her sister forced to take her place. the whispers would never stop.

when you finally made your way downstairs to the grand dining room, heeseung was already seated at the long table, a plate of food in front of him. he didn’t look up when you entered, simply continued cutting into his meal with precise, practised movements. you hesitated for a moment, then took your seat across from him.

the silence was unbearable.

you picked at your food, barely tasting it, glancing at heeseung from time to time. his expression was as unreadable as ever, his attention focused on the papers beside his plate—likely matters of the kingdom that required his attention. he was already immersed in his duties, the weight of his impending kingship pressing down on him just as heavily as your new role as his wife weighed on you.

finally, you couldn’t stand it any longer. “do you plan to ignore me for the rest of our lives?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

heeseung didn’t look up immediately, taking his time to finish his bite and set down his utensils with deliberate care. when he finally met your gaze, his expression was cool, detached. “i’m not ignoring you.”

you scoffed, unable to hide your frustration. “you’ve barely spoken to me since the wedding.”

he raised an eyebrow, his tone as calm as ever. “what would you like me to say?”

the question took you off guard. you hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. you opened your mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond. what did you want him to say? that he regretted everything as much as you did? that he hated this arrangement, too? or perhaps you wanted him to acknowledge the years of bitterness between you, to admit that this marriage was a farce.

instead, you said, “we’re married now, heeseung. we have to live together. we can’t keep pretending the other doesn’t exist.”

his jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his voice remained calm. “i’m aware of that.”

you waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. the silence stretched on once again, thicker than before, suffocating in its awkwardness. you pushed your plate away, no longer interested in eating. “fine,” you muttered under your breath, standing abruptly. “i suppose i’ll just get used to it, then.”

you turned to leave, but his voice stopped you. “you don’t have to like this any more than i do, but we have responsibilities now.”

you paused, your back to him, your hands clenched at your sides. “responsibilities,” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. it seemed like that was all your life had ever been reduced to—duty, obligation, and responsibilities.

without another word, you left the dining room, the heavy doors closing behind you with a soft thud. you could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on you even more as you walked through the halls of the palace, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. you weren’t just trapped in this marriage—you were trapped in this life.

days passed, and though you and heeseung were forced to share the same space, your interactions remained minimal, stilted. in the mornings, you would find him already at the breakfast table, poring over documents and barely acknowledging your presence. he would spend his days attending council meetings and handling matters of state, leaving you to navigate the palace on your own, feeling more like a guest in your own home than its mistress.

at night, he would retire to the chambers late, often when you were already lying in bed, pretending to sleep. he would quietly take his place on the chaise near the window, far enough away to avoid any awkwardness, but close enough that his presence was a constant reminder of the divide between you.

it was during these nights that the loneliness settled in most heavily. the silence of the room, broken only by the occasional rustling of fabric or the soft crackle of the fireplace, was suffocating. you had grown accustomed to sleeping alone, but now, knowing heeseung was just a few feet away, the distance between you felt almost unbearable. there was an unspoken understanding that neither of you wanted to bridge the gap.

one evening, after yet another day of awkward meals and tense silences, you found yourself in the library, one of the few places in the palace where you felt at peace. the vast room was filled with shelves upon shelves of books, their spines worn and familiar. you had always loved to read, finding solace in the stories and histories of others when your own life felt too overwhelming.

you were seated by the window, the late afternoon sun casting a soft glow over the pages of your book, when the door creaked open. you looked up, surprised to see heeseung standing in the doorway. he paused for a moment, as if uncertain whether to enter or leave, his eyes scanning the room before they settled on you.

“may i join you?” he asked, his voice unusually soft.

you blinked, caught off guard by his request. this was the first time he had sought you out since the wedding, and the suddenness of it left you momentarily speechless. you nodded, unsure of what else to do. “of course.”

heeseung crossed the room, moving with his usual grace, and took a seat in the armchair opposite you. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet of the library enveloping you both. he seemed content to sit in silence, his gaze wandering to the bookshelves that lined the walls.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “this is... one of the quieter rooms.”

you raised an eyebrow, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “it’s a library, heeseung. of course it’s quiet.”

to your surprise, he chuckled softly, though it was a dry, humourless sound. “fair enough.”

silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t as suffocating. there was something almost... peaceful about it, the weight of your shared presence not as unbearable as it had been before. you watched him out of the corner of your eye, noticing how tired he looked. the weight of his responsibilities was evident in the slight furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

after a while, you set your book down on your lap, deciding to break the silence. “it must be difficult,” you said quietly. “taking on so much.”

heeseung didn’t answer right away, his gaze still focused on the shelves, but eventually, he nodded. “it is.”

you hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, softer this time. “you don’t have to carry it all alone, you know.”

he turned to look at you then, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something softer than the cold indifference you had grown accustomed to.

“and what would you suggest?” he asked, his voice quiet but not unkind.

“i don’t know,” you admitted. “but we’re in this together, whether we like it or not.”

heeseung’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. it wasn’t much, but it was the first step—however small—toward something more than just forced cohabitation.

the shift in your relationship came faster than you expected. it started with a challenge—a reckless, unspoken dare that neither of you could resist.

it had been a clear, crisp day, the first after several weeks of rain. you were restless, tired of the palace walls and the constant burden of your new role. you had gone to the stables, hoping to take one of the horses out for a ride, needing to feel the wind in your hair and the ground beneath you. but when you arrived, heeseung was already there, adjusting the reins of his own horse.

you paused in the doorway, surprised to see him. “you ride?”

he glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “you sound surprised.”

“i am,” you admitted. “i’ve never seen you ride before.”

he chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

the challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn’t resist rising to it. “care to prove it?” you asked, moving toward your own horse.

heeseung’s smirk widened. “what do you have in mind?”

you mounted your horse swiftly, the thrill of the challenge already coursing through your veins. “a race.”

heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “you think you can beat me?”

“i know i can,” you shot back, turning your horse toward the open field beyond the stables.

without another word, you spurred your horse into motion, not waiting for his response. behind you, you heard heeseung’s laughter, low and rich, before the sound of hooves thundering against the ground told you he had accepted the challenge.

you raced through the fields, the wind whipping through your hair, the thrill of the chase making your heart race. heeseung was right behind you, and you could feel the tension building, the competitive edge between you sparking like fire. it was like being children again, challenging each other at every turn, pushing each other to the limit.

but this time, it was different. the stakes were higher, the tension thicker, and the way heeseung looked at you when he finally caught up to you sent a shiver down your spine.

when he finally pulled his horse beside yours, you were both breathless, your faces flushed with adrenaline. you glanced over at him, and the look in his eyes—intense, dark, heated—made your pulse quicken.

“not bad,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges.

you smirked, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding. “you almost kept up.”

heeseung leaned in just slightly, his gaze locking with yours. “almost?” he murmured, his voice sending a jolt through you.

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. the space between you was too close, the air charged with something you weren’t quite ready to name. his eyes lingered on your lips for just a moment too long, and you could feel the heat of his presence, the tension that had always existed between you now manifesting in a way that was far more dangerous.

before either of you could say anything, heeseung pulled back, his smirk returning as if nothing had happened. “we’ll call it a draw,” he said, though there was a teasing edge to his voice.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, shaking your head with a laugh. “you wish.”

but as you rode back to the palace, the tension between you remained, simmering beneath the surface. it was no longer the resentment of old enemies, but something far more complex, far more dangerous. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering what would happen if that tension ever boiled over.

later that night, the air was thick with the remnants of the day’s energy. you couldn’t sleep, your mind still racing from the ride and the way heeseung had looked at you—how close he had come, how your heart had nearly betrayed you in that moment of suspended anticipation.

you wandered the halls of the palace aimlessly, your footsteps soft against the marble floors. the palace at night was a different place, quiet and still, the shadows long and heavy. it felt like a place where secrets lingered in every corner, where the walls whispered of things that could never be said aloud.

as you passed by the study, you noticed the faint glow of light beneath the door. curiosity piqued, you pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. heeseung was there, seated at the desk, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. he was reading, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he focused on the page in front of him.

you hesitated, but before you could turn away, he looked up, catching sight of you. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. then, without breaking eye contact, heeseung set the book aside.

“couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, intimate in the quiet of the room.

you shook your head, stepping into the room. “no. you?”

heeseung’s gaze flicked over you, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin heat under his scrutiny. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone soft but laced with that same dangerous tension that had been building all day.

“about what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you moved closer, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

heeseung’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. “about you,” he said quietly. “about us.”

the weight of his words settled in the space between you, thick and intoxicating. about you. about us. it echoed in your mind, stirring something deep within you that you had tried to ignore for far too long. you weren’t sure if it was the late hour, the dim candlelight, or the fact that you had been dancing around each other for weeks now, but something inside you snapped.

your breath hitched as you looked at him, his eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t quite name. but it was there—undeniable, pulsing in the space between you. and now that it had been spoken into existence, you couldn’t unsee it.

“what about us?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. it wasn’t just curiosity anymore. it was a challenge.

heeseung’s gaze flicked to your lips, and the tension in the room intensified, coiling tighter and tighter until it felt like the air itself might shatter from the pressure. he stood slowly, his movements deliberate, and took a step toward you, closing the already-small distance between you.

“there’s always been something between us,” he said, his voice low, rough. his eyes never left yours, burning with intensity. “even when we hated each other.”

your heart was pounding now, so loud you were sure he could hear it. you wanted to deny it, to tell him that he was wrong, that it had always been pure hatred. but that would’ve been a lie. you knew it as well as he did—whatever had always been there between you, it had never been simple.

“and what is it now?” you asked, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct told you to look away. to run.

heeseung took another step closer, his hand reaching up slowly, as though giving you the chance to pull away. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. his fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. his hand lingered there, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

“maybe we’ve been fighting the wrong battle,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost tender. the warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin, and you felt your pulse quicken.

your throat tightened. every word he said felt like a dangerous line, one that you were teetering on the edge of crossing. the tension between you had always been a fire—burning too hot, too fast. and now, it felt like it was about to consume you both.

heeseung’s thumb brushed over your bottom lip, and your breath caught in your throat. his touch was tentative, as though he wasn’t quite sure if this was real or if you would pull away at any moment.

but you didn’t.

instead, you took a step closer, closing the gap completely. the air between you was charged, thick with unspoken desire and the weight of all the years you had spent fighting against each other. your body was betraying you, leaning into him, drawn by a force you had denied for too long.

heeseung’s eyes darkened as he leaned in, his lips barely an inch from yours, the heat between you almost unbearable now. you could feel the tension in every muscle, the way his hand trembled slightly as it cupped your cheek, the way your own body was responding without your permission.

then, in a breathless moment that felt like it stretched on forever, he closed the distance.

his lips pressed against yours—soft at first, testing, as though he wasn’t sure you would let him. but the moment your lips met his, something ignited between you. the kiss deepened, filled with all the pent-up frustration and longing that had been building for so long. it was a clash of emotions—anger, desire, need—all colliding in that single moment.

you responded instantly, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. the kiss was rough, almost desperate, as though you were both trying to make up for years of missed chances in that single moment.

his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped against his lips at the feeling of his body pressed so close to yours. the intensity of it was overwhelming, but you didn’t want it to stop. you didn’t want to think. you just wanted to feel.

but then, as quickly as it started, heeseung pulled back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. his hands still gripped your waist, holding you in place as though he couldn’t quite let go yet.

“this isn’t... what i expected,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. his breath was warm against your skin, and his eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for an answer in your gaze.

you swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. “what did you expect?” you asked softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened for a moment, his eyes darkening once again. “i didn’t expect you to feel this way.” his voice was low, almost a growl, filled with the same intensity that had been building between you all night.

you opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. you had no idea what to say, no idea how to explain the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you. all you knew was that everything had changed in that kiss.

“i don’t know what i feel,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely audible in the heavy silence of the room.

heeseung’s lips twitched into a small, almost sad smile. “neither do i.” he stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact between you, and you immediately missed the warmth of his body against yours.

“but whatever this is... it’s dangerous,” he continued, his eyes locked on yours, as though warning you. “we’ve always been enemies. we don’t know how to be anything else.”

you felt a lump form in your throat at his words, because deep down, you knew he was right. but that didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the desire for something more—for the possibility of what could be.

“i don’t want to be your enemy anymore,” you said softly, the confession surprising even you.

heeseung’s eyes widened slightly at your words, his expression unreadable. for a moment, you thought he might say something—might admit that he didn’t want to be your enemy either. but then, he shook his head, the walls between you coming back up, brick by brick.

“this doesn’t change anything,” he said quietly, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

and with that, he turned and left the room, leaving you standing there in the soft glow of candlelight, your heart pounding and your mind reeling from the kiss that had shifted the entire balance between you.

as the door closed softly behind him, you exhaled a shaky breath, your fingers brushing your lips where his had been moments before.

everything had changed.

the royal court was buzzing with tension, and for once, the tension wasn’t between you and heeseung. the kingdom was on edge, not from war or rebellion, but from something far more insidious—political manoeuvring. rival noble houses were plotting against heeseung’s rule, questioning his right to ascend to the throne, especially after the sudden marriage to you. the whispers had grown louder over the past few weeks, the courtiers’ gazes sharper, waiting for the first misstep.

you had known court life would be full of power plays and alliances, but this was different. it was personal. every snide comment, every hushed conversation behind closed doors, felt like an attack on your marriage, on your family’s legacy. and worst of all, it felt like an attack on you.

one afternoon, as you made your way through the palace corridors, you overheard a group of nobles—close to your family—voicing their displeasure over your sudden marriage to heeseung. it was the same old song—how your sister should have been the bride, how you were never meant for this role, how heeseung marrying you was a strategic disaster.

you felt your blood run cold, but you kept walking, your head held high. you had grown used to these remarks, but today, they stung deeper. not because they questioned your worth, but because they reflected the deep-seated insecurity you had always carried.

that night, you found yourself alone in the study, staring out the window at the darkening sky. the weight of the court’s judgement, the impossible standards, the constant comparisons to your sister—they were suffocating. and then there was heeseung, whose coldness had thawed just enough to show you glimpses of something deeper, something real. but he was still heeseung—your husband, your childhood rival, and now the man who held your future in his hands.

the door creaked open behind you, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him. you had grown attuned to his presence, the way the air shifted whenever he entered a room.

“what’s wrong?” his voice was quieter than usual, but still carrying that edge of command. he always knew when something was off, as if he could sense the turmoil swirling inside you.

you didn’t answer immediately, your gaze fixed on the stars outside. “they’re saying we’re not suited for each other,” you murmured, finally turning to face him. “that i’m not fit to be queen. that you made a mistake.”

heeseung’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar way, but this time, it wasn’t directed at you.

“let them talk,” he said flatly. “they’re just waiting for us to fail.”

“and what if they’re right?” the words slipped out before you could stop them, the fear and doubt bubbling to the surface. “i was never meant to marry you. this isn’t the life i was prepared for.”

heeseung stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. then, to your surprise, he closed the distance between you, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“i didn’t choose you because you were an easy choice,” he said, his voice low but intense. “i chose you because you’re stronger than you realise.”

you blinked, taken aback by the conviction in his words. heeseung wasn’t one to offer praise lightly, and hearing it now, in this moment, felt more intimate than anything he had ever said to you before.

“there are plenty of people who want to see us fail,” he continued, his grip tightening slightly. “but they don’t matter. what matters is that we don’t give them the satisfaction. we fight together.”

the intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you saw beyond the cold exterior he had always shown you. there was something deeper there, something raw and unspoken. a partnership.

but the closeness also brought something else—a heat that had always been there between you, simmering beneath the surface. his hands lingered on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the bare skin just above your collarbone, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air thicker.

“you think i’m strong?” you asked, your voice quieter now, tinged with something more vulnerable. something real.

heeseung’s gaze flicked down to your lips, just for a moment, before returning to your eyes. his voice was rough when he spoke, low and filled with an unspoken promise. “i’ve always known.”

the charged air between you was impossible to ignore now. his fingers slid from your shoulders to your arms, the touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. it wasn’t just the weight of responsibility pressing down on you—it was him, his closeness, the undeniable pull you had both been dancing around for weeks.

you could feel the tension in every inch of your body, your heart racing as heeseung’s hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer, but still leaving just enough space for doubt. he hesitated, as if waiting for you to push him away, to remind him of the enmity that had defined your relationship for so long.

but you didn’t. instead, you leaned into him, your hands tentatively reaching up to rest on his chest. the fabric of his shirt was soft under your fingers, but beneath it, you could feel the steady beat of his heart, as rapid as your own.

“maybe i’ve been wrong about you,” you whispered, your breath hitching as the tension between you reached a breaking point.

heeseung’s eyes darkened at your words, his lips hovering just inches from yours. “maybe you have,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. but there was something softer there too, something almost tender.

before you could talk yourself out of it, you closed the distance between you and kissed him.

the kiss was like nothing you had ever experienced—fierce, desperate, and full of the years of unresolved tension between you. it was as if all the walls you had built around yourselves were crumbling in an instant, leaving nothing but the raw, undeniable attraction that had always simmered beneath the surface.

heeseung responded instantly, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. his lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressing against yours as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

it was overwhelming, the intensity of the moment, the way your bodies seemed to fit perfectly together, the way every touch sent a shockwave of desire coursing through you. you had spent so long fighting him, fighting this, and now, as his hands slid up your back, holding you close, you wondered why you had ever resisted.

when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. heeseung’s grip on your waist didn’t loosen, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat as wild as your own.

“we can’t keep pretending,” you whispered, your voice shaky, your lips still tingling from the kiss.

heeseung’s eyes met yours, the vulnerability and uncertainty in his gaze mirroring your own. “no, we can’t,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion.

for a moment, the world hung in the balance. you had crossed a line, and there was no going back. everything between you had shifted, and the question now wasn’t whether you would move forward—it was how.

heeseung’s thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch so tender it nearly broke you. “we’re in this together,” he said softly, the weight of his words heavy with meaning.

this time, there was no need to say anything more. you both understood what had changed between you, even if neither of you was ready to fully admit it. and though the path ahead was uncertain, you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t facing it alone anymore.

weeks passed, and with each passing day, things between you and heeseung slowly shifted. the cold, sharp walls that had once kept you apart were crumbling, revealing a warmth and understanding that neither of you had anticipated. where there had once been biting words and icy glares, there was now laughter, quiet conversations, and small gestures of affection.

the palace felt different. it was lighter now, with the growing sense of partnership between you and heeseung. your bickering had been replaced with genuine care, and though the wounds of the past hadn't fully healed, you were both learning to forgive. but it wasn’t just the emotional connection that was shifting—there was something deeper brewing beneath the surface. unspoken feelings, simmering tension.

it wasn’t until a grand banquet in honour of a visiting prince from a neighbouring kingdom that these feelings came to a head. you stood at the centre of the ballroom, dressed in a gown that glimmered under the candlelight. it hugged your figure perfectly, catching the attention of more than just heeseung. the prince—prince seojun—had been particularly charming throughout the evening, his eyes lingering on you a little too long, his compliments a little too bold.

“you are by far the most captivating presence in this room, your highness,” seojun murmured, his voice low as he leaned in slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “if i had known such beauty awaited me here, i would have visited sooner.”

you laughed politely, glancing over your shoulder, searching for heeseung in the crowd. he was across the room, deep in conversation with some nobles, but even from the distance, you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and intense.

seojun continued, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he leaned closer. “perhaps we could steal a moment away from the crowd? i would love to know more about the woman behind such an enchanting smile.”

before you could respond, a sudden shift in the air caught your attention. heeseung appeared at your side, his posture tense, his expression a mix of barely contained irritation and something else—something more possessive.

“princess,” heeseung’s voice was smooth, but there was a dangerous edge to it. his hand slid around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side. the claim was unmistakable. “i believe your dance card is full for the evening.”

seojun’s smirk faltered slightly as he glanced between the two of you, sensing the tension. heeseung’s eyes never left the prince, cold and unyielding.

“of course,” seojun replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. “i wouldn’t dream of overstepping. after all,” his gaze flickered to you, then back to heeseung, “she’s your wife.”

the words hung in the air for a moment, charged with unspoken meaning. seojun bowed slightly, a smirk still playing on his lips, before taking his leave. but even as he walked away, you could feel the lingering weight of his gaze.

you turned to heeseung, about to make a light-hearted remark about the interaction, but the look on his face stopped you. his eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, and his grip on your waist was firm—almost possessive.

“did he touch you?” heeseung asked, his voice low and tight.

you raised an eyebrow, surprised by his tone. “barely,” you replied, trying to play it off with a soft laugh. “why? are you jealous?”

his eyes flickered with something dangerous as he leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. “you’re my wife. i don’t like other men thinking they can take what’s mine.”

your heart skipped a beat at his words. the possessiveness in his tone, the way his body pressed protectively against yours—it was unlike anything you had ever experienced with heeseung. you had always seen him as cold, distant, but this... this was different. there was fire in his eyes, and you could feel it burning between you, a tension that neither of you had acknowledged until now.

“and what if i enjoy a little attention now and then?” you teased, testing the boundaries, wanting to see how far he would go.

heeseung’s eyes darkened even more, and in one swift motion, he pulled you even closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck as he leaned in, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. “i don’t care how many men look at you, but remember this—” his voice dropped, sending shivers down your spine, “you belong to me and i belong to you.”

a thrill ran through you at his words, and for a moment, you were speechless, your mind spinning from the intensity of his claim. the ballroom, the crowd, even prince seojun—all of it faded away as heeseung’s gaze held you captive. you could feel the heat of his body against yours, the possessiveness in his touch, and for the first time, you realised that this wasn’t just some marriage of convenience anymore.

heeseung cared—more than he was willing to admit.

your breath hitched as you looked up at him, your eyes searching his, trying to read the emotions flickering behind them. “and what about you, heeseung?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “do you want me to be yours?”

his eyes softened for just a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. “you already are,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “and i’m not letting you forget it.”

the banquet had left the air between you and heeseung charged with an intensity that neither of you could ignore. his possessiveness, the fierce look in his eyes when he claimed you as his wife in front of prince seojun, had stirred something inside you—something that had been simmering for far too long.

as the last of the guests departed and the palace quieted down for the night, the tension remained, lingering like an unspoken promise. heeseung walked beside you in silence as you both made your way through the dimly lit corridors toward your chambers. though no words passed between you, the air was thick with anticipation, the unspoken pull between you stronger than ever.

when you reached your shared chambers, heeseung opened the door for you, his gaze never leaving you as you stepped inside. you could feel his eyes on you, burning with a need that matched your own. the soft glow of the candlelight cast long shadows across the room, but all you could focus on was the man standing behind you, his presence overwhelming.

you moved toward the vanity, fingers trembling slightly as you began to remove your jewellery. you were acutely aware of heeseung standing behind you, the weight of his gaze almost tangible as he watched your every movement. his silence spoke volumes, filled with desire and unspoken emotions that neither of you had fully confronted until now.

the tension was unbearable. finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, you glanced at him through the reflection in the mirror, your voice soft but steady. “you’ve been quiet,” you murmured, meeting his intense gaze. “what’s on your mind?”

he didn’t answer immediately. instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against the bare skin of your shoulder. the touch was light, tentative, but it sent a shiver down your spine. his fingers lingered, tracing the delicate curve of your shoulder before he leaned in, his breath warm against your neck.

“i didn’t like how he looked at you,” heeseung finally admitted, his voice low and rough with suppressed emotion. his eyes met yours in the mirror, dark with jealousy and something more—something deeper. “or the way he made you laugh.”

your heart raced at the possessiveness in his tone. you turned to face him, taking in the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes blazed with something primal. his emotions were raw, laid bare before you in a way that heeseung had never allowed himself to show before.

“it was harmless,” you replied, stepping closer to him, your voice softening. “but i can’t say i minded the way you stepped in.”

his gaze darkened, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the heat of his body seeping into yours, the hard lines of his frame pressing against your softness. his eyes locked onto yours, filled with unspoken desire, but also with something more—something tender.

“i’m not the kind of man who likes to share,” he said, his voice a low growl as he leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours. “especially not when it comes to you.”

your breath hitched at his words, your pulse quickening as the fire between you flared even hotter. you couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through you at his possessive tone, the way his hands gripped you as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“and what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, your voice daring, testing the boundaries as your lips brushed his, teasingly close but not quite touching.

heeseung’s response was immediate. his lips crashed against yours, fierce and hungry, as if he had been holding back for far too long. the kiss was searing, filled with all the emotions you had both kept hidden. his hands roamed over your body, possessive yet tender, as though he was staking his claim but also worshipping every inch of you.

you responded just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, needing to feel every part of him against you. the tension between you, the unspoken desire, it all poured out in that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours with a need that matched your own.

heeseung’s hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bed. the air between you was electric, charged with desire and the intensity of emotions that neither of you had allowed to surface until now. he laid you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze dark and filled with a hunger that made your heart race.

for a moment, he paused, his fingers brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of what had just passed between you. his eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability behind them—the raw emotion that he had been hiding behind his cold exterior for so long.

“are you sure?” he asked, his voice husky but laced with care, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull away, to stop this before it went too far.

you gazed up at him, your heart swelling with the overwhelming emotions coursing through you. heeseung, the man you had once considered your rival, your enemy, was now looking at you with a tenderness that took your breath away. you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumb brushing softly over his cheek.

“i’m sure,” you whispered, pulling him down into another kiss, softer this time, but no less filled with the emotions swirling between you.

what followed was slow, deliberate, and filled with a tenderness that you had never expected from heeseung. his hands moved over your body with care, as though he was savouring every touch, every breath. the fierceness from earlier softened into something more intimate, more meaningful, as he explored you with reverence, his lips following the path of his hands.

your name fell from his lips like a prayer, whispered against your skin in the quiet moments between kisses. heeseung’s touch was both possessive and gentle, as though he was claiming you but also offering himself to you in return. the intensity of the moment was overwhelming, but it was the tenderness in his gaze, the softness of his touch, that made your heart ache with something deeper than mere desire.

and as the night stretched on, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony, you realised that this wasn’t just about passion—it was about the connection you had been fighting against for so long. the rivalry, the bickering, the walls you had both built between you—it all crumbled away, leaving only the raw truth of what you felt for one another.

when it was over, you lay beside each other, your breathing heavy, your bodies tangled in the sheets. the room was quiet now, the only sound was the soft rustle of the fabric and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

heeseung turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. his eyes, once so cold and guarded, were warm now, filled with an emotion that made your heart skip a beat. he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you and holding you against his chest as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. it was comforting, grounding you in the quiet aftermath of everything that had just passed between you. his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, soothing and gentle, as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

neither of you spoke, but words weren’t necessary. the silence was filled with a sense of peace, of contentment that neither of you had known before. heeseung’s touch was soft now, filled with care as he held you close, his body warm and protective against yours.

and in that quiet, intimate moment, you realised something: this was more than just passion, more than just desire. it was something real, something lasting.

heeseung’s hand continued to trace gentle patterns on your back, his lips brushing your temple as he whispered softly, “are you alright?”

you smiled against his chest, your heart swelling with warmth at the tenderness in his voice. “more than alright,” you murmured, snuggling closer to him.

heeseung let out a soft sigh, his arms tightening around you as if he never wanted to let go. and as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the weight of the past finally lifted, leaving only the warmth of the present and the promise of a future you were both ready to embrace.

the next morning, you woke to find heeseung already up, standing by the window of your shared chambers, his silhouette framed by the soft glow of the early morning light. he looked deep in thought, his expression pensive as he gazed out over the kingdom.

quietly, you approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. he stiffened for a moment at the contact but quickly relaxed, his hands covering yours as he let out a soft sigh.

“you’re up early,” you murmured, resting your cheek against his back.

“i couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “i was thinking about everything that’s changed.”

you smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “a lot has changed, hasn’t it?”

heeseung turned in your arms, his expression soft as he looked down at you. “i never thought this would work,” he admitted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “but i’m glad i was wrong.”

you gazed up at him, your heart swelling with warmth. the man standing before you was the same heeseung you had known all your life, but now, you saw him for who he truly was—not your enemy, not your rival, but your partner. your husband.

“i’m glad too,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips.

and in that moment, you knew that this was your new beginning. the past, with all its bitterness and tension, was behind you. what lay ahead was a future you hadn’t expected but one you were ready to embrace—together.

as heeseung pulled you into a gentle kiss, the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window, you knew that this was the start of something beautiful. your marriage, once forged out of obligation and resentment, had grown into something real, something lasting.

and as you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you realised that sometimes, the best love stories were the ones you never saw coming.

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zaynessbeloved · 12 days ago

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A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 6.5k

A/n: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.

If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.

With all my heart, —Lex

Chapter 1

The manor had not known this much noise in years.

Maids fluttered between corridors like startled birds, arms burdened with ivory silk, pearl-dotted gloves, and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing, a heated debate arose about whether the new French ribbon complemented or ruined the eldest daughter’s gown. In the drawing room, their mother fanned herself with a fluttering hand and sighed dramatically into the air, as if managing two debutantes had taken five years from her life already—and it was only the first day of the Season.

And you? You sat near the window, watching the grey spring clouds roll across the sky, utterly untouched by the chaos. Or at least pretending to be. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, thoughtful, expectant. As if even you weren’t quite sure what you were waiting for.

“Would it kill you to act excited?” came a voice behind you.

Your sister. Eleanora glided into view like a well-practiced scene in a stage play—tall, elegant, every curl in place. Her dress had already been fitted days ago. Pale rose, delicate embroidery, soft gold accents. The kind of debutante gown that said: look at me, then look again. Her confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was simply… inherited.

“I am excited,” you replied without looking at her, chin resting in your palm. “I’m vibrating with anticipation. Can’t you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and sank gracefully into the seat beside you. “Mother’s convinced I’ll receive a proposal by the second ball.”

You blinked slowly. “That’s optimistic.”

“She’s not wrong,” Eleanora said, half-smiling. “There’s already talk. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball. And he—well, you know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah. Him. You’d heard the name whispered since you were old enough to understand what betrothal meant. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt. Promised to your sister since they were both children, in one of those quiet family agreements made with wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and fortunes. You’d never seen him. Never met him. But you’d heard of him.

They said he rarely came to town. That he’d been abroad for years. That he was... peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. That he collected ancient art and turned down nearly every social invitation. That he had no interest in courtship, except the one already chosen for him.

Your sister’s.

“I wonder if he’s dreadfully boring,” you mused aloud.

Eleanora snorted. “He’s a duke, darling. I’d hardly be expected to love him. Only not embarrass myself at dinner.”

You turned to face her then. “Do you mind it?” you asked quietly. “That you’ve never met him. That it’s all been arranged.”

Her expression softened, then faltered. Just for a second.

“I mind being married off like a trinket. But… I also mind not having a choice,” she said. “And choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

A pause. “You’ll have more freedom, you know,” she added lightly. “You’re not promised to anyone.”

No. You weren’t. Not the eldest. Not the heir-maker. You were the afterthought in pearls. But freedom felt like such a fragile thing when it was wrapped in expectation and painted in powder and rouge.

There was a knock, then the door creaked open.

“The carriage is ready, Misses,” said a maid, curtseying low. “Your mother says the ball waits for no lady.”

Your sister rose in one graceful sweep. You followed, smoothing your skirts and forcing a smile.You did not know it then. Not as you stepped into the carriage, nor as the first ballroom doors opened before you. Not as your name was announced or champagne touched your lips.

But somewhere in the city, a man named Rafayel Vale had also dressed for the evening.And the Season had already begun.

The ballroom glittered like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloomed overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors. Laughter curled around the violins. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterfly wings. It was the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London had come to play their part.

Your mother had insisted on white for your debut—soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves just off the shoulder. You felt like a porcelain doll being paraded across a chessboard. But Eleanora? She was art. A single glance at her, and suitors flocked like moths to a flame. Her rose-colored gown shimmered with every turn. Her laughter fell in just the right places. She danced as if she’d been born to do it.

She probably had. You didn’t mind. Not really. You sipped at your champagne near the edge of the floor, nodding politely to a young gentleman who’d just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz began.

“She’s rather enchanting, your sister,” came a voice beside you.

You turned. A tall, freckled young man smiled at you, slightly flushed with wine. “But I find myself curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lifted. “Curious, or drunk, My Lord?”

He laughed, unoffended. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitated—then took his hand. The music rose, and so did you. You danced. Twice. Once with the freckled gentleman—Lord Daniel something—and again with a kind-eyed viscount who fumbled through small talk but smiled at your wit. You laughed. You curtseyed. You did everything you were meant to.

But it was impossible to ignore how the room revolved around Eleanora. She hadn’t left the floor. A new partner every song. An admiring audience wherever she paused. You caught glimpses of her between turns—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, posture perfect. And then… a whisper.

“Did you see? Lord Ravencourt is here.”

The name slipped between fans like a secret.

“I thought he wouldn’t come.”

“He never does. But this Season—well, everyone knows why.”

“He’s to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he—”

You turned too fast, looking for the voice, the source. But all you saw were swirling gowns and smiling mouths. No sign of him. Your heartbeat kicked just a little faster, for reasons you couldn't name. You’d heard the name all your life, but now… he was here. In this room. Breathing the same air. And yet—You couldn’t find him.

Eleanora laughed again, a musical sound that carried across the dance floor as she twirled in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. You watched. And listened. But Rafayel Vale, Duke of Ravencourt, remained as elusive as his reputation. Just a name. Just a whisper. For now.

Another glass of champagne was placed in your hand—your third of the evening, perhaps fourth. The effervescence prickled pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness refreshing but not enough to cool the flush that had crept across your cheeks after so many turns about the ballroom.

You’d danced with no less than six gentlemen—each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh,” said one. “Your sister is lucky to have you by her side,” said another. “Might I call on you this week?” asked a third.

You smiled, curtsied, responded with the appropriate level of civility. But your mind had long since drifted elsewhere—pulled by curiosity, by the weight of a name that kept brushing past your ear like a breeze you couldn’t quite catch.

Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one pointed him out. No introductions. No dramatic arrival. You were beginning to suspect he hadn’t come at all—despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

You were about to take your leave from the floor when you caught the flicker. A subtle shift. The orchestra hadn’t stopped. The conversations hadn’t paused. And yet— It was as if the air had gone still. You turned. There, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stood a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announced him. He didn’t need it. He stood with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveyed the ballroom below with the kind of expression that didn’t demand attention—but commanded it nonetheless.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—elegant, distant, dangerous. His hair was tied loosely at his nape, the soft wave of it brushing against the collar of his coat. His eyes, from what you could see across the distance, were sharp. Watchful. His jaw cut clean beneath the candlelight.

You didn’t need to ask who he was. You knew. The Duke of Ravencourt has arrived.

“Ah, there he is,” someone murmured near you, confirming it.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. He descended the stairs unhurriedly, greeted no one, and walked with the ease of someone completely uninterested in impressing. And yet, every head turned.

Even Eleanora’s. You watched her gaze snap upward, watched the moment his eyes met hers—just for a breath. Then, with unflinching grace, he crossed the ballroom and offered your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice was low, velvet-draped steel. Refined. Controlled.

Your sister curtsied perfectly. “My Lord.”

And for the first time in your life, you stood mere feet away from the man who had, without even knowing it, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. Rafayel Vale.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t look at you. But something inside you stirred—a thread pulled taut, a chord struck too suddenly. So this is the man my sister is to marry. So that was him. The man whose name had been sewn into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread. The Duke your mother spoke of in hushed tones. The one your sister had been destined for before she’d learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

And yet, you didn’t linger on the sight. You watched long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand. Watched him take it with a bow too shallow to be entirely respectful, too intimate to be entirely proper. Interesting. But not your concern. So you turned away.

“Miss Everleigh.” You faced the gentleman with a smile just sharp enough to cut through the fog of champagne.

“Lord Renswick,” you greeted, dipping into a curtsey. “You’ve finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s hardly bravery when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilted your head. “Flattery, my Lord? We haven’t even danced yet.”

“I’m hoping to improve your opinion before I embarrass myself,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You allowed him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble floor. You danced. And laughed. And when he stumbled, you teased. Another gentleman approached you before the music faded. Then another. The evening passed in a haze of pleasantries and compliments, silk gloves and careful steps, and smiles that never quite reached your eyes.

You were being seen. Not just as Eleanora’s sister—but as yourself. And still, somewhere behind the swirling figures and murmured invitations, you caught the occasional sound of his name.

“The Duke hasn’t danced with anyone else.” “He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with her.” “They’re to be married before summer, I hear.”

You didn’t seek him out. But you noticed. He didn’t hover near the punch. He didn’t court attention. He simply existed, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room.

Eleanora had his company almost exclusively. They spoke often, heads bent slightly toward one another. She laughed in that polished way she’d perfected since finishing school. He only smiled once—or maybe you imagined it. He offered his hand to two other ladies for a dance. Out of courtesy, not interest. Both looked dazed when returned to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz played, you found yourself near the windows again. A gentle breeze filtered through the open panes. The sky outside was deep and velvet blue, dotted with the promise of rain.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass, cooling your skin. Behind you, the ballroom glittered on. Your sister was still dancing. With him. So that is the man who will be her husband. You didn’t envy her. Not truly. He was distant, unreadable. A mystery, yes, but not yours to solve. You were only curious. Just a little.

The ride home was quiet at first. Outside the window, London twinkled beneath the night sky, gas lamps glowing like stars trapped in glass. The carriage wheels clattered softly over the cobblestones, a rhythmic lull that always came after a long night of dancing.

Inside, you sat across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand—more habit than necessity now.

Your mother sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage was hardly warm.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful beginning to the Season,” she declared. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” she turned to you, “were charming. I heard Lord Pelham compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love, not just your appearance. A rare thing.”

You offered a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora chuckled softly, her face half-lit by the carriage lantern. She looked pleased—no, content. A strange softness in her expression, one you didn’t often see outside the confines of private moments like these.

“Six dances,” your mother continued. “Four requests for calling hours, and—oh! Did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did,” Eleanora murmured. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stopped mid-wave. Her expression turned reverent. “Ravencourt. Good heavens. I still can’t believe he came. I truly thought we’d have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was...unexpected,” Eleanora admitted, her gaze turning briefly to the window. “Not at all what I imagined.”

You looked at her then. Not sharply, not with envy. Just with interest.

“What did you imagine?” you asked softly.

Eleanora tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose someone older. Colder. Not so… sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never empty.”

You hummed. “And?”

She smiled—small, knowing. “He watches everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug. “Especially me.”

Your mother gave a delicate gasp of delight and resumed fanning herself with renewed vigor. “Well, it’s settled then. We’ll expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps earlier, given how much time he spent at your side.”

“I don’t think he’s the sort to follow expected schedules,” Eleanora said, almost absently.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you agreed with her. You leaned your head against the side of the carriage, watching the lantern light flicker over your gloves.

The Season had begun. Your sister’s future—the one stitched in gold and promise—was unfolding. And in the shadows of it… a man made of silence and storm had finally stepped into the light.

——

The garden smelled of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spilled over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the edges of your teacup as you sat beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hummed lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirred the hem of your skirts, carrying with it the faintest echo of music from last night’s ball.

You swirled the honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and mother seated nearby. They were reading from The Society Pages, lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta—that will certainly be remarked upon,” your mother sniffed.

“And here—‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter,” Eleanora murmured, though her eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup.

You didn’t comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze. The first caller arrived before noon.

“Miss Everleigh,” the butler intoned with perfect composure. “Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rose, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offered a pleasant smile as the young Lord was shown into the garden.

He bowed. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You didn’t roll your eyes—though it was a near thing. “Good morning, my Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He spoke of the ball. Of your dancing. Of how he hoped to see you again. You responded with grace, with interest even—but something inside you remained still. Unmoved. He wasn’t unpleasant. None of them were.

A second gentleman came not long after. Then a third in the late afternoon, with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller was welcomed, each given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet…

With every charming smile and gloved hand pressed to yours, you found your thoughts drifting. To silence. To shadows. To eyes that hadn’t yet sought yours. By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the garden in amber light, the butler reappeared once more.

You glanced up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat gently and bowed. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nodded, not disappointed, not expectant—only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You returned to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora had set aside her book and was absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers.

“He hasn’t called,” she murmured.

You looked up. “The Duke?”

She nodded once. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem, but... he did say he’d be in town this week.”

You sipped your tea. “He doesn't seem the type to rush.”

“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t.” Her voice held no bitterness. Just observation. Eleanora didn’t chase affection—she expected it to arrive, eventually, on its own terms.

You glanced toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustled the hedges, but no footsteps came. Still. It was early. Much too early to assume anything. By evening, the callers were gone. Your mother was content. Your sister, thoughtful. And you?

You were content to watch. To listen. To wait—not for him, but for the Season to unfold as it always did: slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke was to be part of your sister’s story, he would arrive in time. And if he didn’t? Well, that too, would be telling.

——

The gown was periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You had said nothing when your maid fastened it, only watched your reflection in the mirror with mild detachment while she smoothed the folds. Your sister had gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” she asked, not looking up as your mother arranged curls at the crown of her head.

You knew who she meant. “I imagine so,” you replied simply. “It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

That was the third time she’d asked this week. He hadn’t called. Not once. Not even a letter. After all the glances, the evening spent in her company, the conversations in corners and near the card tables, the dance others noted… and still, nothing. The Ton had started to notice. Even the papers had commented on it, their tone careful, but curious.

Your mother tried to stay composed, but the tension in her voice betrayed her. “He’s a duke, darling. He’s dreadfully busy, I’m sure. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business—men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlors.”

But it wasn’t poetry Eleanora wanted. It was certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, had offered none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom was suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd was lively, the musicians sharp and practiced. By the time you arrived, the dancing had already begun.

You made your greetings. Smiled when expected. Allowed a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laughed once—genuinely, this time. Eleanora remained composed beside you. Her gown was elegant, her posture perfect. But you knew her well enough to see the flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You saw it the moment he stepped into the room. He was dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He didn’t linger at the entrance. He didn’t pause for greetings. He moved straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence. And then, there he was. Standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said with a bow deeper than the one he’d offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister turned. Blinked. “My Lord.”

He reached into his coat. From his gloved hand, he drew a small, velvet-wrapped box and placed it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence,” he said simply. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You didn’t look away—but you didn’t move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opened the box slowly. Inside was a brooch—silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its center. Not extravagant. Not loud. But tasteful. Rare. Beautiful.

“You needn’t have,” she said, voice softer now.

“I did,” he replied. Then, “May I claim a dance, if you haven’t promised it?”

She hesitated—but only for a moment. “Of course.”

You stepped back as he offered his arm. She took it. They moved to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch. And you? You remained at the edge, untouched by the drama, your fingers gently clasped, your thoughts still clear.

He had returned. He had apologized. He had done what was expected. Nothing more. And yet, somewhere—deep in the space between music and silence—you felt the first ripple.Not interest. Just…a shift.

You didn’t watch them dance. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not because you were jealous—you weren’t. But because watching felt unnecessary. Predictable. Rafayel Vale had returned, and he’d returned to your sister’s side. As he was meant to. As he had been for years, in name if not affection. So you turned away. And smiled when another gentleman bowed before you.

“My lady,” came a smooth voice, warm like polished amber. “You’ve been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lifted your eyes. He was striking. Not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke was. No, this man wore charm like a perfectly tailored coat. Light brown hair, elegantly curled. A golden signet ring on his right hand. A smile that curled ever-so-slightly at the edge—like he knew something you didn’t. And his title?

“Lord Wessex,” he said with an elegant bow. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I’m told I’m the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lifted, amused. “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself.”

He grinned. “Only when justified. May I?”

You placed your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex was a skilled dancer. Not just in form, but in conversation. Where others had asked the same tired questions—What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy embroidery?—he inquired about the books you read. The places you wished to see. The way your eyes lit up when speaking of the sea, despite never having seen it.

He kept you laughing. Thinking. On your toes. And when he led you to the refreshments table, he didn’t hover or smother. He offered you a glass, nodded at your thanks, and kept the conversation moving like a current pulling you along.

“They speak of your sister and Ravencourt as though the match is already sealed,” he said at one point, gaze drifting toward the couple in question.

“It was arranged,” you replied lightly. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged,” he repeated. “That word always leaves such little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “You don’t believe in arrangement?”

“I believe in lightning strikes, not family bargains.”

You tilted your head, a little smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

He laughed. “You’ve no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening, you’d danced with him twice more. Once by request. Once by invitation. Both times left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled.

And while your sister ended the night with the Duke beside her—the talk of the room once more—it wasn’t his presence that lingered on your skin as you stepped into the carriage. It was Lord Wessex’s voice in your ear, still echoing,

“Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I’m standing close when it happens.”

——

The sun had barely settled above the rooftops when the butler arrived in the parlor, his expression neutral, but his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly dropped her embroidery. Your sister froze, her teacup held midair.

You simply blinked. “Both?”

The butler inclined his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then your mother clapped her hands together as if summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely. That gown is ideal. And you, dear—yes, you’ll stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laughed. Rude, of course.

The drawing room had been polished to near-blinding shine. Fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids had barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men were escorted in.

Rafayel Vale entered with the same quiet command as he had at the ball. Dark coat, silver cufflinks, gloved hands behind his back. He bowed with effortless grace, and his gaze settled on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh,” he greeted. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsied, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, my Lord.”

And beside him—light, where Rafayel was shadow—stood Lord Wessex. Smiling, charming, a pale waistcoat and a sunlit presence. His gaze found you immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said warmly. “I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raised a brow. “That would’ve been quite the feat, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper, my Lord.”

He grinned. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often to defend my honor.”

Tea was served. The Duke sat beside Eleanora. Their conversation was soft, low, and polite. Words about estates, travel, the architecture of Bath.

You and Lord Wessex? Laughter. Playful remarks. A small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies. And a question about your favorite poet, which—unlike others—he actually listened to. He watched you speak with a kind of gentle interest that was easy to receive, easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looked your way.

——

The party was held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-colored canopies and strings of flowers that fluttered like silk ribbons in the breeze. There were games set up on the lawn. Plates of sugared strawberries. Lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walked beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels. She wore a lilac gown. You wore blue. And they were there. As they always seemed to be, now.

Rafayel Vale, tall and composed in a dark grey coat, standing close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree. Listening as she spoke. Offering a quiet smile when she made some soft remark. And across the lawn—your suitor. Lord Wessex, lounging like he belonged in every summer painting ever created. When he caught sight of you, his expression lit up immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he called, rising with one graceful movement. “You’ve saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glanced at your sister. She gave you the faintest nod. And so you did.

You walked the gardens with him, spoke of travel and philosophy and music you weren’t supposed to enjoy. He offered you a wildflower he plucked from the hedgerow. You laughed and told him it clashed terribly with your gloves.

And when you paused to rest beneath the roses, you found yourself glancing across the lawn. Rafayel was still there, standing just a few steps behind your sister now as she spoke to another couple. But his posture had shifted slightly.

His gaze was no longer on Eleanora. It was on you. Not direct. Not rude. But unmistakable. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath between pages. And then, as if realizing it himself, he looked away. Just as Lord Wessex turned to say something clever that made you laugh again.

The grand hall was glowing. Every window draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmered with perfume and warm anticipation. Music poured from the raised platform where a quartet played their first waltz of the evening.

You had barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appeared.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex. Handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox. His smile was brighter than the chandeliers. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lifted your chin. “You assume I’d say yes, my Lord.”

He bowed low. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh—and extended your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

He looked triumphant. The dance was effortless. You moved together as if you’d done it a hundred times before. You knew he’d make a joke right before the turn. That he’d lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm. But never improper. Never forward. He was a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterwards, he offered his arm and guided you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish Lordling cut in. You spent the next hour beside him—talking, sipping chilled wine, laughing so hard once you had to hide your face behind your fan. He made it easy. He made you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke stood by Eleanora once more. They spoke in quiet tones. He escorted her to a dance. Then another—not hers, but another lady’s, whom he partnered with as expected. His face remained unreadable. His words careful.

But every time your laughter rang out or your gown brushed past the edge of the room, his eyes found you. Just for a second. A flick. A pause. A look. Not interest. Not longing. Not yet. But curiosity. Not because you demanded it. Not because you tried to steal it. Only because you were there—and something about you lingered, even when you were no longer in the room.

Lord Wessex offered you another dance before the night ended. And you accepted, with no hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asked none of you. But watched—just once more—as you danced away, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

——

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped inside. It was cooler here. Dimmer. The thick scent of paper and aged wood pressed gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves towered around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings. A world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pulled your gloves off delicately, tucking them beneath your arm as you wandered. Most ladies preferred the modiste. The milliner. Or the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here? Here, you could breathe.

You found yourself in the poetry section—of course. One gloved finger brushing the titles, searching for something half-remembered. Brow slightly furrowed. Alone with your thoughts. Until a soft shift of leather soles caught your ear. You turned, expecting a clerk. And froze.

He stood not three paces from you. Dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves. Simpler than usual, though no less composed. The Duke. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The absurdity of it made your lips twitch—of all places. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression. As if trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said at last. Voice low. Measured. “This is… unexpected.”

You curtsied ever so slightly, regaining your composure. “My Lord. I might say the same.”

A pause. His gaze flicked briefly to the book in your hand—Keats, you realized. Then back to your face. “You favor poetry?”

“On quiet days,” you replied. “And rainy ones.”

Another pause. He nodded, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You waited, wondering if he would say more. He didn’t.

“And you, my Lord?” you asked, a touch of amusement laced through your words. “Are you here for poetry, or politics?”

His lips curved just slightly. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or… anything with weight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that so, my Lord?”

He looked at you for a long moment—still distant, but not unkind.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally. “But I’m not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticked once. Then twice.

“Nor am I, my Lord.” you said simply. “But I should let you return to your… weighty thoughts.”

He inclined his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsied, slight but proper. He bowed in return. No lingering glances. No breathless goodbyes. Just two names exchanged, two minds acknowledged. And a silence that somehow said more than the words themselves.

——

It was one of those warm spring afternoons where everything felt too golden. The garden terrace was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of silk skirts. Ladies fanned themselves under shade trees. Gentlemen clustered near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrived beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes—one of the wheels had needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling,” your mother said as she adjusted your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of color in your cheeks wouldn’t hurt either.”

You smiled. You nodded. You adjusted. Eleanora had woken feeling unwell—no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never allow a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair.

“You’ll attend in her place,” she had said. “Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.”

So now you stood in her shadow—only without her beside you to cast it. You moved through conversation with practiced ease. Three ladies asked after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly called you by her name. You corrected him gently, no sting in your voice.

And then you excused yourself, moving toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offered a moment of quiet. You were just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifted behind you.

“Miss Everleigh.” You turned. There he was. Rafayel Vale. Alone.

Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another lady to dance with. He stood a respectful distance away, one hand loosely behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace,” you greeted calmly, offering a curtsy. “I’m surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitched. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

A pause. His eyes studied your face—not in a way that lingered, but in a way that noticed. “Your sister is not attending?”

You shook your head. “She’s unwell, my Lord. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” His voice was quiet. Smooth as ever. But beneath it—something unreadable. Again.

“I hope you don’t feel... obligated to entertain me in her absence, my Lord” you added, careful. Light.

“I don’t.” The reply came quicker than expected. Not curt. Just honest.

Your brows lifted, amused. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, my Lord?”

A pause.

“Curiosity, perhaps,” he said. Then added, almost like a confession, “...You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blinked. And then—smiled. Just a little. “I assure you, my Lord. I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Pity,” he murmured. “It’s becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because someone was calling your name—Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the edge of the terrace with that signature grin.

You turned back to the Duke. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

You curtsied again. He bowed. And you walked away—toward the man who wanted you, and away from the one who had only just started to wonder if he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex asked, offering his arm as you returned to the center of the terrace.

“It was, my Lord.” you replied, fingers brushing the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accepted.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smiled. “Polite. Curious, perhaps. But no frowning.”

He clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laughed, soft and warm, as he guided you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hung low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walked in companionable silence for a moment. Then—

“You always find me,” you said lightly.

“I always look,” he said without hesitation. That stilled you—just a fraction. Not because it was dramatic. But because it was true.

The conversation drifted easily, like it always did. He asked about your favorite lines from the bookshop. You asked about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He made you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It was easy, this thing between you. Not dull. Not predictable. But certain. And when he asked you for a dance under the stars, you said yes without thinking twice. You danced in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above. His hand was steady. His eyes never left yours.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured as you turned.

“Apologies, my Lord. I hadn’t realized.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No,” you said truthfully. “Just… present.”

He smiled at that. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke danced with another lady. He did not fumble. He did not charm. He did not smile too wide or step too close. He was composed, as always. Fulfilling his role. Bowing when required. Saying the right words. But when your laughter drifted once more across the lawn, his eyes—just for a second—turned toward the sound. And lingered.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

side note: credits for two pictures used for the banner go to their original creators.

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

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#love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel x mc #love and deep space #lnds #loveanddeepspace #qi yu #rafayel regency era #rafayel duke #regency era au

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mapofsouthdakota · 17 days ago

Text

Maps headcanons

The LADS boys -

The underwear edition

Details: 3000ish words.. What do they wear? What do they get you to wear? And most importantly… how do they gift it to you? Probably fem reader, but let’s be honest, it’s strictly just a gift. They want to see you in it. Full stop. Some adult fluff, some sexual tension and implied notinoti stuff. So 18+ I guess? And umh… yea I definitely went overboard. SORRY! But I had so much fun, I couldn’t stop myself.

❤️ Sylus

What Sylus wears:

Sylus is all sharp lines, dark elegance, and control. Underneath that crisp red-streaked suit? He’s wearing tailored, jet-black silk boxer-briefs. Luxurious. Breathable. Tactical. They’re tight enough to keep everything in place during any kind of… movement, but soft enough to feel like nothing’s there—no small feat, considering what they’re working with. No logos. Just that sleek minimalism only a man would choose if he knew exactly how handsome he was, didn’t care what anyone else thought—and never once looked at a price tag.

Sylus’s gift to you:

Oh, he’s not just buying you lingerie—he’s curating a message.

It’s a two-piece set, hand-delivered in a black velvet box—while you’re at work. No return address. Just a black wax seal with a crow pressed into the lid. Then a folded note in sharp, elegant script.

If this ends up on the floor, you better not be the one who puts it there. Don’t disappoint me, kitten. —S.

And inside:

A high-leg, sheer silk and lace thong in a crimson so deep it’s almost black—just enough opacity to leave things to the imagination, but not too much.

The matching bralette: underwire-free, soft lace, with feather-like embroidery in crimson thread—subtle nods to his own red-streaked shirt and the crow brooch he gave you. It whispers danger and intimacy at once.

But here’s the kicker—he’s had both your initials and his embroidered inside, side by side in tiny, near-invisible thread. Only you would notice. That’s his way: power in the quietest touches, like branding you without ever lifting a finger.

Scene:

You don’t even have to look out the window to know he’s watching. Heat creeps up your neck as you snap the box shut, fingers fumbling slightly. You tuck it into your drawer fast—too fast—just before anyone walks by.

Your cheeks burn. Your pulse stutters.

Later you open the velvet box in your bedroom—its crow insignia gleaming faintly under the light. It smells of something expensive and sharp—amber, burnt cedar, and a lingering metallic note… gunpowder? When you look up, Sylus is already there, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been watching the whole time. His smirk is lazy, eyes glowing faintly red.

“I thought you could use something… less modest,” he says, voice like dark wine. “Consider it… encouragement.”

You brush your fingers over the crimson mesh, the featherlike embroidery. “And this is supposed to motivate me?” You glance up at him. “Sending me underwear while I’m at work?”

He tilts his head. “Everything I do motivates you. Why should this be any different?”

You narrow your eyes. “Want me to try it on?”

His grin widens. “No. I expect you to.”

You disappear into the other room—and when you return, the change is undeniable. The set clings like a second skin: barely-there lace, delicate and daring in all the ways he clearly planned. Sylus is leaned back with his palms pressed into the mattress behind him, utterly at ease—blazer still draped over his shoulders, one brow cocked as his gaze trails down every inch of you.

You turn slowly, fingers trailing along the silk at your hip, then glance back at him with the faintest smirk. An unspoken well? hangs in the air—daring him to speak, to react, to move.

“Look at you. The gift, wrapped and worn—for the one who gifted it.” A slow smile curves his lips. “You’re lucky I let you wear it at all, kitten.”

Sylus doesn’t move—just stays there on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, one ankle resting casually over his knee. But his gaze trails down your body like a hand.

“But don’t confuse indulgence for permission,” he adds, voice velvet-dark. “I unwrap what’s mine when I decide.”

You raise a brow.

Then he stands—slowly—and stops in front of you, fingers brushing the embroidery near your hip. His touch is light, almost teasing, but his voice has gone rough. “So now I get to peel this off… piece by piece… and watch your ambitions unravel.”

His fingers slide just under the strap at your shoulder, just enough to threaten movement. “I want to see how long you can hold eye contact while I take my time with you.”

He leans in close, gaze never wavering, and drags the tip of his tongue slowly along your bottom lip.

“So don’t blink, kitten.” He murmurs, voice a low drawl. “I want to watch every second tonight.”

——————————————————————————

💜 Rafayel

What Rafayel wears:

Rafayel isn’t really one for undergarments—too restrictive, too boring. He prefers fabric that flows, not hides. On regular days—when he’s in his paint-splattered studio with a half-buttoned shirt and flushed cheeks—he wears linen boxer-briefs, soft and pale pastels. But not just any linen—this is the kind handwoven by some obscure artisan, the kind that costs more per pair than most people’s monthly utilities. They cling loosely, comfortably, with a low waistband that dips dangerously on his hips when he stretches or leans too far over a canvas.

Rafayel’s gift to you:

You don’t even know it’s for you at first. He doesn’t say it.

It’s wrapped in a long strip of sheer silk, painted by hand. The gift is neatly tucked at the base of his easel, a soft rosy color catching in the early light, with painted waves in a beautiful baby blue flowing gently across the fabric. The fabric inside feels more delicate than air:

The bottom is a high-slit silk wrap, sea-blue and iridescent, that ties at the hip with a golden clasp shaped like a wave crest. The slit goes high—deliberately high.

The top is a lace halter bralette, stitched with tiny scales in shimmering threads—blues, pinks, and deep ocean violets. When you move, the color changes like it’s underwater.

And at the center of the chest? A small pearl—real, imperfect, kissed by the sea.

There’s a faint scent of paint, sea salt and saffron on the silk. You know he touched every part of it.

Scene:

You step into the studio—sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains, the scent of paint and salt lingering in the air. Raf’s crouched in front of a half-finished canvas, brush dangling loosely from one stained hand, shirt half-off one shoulder, eyes pink-blue and distracted until he notices you.

Then he blushes. Bright. Immediate. Cheeks, ears—flushed like a sunrise.

“There’s something for you,” he mumbles, looking away as if the thought of you seeing it—wearing it—is almost too much to bear. He nods toward the silk bundle. “I… made it. Thought you’d look… divine in it.”

You crouch beside it, fingers trailing along the silk wrapping, savoring the softness before carefully unfolding it. The fabric slips open, revealing the undergarments inside—shimmering, sea-glass delicate. You glance back at him then, eyes teasing.

“Should I put it on?”

Rafayel swallows hard, brush frozen in mid-air. “Yesss. I mean, if… you want to.” His voice cracks just slightly, the tip of his ear glowing like it might catch fire.

You disappear into the adjoining room—there’s a screen for changing, of course—but you leave it just slightly ajar. When you come back out, the set clings to you like seafoam. Rafayel stares—his brush forgotten, his lips parted. For a second, the artist is speechless.

Then, finally, he says softly, reverently:

“I’m never painting anything else again.”

You’re not sure if he means for the next hour, or the rest of his life.

With a small twirl, you step closer to him. The silk shifts with every movement—light, barely there, suggestive in ways that feel like poetry and sin all at once. Rafayel’s gaze follows the curve of your hips, the embroidery over your chest, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

His paint-stained fingers twitch at his sides. “Turn around again,” he says, quieter this time. “…Please?”

You do. Slowly. The moment stretches taut between you.

When you face him again, he’s closer. Too close. His hand lifts, hovers just above your waist, not quite touching. “I wanted it to feel like water,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, lower. “But it clings like heat. Like you’re melting into it.”

He finally touches you—fingertips tracing a line along the embroidery near your ribs. His breath stutters. “I don’t know if I want to paint you or pull this off with my teeth.”

You arch a brow. “That’s quite the choice.”

Rafayel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder, his voice a husky rasp against your skin. “Why not both?”

His hips press into you, letting you feel the full weight of his desire—hard, aching, and entirely focused on you. One hand traces the edge of your halter, fingertips ghosting along the lace before he gives it a curious little poke, like he’s testing his own creation. His lips hover just above yours, breath warm, eyes soft and burning all at once.

Then, just above a whisper, he adds—“Either way… I’m going to ruin you beautifully, cutie.”

——————————————————————————

🧡 Caleb

What Caleb wears:

In casual moments—when it’s just him and you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, cooking for you—he wears comfortable cotton boxer briefs. Black, sleek, nothing flashy. He’s practical like that. But they hug him just right, sitting low on his hips, making it really hard to focus on the food. And the worst part? He knows. You’ll glance, just once, and he’ll smirk—subtly flexing one ass cheek like it’s a reflex. Just to mess with you. Just to watch you squirm.

Caleb’s gift to you:

It comes in a sleek, dark orange box. You find it on your doorstep after a long day. Tucked on top, folded with military precision, is a tiny origami fighter jet—his old model, of course. Unfolding it reveals a single line, scribbled in his handwriting:

Try it on, or I’ll just imagine it. Either way, I win.—C.

And when you open it:

A high-cut, gravity-defying black lace bodysuit. It’s sheer in all the right places, sculpted with subtle violet shimmer threading through the seams. Where the light hits it, it reflects a dull glow—almost like a nebula.

A thin, matching choker with a clasp shaped like an apple.

And one last piece: a purple silk sash. A tie. A leash. A promise of discipline wrapped in devotion, of control you never had to ask for, of just how far he’ll go to make sure you never forget who you belong to.

Yet the fabric carries just the barest trace of his cologne and… mouthwash(?)

Scene:

You confront him, of course—he left it there on purpose, knowing curiosity would get the better of you. You don’t even try to play it cool. You find him hours later, still at work on The Fleet, posture perfect, all crisp uniform and that infuriating calm. An adjutant’s just finishing a report when you step into the room. Your eyes lock on him like a missile. Caleb doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even turn. Just gives you a quiet, knowing look over his shoulder like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“What’s the meaning of this?” you ask, holding the box like evidence, like a challenge.

His gaze drags over you from across the room, slow and deliberate. He uncrosses his arms, brushes a speck of dust from his uniform—measured, precise. Like you’ve interrupted something important, but he’s willing to indulge you.

That Colonel Caleb chill lingers in his eyes… but there’s a glint now. And the faintest curve to his lips.

“You found it,” he says, stepping closer until your breath catches. “Great. I had it made. Custom stitching. Seamless where it matters.”

You narrow your eyes. “So you just decided—?”

“I don’t ‘decide,’” he cuts in smoothly. “But if you really are mine…” his voice drops, dangerously low, “…then I want to be the only one who sees you in this.”

His gloved fingers brush your cheek, then trail down to your collarbone. The heat between you crackles like static in space.

Behind you, the adjutant clears their throat—once. A warning. A presence. Caleb doesn’t even glance their way.

“That’ll be all,” he says, voice low and firm, the kind that doesn’t invite questions. The door hisses shut behind you a moment later.

Then it’s just you. Him. And that charged space between.

“Put it on for me, Pip-squeak.”

It’s not a request. But it’s not entirely a command, either. He’s looking at you like you could refuse—but he knows you won’t.

Caleb shrugs off his coat with practiced ease, draping it over the back of the chair before pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. He sinks into the seat in a single, fluid motion—then reaches up to loosen his tie, just enough to breathe. His legs spread, posture easy, but there’s nothing casual about the way he watches you.

You turn your back to him as you undress, the room quiet except for the subtle shift of fabric. The black bodysuit slides on smoothly, the silk sash tied loosely at your waist. The lace hugs your curves perfectly.

Caleb leans forward, forearms on knees, purple eyes trailing down your form like a scan. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“Turn around.”

You do, slowly, and when you face him, he’s already rising. He closes the distance in measured strides, hands sliding to your waist, voice low and tight.

He leans in. “You know,” he murmurs against your neck, “I wish I could deploy you in this. No one would dare touch you.”

You smirk. “Jealous, Colonel?”

“Obsessed,” he corrects, voice like a velvet threat. “And completely serious.”

You feel his lips graze your shoulder—soft, then firm. And then—his teeth sink in, just enough to make you gasp. Not to hurt. Just to remind you: you’re his.

“Do you know what I thought about every night when I designed this?”

You breathe out. “What?”

His fingers curl into the sash at your hip. “How fast I could undo it.”

Then he lifts you like it’s nothing, pressing you back against the console with stars spinning behind you—his mouth already trailing down your neck as the fabric slips from your skin. But you don’t see stars—you feel them crash.

Then, without missing a beat, the corners of his mouth curve—just slightly, just enough. “I’m betting it’ll take me ten seconds to undress you… if I take my time.”

——————————————————————————

🩵 Zayne

What Zayne wears:

Zayne is nothing if not understated excellence. Beneath his pristine three-piece suits? Charcoal-gray modal boxer briefs. Soft, breathable, structured—he’d never wear anything flashy or inconvenient. But they fit like they were measured for him, contoured to sit low on his hips beneath that crisp dress shirt. And if you ever catch him with the shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, forearms scarred and strong? The contrast of clean fabric and rough skin does things to you.

Zayne’s gift to you:

He doesn’t take you shopping. He doesn’t even mention he’s getting you something. It just… appears, neatly folded in a soft satin box inside your closet. Next to it, a small handwritten note in steady script:

The fabric’s hypoallergenic. I know how your skin reacts to lace. I hope the fit is precise—I took the liberty of measuring while you were asleep. —Zayne.

And on the inside:

A silk slip dress, cut short and minimal, in deep forest green with thin black straps that crisscross at the back. The inside is lined with cotton—soft, breathable. So Zayne.

A matching bra and panty set—subtle scalloped trim, no underwire, no push-up. Just comfort and beauty in quiet balance. He knows how to make you feel exquisite without shouting it.

And tucked in one of the folds? A thin bracelet. Jade.

Scene:

He doesn’t even bring it up at first. You only find it after he leaves for a night shift.

The next evening, you bring it up with a wry smile. “So… were you going to mention the intimate gift hiding in my closet, or were you just hoping I’d trip over it?”

Zayne blinks once behind his glasses, setting down his mug of cocoa.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says simply. “But I also didn’t want anyone else buying you something that didn’t… suit you.” His gaze drops, lingering on your wrist where you’ve already put on the jade bracelet. “So I took care of it.”

You arch a brow. “Do you want to see it on me?”

His eyes flick up, expression unreadable—but there’s a faint flush climbing up his throat. “That depends.”

“On?”

“If you want me to take it off you too.”

And there it is. The Zayne smirk—so faint, you almost miss it. Almost.

You step into the bedroom after a hot shower, damp hair over your shoulders, body wrapped in the green silk slip. It molds to you, effortless and cool. The straps kiss your shoulder blades, the hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

Zayne is seated at the edge of the bed, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows—relaxed in theory, but his eyes are anything but. Behind the silver glint of his glasses, hazel green irises rake over you slowly. Intently. Like you’re a case study he’s about to personally explore.

“You wore it,” he says, voice steady, but lower now. Tight.

“I did,” you reply, stepping closer, letting the silk sway just enough to tempt. “Are you going to examine it?”

He doesn’t answer—not with words. He pulls off his glasses and sets them aside with exacting precision, then leans forward and tugs you between his knees. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers splaying over silk and skin.

“I’m not your physician right now,” he exhales, his mouth brushing your sternum, “but I still know how to handle delicate things.”

You inhale sharply, and he shifts the slip aside—just a little—enough to make your heart race.

His lips brush the inside of your wrist—soft at first, then slower. He drags his mouth down to the base of your palm, then lets his tongue trace the curve of your finger, you like you’re his favorite candy—something rare, rich, and entirely his.

“…You realize,” he says against your skin, “you’re never wearing this for anyone else.”

You breathe out, quiet, shivering. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

And the way he says that one word, low and clinical and full of heat? It feels like you’re about to be unraveled—one practiced touch at a time.

“I’ve studied anatomy,” he murmurs, gaze unwavering, “but I’ve never wanted to memorize someone like this.”

You tilt your head, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “So what now, doctor Zayne? Want me to act like your study sample?”

His eyes flick down your body, then back up—calm, absolutely smoldering. “Mm. Slow breaths for me, please,” he says softly. “I want to feel every shift under my hands.”

——————————————————————————

🩷 Xavier

What Xavier wears:

For all his ethereal calm and delicate looks, Xavier’s body is not soft. He’s lithe, compact, and stronger than he looks—and his undergarments reflect that contradiction. Sleek. Supportive. Understated. He wears fitted low-rise boxer briefs in pale gray or lavender. Soft, seamless, breathable—so easy to move in you almost forget they’re there. And while size has never been the point, there’s no denying the quiet truth: he’s big. The waistband is low enough that when his sweater rides up while he’s napping on the couch? You catch the edge, just barely. (And no, he’s not unaware. He’s just pretending he is.)

Xavier’s gift to you:

You don’t even realize it’s a gift at first.

You find a small folded bundle on your pillow—no tag, no note, but it smells faintly of that tangy-sweet, citrusy energy drink he drinks… laced with the subtle warmth of vanilla that always seems to linger on his skin. The fabric is impossibly soft. Dreamlike.

A silk cami set, sleeveless, light violet with silvery sheen. The camisole is loose, with barely-there straps and delicate lace at the hem. It looks like starlight.

The shorts are sheer, fluttery, with a ribbon drawstring. If you move too quickly, they shift… dangerously.

There’s a tiny embroidered constellation stitched near the hem.

You realize later that the embroidery thread is pale gold. Subtle. Like he wants you to wear the stars for him.

Scene:

You ask him about it later, holding the fabric between your fingers—right after sharing a burnt pizza he insisted he had under control (he did not).

“Did you leave this on my bed?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you with that quiet intensity, like he’s still trying to figure out how you got past his walls with nothing but laughter and melted cheese. He tilts his head slightly.

“I thought you might sleep better with it on,” he says softly. “Or off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a suggestion?”

“No,” he replies, gaze dragging slowly down your figure. “It’s a preference.”

He steps closer, fingers brushing yours as he takes the fabric back from your hand—just long enough to skim his knuckles over your palm before he returns it. His voice drops a note lower.

“Will you wear it tonight?”

You swallow, pulse jumping.

“I might.”

He smiles—barely. But it’s real. “I’ll be upstairs if you need help taking it off.”

Later, when the lights are low and the house is quiet, your phone buzzes.

XAVIER: Did you end up trying it on?

You hesitate, then type:

YOU: Maybe.

There’s a long pause. Then:

XAVIER: Then I hope you’re not expecting sleep.

You stare at the screen, heart skipping.

YOU: Good night, Xav.

Another pause.

XAVIER: Good night… Don’t lock your door.

You wake to find Xavier standing in your doorway—messy silvery-blond hair, expression unreadable, sleep still tugging at his lashes. You’re wearing the silk cami set, curled under your blanket. He blinks once, slowly, as if committing the image to memory.

“…Door was unlocked,” he murmurs. “You sleep too lightly.”

“I sleep just fine,” you say, voice husky, watching his eyes flick down the curve of your thigh where the blanket’s slipped. “So why are you here?”

He walks in, slow and barefoot. “I was thinking about you.”

“And?”

His fingers brush the ribbon of your waistband, tugging lightly—just once, enough to let the silk shift against your skin. “And I wanted to see if you look better in… or out of it.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring long enough to know.”

His eyes drag up your body with excruciating calm, but there’s something darker flickering beneath the stillness. He leans down, brushing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then just beneath your jaw—lingering there.

“I’m thorough. Still deciding,” he murmurs, breath warm and slow, thick with something you feel more than hear.

He undresses with quiet efficiency, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, folding it once before setting it aside, then slipping out of the pants with the same composed ease—until he’s left in nothing but his underwear.

Then he slides under the covers, pulls you into his chest, and whispers against your ear,

“You can keep yours on—for now.”

But his hand is already resting low on your waist, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your top, like he’s giving himself permission to explore later—inch by inch, breath by breath.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and guides it along the plane of his chest, down the firm line of his stomach—slow, careful, like he wants you to feel how hard it is for him to stay gentle.

And just when your fingertips brush the edge of his waistband—he leans in, voice low and rough with need.

“This is me… trying to be good for you.”

Your fingertips slip just beneath the waistband, barely testing the edge of skin. His breath catches, and for a moment he doesn’t move. Then his hand wraps gently around your wrist—not to stop you, just to feel you there.

His voice drops. “But if you keep doing that… I won’t be good much longer.”

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: YE. I’m sorry. Nobody asked for this. I spent my Saturday night writing 3k words of underwear headcanon and then gave it the gentlest proofread over my Sunday morning coffee like that somehow made it respectable. Totally normal, balanced behavior. I’m thriving. Unhinged, yes—but thriving. Should I be finishing the Bear AU pilot? Absolutely. Am I derailed by one intrusive thought? Also yes. But! I will finish the pilot this week. Prrroooomise. I should touch grass… but let’s be real, that’s what triggered this spiral in the first place. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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eddiesxangel · 3 months ago

Text

Your Touch is my Scripture | Emperor Geta

Cw: ancient times (not 100% historically accurate pls don’t come for me) canon adjacent, darker themes, slavery, angst, smut, fluff, f!concubine!reader, reader is referred to as whore, oral, unprotected p in v (it’s like 211 AD duh)

5.5k words

The sun was bright, high in the sky, telling you it was about mid-day. Your robes were expensive, worth more than anything you have ever worn in the past. But you were at the Palace now. No longer would you need to endure tattered, rough, earth-coloured cloth. Now you get to enjoy the riches of luxurious silks of reds and purples and fine linens etched in gold embroidery.

A gold headpiece was pinned to your hair, curled and oiled for you. You got to be bathed in luxurious perfumes. Your face was pained and your lips reddened, your eyes lined with the dark kajal eyeliner you would not have recognized yourself if you had access to a mirror.

Yesterday, you were all but a present girl selling yourself on the street. How you fell into this situation was beyond your comprehension.

While you were scrounging for food, you spotted the royal carriage but paid no mind. That was until a guard came up to you and instructed you to come with him.

You were terrified, had they been here to arrest you? To sentence you for being a street rat?

You were looking around confused but see that from the carriage the emperors were gazing at you- Caracalla with a smug look on his face and Geta with a look of hunger.

You shiver at the memory, the way his deep brown eyes held your attention, his controlled gaze only broke once the carriage started moving once again.

You were instructed that you’ve been summoned by the Emperor, they didn’t specify which one but you had a hunch as that haunting look in his eyes never swayed.

You were brought to a council room, where many men of status, including the Emperors, sat in a semi-circle… what for, you didn’t know… but you would soon find out.

You waited until the Emperors were finished their conversation and you were led to them by the same soldier who plucked you off the street yesterday.

“Do not speak unless spoken to” he had instructed you a few moments ago…

“Ah yes, I’ve been waiting for you.” Geta couldn’t help but look you up and down.

To him, you had been perfect. He stopped the carriage immediately upon the very sight of you. He needed to have you, whore or not he would make you his.

When your eyes met, your breath hitched, stuck in your throat. He was beautiful, alluring, and yet- terrifying. You could feel the automatic pull to be near him, do whatever he wished. That is what you were here for, to be his newest toy.

You felt like you didn't have much of a choice when it was explained to you why you had been summoned to the place.

“You will serve his majesty however he pleases. You will have a roof over your head and food in your belly.” The soldier explained.

You hadn’t been whoring for long, but anything would be better than going hungry in the streets. You longed for food, your hunger took over any rational thinking and you agreed without taking more time to think about what you signed up for.

You had been shown the servant quarters, that’s where you met the other girls. There were five of them in the room when you entered, all equally beautiful. How you fell into this group was a mystery.

“Your Majesties” you curtsy, bowing your head. You’re very aware of the little coverage, the white sheer fabric, draped across your chest, leaving little to the imagination.

You’re the only woman in the room that you can see and the men were very aware of your presence, but you were for the Emperors alone.

“Even her voice is like honey” Caracalla muses.

“Yes, brother, a marvel, isn’t she?” Geta’s eyes sparkled as he examined you.

“What do we call you?”

“Whatever would please you, your Majesty.” You knew that was the correct answer when a knowing smirk spread across Caracalla’s face. A shriek of a laugh fills the room and others join to appease the rulers. Their power was clear. They commanded the room.

“Come, sit”

You were led to a throne and your eyes grew wide, no way he could expect you to sit there.

You look to Emperor Geta and he sits down and pats his thigh, beckoning you to sit down. With a sigh of relief but still a bit of unease seeing as though you just met him, you turn to place your bottom on his thigh.

The day was filled with excitement as two gladiators had been the source of entertainment. The shock and awe of the fight had Geta grabbing at you at each brutal hit. The way his fingers dug into your soft skin, how his grip tightened on your thigh had you squirming on the inside. Your calm and cool demeanour was all an act. He pulled you in closer; you draped your arm around his shoulder as you became more comfortable. His touch had been electric, his hand ran up your thigh if he went any higher, he would feel your arousal, praying it hadn't already seeped through your linens.

“Remarkable!” Geta praised the young warrior. His enthusiasm was contagious, as was his eccentric brothers. It was electrifying to be near that kind of energy for once. This new world was overwhelming but you liked being close to Geta.

After his conversation, he turns back to you. “Come,” he says with a smile, guiding you up the winding staircase to what you assume to be his quarters.

Once entered, he can no longer contain himself; he finds himself reaching his hands to your hips, pulling you in. He meant to offer you wine, but he couldn’t resist. You smelled of lilies and berries; he needed to taste you.

His kiss was rough but needy. He tasted of wine; you could have gotten drunk off of his tongue alone.

His hands slid down to your ass, and he gripped and massaged it, making you moan, forgetting this wasn't supposed to be about you.

“You’re going to be my good little pet aren’t you.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Get on your knees,” He pinched your bottom. “But first, discard your robes.”

The look in his red-rimmed eyes was sinister, as you obeyed the look deepened. Nothing could keep you from disobeying him, his command over you was all too powerful. This monster of a man was your commander, your Lord, and your life source.

“Perfect, utterly perfect.” He praised you as you knelt for him like a god.

His cock was hard already, and you hadn’t even touched him yet. You could feel through his robes he was thick, probably the biggest you have yet in encounter. His robes were discarded, and before you stood the most powerful man in the world, who ruled and owned so much land it was too much to comprehend.

He was greedy, so greedy and all you wanted was to give him everything.

You lean in and kiss the tip of his leaking cock.

“Yes, worship me” he grips your hair tightly.

You take more of him in your mouth and swallow down your gag. More and more you fit him down your throat until you can’t breathe.

A low curse leaves the Emperor’s mouth as you pull back.

“You’re a dirty little whore aren’t you”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He scolds.

“Yes, my Lord”

“Better. Now get on the bed”

He smacks your ass as you pass him and it makes you squeak out a giggle.

The sound of your laugh startles Geta, it makes his heart flutter and he isn’t sure what to make of it. He shoves the feeling down, deep down. Ignoring it.

“How do you want me, my Lord?” You stand before him, in front of the lush bed.

“Worship me” he looks down upon your naked body, nothing about him in this moment was human. It was all pure primal need that flowed through his veins.

“Lay down for me, my Lord.” You smirk and he listens.

You crawl over him, your hands roaming his alabaster skin as you glide your slick core over his reddened hard cock. Over and over you glide on him until you decide to let him slide into you with ease. You were right. Your pussy has never been stretched out this much. Luckily the hours of teasing was enough to have him stretch you out with little pain.

Geta loved the way your jaw went slack when he stretched you out. His face said it all as you looks down at him. A smile spreads across both of your faces when you start to move.

“Fuck, yes” he sighs.

Never had a woman made him feel this good this early on. He’d been inside of you a whole of 10 seconds and he’s already ready to blow his load.

“Sorceress” he curses you, accuses, you. Your cunt was otherworldly- magical.

You could feel the familiar tension building, forgotten was your duty to the man beneath you.

“I’m going to cum” you whisper under your breath as your hips rock on His Majesty.

It almost slipped past the Emperor’s attention, but you say it once more, only a little bit louder this time, as your pussy clenched.

“Stop!” Geta demands. However, you’re too lost in the feeling that you don’t hear the command.

“Stop at once!” The emperor pushes you off of him. He doesn’t understand what you just did, he’s never had that feeling while in a woman. It scared him, he was bewitched by you. You were a temptress, an enchantress, a Cantatrix.

“Your majesty, did I do something wrong?” You were more terrified than confused. The other girls had warned you about his moods.

“Get out!” The veins in his neck bulged out, his face reddened with rage.

You don’t argue, you don’t say another word. You pick your garment off the floor, put it on and silently walk towards the door trying to hold your head high.

“And send in Fauna instead” he spat.

You turn around quickly, not wanting to the the hurt slip from your eyes. You don’t look at him.

“Yes, my Lord.” You curtsy with your head down. Shame filled you and you tried not to sob as you ran down the empty halls.

Once you reached your quarters you shook Fauna awake and begrudgingly told her she was up. She looked at you confused but quickly patted down her long thick black curls and made her way to him.

You didn’t understand where or what went wrong. You thought you had a connection, chemistry. Your mind was clouded, he had felt so good beneath you, and you couldn’t understand why he pushed you off. He hadn’t said anything- he was enjoying himself, you were enjoying yourself. So where had you gone wrong?

Weeks passed and Geta hadn’t sent for you, nor Caracalla. You were getting worried you’d be kicked out into the street. Why house and feed a whore when she’s of no use to you? You had little to no money. All you had left was the gold ring that belonged to your father, and you were not about to give that up if you got kicked out into the streets.

Your name being called startled you, and you were lost in thought, braiding Aurelia’s hair. You stand up immediately.

“Ouch!” You hear her and giggle a sorry before one of the emperor’s guards escorts you.

Thrill filled your veins at first, but then dread quickly followed. Worry and anxiety seeped through your veins as you made your way down the corridors.

The walk down the torch-lit hallway is quiet, only the echoes of your barefoot steps can be heard bouncing off the walls.

The guard pounds on the door three times you flinch at how loud it is.

A muffled “Enter” is said aloud, you look to the guard he gives you a taut nod before he turns to get into position for the evening.

With a quick sigh, you hesitantly open the door.

“Disrobe.” He didn’t bother to look at you.

He was standing in the corner of the bed chamber by his wall of scrolls. Floor-to-ceiling rows upon rows of papyrus filled with stories you could only imagine. What you would give to be taught how to read?

Clearly what is written is more interesting to him than to you. You try not to feel offended as his eyes don’t stray from the page. You need to show him you’re worth keeping. That you are worth wanting.

You cannot help yourself but want to please him. You will get past this silly little obsession you’ve created, and get over how much you want him to notice you. You’re a whore. Nothing more will ever come from this.

You obey his instructions, and your body shivers as the cool breeze of the midnight air kisses your skin. Your nipples can’t help but perk, but you’re not sure if that is due to the sudden loss of warmth or the way His Majesty is looking at you. Those eyes, his deep cinnamon eyes gaze into you like he is the lion and you are his prey.

“Come here, Sorceress.”

Your heart races and you slowly step towards the Emperor.

“You seem nervous” his voice is calm, yet assertive.

“I don’t want to fail you this time, my Lord” You bow your head and your long wavy hair falls with it, covering most of your body,

“What you said last time” he clears his throat, “you are wrong.”

“Apologies, my Lord, I know not which you are addressing?” You look back up.

“Women do not orgasm. They cannot, it is not in their nature. Where you heard of these lies is unbeknownst to me. You were giving the wrong information.” He said matter of factly.

Your stomach swirled as his eyes didn’t break contact with yours. That is why you were thrown out like a piece of trash? Why for weeks you’ve been trying to see what it was you did?! Because you said you were going to cum?

You didn’t know what to do. Your internal battle was clear on your face as you debated if picking this battle was worth it. You could show him a new world or he could kick you out immediately, once again.

“Spit it out then.”

“I-I am sorry, my Lord. It will not happen again. My intent was not to deceive you.” You lower your hard once more like a scolded puppy, knowing that the one perk of this gig will never be fulfilled.

“Good girl, now get on the bed.”

The night went as you expected. You were brought to your knees at first, then you were upon his lap, just like last time. Only this time you kept your mouth shut.

It was hard, so hard to not cum for this man. How could he not understand women also could orgasm? Had none of the other girls? And if not, why has none of the other girls shown him? You don’t understand, but you will not bring it up. You want to be good for him. You need to stay here in the palace.

Your eyes burned with tears as you tried to get him off before you accidentally did. You had to before you cried out in pleasure…the pleasure you so desperately want for him to know that he is giving to you- that he will not let you have. You want to cry out how he is the one who makes you feel this good. How it is his cock that hit all of the right places. You fight the urge to play with yourself as you ride your Emperor.

“Come for me, my Lord.” You test the waters.

This seems to be okay, he smiles at you for the first time since the first day you met.

His beautiful face relaxed as he released himself within you, pinning you to him as the euphoria washes over his whole body. You’re dismissed immediately after, as expected.

Day and night, he calls for you, and only you. All hours, most hours you are with him. Weeks passed, and the other girls were becoming snippy with you, to which you didn’t know why- it’s not like they would be getting off with him as they did with each other. They all served Caracalla between them. They got a break; they got to share.

However, it was you and him, alone for hours. You don’t know how you would feel if he didn’t ask for you. Hurt and jealous, most likely. You were bonded to him. Wanting to please him but not being able to please yourself or what you wanted, for him to please you, it was torture, night after night, going to him. Pleasing him and knowing your silly feelings would never be reciprocated. He showed no compassion, he would fuck you either in your cunt or your ass. Depending on his mood sometimes both, yet, you can’t shake this desire you feel when you think about him. When you’re accompanying him in the day when you lay with him at night. Some days, he would have you in his bed for hours before he got up and went to work, others he would have your draped around him while holding council.

You were consumed, borderline obsessed, but how could you not be when he was your only source of company?

As expected, you had been summoned after supper. When you arrived, you sensed that something was different.

Geta didn’t say a word as you greeted him-he didn’t command you to strip, but you know the routine so you disrobe and approach his Majesty.

His back is turned to you but this doesn’t stop you from leaning up to kiss his neck. To touch him, to praise him.

"How will you have me tonight my Lord?"

His stiff body didn’t move, he didn’t make a sound until you made your way to face him and you gasped. Pulling away you could see the look on his face was pure anger. This is what the girls had warned you about all those months ago.

“I must apologize.”

That was not what you had expected. You didn’t say a word as you let him explain.

“I was having a chat with Macrinus, and he informed me that you were right all along. But I still don’t believe you…or him.”

“My lord, I do not follow?” You whisper, scared he will lash out.

“Come.”

You take a step towards him, not wanting to upset him.

“No, I mean, cum for me.”

Your breath hitched, eyes going wide. This was not what you had expected.

“My, Lord.” you gasp.

“Show me, teach me.” His voice became gentle, you would say almost venerable if you hadn’t known any better. “Please.”

“Y-yes, your Majesty.” You take his hand and lead him to the bed.

You lay down in front of him, and he leans down to kiss you. You have kissed him before but something about this time feels different, like the feeling is being reciprocated. His body slowly mimics the routine that you do to him night after night. His makes his way down your neck, you’re scared to make a noise for him. But the feeling of his plump lips has you slithering out of your skin to react.

“Is it not good?” He pops up, genuinely concerned.

“Yes my Lord, it’s very good” you reassured him.

“But- but you’re not reacting.”

“I didn’t think-“

“No!” He bellowed but realized his mistake when you flinched away from him.

“Please do,” he said much softer…like he wanted to do a good job for you.

You silently nod your head and he continues from where he left off.

His lips glide over your burning skin, a soft moan leaves your lips and you feel him smile like he’s won.

Sex for Geta is always about him, that is how it should be. That was how it was taught to him. ‘The man’s pleasure is how life is created,’ he remembers his father telling him. Nothing was ever mentioned about how the woman was to feel during it. So night after night, years of silent fucking and only thinking about himself, this new territory was exciting.

When you moaned it set off something in Geta’s head, he wanted more. Needed more.

He brought his mouth to your perked nipple, and you arched yourself into his touch. The feeling of his tongue rolling around your sensitive bud sent waves through your body down to your dripping core.

The smallest of touches from him made your head spin as you had hardly gotten them in the past. Having the Emperor touch you like this had you reeling for his touch.

A long drawn-out moan left your lips as his teeth scrapped at your perked breast.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” He murmured into your hot skin.

“Yes. Very much” you sigh.

“Good…now-um- what should I do?” His venerability, slipping.

“Touch me” you take his hand to your clit. “Here”

“My god, you’re soaked.”

“Yes”

“Just form that little-?”

“Please” you begged. No more questions, you needed him to pleasure you.

You move his fingers on your clit in circular motions until he gets the tempo. Your hips are moving with his hands, telling him he’s doing a good job.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes- now add a finger or two, inside”

Geta slipped his fingers inside but didn’t stop circling your sensitive clit.

You were so close, he could sense it, he felt your walls contract against his fingers like they did the first time you two fucked, but this time he didn’t pull away.

“I can feel you, Sorceress.”

“I’m so close, don’t stop, you’re perfect”

Geta’s heart fluttered at your praises, only this time he doesn’t swallow down the feeling.

“I will never stop pleasing you, that’s all I want, is to please you.”

How could this be? He is the emperor, you are nothing, a concubine who’s tricked this being into falling for you. He tricked you along the way as well.

“Geta” you let slip, and he doesn’t even reprimand you because in that moment is the most beautiful sight beneath him.

His hands were like magic, how dare he be holding this back from you this whole time.

Your orgasm rippled through you. Weeks of denied pleasure bursting from your womb making your body shake and your throat cry out.

Nothing has ever felt so good.

A soft giggle passes as you come down from your high and Geta gazes at you in shock and wonder.

“My little entrance. Cantatrix” he leans down to observe your pussy. It was wetter than he thought possible and the smell, he was addicted. He can’t help himself but bury his nose in you for more. He lets his eyes roll back with a grotesque moan. He needs to taste you.

“Yes, I’m yours. Only yours.”

You both knew what that meant. The countless nights of sex, the endless glances when he holds council, the silent communication, the hours he kept you in his chambers. The way he hates to be away from you, how he needs you by his side through the day even if he knows he can’t have you he wants you.

You both know that he can’t bring himself to ask for another girl.

It’s all understood by your words and that terrifies him, but the urge to please you is so much greater than his fear.

“I must have you” he kisses your pussy deep and passionately. His tongue explored your sopping cunt, the taste of you will be burned onto his tongue.

You can’t help but roll your hips into Geta’s tongue. Grinding on his face, your hands run through is hair, tuggin the roots. A soft moan leaves your lips and Geta can’t get enough of you.

“Take me” you plead.

Deeper he pushes his tongue into your cunt he can taste your cum coat his tongue. How he had been so wrong for so long. Not knowing the taste of a woman pleasure could be so addicting.

You can’t help pulling his face into your core. His nose brushes your clit over and over as you ride his face.

“Take me, take me” you release your grip and he pulls away. Your slick covers his lips and chin, but he leaves it so your sent is coated on him, his sinister smile shines towards you.

He grabs his thick cock and aligns with you. Never had Geta gone with long without being touch before sex, he had to hold himself back from plunging into you. He knows his size, and he doesn’t want to hurt you.

You open your legs wider so he can ease his way into you. Geta watches as his cock ploughs into you. Over and over you chant his name like a prayer. He watches you breast bounce with each thrust, and now he thinks he’s discovered his new favourite position with you. Out of all the months you’ve spent tangled up together, never have you been on your back for him. Why? He is not sure because his cock is burred so deep.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he thrusts himself into you. The weight of his body on top of your makes you feel that much more connected.

“Tell me, Cantatrix, who you belong to?”

“You, my Lord, only you.”

His hips worked into your cunt with such intention, needing to feel your pussy cum onto him.

Nobody had ever made you feel like this, and nobody else ever would.

“Come for me again!” Geta begs, his voice is so desperate and needy, as he thrusts into you. Your hands are planted on his ass guiding his hips into you as your bodies roll into each other as one. He was your saving grace, your lover, and the unspoken little bit more.

You can’t help but moan with your head thrown back arching your breasts into him. The sweet sounds coming from his lips are what you silently plead for. You feel every finger he places on you. His hands planted themselves upon your hips. Moving your body so effortlessly that he can’t help but beg. He needs to feel you come for him. To know that he’s the only one who can make you feel so much euphoria that he never knew existed before. You were the woman that broke the curse for him, the woman that he rescued in the streets, his collection, his prize. You owe everything to him, and he will take what is his. You are his.

“Cum for me, I demand it. As your Lord, your Emperor. Cum” he grits through his teeth, holding back his pleasure.

Your body can’t take the build-up any longer, you listen to him, and you release all that’s within you. Your second orgasm is just as strong as the first one. His words and his commands are what pushed you over the edge. You will give him everything he wants of you.

The feeling of your cunt squeezing his cock like a vice has Geta cuming seconds after you. Never had he thought a pussy could feel more pleasurable, more perfect than yours in that moment.

Geta and you both had been so worn out of the night’s events he didn’t ask you to leave, he offered you some wine and with a bright smile on your face you accepted. You got up to stand, but you were greatly surprised when he insisted he be the one to serve you.

You talked for hours after, about your childhood, how your father was a soldier in the conquest of the empire, and how he had been killed 3 years prior. Your mother tried her best but she fell ill a year ago and it took her quickly thereafter. You had been selling yourself since then.

Geta told you about his life as well. He spoke to you as if you’ve been friends for years. It was as if the veil had fallen between you. No longer was he this intimidating mountain of a man. He was Geta, a young man who has the world at his fingertips, and the responsibility you wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

You fall asleep in the wee hours of the night wrapped around one another, you never slept better.

You woke before him, you didn’t want to ruin the magic of what last night brought so you snuck out and back to your quarters before he awoke.

Geta was disappointed when he saw you were not sleeping next to him, but he was too busy with the day’s events at the Colosseum to dwell on it any longer. He must get ready.

It was pretty early in the day, the games were supposed to run late, so you had time for yourself for a little while. The girls were still giving you a cold shoulder so you kept to yourself.

Your name is called, “You’re being summoned.”

You know better than to ask questions. You collect yourself and walk the corridors with the guard. You know the route by heart however your stomach turns when you try a left instead of a right.

“May I ask who has called upon me?”

“The Emperor.”

A sigh of relief exists in your lungs. Maybe he is in another room you’ve not been privy to.

The guard leaves you at the door when you knock to enter.

“Come in” The voice was not who you were expecting.

Your eyes widen only for a slight second with shock before you collect yourself.

“Your Majesty” you bow your head to Caracalla.

“My my, you are truly magnificent. No wonder my brother has been hogging you.” He smiled.

“I am flattered, your Majesty.” Your voice shaky.

“Shall we” he motions to the bed and you try and fake your way through this while your stomach is in knots.

“May I ask you one thing before we begin?”

“Of course” he nods his head.

“Why are you back so soon? I imagined the games would still be going on at this time?”

“There was an incident with roge arrows”

“I hope everyone is all right.”

“Not to fret, now I get to spend more time with you.”

“Quite right, your Majesty.” You agree.

And so you began.

Geta was in his room when he heard a knock on the door. He was waiting for the guard to bring you. He needed to blow off some steam from the assassination attempt on him and his brother today.

“Apologies, your Majesty, she was not there.” The soldier regretfully informed.

“What do you mean she was not there? Where is she?”

“With Emperor Caracalla, my Lord.” The guard regretting to be the one to inform his Highness.

“Like hell she is!” Geta bellowed.

The Emperor pushed past his loyal guard and stormed through the corridors of the palace.

You were draped over Caracalla’s lap, bouncing on his cock when the doors swung open with a bang and scared you half to death.

“Get off of him at once!”

You froze, not knowing what to do. The two brothers had equal power over you, so who did you obey?

“Brother!” Geta bellowed out.

“My my brother, what is the matter, I am only enjoying what has yet to be promised to me.” Caracalla sits up into his elbows

“She is mine.” Geta physically pics you up off of his brother and tosses you to the side so hard you can’t find your footing.

“Brother, what has gotten into you? You act as if she is your betrothed.”

“I- I …” Geta had no answer as to why you made him act the way you did. Only that he feels everything for you but is not sure how to control these feelings deep within.

“I think I understand bother… but you and I both know that can never happen.”

“You speak of buffoonery.”

“But is it? Otherwise, why would you interrupt us the first time she is taken from you?” Caracalla was no fool, and he knew his brother better than anyone else. “I will not touch her again if that is what you desire, brother.”

“It is,” Geta growled.

“Very well, I shall call upon Julietta instead.” He shrugged.

Geta turned to you finally, and you hoped he would take you to his chambers.

“Come.” He was curt, and you followed silently.

He was still seething by the time you reached his quarters, but it wasn’t until you were in utter privacy he began his scolding.

“How dare you lie with him!”

“My, Lord-“

“That’s right! I am your Lord. I am your master and you will only serve me!” His face redden.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“What is it you wish for me to profess, my Lord?”

“You left me this morning. You didn’t even leave a note.”

“I couldn’t,” you said shamefully.

“Oh right, you’re just some uneducated present girl I plucked off the streets.” he scoffs.

“You’re right!” you scream, and Geta is taken aback. Never have you spoken to him with such power. “That is what I am! I don’t know what more you want from me?! I have given you everything! All of the parts of me! My wounds, my pain, my suffering, my love, my affection, my ass, my womb!” You cradle the small bump.

How had he not seen? Hint noticed? Had he not understood you have been with him every night and not been through your courses yet? You’ve been here for months, and not once have you bled.

Geta looks down to where your hands are pressed against your stomach and back up into your eyes.

“Is it true?” Instantly his demeanour flipped. It only takes him three large strides to face you to place his hand atop yours.

“My cycle has yet to come since I have been here.”

You watched as Geta did the math in his head until a look of shock then glee spread across his face.

“How far along?” he cradles you in his arms.

“Three or four months,” you suspect.

“Remarkable” he whispers. “utterly remarkable.” He takes you into a lustful kiss. “Now you are a part of me forever.”

“Is that what you desire?” You fight back the tears.

“It is, my Cantatrix. I have yet to find the words, but you are my light in this dark heart of mine.”

“Geta…” you test the waters.

“Only once I have heard you sing my name, and it is more beautiful than the last” He picks you up and carries you to the bed.

“I…”

“Tell me.” His brows furrow with worry.

“I think I love you.” You peer up at him through your lashes.

Your heart feels like it's going to burst from your chest it is beating so fast that it must not be good for the baby.

You’re a fool to admit such emotions. You want to take it back; you must take it back your thoughts are cut off when Geta’s lips meet yours.

He might not be able to say it out loud. However, this kiss tells you everything. You’re his everything.

If things were different, he knows he would make you his Empress, he yearns to have you rule by his side, but you can give him the next best thing.

A child. His first child, whom he will cherish and adore, even if they will be of the lower class, he does not care.

“Tell me you are mine,” Geta hums into your skin, his hands groping at every inch of you.

“I am yours, my Lord.”

“Geta” He sighs into the kiss. “I am your, Geta.”

“My, Geta?”

“Yes, Cantatrix, your Geta.”

Tag list: @3rd-conchord @everandforeveryours @minamoomoo @gothicloverdream @hippiegoth97

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marzipanandminutiae · 5 months ago

Note

I hate how doing any kind of yarn craft basically means you can only produce plastic clothes or it's going to be 300$ in yarn minimum. Every yarn has some acrylic and the natural stuff is so wildly expensive. I would love to use 100% natural fibers but the options are limited

God, yeah. The price of natural-fiber materials is insane.

My average budget for like a full silk gown, trim and notions included, is around $200- and that's ONLY because I live near a discount fabric store that gets bolt-ends from big fashion houses and sells silk for like $10/yard. Wool is insane, for some reason- that place only has coating (heavyweight) and suiting (lighter but feels like plastic even though it's not), so making a dress or anything not outerwear from wool involves shopping online and some painful spending.

I just bought 6 yards of wool to make my Dream Dressing-Gown. It was $210 for JUST the wool- I still have to get lining fabric, possibly an embroidery machine pattern, embroidery thread (because my friend who's generously letting me use her machine only has polyester and rayon). Part of that was shipping from freaking Poland because finding a website that has non-stretch, dark green wool at any weight below "snow gear" in the States is nigh impossible.

(Or that actually discloses the weight in a meaningful way; that's another problem I've encountered. "Brushed wool!" Great, but how heavy is it? "It's wool!" Not helpful. It's like they can't fathom wanting to use wool for anything besides heavy outerwear. Which they probably can't, because that's all we're accustomed to seeing it as nowadays.)

Like I'm tempted to blame militant v*gans for the inaccessibility of silk and wool, but honestly, capitalism was probably just waiting for the excuse to turn all our clothes to crap. I doubt there's been enough outcry about them to push those fabrics out of reach, the way there has been for fur and leather (to clarify: pro-treating animals humanely, anti-plastic clothing, not opposed to the use of aforesaid materials if those animals are properly cared-for and humanely killed).

At least you can still find cotton and some linen things in stores- for now. They're still more expensive, though, and limited in what weaves are often seen. Cotton velvet, for example? Forget it.

It's so disturbing and frustrating.

#ask #anon #sewing #'Marzi how do you have the money to do that?' four housemates and I don't really have a social life besides like. day trips to Salem #and historical dances #so I spend Booze Money on fabric and such instead

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aisiedaisie · 3 months ago

Text

Royal Flush

Authors Note: Sorry this update took so long!!! I wanted to have the chapter put out by Monday but everyone in my house is sick with the flu. I wrote a bit more as an apology. I hope you enjoy!!!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x Fem!Reader WC: 3.6K

As the sun slipped below the horizon, the last vestiges of daylight painted your room in muted hues of amber and lavender. The embroidery you had been working on lay abandoned on the small round table near the window, forgotten as the stillness was abruptly shattered.

Lily stormed in, her fiery presence consuming the space, followed closely by Mary, who lingered near the door, her expression laced with concern. With an exaggerated sigh, the princess threw herself onto your bed, the linens crumpling beneath her in a dramatic display of exasperation.

You turned from the fading light, one brow arching in silent inquiry as your gaze flitted from Lily to Mary, whose fingers twisted together anxiously.

Mary finally broke the silence, her voice hesitant yet steady. “The dignitaries,” she began, her words faltering as she glanced at Lily, “are requesting our lady’s hand in marriage.”

The room seemed to still, the weight of the statement sinking in like a stone dropped into a calm pond. “What?” you breathed, the question spilling out before you could stop it. Your wide eyed gaze darted between Mary and Lily, searching for clarification.

“Why would they even suggest that?” you asked after a moment, the unease in Mary’s posture stoking a sense of dread deep in your chest.

Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes. Her hesitation made the pit in your stomach deepen, and you knew her answer would bring no comfort.

“They wish to strengthen ties between the kingdoms,” Mary explained at last, her tone careful. “And since the prince decided to… leave the meeting rather abruptly, they began considering alternative candidates.” Her words were measured, but the underlying tension was unmistakable.

Lily groaned and rolled onto her back, her peridot eyes dulled by frustration. “I can’t even blame him,” she muttered. “If I had the chance, I’d have left too.” Her hand waved dismissively in the air. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember, but we’ve never even entertained the idea of marrying one another. I certainly haven’t.”

Mary nodded in quiet agreement, adding softly, “Judging by the way he left, I’d say the prince feels the same.”

You frowned, the pieces of the story not entirely fitting. “Why bring this to you, though? Isn’t this a matter for your parents to discuss?”

Lily sat up slightly, her expression equal parts incredulous and irate. “You’d think so!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. “But apparently, I’m of age to make my own decisions. Not that they’re asking for a wedding tomorrow,” she continued with a bitter grumble. “They just want me to consider the proposal. As if that somehow makes it less ridiculous.”

You sighed and crossed the room, lighting the gas lamp with a practiced hand. The flame flickered to life, its soft glow casting shadows across Lily’s face, now set in a grimace. Her next words came out in a quiet grumble. “They want me to consider Regulus.”

You froze for a beat, the name hanging in the air. “Duke Black’s son?” you asked, your voice cautious.

Lily hummed in confirmation, her tone heavy with irritation. Mary’s silent nod only solidified the weight of the situation.

The night stretched on, the tension easing only when Marlene joined the discussion, her arrival heralded by the scent of sweet treats piled high on a tray.

The princess’s guard placed it carefully on the bedside table, a silent gesture of comfort for the princess.

For hours, the four of you spoke in hushed tones, the conversation ebbing and flowing like tides. Beneath the low hum of voices, a plan began to take shape, fragile and tentative but enough to carry Lily through the storm.

_____

The quiet of the room seemed heavier now that Lily, Mary, and Marlene had gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The faint echo of their laughter and conversation faded, replaced by the stillness that pressed in around you.

The dignitaries’ insistence on binding the kingdoms through marriage weighed heavily on your mind. It seemed inevitable now, a decision looming over Lily’s future and yours by proxy.

It made the prospect of returning to Eylillium feel like a distant dream, and as much as you’d tried to settle here the past few days, a pang of homesickness clung to you.

The familiar faces of the palace staff, the echo of your footsteps in its marble halls, the scent of the gardens after a summer rain— you missed it all.

Shivering, you climbed into bed, pulling the covers tightly around you. The nightgown you wore was far too thin for the chill creeping into the room, and the drafty windows offered little to no reprieve. Staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim you, but it didn’t come.

Instead, thoughts swirled ceaselessly.

You’d need warmer clothes, that much was certain. Winter’s bite was fast approaching, and your wardrobe was ill suited to the northern chill. Shopping would be necessary, though the thought of venturing into unfamiliar shops was more daunting than it should have been.

Sleep evaded you, each minute feeling like an eternity.

_____

The hours ticked by, the moon climbing high into the sky, bathing the room in its silver glow.

With a soft groan, you gave in, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and padding to the small table by the window. The embroidery you’d abandoned earlier waited for you, the needle still resting in place.

Relighting the lamp, its warm glow cast soft shadows over the delicate work. You picked up the silken handkerchief, tracing your fingers over the partially completed design. Lavender stems, small white lemon blossoms, and a pink amaryllis bloomed in the lower corner— a curious combination of flowers yet they felt so right together. You’d left it half finished earlier when your back had protested the hours spent hunched over.

Taking up the needle once more, you were about to continue when something moved just beyond the edge of your vision. You froze, your fingers tightening slightly around the fabric. Slowly, you turned your gaze toward the window.

In the garden below, a figure moved among the moonlit paths. Their silhouette was unmistakable, a mix of grace and restless energy.

“Sirius?” The name slipped from your lips in a whisper, barely audible in the stillness of the night.

You leaned closer to the window, watching as he paced through the garden, his movements restless, as though something weighed heavily on him. Whatever it was, it was enough to pull him from the warmth of the palace into the cool embrace of the night.

You grab the shawl you wore earlier that day, wrapping it tightly around your shoulders, and slip on the nearest pair of shoes— a horrendous choice. The forest green clashed with your nightgown but you couldn’t really be bothered to care.

All you can focus on is the thought of Sirius below, his unease obvious even from a distance.

Before you can think better of it, your feet are carrying you out the door, down the hall, and toward the gardens. The cool stone floor bites at your feet through the thin soles of your shoes, but the sensation barely registers. A strangled feeling sits heavy in your chest, an inexplicable pull that drives you forward.

The air hits you as soon as you step outside, sharp and brisk. Your breath puffs out in visible clouds, mingling with the faint mist rolling over the garden. You don’t realize you’re running until the sound of your hurried steps echoes softly against the flagstones, your shawl fluttering loosely behind you as the palace’s warmth gives way to the garden’s crisp night chill.

“Sirius,” you call out, your voice low but urgent as you weave through the labyrinth of moonlit paths.

He doesn’t seem to hear you at first, his figure moving in aimless loops, hands buried in his pockets. When you draw closer, the tension in his shoulders becomes unmistakable, and your concern only deepens.

_____

You stood there for a long moment, watching Sirius pace under the pale glow of the moon. His lips moved as he muttered to himself, his hands gesturing faintly as though wrestling with invisible demons. The sight left you rooted in place, uncertainty holding you back.

What could you say?

What should you say?

The realization struck you like a quiet weight— you barely knew him.

You’d spoken to Sirius Black only twice before. And yet, seeing him like this, troubled and pacing alone in the cold, stirred something deep within you. The thought of his suffering, of him being left to face whatever burden pressed upon him, unsettled you to your very core.

You drew a shaky breath, steeling your resolve as you adjusted your shawl, pulling it tighter around your shoulders. Your fingers fidgeted with the fabric, a nervous gesture that felt grounding against the growing whirlwind in your chest.

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ you thought to yourself.

He might dismiss you, or perhaps he wouldn’t want to talk. But still, the thought of leaving him alone felt impossible.

“Sirius?” you finally called, his name hesitant and soft on your lips.

His reaction was immediate. He froze mid-stride, turning sharply to face you, his silver eyes wide and bright in the moonlight. For a fleeting moment, you saw unguarded shock and something like raw panic beneath it. Then, like a door slamming shut, he masked it with a familiar, practiced smile— a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, my lady,” he greeted lightly, his tone almost too casual. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

You ignored the deflection, stepping closer with cautious determination. His words might have carried charm, but his tense shoulders and restless gaze betrayed the truth. Gently, you rested your hand on his arm, a tentative offer of comfort.

“Sirius,” you asked, your voice softer this time, “are you alright?”

He hesitated, his smile faltering under the weight of your concern. “I should be asking you that,” he deflected again, though his voice wavered ever so slightly.

“I’m fine,” you replied firmly, your gaze searching his. “But you’re not. You’re… panicked.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his expression caught somewhere between a laugh and a grimace. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of weariness. “I’m fine,” he repeated, though his tone lacked conviction. “Or, at least, I will be.”

He then shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, but even so, you noticed the faint tremor in them. Without thinking, you reached for one, tugging it gently from the warmer depths. His fingers were ice against yours, and you gasped softly. “Sirius, how long have you been out here?” you demanded, cupping his hand between your own in an effort to warm it.

He stared at your hands, his expression flickering between surprise and something unreadable. “A while,” he admitted finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t notice the cold.”

“How could you not?” you ask firmly, rubbing his hand between your palms. “You can’t stay out here like this. Whatever’s troubling you, it won’t help if you freeze to death.”

Sirius let out a soft, mirthless chuckle, his posture sagging slightly. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” he murmured, though there was no malice in his tone— only a quiet, grudging gratitude that he didn’t yet know how to express.

“I may be, but I really don’t care at the moment,” you replied softly, holding his gaze. “Let’s get you inside. You’re practically frozen.”

Sirius hesitated, his silver eyes searching yours for a beat before he sighed and gave a reluctant nod. He allowed you to guide him back into the palace, his movements slower than before, his shoulders faintly slouched against the chill.

“I’m fine, really,” he murmured as you led him through the quiet halls, though his words carried no real conviction.

You glanced back at him but said nothing, your silence a quiet refusal to humor his insistence. Once in your room, you motioned toward the small round table near the window, the lamp still casting its warm glow. Sirius lowered himself into the chair, and you quickly fetched the sheets from your bed. Without a word, you wrapped them around his shoulders, tucking the fabric snugly in place.

He looked up at you, a flicker of amusement softening his features as the makeshift cocoon left him almost immobile. “You didn’t have to go to such lengths,” he teased, his voice low, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“That’s debatable,” you replied, straightening with a nod. “You need to warm up.”

He chuckled lightly, though his eyes remained shadowed, the humor not quite reaching them. “You’re far too kind, my lady. Though I’d argue it’s you who needs tending to. You’re shivering.”

“It’s nothing,” you dismissed with a wave of your hand, unwilling to shift the focus from him. “You’ve been out there far longer than I have.”

For a moment, you considered offering him something warm to drink, but you realized with a pang of frustration that you still didn’t know where the kitchens were. A note for tomorrow, you thought, making a mental reminder to ask Molly.

Instead, you leaned against the edge of your bed, watching as Sirius shifted under the weight of the linens. His shoulders had eased, but tension lingered in the set of his jaw.

“I might be overstepping,” you began hesitantly, your voice soft, “but I can find Remus— or His Highness, if you’d prefer.”

Sirius shook his head quickly, a sharp movement that made the loose strands of his hair fall forward. “They already know.”

The statement gave you pause. “And they just let you…?” You gestured vaguely toward the direction of the gardens, disbelief creeping into your voice.

“I told them I was going to my room,” he admitted quietly, his gaze dropping to his hands.

You exhaled softly, sitting down fully on the bed. “For what it’s worth, I’m here if you need to talk,” you offered. “I know we don’t know each other well, but…” You trailed off, searching for the right words, but found none.

He looked up, and for a moment, the vulnerability in his expression took your breath away. The light from the lamp reflected faintly in his eyes, giving them a silvery glow that seemed almost ethereal. You couldn’t help but think how utterly unfair it was for someone to look as he did, even now, burdened by whatever weighed on his mind.

Sirius inhaled deeply, leaning back against the chair. “You’ve probably already heard about Regulus,” he said at last, his voice barely above a murmur.

Your eyes widened slightly as realization struck. “I heard this evening,” you admitted. “But… it’s not decided yet, is it?”

Sirius nodded, his hair brushing against his cheeks. “Right, but I know my family… I know my mother.” His voice grew quieter, tinged with bitterness. “She’ll push for the marriage, no matter what anyone else says.”

The weight in his words made your heart ache. You stepped closer, your hand instinctively finding his back, and you rubbed slow, comforting circles over his shoulder blades. The tension beneath your palm was palpable.

“I could speak with Her Highness,” you offered gently. “She doesn’t seem particularly keen on marriage either. She seemed just as blindsided by the idea as you.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, a faint nod accompanying the sound. “You’re right,” he said after a moment, though his voice carried a strain of lingering doubt. “I shouldn’t let it get to me. Sorry—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” you interrupted, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “You’re allowed to feel what you feel.”

You crouched slightly to take his hands in yours, testing their warmth. His fingers were no longer icy, but they trembled against your palms. “You’re shaking,” you murmured, brushing your thumbs over his knuckles.

Sirius hesitated, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “They always do when I’m nervous,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your chest tightened further at the admission. “I’m so sorry, Sirius. We’ll figure this out, I promise. If Her Highness—”

He let out a soft laugh, cutting you off mid-sentence. His gray eyes darted up to meet yours, shimmering with a fleeting light of amusement. “I’m not nervous about that right now.”

You blinked in surprise, your confusion evident. “Then what—?”

A charmingly lopsided grin spread across his face, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but was nonetheless disarming. “Are you not the least bit nervous, my lady? Being alone with a man in your chambers at this hour?” His tone was teasing, but the faint blush dusting his cheeks betrayed him.

The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning, and your face warmed. You stepped back quickly, pulling your shawl tightly around you.

“OH MY GOODNESS!” you gasped, clapping a hand over your mouth as though that might contain your embarrassment.

It didn’t.

Sirius chuckled, his laugh low and melodic. “You have a way of making the most unexpected moments entertaining,” he said, his voice light with amusement.

“This is beyond embarrassing,” you mumbled from behind your hand, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ll admit, it’s refreshing,” he teased gently, the pink still faintly dusting his cheeks. “Most would be too stunned to react so… dramatically.”

You let out a groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, leaning back with a sly grin. “I think it might just make me fonder of you.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” you murmured, turning away as the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you once more.

Sirius stood, the cocoon of linen slipping from his shoulders and pooling on the chair. He crossed the room with quiet steps until he was behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders with a gentle, almost hesitant weight, as if afraid to overstep.

“Why not?” he asked softly, his voice low and steady, brushing against the quiet of the night.

You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his gaze, bashful but searching. “I don’t think his Highness would— ”

He offered a small, reassuring smile, one that softened the sharpness of his features. “He would agree with me,” Sirius replied, his words laced with a sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“What— ” Your words faltered. “What do you mean?” The air between you seemed to thrum with something unspoken, and you found yourself holding your breath.

Sirius quirked a brow, amusement flickering briefly in his stormy eyes. “I meant what I said. James would agree with me.” His smile lingered, warm and genuine, as if begging you to believe him.

Confusion creased your brow. “But—”

Before you could form a proper protest, Sirius chuckled, the sound low and rich, and lifted a hand to your face. His slender fingers trembled slightly as his thumb brushed against the worry between your brows, smoothing it away with three deliberate strokes before cupping your cheek.

“We’re all fond of you,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a truth you hadn’t expected. His thumb grazed the high point of your cheekbone, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. “James and Remus too.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You looked up at him, helpless in the face of his sincerity.

Leaning in Sirius pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead, just above where his thumb had worked to erase your doubts. His lips lingered there, a gentle promise wrapped in silence.

“Come meet us tomorrow?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “James has tutoring at ten in the library. Join us around noon?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose—”

He laughed, this time with more ease, more warmth. “You could never impose. I promise you that.”

He stepped back, his hand slipping from your face only to catch yours, his long fingers curling around your palm. “I’ll see you then, my lady?” he asked, bowing theatrically as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

You glanced down, shy beneath his gaze. “If my duties permit… I suppose I could,” you replied, your voice a tad quieter than you intended.

“Perfect.” His grin widened, bright and mischievous, as he pressed another quick kiss to your hand before letting it fall to your side. “Thank you… for tonight,” he added, his tone softening.

You smiled back at him, the warmth in your chest spreading to your limbs. “You’re always welcome. Now, get back to your room safely.” you said, attempting a stern tone that didn’t quite suit you.

He chuckled, the sound light and genuine. “I’m a knight, remember? I think I can handle the walk back to my room.”

You waved him off, shaking your head. “Even knights need to be careful.”

He was still laughing as he disappeared through the doorway, leaving the room quiet once more.

Settling onto the edge of your bed, you couldn’t help but replay the evening in your mind. What might have happened had you simply stayed in bed instead of chasing after him?

It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that you’d been there when he needed someone.

With a contented sigh, you shifted to lie down, reaching for your blankets— only to find nothing. The linens still sat on the chair where Sirius had been wrapped in them moments before.

“Damn it,” you muttered, though the frustration in your voice was softened by the smile tugging at your lips.

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earthlybeam · 2 months ago

Note

Hi, I just recently started rewatching and getting back into the Hobbit and LOTR and I found your blood and I’m in love with it. I love the way you write and how you portray the characters so well. If you’re still writing for LOTR and are accepting requests then could I ask how you think the elves (Legolas, Thranduil, and Elrond plus whoever else you like) would react to an aggressively affectionate reader? Like for example, with cuteness aggression, randomly when the reader sees Legolas and thinks he’s cute, they end up jumping on him and tackling him, possibly squeezing him extremely hard in a hug. The reader’s acts of aggression affection are random and happen whenever and wherever. The reader just loves their elf so much that they cannot control themselves. Please and thank you

Welcome back to the wonderful world of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings! It’s always exciting to revisit Middle-earth, and I’m so glad you’re enjoying it all over again. 🎉 And wow—thank you so much for your kind words! That truly means the world to me. Writing for these characters is such a joy, and knowing that you love how I portray them makes it even more special. 🫶 I absolutely love your idea! The contrast between the elves’ usual grace and composure and a reader who just cannot contain their love is hilarious and adorable. 🤣🤌

Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas and I added Gil-galad all versions below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The grand halls of Thranduil’s palace shimmered with the golden light of lanterns, their glow casting long, elegant shadows across the polished stone floor. Delicate carvings of twisting vines and woodland creatures adorned the archways, the very walls seeming to hum with ancient whispers of the forest. It was a place of quiet grandeur, of timeless elegance.

And standing near the entrance, draped in robes of deep forest green, was Thranduil—King of the Woodland Realm, ruler of the elves of Mirkwood, a figure of both awe and intimidation. His silver circlet rested regally upon his head, catching the flickering light with an almost ethereal glow. His expression was composed, unreadable, though there was a certain tightness at the corners of his mouth—an unspoken exasperation that only those who truly knew him might recognize.

He should have already been on his way, attending to whatever pressing matter awaited him beyond these halls. He had responsibilities, duties, obligations that demanded his attention. And yet… He could not move.

Because there you were—wrapped around his leg like an overgrown, determined koala, clinging as if your very life depended on it. The long, elegant lines of his robes pooled around you as you anchored yourself to him, arms and legs locked in a vice-like grip. Your cheek was pressed against the fine embroidery of his outer cloak, and from the way you stubbornly tightened your hold, it was clear you had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

Thranduil’s sharp, ice-blue gaze flicked downward, his expression a mask of pure disbelief. “…What,” he intoned, his voice as smooth as polished glass, “do you think you are doing?” You barely lifted your head, merely nuzzling further into the warmth of his robes. “No.” A single, elegant brow arched. “No?” You buried your face fully against the intricate designs woven into his attire, voice muffled but determined. “You’re leaving.”

“I am the King,” he reminded you coolly, the words carrying the weight of centuries of command. “I have responsibilities.”

“I don’t care,” you mumbled. Your grip tightened like a vice. “You’re too pretty to leave.” A long, heavy pause. Somewhere in the vast expanse of the hall, a nearby guard shifted awkwardly, very pointedly averting his gaze, as if pretending he wasn’t witnessing this absurd display. The soft rustle of banners and the faint flickering of candlelight were the only sounds that filled the air.

Thranduil exhaled a slow, suffering breath. By the stars, why were you like this? He could handle many things. He had led his people through war and shadow, navigated the treacherous politics of Middle-earth, survived centuries of rule in a realm beset by growing darkness. He had faced down dragons, battled the forces of Sauron, endured loss and grief that could break lesser beings. But this? This unrelenting, absurd display of affection that completely ignored all notions of decorum, personal space, and reason? He did not know what to do with you. “You will release me at once,” he commanded, his voice edged with warning.

You shook your head. “No.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. Thranduil’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was a king. A ruler of elves. A warrior who had seen battle. And yet he was currently being held hostage by a stubborn, overaffectionate mortal who refused to let go of his leg. “Do you truly intend to remain attached to me like this all day?”

“Yes.” Silence. The faintest flicker of something almost imperceptible crossed his features—something caught between frustration and bewilderment. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if considering his next move. Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. And yet, despite the exasperation curling in his chest, there was something else, something he could not quite name. A warmth. A quiet amusement, buried so deep beneath layers of centuries-old restraint that it barely made itself known. No one had ever dared to cling to him like this. Not as a king. Not as a warrior. Not as Thranduil.

He was Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm. His presence alone was enough to command both awe and fear. Yet you clung to him like he was just… yours. He sighed heavily, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if summoning patience he did not have. And then, without another word, he moved. In one fluid, effortless motion, he bent down, wrapped an arm around your waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. The world tilted. You let out a small yelp as you were suddenly airborne. “Hey—!”

He adjusted you in his arms with practiced ease, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing at all. His grip was firm but careful, one arm secured around your lower back while the other supported you effortlessly. “If you insist on behaving like a child,” he murmured, his tone smooth and unimpressed, “then I shall carry you as one.”

You blinked up at him, momentarily stunned. The sheer ease with which he had lifted you left you momentarily speechless. He didn’t even seem strained. The scent of his robes—fresh pine, autumn leaves, and something distinctly Elven—wrapped around you, grounding you in his presence. For a moment, all you could do was stare. And though his expression remained regal, unreadable, you did not miss the way his grip subtly lingered.

Without another word, he began walking. Through the grand halls, past the ever-watchful eyes of his guards, Thranduil carried you as though you were nothing more than an inconvenient parcel he had been forced to bring along. His posture remained flawless, his pace even, utterly unaffected by your weight. You, however, grinned up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. “See?” you hummed, tilting your head in his arms. “This is nice.” Thranduil did not dignify you with a response. Instead, he merely muttered something in Elvish under his breath—something you suspected was not particularly flattering. But he did not let go.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The Council of Elrond was meant to be a place of solemn discussion, a gathering of minds to determine the fate of Middle-earth. It was a time for wisdom, for deliberation, for diplomacy. It was not meant for this. At the head of the long table, Elrond stood with effortless grace, a pillar of composure and dignity. His robes, flowing and regal, caught the light of the midday sun filtering through the high arched windows of Rivendell’s great hall, the silken fabric shifting with the movement of his breath. His hands, long and elegant, rested lightly upon the polished wood as he spoke, his voice measured, calm, and steady—each word imbued with the weight of centuries.

The gathered council members—elves, dwarves, and men alike—listened intently, their expressions ranging from grave contemplation to hesitant agreement. Some nodded in silent accord, others furrowed their brows as they pondered his wisdom, but all remained enraptured by the Lord of Rivendell’s presence.

His back was turned to you. And you, seated among the others, were watching him—watching the way he carried himself, poised yet powerful, a figure carved from both wisdom and war. He was too graceful, too composed, too breathtaking for his own good. And you loved him. You loved him so much it made something in your chest ache. Which was why, in an act of pure, unfiltered instinct, you launched yourself from your seat and sprinted toward him at full speed.

The world blurred at the edges. There was no room for thought, no space for hesitation—only the singular, all-encompassing need to be close to him. The air rushed past you, the murmuring voices of the council fading into the distance, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the sudden intake of breath from those around you. Elrond, for all his centuries of wisdom and foresight, had precisely half a second to sense the shift in atmosphere before it was too late.

The impact was swift and merciless. Your weight collided into him with full force, your arms locking around his shoulders just as your momentum propelled him forward. A startled inhale—sharp, indignant, and vaguely resembling a half-formed Elvish curse—escaped him as he pitched forward, his long fingers shooting out to brace himself against the council table. The polished wood groaned under the sudden weight of an Elf-lord and his very enthusiastic assailant.

Scrolls tumbled to the floor in an unceremonious cascade of parchment. A goblet tipped onto its side, spilling deep red wine dangerously close to a very alarmed dwarf, who yelped and jerked his legs away just in time. A quill snapped in half beneath an abandoned tome. Someone audibly gasped.

And you? You clung to him like your life depended on it. Elrond exhaled, slowly and deliberately, his forehead lowering to meet the table in what could only be described as the ultimate gesture of long-suffering patience. His back remained straight despite the additional weight, his arms still outstretched in a bracing position, his chest rising and falling in a manner that suggested he was counting to ten in Quenya before deciding how best to proceed.

The council chamber had fallen into absolute silence. Elrond did not move. Neither did you. The only sound was the faint rustling of fabric as you nestled against him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. A long, long sigh escaped him. “Mellon nín,” he said at last, his voice as even as ever, though beneath it lay a complex weave of emotions—resignation, exasperation, and, buried so deep it was nearly imperceptible, the tiniest sliver of amusement. “Was this absolutely necessary?”

Without lifting your head, you nuzzled into his shoulder, entirely unrepentant. “Yes.” His fingers twitched where they lay upon the table—whether from the urge to pry you off or pull you closer, even he wasn’t entirely sure. A chair scraped against the stone floor as one of the men leaned forward, brow deeply furrowed. “…Is this… normal?” From his seat, Gandalf let out a quiet chuckle, stroking his beard with twinkling amusement. “Ah, young love,” he mused. “Quite… enthusiastic, in this case.”

Elrond closed his eyes briefly, as if beseeching the Valar for strength. He was a Lord of Rivendell. He had led armies into battle, forged alliances with kings, stood against the darkness of Sauron himself. And yet, here he was—bent over a council table, carrying the full weight of someone who had, quite literally, thrown themselves at him in the middle of one of the most important meetings in the history of Middle-earth.

Still pinned beneath you, still braced against the table, Elrond finally turned his head just enough for you to see his face. His expression was unreadable at first—his brows slightly drawn, his lips pressed into a firm line, the very image of composed dignity fraying at the edges. But there, in the smallest crease at the corner of his mouth, was something else.

A smirk. A very small, very restrained smirk. “Are you quite finished?” he murmured, voice pitched just low enough for only you to hear. You grinned against his shoulder, squeezing him just a little tighter. “Not even close.” Elrond inhaled deeply through his nose. He did not move. He did not protest. He simply accepted his fate.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

The moonlight bathed the clearing in silver, casting an ethereal glow upon Legolas as he stood at the edge of the trees. The gentle night breeze stirred his golden hair, making him look like something out of a dream—untouchable, otherworldly, perfect. His sharp gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, lost in thought, the weight of centuries pressing upon his immortal soul. And then—A blur. A rush of footsteps. A sudden, breathless surge of movement cutting through the quiet of the night.

Before Legolas could fully register what was happening, an impact slammed into him with startling force. Strong arms wrapped around his torso, squeezing with unrelenting affection. His body staggered back under the sheer intensity of it, boots skidding against the soft earth, his normally impeccable balance momentarily thrown off. His hands instinctively caught hold of the figure assaulting him, fingers gripping tightly to steady both of them.

His first thought? An ambush? No—there was no malice, no danger. Only warmth. Only the frantic beating of a heart pressed against his chest, the breathless laughter of the one person in Middle-earth who would dare launch themselves at an Elven warrior in such a reckless manner.

“Mellon nîn—” he exhaled, his voice a mix of bemusement and disbelief. Youonly clung tighter, your face buried against his shoulder, arms locked around his waist in an unbreakable grip. “You’re too pretty,” you mumbled into his tunic, your voice muffled but no less desperate in its declaration. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Legolas blinked, his mind catching up with the absurdity of the situation. Was this… an attack of love? A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, still breathless from the unexpected tackle. “And for this, you choose to strike me down?” he asked, amusement laced in his tone, though his arms had unconsciously wrapped around you in return.

You lifted your head slightly, your eyes gleaming with pure, unfiltered adoration. “Yes.” Your answer was simple, as if there was no other possible explanation. “You were standing there looking all beautiful and tragic under the moonlight, and I just—” You squeezed him tighter. “—I just had to do something about it.”

Legolas sighed, though the corners of his lips betrayed him by curving into a small, helpless smile. He was not used to this—this overwhelming, impulsive affection. Elves did not love in such a chaotic manner. Their passion was deep, but it was slow-burning, controlled, and tempered with time. But you… you loved as fiercely as a firestorm, with all the grace of a hurricane, and he—he was powerless against it.

“You are relentless,” he murmured, but there was no reprimand in his voice. Only quiet wonder. “Yes, I am.” You lifted your head fully now, eyes locked onto his, still latched onto him as though you had no intention of ever letting go. “And you’re stuck with me, so get used to it.”

Legolas simply looked at you, his arms still securely wrapped around your waist, his heart doing something strange and unfamiliar in his chest. He had faced countless battles, had stared down creatures of shadow and flame, had fought against the tides of darkness for centuries without flinching— And yet, here, held within your grasp, he felt utterly and completely conquered. “Then I shall endure it,” he murmured at last, his voice soft, reverent. “For as long as you wish it.”

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad sat in his study, his sharp blue eyes scanning the delicate script of an ancient elven manuscript. The flickering candlelight cast golden shadows across his regal features, highlighting the quiet intensity in his expression. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, his long fingers resting on the table as he contemplated the wisdom of ages past. His posture was perfect, dignified as always, radiating an air of calm authority.

But none of that mattered to you at this moment. Because as you sat across from him, watching his impossibly noble face, something inside you snapped. He was just too beautiful. Too serious. Too composed. And suddenly, an overwhelming need overtook you—a need so strong it nearly made you dizzy.

You had to squish his face. Before your rational mind could intervene, your hands shot forward, cupping his cheeks in your palms. His skin was smooth and cool beneath your touch, his cheekbones sharp yet softened by your fingers as you squeezed ever so slightly. His lips pursed slightly from the pressure, and his already strong jaw tensed in mild surprise.

Gil-galad froze. His piercing gaze, once lost in deep thought, now locked onto you with quiet disbelief. He did not pull away, did not even attempt to stop you—no, he simply blinked, utterly bewildered by what was happening to his very dignified royal face. “… What is this?” he finally asked, his voice calm but undeniably puzzled.

You barely heard him, too consumed by your own chaotic affection. His skin felt so soft. His cheekbones were so regal. He was like the world’s most serious, most elegant cat, and you could not help but give another gentle squeeze, watching as his expression remained caught between confusion and resigned amusement. “You’re too handsome for your own good,” you declared, your thumbs pressing lightly into the hollows of his cheeks. “It’s unfair. I had to do something about it.”

Gil-galad exhaled slowly, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, the High King of the Noldor, a warrior, a strategist, a ruler of Elves—and yet, here you were, treating him like a mischievous house pet in need of affectionate punishment. And the strangest part? He let you.

He did not remove your hands, did not chide you for your impulsiveness. He merely regarded you in silence, his face still gently smushed between your fingers, as if attempting to decipher how he had found himself in such a position. “If you are finished treating my face as though I were some—some petulant kitten…” he murmured, one brow lifting ever so slightly. You grinned, tilting his head slightly from side to side as if testing the optimal level of squish.

“… Not yet,” you admitted cheerfully. Another slow, measured blink. A pause. And then, ever so softly, the barest hint of a sigh—one that, if you listened closely enough, might have concealed a tiny trace of amusement. “Very well,” he relented, his deep voice tinged with something you almost mistook for indulgence. “Do as you must.” And so you did

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darlingsblackbook · 2 months ago

Text

The princess and the fool

Jester!Gojo x Princess!Reader

Medieval Court AU

Summary : The halls of the castle are always cold. I have grown used to it, the chill, the silence, the feeling of existing yet never truly being seen. Then the jester arrives.

English is not my first language, I apologize in advance for any grammatical or spelling mistakes. Feel free to point them out but be kind with it♡

°•♡•°

The great hall is alive tonight.

The long tables overflow with food, the scent of roasted meats and spiced honey thick in the air. The golden chandeliers shine a warm glow over the gathered nobles, their laughter filling the room. Musicians play a lively tune, filling the air with the sharp trill of flutes and the deep hum of stringed instruments.

I sit at my place near the high table, not beside my father, nor near my brothers. Those seats belong to those with purpose. I am here because it is expected, nothing more.

Then, a voice cuts through the revelry.

"Ah, my lady of eternal gloom!"

The hall hushes, if only slightly, as heads turn toward the source of the voice.

I lift my gaze.

He stands in the center of the hall, a stark contrast to the muted elegance of the court.

Silver hair glows under candlelight, strands falling messily over his forehead, though I sense the disarray is intentional. His clothing-a jester’s garb in rich crimson and gold-is striking, adorned with delicate embroidery that glimmers when he moves. The bells at his sleeves and boots barely chime, as if he is too graceful to let them.

But his eyes...

His eyes are the most dangerous of all.

A shade of blue so bright they seem otherworldly, sharp with amusement yet unreadable beneath the weight of something deeper.

His grin is reckless, the kind that belongs to a man who has never known restraint.

"If I dare say," he continues, spreading his arms wide, as if addressing the entire court, "I have met ghosts with more cheer than you, oh princess of goom"

A murmur ripples through the gathered lords and ladies. Some chuckle behind their goblets of wine, while others glance at me, waiting to see how I will respond.

I say nothing.

I just hold his gaze

Then, as if nothing has happened, I lower my eyes back to my plate.

The moment passes. The court resumes its chatter. The musicians play again. The jester- whoever he is- laughs and continues his performance, spinning through the hall with charm.

But I can feel it.

Even as he entertains the crowd, his presence filling every inch of the room, those piercing eyes keep finding their way back to me.

And I can't helpt but wonder, what is it that he sees?

°•♡•°

I see him before he speaks.

It has been this way ever since that first night.

Whenever we are in the same room, his gaze seems to find me. Even when he is performing for the nobles, spinning tales and juggling goblets of wine without spilling a a single drop, I feel the weight of his attention.

I do not know why.

Perhaps he has taken it as a challenge: to crack the stonefaced silent princess, to pry a laugh from lips that rarely part.

Perhaps he is simply a fool.

His laughter echoes through the great hall again and I can not seem to withhold myself from lifting my gaze in the direction of the sound. His eyes almost seemed to glimmer in the warm glow of the chandelier suspended above the table. Lips pulled in a wide grin, his teeth-fangs- almost seemed to glint as if sending off a warning to stay away.

His head shifted and tilted to the side, I moved my gaze up to realize he had caught me admiring him. The jester did not seemed to mind though, he only blinked one eye in a quick wink.

What a fool.

°•♡•°

A week later, the feast is the same as always. Lords and ladies drink, their voices growing louder after every emptied goblet. Musicians pulling their strings until their fingers ache, the servants moving between tables like shadows, unseen, unnoticed.

My eyes swept over the great hall once, then another time, and again. I scanned every and each indivudal, but what was I looking for, really?

White locks, shimmering blue eyes and the faint sound of bells ringing.

My grip on my fork tightened until I could almost feel the heavy metal bend under my hold. What am I thinking? I released a breath I had not realized I was holding as the realization dawned on me. I had unconsciously been looking for-

A heavy sigh, exaggerated and drawn out, cuts through my thoughts.

I know it is him before I even turn.

"Ah, woe is me!," he laments, dramatically collapsing onto the floor beside my chair. A few nobles turn to watch the spectacle, curious. He places a hand over his heart, as if pained beyond reason. "My suffering knows no end!"

I raise one eyebrow as I lift my goblet and take a slow sip of my wine.

"If only—" he gasps, lifting his head to meet my gaze. "If only the princess of eternal gloom would spare me a glance, perhaps my shattered heart might mend just a little."

I do not indulge him.

He groans and lets his head fall back against the floor, arms spread as though he has perished on the cold stone. "No?" he mutters, voice full of despair. "Not even a glance? Not even the tiniest flicker of pity?"

Someone kicks him.

"Get up, fool," one of the knights mutters.

The jester lifts his head, feigning deep betrayal. "Even the knights have turned against me! Tell me, is there no love left in this world?"

But I simply set my goblet down and say, "Not for you it seems."

A collective murmur ripples through the court, amusement laced with intrigue.

The fool freezes for a fraction of a second.

Then he grins.

His suffering deepens—his body crumpling as if my words have physically wounded him. "A cruel, heartless woman! How ever shall I survive this torment?" He turns his gaze to the ceiling. "Perhaps I shall wither away. Perhaps the weight of my unrequited love will drag me to an early grave—"

"You would not be so lucky," I interrupt.

He falters.

Then, laughter bursts from his lips, loud and unrestrained. His whole body shakes with it, delight sparking in his impossibly blue eyes. He presses a hand to his chest, shaking his head.

"You wound me," he gasps between chuckles. "And yet—I think I adore you even more for it."

Fool.

I should not entertain him.

I should not allow him to pull me into whatever ridiculous game he has started.

But the corners of my lips twitch.

Just slightly.

But his gaze sharpens, as if he has caught me in the act.

He does not let me go so easily.

°•♡•°

He seems to always find me.

It does not stop at feasts.

If anything, he is worse outside of them.

I do not know how he does it, how he appears in the most unexpected places at the most ridiculous times.

But somehow, he does.

The first time, I am in the library.

The towering shelves stretch high above me, filled with books older than the castle itself. I am searching for a particular volume, my fingers trailing over the worn spines-

When a deep sigh echoes through the chamber.

"Truly," The jester laments from somewhere behind me, "this heartbreak will be the end of me."

I do not turn. "If you are here for pity, you will not find it amongst books."

He appears beside me in an instant, leaning against the shelf with a lazy grin. "No? I thought perhaps I’d find some poetry on tragic love to soothe my pain." He glances at the books. "Or a guide on how to win the heart of a cold and distant princess."

I pull a book from the shelf and hand it to him. "How to disappear, completely."

The jester takes the book from my hands, glancing at the title.

Then he looks at me.

Then back at the book.

His grin widens.

"Ah," he muses, flipping it open dramatically. "A personal recommendation. How cruel you are, princess. Do you long for my absence so dearly?"

I return to scanning the shelves. "I long for silence."

"And yet, you keep speaking to me."

I do not offer that with a response.

He leans closer, dropping his voice as if sharing a secret. "You know, if you wish to disappear, you could always run away with me. I happen to be very good at sneaking out completely unnoticed."

I glance at him then, just briefly. "A jester and a runaway princess. How original."

"Mm, you’re right," he sighs, pretending to reconsider. "Perhaps we should fake our deaths first. Make it dramatic. You can even pick how we go."

"Poison."

The word leaves my lips so quickly, so flatly, that for a moment, he blinks at me.

And then he bursts into laughter.

It echoes through the grand library, far too loud for the sacred quiet of this place. I should tell him to lower his voice.

But I don’t.

Because despite myself, I feel something stir in my chest at the sound of his carefree laugh.

Something dangerously unfamiliar.

Gojo holds the book against his heart. "I shall cherish this gift of yours, my gloomy princess. A token of your deep and unspoken love."

"Then I shall expect you to vanish by morning."

He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me! Again! Just how many times must I die for your love?"

"You have survived this long," I say, taking a different book from the shelf and turning away. "Clearly, your suffering is not terminal."

His laughter follows me as I walk away.

And when I am far enough that I should not hear him anymore, he still calls after me.

"I shall suffer on, then! Only for you!"

It is not just the library.

Nor is it just the feasts.

He seems to find me everywhere.

In the courtyard, where I sit by the fountain, enjoying a rare moment of quiet.

Only to hear a dramatic splash behind me as he throws himself into the shallow water, arms spread wide. "I am drowning in sorrow!" he declares. "A love unreturned is a fate worse than death!"

"You are drowning in two feet of water," I say without looking up.

"In my sorrow," he corrects, laying flat in the fountain like a man lost at sea.

I shake my head, returning to my book. A maid walks by and pauses, looking between us with concern.

"Leave him," I say before they can ask. "He is beyond saving."

The fool gasps, lifting his head. "How cold!"

The servant wisely leaves.

And him, the fool that he is, remains in the water for another five minutes, waiting for me to acknowledge him.

I do not.

But the next time I pass by the fountain, I see something new. Something that had not been there before.

A tiny paper boat, floating lazily in the water.

When I unfold it, I find a simple message written inside.

I would not mind drowning a thousand times, over and over, if it meant I could be by your side.

~ Your fool

I do not know why he seeks me out, why he insists on drawing laughter from someone who has long since forgotten how to give it.

I do not know why, despite everything, I let him

But I do know this.

The castle has always been cold.

The halls have always been empty.

And I have always been unseen.

But then came the jester.

And no matter how I try to disappear, he will not let me. He keeps finding me. He keeps seeing me.

°•♡•°

The castle is quiet at this hour.

Most are asleep, lost in dreams or the silence of the night.

Not me.

And, it seems, not him.

I hear the footsteps before I see him. Light, unhurried, belonging to a man who walks as though the world lays in the palm of his hand.

I do not turn, even when I feel his presence settle beside me on the stone ledge of the tower balcony. The wind is gentle tonight, cool against my skin as I look out over the sleeping kingdom.

"You never sleep," the jester muses. His voice is softer now, quiet, stripped of its usual mischief.

"Neither do you," I reply.

He leans forward, arms resting against his knees. "I sleep plenty."

"Liar."

A soft chuckle, but he does not argue.

For a while, both of us stay silent.

The air between us feels different tonight. Not tense, but something quieter, something softer. I do not know if it is the hour or the solitude, but for once, the Jester does not fill the silence with his usual laughter.

Instead, he tilts his head, looking at me with a strange kind of curiosity.

"You never call me by my name," he says suddenly.

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

He smiles, but it’s not the grin he usually wears, it’s something smaller, something almost… shy. "You call me ‘fool,’ ‘jester,’ sometimes ‘idiot’ when you think I’m not listening."

"You are all of those things," I say, but my voice lacks its usual bite.

"And yet," he hums, "not once have you called me by my name."

I open my mouth, then close it.

Because he’s right.

I never realized that I do not call him by his name, it had not been intentional. Or maybe, subconsciously, I had never called him by his name to still keep a distance between us- so I would not let him too close to my heart.

The thought of saying it aloud feels… intimate.

More intimate than anything we have ever done.

He watches me expectantly, his usual playfulness dimmed into something more patient.

And maybe it is the night, or the way the world feels impossibly small on this tower ledge, but-

"...Satoru."

The name feels unfamiliar on my tongue.

Satoru's eyes widen slightly, and for the first time since I have met him, he looks startled.

But the surprise fades quickly, melting into something impossibly soft. "Again," he says.

I shake my head, looking away. "No."

"Please?"

I close my eyes. "Do not push your luck."

A breath of laughter, and then,

"Come with me."

I turn to him, confused. "...What?"

"Let’s leave," he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. "You and me. Run away. Disappear."

I snort. "You are ridiculous."

"I’m serious.", His voice holds no humor.

I look at him then, truly look at him, and I see it, the absence of laughter in his gaze. The rawness in his expression. The way his fingers twitch against the stone as if he is holding something back.

He is serious.

The weight of it settles in my chest, something heavy and unfamiliar. I do not know how to hold it.

"Why would I leave?" I ask quietly.

"For the same reason I would," he says, and I hate that he says it like I should already know.

Like the answer has always been there, unspoken between us. I search his face, trying to make sense of this, of him, of the impossible thing he is asking of me.

"Do you know why I became a jester?" he asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard.

Gojo exhales, leaning back slightly, gaze drifting toward the stars. "Because I wanted to laugh," he says simply. "Because I wanted others to laugh. Because laughter makes the world feel lighter, even when it isn’t."

He looks at me again, and this time, I see something deeper in his eyes.

Something sad.

"But you… you never laugh."

I turn away. "Some people are not made for laughter."

"That’s not true," he says, his voice too soft, too kind. "I’ve seen it, you know. The way your lips twitch when you fight a smile. The way your eyes crinkle when you think no one is watching."

My chest feels tight.

"I could make you laugh," he continues, quieter now. "Every day. Every night. Until death do us part, and even then, I’d haunt you just to make you laugh."

A broken little huff escapes me. "You would be an insufferable ghost."

"Yes," he agrees easily. "But I’d be yours."

I close my eyes. It is too much.

Too much.

"Satoru…"

The way his name leaves my lips feels like a plea. For him to stop. For him to continue.

For something I do not have the words for.

But Gojo just smiles, tilting his head.

"See?" he murmurs. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

I shake my head, not knowing if I want to laugh or cry.

But he doesn’t push further.

He doesn’t ask again.

He just reaches out, slow enough for me to pull away-

But I don’t.

His fingers brush my wrist, warm and steady. And in the quiet of the night, with the whole world sleeping below us-

Two lost souls finally become whole.

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redcoralpot · 1 year ago

Text

Tougher Than Nails - Mike Schmidt X M!Reader

Warnings/Details: NSFW content, implied substance abuse, alcohol, cowboy!reader, hankie/cowboy hat code.

Summary: Mike goes to a bar downtown in hopes of getting his mind off of court, but instead finds something much healthier.

A/N: Everyone should thank my boyfriend for this idea; he's always the one that reminds me that I am technically a 'cowboy'. He saves a horse very often.

Word Count: 1.8K

Bars weren’t really Mike’s thing. Any alcohol he’s ever had tasted like crap, and becoming an alcoholic would just be another check on Aunt Jane’s list to prove to the court that he wasn’t suitable for custody. Hell, he swore her perfume was still clinging onto his nose hairs, and all he wanted to do was escape her. Escape reality, too. Mike remembered when his father used to do just that after Garret disappeared, drowning himself in the bitter liquid at night, his speech slurred. That’s why he was here, at a bar in downtown Afton, while Maxine stayed with Abby. He was desperate.

The building was crowded, delightful chatter and jazz music filling the air. Lights were strung along the wooden walls, narrowly dodging the black and white photos hanging by themselves. More customers squeezed in behind him; Mike frantically searched for any open spot in the room. Hallelujah– a single stool was left vacant near the serving counter, and Mike shuffled into it, shoulders tense. The bartender seemed to notice his presence, as she leaned towards the man, still shaking another person’s drink.

“You’re a new face,” she rattled, “may I see your license?”

Mike fumbled with his wallet, sliding the card for her to see, “Uh, sure.”

“Right, you’re all clear; would you like to open a tab?”

A man cut in before he could answer, and for the first time, Mike got a good look at the person sitting beside him, “Just add whatever he orders to mine, Molly.”

She shrugged, the key hanging from her left pocket jingling, “Easier for me.”

You chuckled, the brim of your hat covering your eyes. It was decorated with embroidery and leather, complimenting your purple button up shirt, though that was partially hidden by a black vest. Two hankies hung out of your back, left pocket, similar to Molly’s keychain. One was rust colored, but the other was a complimentary gray; Mike thought it was an interesting stylistic choice.

“I’ll just have a beer, thanks.”

As the bartender turned, scribbling in a notebook, you inquired, “So, what’s a fine boy like you doing ‘round these parts?”

Mike grabbed the foaming beer that was placed in front of him, “I live nearby.”

“That’s not the only reason, is it?”

He hesitated to answer, instead choosing to take a long sip of the beverage. It burned down his throat, the flavor making his lips curl and his head a little more dizzy. Somehow, it loosened his will, and he found his lips moving without his permission. Your energy was just hypnotizing; he felt himself being pulled in.

“Needed a break from stress,” Mike admitted, picking at the glass’ label.

You cocked your head to the side, your hat tipping upward, “Just ‘cause you’re in a hole, doesn’t mean you gotta keep digging. Alcohol isn’t the cure to what you’re feelin’.”

“What am I supposed to do? Not even my medicine works anymore.”

“I go here for stress relief too,” you assured, downing a shot, “but not necessarily for the drinks.”

Your hand hovered over the small of his back, looking at him for consent. When he didn’t move away, you settled your fingers there, feeling a shiver run through Mike’s body. Some of the previous tension released from his shoulders, and he almost leaned back in relief. Many of the customers in this bar were paired with the same sex, unlike most of the movies he’d seen that included the subject. So, he supposed it wouldn’t look too weird if he did.

You elaborated, “People can be cruel, can’t they, sweetheart? Comin’ to a place like this, where everyone’s like me in some way or another, is a damn good bonus.”

“Like you?”

“Y’know,” you gestured to your handkerchiefs, “queer and such.”

He paused, “Ah.”

“You didn’t know this was a boy bar?”

Mike replied, “I kinda just looked up the closest bar to my house.”

…

“Good to know.” Your hand fell away from his back.

He almost chased it. Mike liked the feeling, the weight of your fingers pressing into such an intimate spot. However, he wasn’t tipsy enough for that, and controlled himself. He watched as you spoke to Molly, the lady’s eyes flicking towards him and back, and you slipped her the money needed to cover the tab. You tipped your hat towards Mike, a respectful way to put distance between you, before disappearing into the suffocating crowd. Molly side eyed him, sweeping away his bottle, before leaving as well. Mike swallowed, pulling loose skin from his bottom lip with his teeth. It was now, or never– perhaps alcohol wasn’t the only way, after all. You were right.

Mike could still see the very top of your hat swerving above the crowd, and he trailed after it to the best of his ability. A random girl almost elbowed him in the face, and he was sure his shins would be bruised after tonight. Your shadow was reflecting in the glass door, growing fainter and fainter as you walked further away, your hips swaying. Mike pushed it open, the vision dissolving, and cold air stung his cheeks. The moon reflected off of car hoods, the only way he was able to see where he was running. His hand reached out and grabbed your arm, as you flinched.

Mike’s ears were red, probably from the alcohol, and you stared at him, “What’re you doing?”

“I don’t know,” was the only answer you got before your collar was jerked forward.

Your lips crashed violently with his; your teeth clicking as he struggled to pull you closer. Mike was still fisting your shirt as you brought your hands to cup his jaw and the back of his neck, trying to gentle the kiss.

You mumbled against his mouth, “Better not be some experiment of yours, pretty boy.”

“Nope,” he whispered, the aftertaste of whiskey on his tongue.

His back hit the side of your car, and his hands moved from your collar to swinging his arms around your neck. Your knee found its way in between Mike’s thighs, pressing against his crotch, and his groan was swallowed by your lips. Mike whined when you trailed down, aiming instead for his neck. Dark marks and bites soon decorated the pale flesh, his blood dripping a contrasting splash of color.

Tugging on his earlobe, you challenged, “Gonna come back to my place?”

Mike doubted he ever agreed to something so quickly.

The drive was long, too long in his opinion. Though, it was most likely only fifteen minutes, at most. Mike didn’t even have to walk up the driveway to your cabin; his legs were locked around your hips as you carried him through the door and up the stairs. He ground his groin against you, searching for any possible friction. You tossed him onto your bed, unbuckling your belt, holding it taut. The man in front of you wiggled back and spread his legs to make room for you. You snickered at how willing Mike was, considering his hesitation when you first met.

You regularly kept lube on the bedside table, just to be prepared for when you brought men home from the bar. However, this one was different in a way you had trouble putting into words, other than positive. His thighs shook as you massaged the liquid into his hole, a hand covering his mouth to prevent you from hearing his noises. Ah, now that wouldn’t do, would it?

In response, you tugged his hand off of his mouth, “Lemme hear you.”

Such pretty sounds from a pretty mouth, it was truly a shame. When Mike immediately went back to covering them up, you slid your fingers out of him, instead reaching for your abandoned belt. His eyes trailed after your hands as they bound his wrists together in front of him, almost akin to handcuffs. Mike couldn’t see much of your expression after your head dipped down, only the shit-eating grin playing on your lips. Of course, that was before you took your hat off by the crown and placed it firmly on his head, though it was a tad too big for him.

“Why don’t you keep that safe for me, sweetheart?”

For a second, Mike was confused. Keep it safe? Just what were you planning on doing? He felt a grip on his waist, right before his world spun around him, and the positions were practically reversed. The guard was now sitting on top of you, or more so your crotch, his thighs caging in your hips. Mike’s hair was disheveled and the light on the ceiling created a sort of halo around him, and fuck, did you think he was pretty. Only a few select people had ever gotten to wear your hat, and you could confidently say that he was the most beautiful in it.

You unbuttoned your jeans, letting your cock slip through the opening, “You ready?”

“I’ve never done this before.”

You had a grip on his waist again, slowly guiding him down. You didn’t thrust, didn’t force him to go fast, and allowed him his proper time to adjust, “How’s that feelin’?”

“G-good,” he shuddered, precum leaking from his tip, “think ‘m ready.”

“You haven’t seen the brunt of it yet, boy!” You grunt, thrusting the rest of you inside, brushing against Mike’s prostate.

The man on top of you moaned, and the sound was so uncharacteristically loud that even he seemed surprised by it. Mike leaned down, resting his tied fists on your chest in order to keep his balance. His sweat dampened your collarbones, his drool smearing on your neck, and the pathetic excuse of a guard tried leaving kisses over the areas he could reach. You soon found a rhythm to your thrusts; groans were punched out of your throat on their own.

Mike could feel heat rushing through his brain, bringing tears that stuck to his eyelashes, covering any thoughts or hesitance he may have had before. That wasn’t enough for it– it spread like wildfire down his body, down to where your fingers were leaving bruises, and down to his red, leaking dick. Something deep was brewing inside of him, nothing he’s felt since his hormonal teenage years. Hell, he didn’t even have time to process it when you kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear that he’s such a needy slut; it exploded.

When he finally came to, he could feel his thighs twitching and your heaving, sticky abs below him. His eyelids felt heavy, and all he wanted to do was stay there with you. You were rubbing circles into his back, attempting to pull out, but a grumble from Mike made you stop. In fact, you were saying things, but it sounded muffled and far away. He took great comfort in your voice, no matter what you were talking about. It was getting farther and farther away, yet still managed to follow him into his dreams. For the first time since the incident with Garret, he did not have a nightmare.

Taglist: @cannabrisano @kai_beanz @fandomz-brainrot @slimemakermas

#x male reader #male reader #lgbtq #male y/n #gay #cowboy reader #fnaf #fnaf movie #five nights at freddys #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x male reader #x top male reader #top male reader #x dom male reader #dom male reader #bottom character

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lqveharrington · 6 months ago

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Foolish One | C.G.

summary: you’ve been in love with Cardan since you were children and you’re not sure if he loves you back.

pairing: cardan greenbriar x fem!reader

includes: fluff, angst, kissing, jealously

a/n: soooo, it’s not my fault i keep writing one-shots

When you were born, your own father conjured up a deal with Elfhame’s King: that you were to be wed with their youngest son. As children, you and Cardan grew up with one another. You were never told you had to marry, but you both knew through the forced meet ups your parents would make you attend. You didn’t care as much. If you got to marry someone you knew since childhood, what was the harm? But Cardan seemingly didn’t care for it. Whenever the topic was brought up, he would shrug it off and change the subject before going any further.

However, the more time you spent with Cardan, the more you realized how much you actually wanted to be with him. From childhood to now, he still was by your side and protected you from the worst his so-called friends would do. He still hung out with you despite not being forced to do so. He still considered you his favorite in the entirety of Elfhame — which made you consider your own feelings.

You realized that you had fallen in love with such a cruel prince who had zero intentions of actually marrying you. Especially when you caught his attention slipping to one mortal girl.

Cardan’s head was in your lap as you rested underneath a willow tree near Balekin’s place. You both finished your lessons and Cardan decided to drag you away from the mess of his social group.

“Will you be attending this year’s summer tournament?” Cardan murmured softly as you ran your fingers through his hair, his tail wrapping around your arm loosely.

“I always do.” You quietly say back, listening to the rushing water nearby. Your eyes wandered over his face, admiring his structure whilst his eyes were shut.

He hummed, “Will you be cheering for any one in particular?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes, Cardan. I’ll be cheering for someone.” He opened his eyes and looked at you expectantly, blinking innocently. “What?”

“Who?”

“You.” You roll your eyes again, earning a pinch to your thigh. You always cheered for him, you didn’t see how this year was any different. “Ow, asshole.”

Cardan gave you a cheeky smirk as he smoothed his palm over your calf, trace small shapes and words you couldn’t identify. You shut your eyes for a split second, letting the moment wash over you before Cardan spoke again.

His voice was a little above a whisper when he spoke. “There’s a new person joining the tournament this year.”

You opened your eyes and looked down at him, raising an eyebrow as if you were asking a who? He met your eyes with a hint of intrigue and something else you couldn’t place.

“I heard the mortal begged her father to participate in the tournament. She said she was going to best me but I—“

As he kept talking about Jude Duarte, your mood continued to sour. You watched as his eyes look into your with so much excitement, making your heart clench at the sight. Just once you wished he would talk about you and look exactly like he did now… You needed to leave before you said something you regretted.

Luckily, your younger sister found you just in time.

“Hey!” She ran over to the both of you, her infectious giggles reaching you. “Mama’s looking for you!” She squealed when Cardan sat up and hugged her tightly, trying to pull away from him. “Cardan!”

You click your tongue and rescue your younger sister, pulling her in your arms instead. “Why does mama need me right now? And how did you get here?”

Her giggles still rang through the air as Cardan sent a teasing smile toward her. “Mama knew you were over here! She’s waiting nearby. And…” She tapped her chin and furrowed her eyebrows in thought, trying to figure out why she needed to get you so suddenly. “Oh! And mama said you have to come home to teach me embroidery while she makes dinner!”

“Right now? The sun just started to set.” Cardan furrows his brows and gives you a weird look.

You shrug and stand from your spot underneath the tree, dusting the dirt off your skirt. Your sister picked flowers from around you as Cardan followed suit and sent you a cheeky smile. He lowered himself and bowed right before you, making Arabella drop all her flowers in surprise.

“Cardan! Someone’s going to see you!” You speak through your teeth, pulling him up from his position. “Don’t do that.”

“Are you secretly a princess?” Your sister tugged at your dress, eyes blown wide in interest.

You shake your head and glare at Cardan who wore a smirk proudly. “I’m not. Cardan just wants to be rude.”

“I thought it was funny.” He shrugged and sent you a wink.

“Bye, Cardan.” You rolled your eyes and pulled your sister away from him, knowing she was going to want answers later.

“Can’t Cardan come too?” She pouted and crossed her arms, ready to throw a tantrum.

You sighed and rubbed your forehead. Of course she wanted Cardan to come with, he was her favorite from the royal family and you two were always together. You slowly turned around and beckoned Cardan to follow.

“Aw, you must be in love with me.” He teased you as he jogged to catch up.

Your sister separated from you and jumped into Cardan’s arms, who then proceeded to carry her on his back. You rolled your eyes at the both of them and continued walking down the path, ignoring the conversation that they were having and focusing on the dirt trail in front of you.

“She definitely likes you.” Arabella whispered into Cardan’s ear, giggling when he freezes in place and the only movement was his tail swishing back and forth, seemingly in excitement. “She talks about you all the time. It’s so annoying.”

“Does she? What does she talk about?” He adjusted her and continued the trek, eyes trained on you and you only.

“Everything.” She sighed, leaning her cheek on his back. “She talks about how you look, how you act, how you talk… Even how you look at her!”

Cardan raised his brows at the irony, “All good things?”

You sister shrugged and drew stars on his back, “Sometimes she gets annoyed, but she mainly talks about how interesting you are.”

“Interesting…”

Before Arabella could add anything else, you turned around squinted your eyes at the two of them. "You two are awfully quiet back there. What are you talking about?"

"We were talking about y—"

Cardan quickly covered your sister's mouth as she jumped off his back to tell you. You sent him an incredulous look as your sister puffed her cheeks up in frustration.

Cardan sent you a strained smile, "She just licked my hand."

"Oh, Arabella—!" You scolded, taking her by the shoulders and dusting dirt off her for lack of finding something to fuss with.

"I was going to say something and he interrupted me!" She huffed and glared at Cardan.

Cardan pursed his lips and looked back over to you, sending an apologetic look when your mother rounded over to you three.

“Oh, Prince Cardan! Will you bring joining us for dinner?” She dusted her hands off and sent him a soft smile.

He tilted his head before answering, “I’m sure my brother wouldn’t mind if I did.”

The trek to your house wasn't too bad. Arabella walked with your mother while you stayed back with Cardan. You and Cardan spoke in hush tones, causing your sister to look back every second. She wanted to join the teenagers too.

Subconsciously, Cardan's tail wrapped close to your hip. It wasn't uncommon for such to happen, but something felt different. You glanced up at him and tilted your head when he shrugged.

“Your sister says you talk about me a lot.”

You scrunch your nose and fiddle with your rings. “She talks a lot.”

Cardan hummed at your deflection. Because you were both Faerie, you were accustomed to looping your answers to avoid the truth itself. You stare into his black eyes, the gold shining from the setting sun. He squinted at your intense stare and stuck his tongue out at you.

You let out a soft chuckle before looking forward again. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you found yourself stepping closer to Cardan.

He tilted his chin down toward his chest to hide a faint smirk and cleared his throat when he saw your manor approaching.

“You promise you’re watching the tournament this year?” Cardan glanced over at you and grinned when you rolled your eyes.

He would never tire of you rolling your eyes at his quick remarks.

“Of course, I never miss it.” You nudge your arm into his. “And I’m sure you would be upset if I didn’t show up.”

“I won’t answer that.” He followed you inside the manor as the help began to bow at his presence. “But that means you’ll watch me beat the mortal in my own game.”

Your high finally deflated at the mention of Jude Duarte once more. You bit your tongue and slipped out of his hold, eyes now avoiding his gaze. Even just the slightest mention upset you.

Cardan noticed your behavior, of course. He sat on the arm chair of the living room as you plucked embroidery materials from the cabinets near by and ran his fingers through his hair when you didn’t even acknowledge him on your way out.

Just before you left, Cardan shot up from his seat and grasped your wrist, causing you to whip around in shock and confusion.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” He asked, eyes searching yours for some kind of answer. “You’ve been acting weird.”

“Cardan, I really have to—“ You try deflecting.

“Tell me.” He gently squeezed your wrist, shutting his eyes when you exhaled deeply.

Your frown deepened as you spoke, “It’s just… You always talk about Jude. What’s special about her? She’s a mortal.”

“I don’t always talk about her.” Cardan frowned in return and squeezed your wrist gently. “I barely talk about.”

In the moment, you believed he did speak about her all the time. In actuality, he rarely spoke about her fondly. All he did was ever complain about her. But you didn’t take it that way at all, causing issues such as these.

“Yes, you do.”

“No. I. Don’t.” Cardan emphasized each word with the same vigor, finally releasing you from his grip.

“Okay, you know what? I don’t want to talk about this right now.” You huff and turn to find Arabella before Cardan stopped you again. “What—?”

He tugged you closer and held your arms softly, eyes looking all across your face, almost in hesitation. You were about to question him before you caught what he was insinuating. Your mouth parted ever so slightly as they dried, meeting his blown eyes. You nodded ever so slightly, which was immediately followed by a quick smile and sudden wave of passion.

Cardan had kissed you. On. The Lips.

You thought it was a dream but after pinching yourself for several seconds, you knew it was true. His hand was placed delicately on your jaw when he parted, eyes lidded and lips twitching into a smirk at your expression.

“What was that for?” You cleared your throat and tilted your head to try and hide the rising heat to your cheeks.

“I love you, but sometimes you can be dense.” Cardan murmured as he thumbed your cheek.

His words clearly had an effect on you after you nearly collapsed on the spot from two surprises in under a minute. You cleared your throat again and meet his eyes for the first time in a hot second, noticing his amused expression.

“You love me?” You whispered, not caring that you had just shared your first kiss with the boy you loved since childhood. “You truly love me?”

“How can I not?” He wiped a smudge of dirt off your cheek before removing his hand, lacing it with yours instead.

By now, you knew your face was burning and you were totally giving it away. “You love me?”

Cardan gave you a look, squeezing your hand. “Yes, I do.”

You bite your bottom lip softly in excitement, “Really?”

“Yes.” He drawled and pulled you into a hug. “You really like hearing that.”

“I do.” You tilt your head up on his chest and smile. “But that’s only because I love you so much more.”

“Impossible.”

“I thought we only told the truth.” You grin before his lips met yours again in retaliation. Parting, you give a playful glare, “That’s unfair.”

“Never said it was.”

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jewishvitya · 2 years ago

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hi riki! this is a bizarre question ngl, but im wondering if you could please tell me about why you are anti-Zionist? Since i have FRESHLY (last month!! Woohoo!!) become bat mitzvah, and I’m not going to beit Sefer every week now, I’m starting to realize that what I was told about Israel and zionism miiiight be innacurate. Please feel free not to, but I would personally feel more comfortable hearing about Antizionism from somebody who is for sure not hiding any antisemitic biases. Thanks and I hope it’s not a bother!

Mazal tov!

I was debating if I should reply to this and how. You're only one year older than my son and I never considered talking about this with a kid other than my own children. But if you're online reading and looking up information about this, I'll just answer the way I would for anyone. Like I said, I don't mind explaining. But I don't have the energy to collect sources for you. I'll do that later if you'd like. For now it'll be a bit of a rant.

Basically, if you ask different people what zionism is, you'll get different answers. Some people say that zionism is just the acknowledgement of our connection to this land. That's not what I'm going against. I'm not denying that this is our ancestral homeland. I've never known a different home, I grew up near Hebron. Our history means everything to me. So maybe you could create some definition of zionism that I wouldn't be against. But then I'll be against the use of the word because in practice, politically, the movement has been colonialist. And that reality is more important to me. So when I say I'm antizionist, I'm not talking about whatever pretty idea someone might have, I'm talking about things that to me are very concrete.

Zionism uses whatever political terminology is useful to it at the time. Currently, it tries to paint itself as a sort of landback movement, placing us as the indigenous population of this land. This is a distraction. If you mean "indigenous" as "this is where we originated" - both us and Palestinians are indigenous, which makes this term pointless to this situation. If you mean "indigenous" as "a local population facing colonization" - they're indigenous and we're the colonizers. That's the more politically useful distinction.

And the thing is, zionists knew they were colonizers. Ben Gurion was welcomed by the local population and expressed hope that they're nomadic and could be persuaded to leave. Ze'ev Jabotinsky argued that no land has been colonized with the consent of its natives, so we should just take what we want like other occupying forces did. They knew what they were doing. At the time, there wasn't the broad political pushback against colonialism that you see today, so they didn't really hide it. They saw themselves as the colonizing force and the Palestinians as the natives and this distinction had them placing themselves above the Palestinians.

When I was in school, I was made to believe that Palestine was never truly a country and the population here was never a cohesive nation. You might see questions like "Who were the Palestinian prime ministers and presidents? What was the Palestinian coin? What Palestinian wars were there before the creation of Israel?"

These questions tell you nothing other than the fact that Palestine has been under foreign occupation for a very long time. They try to lead you to believe that Palestine and the Palestinian identity are fictional constructs designed to deny us our place in this land.

But Palestinians have their own dialect of Arabic. They have their own varieties of Middle Eastern foods. They have their own clothing, their own embroidery patterns, their own dances. They have a very rich culture that wasn't just made up from nothing within the last century. I still have to battle against cognitive dissonance every time I find something of the sort, because Palestinian culture goes against everything I was taught.

The truth is, the British had no right to occupy Palestine, and they had no right to offer it to us. If we pretend there was no population that was wronged when we took Israel, we can be "the good guys" with Palestinians being a sinister plot to ruin us. This turns normal families, normal people, into a conspiracy made to hurt us. We're not fighting a military force - every Palestinian person is a threat to our legitimacy. Israelis don't even really use the term "Palestinians" - they're just Arabs, their individual identity is stripped from them. We pretend that they belong to other countries around us.

Israeli propaganda will tell you that we only ever act in self defense. It's in the name of our military, it's called a defense force. Israel boasts that it has the only ethical military in the world. The only defensive one. But like I said, we define threats very broadly. And we whitewash a lot of history. I was taught in school all our fighting was defensive - and then I spoke to an elderly man and he said "of course we killed whole villages, it was war, that's what you do." Only as an adult I found out about things like the Sabra and Shatila massacre and our involvement in it.

For the existence of Israel as an ethnostate, every Palestinian is a threat. A lot of people are all in favor of Israel, but against the government actions of ethnic cleansing. The truth is, the ethnostate is not sustainable without the ethnic cleansing. You can't accept one and expect it not to lead to the other. An ethnostate is never a justified goal, and that's always been the goal of zionism as a practical movement.

And I know why this exists. We've had two millennia of persecution. Antisemitism is one of the oldest forms of bigotry. And we just experienced an attempt to industrially exterminate us, we lost millions, including from my own family. We want shelter and safety and the ability to defend ourselves. I just can't see that as justification for what we did and continue to do.

You can look up our human rights abuses, but personally, there were moments that hit me. When I saw a whole warehouse of mail intended to reach Gaza, mail that's been kept from them for years, including items like wheelchairs, in such bad conditions that some envelopes got moldy. I still think of the people who spent all that money to get a wheelchair and were prevented mobility because we decided to hold their mail.

I watched the biggest apartment building in Gaza collapse under our bombs and I cried thinking about the people inside, and about the potential survivors and everything they lost.

I watched our people beat up the pallbearers at the funeral of Shireen Abu-Akleh, a Palestinian reporter. They almost dropped the casket from all those beatings. They were no threat. They just carried her. There was no reason to hurt them.

On the news, after Shireen Abu-Akleh died, the description of the Palestinian response to her death was that they're "חוגגים על המוות." The literal translation is that they're celebrating over the death, but that's not what it means. The meaning is that they're exaggerating their pain and their grief. They're acting, pretending, milking the injustice of it for show. And that's a common Israeli narrative, that Palestinians make a big deal out of things and pretend to suffer more just to make us look bad. We've dehumanized them to the point where we don't believe their grief.

And before all of this, growing up, I saw what the "us vs them" mentality caused in children. I grew up in Kiryat Arba and the population there is very strongly zionist. It's a settlement. It's largely Dati Leumi (national religious? I'm not sure how to translate, dati means religious and leumi means national). Over there I saw children as young as six cheerfully talk about joining the military and killing Arabs. I saw a kid throwing chocolate past the electric fence separating us from them, and laughing when a small Palestinian child went looking for that chocolate, calling her a pig. I saw my high school classmates questioning if they should help the family of a six-months-old baby, first demanding to know if the sick infant is Arab.

The Israeli left has a bit of a slogan. הכיבוש משחית. The occupation corrupts. It means that being an oppressive force changes what we are. It ruins us. And I truly believe that. It taints so much about us and our culture, about our compassion and our ability to have solidarity with other humans. Many principles that kept us safe in diaspora are used now to harm gentiles living under our control, and Palestinians suffer most of all.

So these are the reasons I'm antizionist. I hate what we do to Palestinians. I hate what it does to us. And more fundamentally, I'm against colonialism.

#riki babbles #Palestine

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threepandas · 10 months ago

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Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

#threepandas #yandere #yandere otome #yancore #yanblr #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere otome isekai #bad end hidden heir au #i always wanted to explore this dynamic #i have the power therefor you HAVE to let me serve you #isekai #adopted reader #isekai reader #yandere duke #tw sex assault #nothing happened #but Reader-chan is freaked out by being changed while unconscious #tw drugging

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doodle-pops · 10 days ago

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Knight AU: Knight! Fingon

A/N: I had this idea sitting around, waiting for me to post it, and ever since I started my Fingon train, it was perfect to indulge and give him more content. It’s definitely not a part of my Modern AU series, but some AU series.

Warnings: 18+ content, fem!reader, SFW and NSFW headcanons

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˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…was never meant to be a knight in the first place, but he actually earned it—covered in muck, bruises, and dried blood, grinning as he saluted the King after single-handedly saving a squadron from trolls.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…first laid eyes on you at a tournament and promptly lost the joust because he was too busy staring at your smile while trying to keep his lance steady. “Well, that’s hardly fair, is it? You ought to be banned from watching next time. I’m no use to anyone with you looking like that.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…has zero composure when it comes to guarding you. That man will sit outside your door in full armour, helmet in his lap, sword leaning against the wall, even when there’s no threat. When you ask why he’s there again, he just shrugs and says, “You dream a lot more when I’m near. I hear you talking in your sleep, you know. You say my name sometimes.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…doesn’t bow the way the rest do, not really. He inclines his head, holds your gaze too long, and murmurs, “Your Highness.” in that voice that already feels like he’s breaking the rules. He already calls you my lady in front of others, but my trouble, minx, or gilded menace when it's just the two of you, especially when you're getting in the way of his duties by dragging him away for moonlit strolls in the gardens.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…constantly gets into scuffles because “some twat made a comment about your honour” and he insists “I won’t bloody apologise, he deserved the cracked rib.” Will never, ever allow another man to touch you. A visiting prince once tried to kiss your hand a little too long and Fingon crushed his wine cup with one hand, knuckles white.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…gets jealous as hell but masks it with sarcasm. “Oh, lovely. Another prince with more rings than sense. Did you like the way he talked about his horse for half an hour?”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…grumbles about your embroidery lessons but always ends up watching you anyway, leaning on the stone arch with his arms folded, smirking as he mutters, “You’ve stabbed that same corner four times now, love. Trying to kill the fabric?”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who… pretends to grumble about how high-maintenance you are but would cleave a man in half for sneering at the way you demand rose petals in your bath and lace on your undergowns. “If you’ve got a problem with her silk, you can take it up with my sword.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…walks two steps behind like protocol says but steps ahead the moment he senses danger, eyes narrowing like some beast. There’s no hesitation in him, not where you’re concerned.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…trained you in secret with a blade, sneaking you out to the cliffside where he taught you to strike, parry, and disarm. You once managed to knock him flat on his ass and he just lay there laughing. “Well. I surrender, my lady. But only if you kiss me better.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…lost his damn mind when an assassin made it past the guards. You were unharmed, but he nearly tore the castle apart looking for the intruder. When he found them, he didn’t ask questions. Just steel, blood, and fire in his eyes. You had to pull him back, trembling as you whispered, “I’m alright.” And he just sank to his knees in front of you, clinging to your skirts, forehead pressed to your stomach.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…once threw a man clean over a table during a feast because he dared touch your hand without permission. You’d never seen him quite that furious before. “You don’t touch what’s not bloody yours,” he’d growled, eyes still fixed on the stunned man even as you tugged on his sleeve.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…lets you braid his hair and put flower crowns on him when you’re bored, pretending to sigh dramatically but secretly loving how soft your fingers are against his scalp. “If you pull that bit again, I’ll have to arrest you for aggression,” he mumbles, eyes closed.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…calls you princess in a hundred different tones—teasing when you’re flustered, soft when you’re sad, reverent when he’s got you naked and moaning underneath him. He also finds every excuse to sneak into your chambers under the guise of ‘night patrol’ but ends up staying by the fireplace while you read aloud from a book he pretends not to like.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…isn’t rough until you ask him to be. And when you do, he takes that command to heart. Shoves you against the wall of your tower chamber, undresses you with a hunger that borders on desperate, murmuring filth in your ear the entire time.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…knows exactly how to make you fall apart beneath him—tongue on your clit until your thighs tremble, his fingers working you open with the same discipline he uses when sharpening his blade. “That’s it, princess, give me that pretty voice of yours,” he rasps, mouth wet from your cunt.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…once fucked you with your tiara still on your head just because he liked how you looked gasping beneath him, still all royal and regal while he was buried inside you. “Still my lady even like this, aren’t you? Gods above…”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…once made you come so hard you nearly sobbed, and all he did was whisper your name over and over like a vow between your legs, fingers curled inside you just right. “You feel like you were made for me, princess…fuck, look at you…”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who… is insanely good with his mouth. He’ll drop to his knees with absolutely no hesitation, peel your shift up your thighs and mutter, “Shhh, let me do this, princess,” before burying his face between your legs and licking like a man dying of thirst. He loves how you grab his hair, thighs trembling, gasping his name over and over again until you cum so hard your voice cracks.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who… likes it when you're on top of him, riding him slowly in the dark, candles flickering, his hands gripping your hips as he pants, “That’s it—fuck, yes, just like that, my lady—ruin me—go on.” And he’ll always wait until you’ve climaxed before chasing his own release.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…always checks your rooms personally before you sleep, even when other guards have done it. “I trust them just fine, but I trust my sword more,” he shrugs, hand resting on his hilt.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…will kiss you like he’s starved if given half the chance—back against the door, or shoved up on the table of the map room when no one’s around, pulling your skirts up with one hand while the other tilts your chin just so. No matter how rushed or chaotic, he’ll find you, pull you into some corner, and say, “If I fall, I want to know I had your taste on my tongue.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…has a laugh that makes your stomach flutter, especially when he’s teasing. “Didn’t know princesses could curse like that. Charming, really.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…wipes blood from his cheek and then walks straight to you in the aftermath of a battle. “Don’t care who’s watching,” he says lowly, gripping your face. “I needed to see you.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…once dropped to his knees in full armour to eat you out in the stables. You’d been pacing, stressed over negotiations. He didn’t even let you finish your rant before dragging you into the stall. “Let me take your mind off it,” he’d murmured, tongue already licking into your folds.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…fucks you like a man obsessed after a close call in battle, gripping your thighs so tight you feel the bruises the next day. “You don’t get to die on me, do you hear me? You’re mine. Mine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…teaches you how to throw a dagger, his arms around you, breath brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it like a butter knife, love. You’re trying to kill, not make a salad.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…once whispered “I’d kill for you, and if they piss me off, I’d burn the world,” against your skin, tongue tracing your collarbone. And you knew, he meant it.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…makes you laugh so hard during your morning rides you nearly fall off your horse. He catches the reins, grinning. “Good gods, you’ve got all the grace of a drunken goat.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…sneaks into your bath and ends up washing your hair with callused fingers, massaging your scalp gently. Then he fucks you in the water, slow and deep, mouth tasting yours between every stroke.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…once brought you flowers he’d picked during patrol and awkwardly handed them over with, “They looked like your lips. Thought you’d like that.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…isn’t above teasing you mercilessly when you’re desperate. “Is that a royal whimper, then? Thought princesses didn’t beg. Say please again for me.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…sometimes presses your hand to the hilt of his sword and says, “This is yours, too. Everything I am—yours.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…makes love to you as if it might be the last time, murmuring praises into your mouth, your neck, your cunt. “Look how perfect you are. My lady…gods, I’ll never get enough of you.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…doesn’t like sleeping alone anymore. If you’re not in his bed or he’s not in yours, he’s restless and irritable. “I’m used to your cold feet and your snoring. Come back to bed, love.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…secretly carves your initials into the leather of his vambrace where no one else can see. A little piece of you always with him.

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…growls when you ride ahead during hunts. “You don’t bloody lead a hunt unless you’re ready to fight the prey yourself. Next time I’ll put a leash on you.” (And then he smirks, “…Though you might enjoy that.”)

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…is an absolute menace when you’re on your moon cycle. He dotes on you relentlessly—hot water bags, massages, tea, scented oils—but he’s also deeply, embarrassingly turned on by how soft and needy you get. “You always want me more when you're like this,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to your lower belly. “And I love it. I’ll be as gentle as you need, but I’m not leaving you empty tonight.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…loves it when you say ‘please’ in bed. It drives him wild. He’ll hold himself just outside you, tip rubbing against your soaked folds, until you whisper it breathlessly. “That’s it, princess. Good girl. Let me in, yeah?”

˚₊‧꒰ა Knight!Fingon who…would defend you in front of the Valar themselves if he had to, hand on his sword and eyes blazing, even if it meant banishment or worse. He’d do it without blinking. He lives for you—fights for you, bleeds for you, and falls asleep every night with your name on his lips. And when the world goes quiet, and the halls are dark, and his sword is sheathed for the night, it’s you he turns to, over and over, with a heart full of fire and hands made to worship.

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#slim smut #knight!fingon #fingon x reader #knight!fingon x reader #fingon imagine #fingon headcanon #fingon smut #knight au #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion imagine #silmarillion headcanons #middle earth x reader #middle earth imagine #middle earth headcanon #x reader insert #x reader smut #silmarillion #doodlepops writings ✨

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ficeacs · 8 months ago

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Dragons Fight, Little Light (Chapter 1)

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon OFC Synopsis: Dragons love a chase. Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, Violence, Targcest, Begins with HOTD S1, Not Proofread Word Count: 5,330 Previous Chapter

Eraena found little sleep that night. Her mind wondered if her uncle was telling the truth or was trying to get a raise from her. Was she really thought of as the promiscuous princess of Dragonstone? Well, she knew that many knew of her ventures to the village near the keep in Dragonstone but she did no wrong other than sneaking out. Eraena lay and stared at the ceiling, trying to convince herself she had not done anything wrong. The realm already saw her as a bastard; she feared that they would also see her as a whore, even though her honor stayed intact. Eraena groaned and covered her head with a pillow.

When morning came, Eraena was groggy from the lack of sleep, though the bath drew for her helped her wake. “What dress will it be today, princess?” Lyn asked, and Eraena thought for a moment. “That one,” she pointed to a dress of strong blue that fashioned her skills in embroidery once more. A chain of sapphires hung around her waist, a gift her father had given her. Eraena ventured into the halls of the keep with a box in her hands. She headed towards her Aunt’s apartments.

“Princess Eraeana, your Highnesses.” The girl tried to hide her distaste when she saw Aemond. The prince had caused quite the commotion last night, why could he not let a wholesome family moment be? Eraena licked her lips and turned to Helaena with a small smile on her lips. “Good morning,” She greeted and headed towards the princess. “Oh, Eraena, so good of you to visit me,” the princess smiled.

“Of course, and I came bearing gifts,” Eraena said, placing the box on a nearby table, which Helaena made her way to. “Open it,” she said and smiled at the look of giddiness Helaena was trying to surpass. “Oh my,” she whispered. I had the resident entomologist in Dragonstone curate a collection for you of rare insects that only inhabit the island,” Eraena explained and checked the box to see if everything was in order as she had instructed. The princess had figurines in her hands for the children, but her uncle still sat with them; she thought it better that she would give it to them later when he had left.

Avoid him; do not engage. The girl reminded herself she could not afford to cause trouble once more, especially with her Mother in such a state. “Are those for the children?” Helaena asked softly, eyeing the three wood figurines that Eraena had practically forced Lucerys to make. Eraena had spent days meticulously painting a princess, a knight, and a dragon. “Oh, yes, Lucerys had carved them for the children,” Eraena said, and Helaena took her hands to inspect the toys. “He painted them too?” She asked, pale fingers tracing the figurines. “Well, no, I painted them.” She smiled.

“Come, let me introduce you to my children,” She said with a ghost of a smile. Aemond was still seated on the floor with the twins, both Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, on his lap. Eraena avoided her eyes from the prince, fearing it would entice him to tease and torment her. Helaena crouched down, and Eraena cautiously did the same. Five purple eyes turned to the girl, “This is your cousin, Eraena,” Helaena said to the twins and if Eraena were to look at the elder prince, she would see him roll his lone eye. Eraena felt her lips twitch when the twins hurriedly left their uncle’s lap and made their way to her. The look of shock and annoyance that adorned the prince’s face amused the princess, but she quickly turned away and focused on the babes in front of her.

Jaehaera clung quickly to the princess and Eraena let out a laugh on how the young princess found her way to sit on her lap like she did on her uncle earlier. “They like you already!” Helaena mussed and watched as her children switched from their uncle to their cousin. Eraena gave the princess figurine to little Jaehaera and the knight figurine to little Jaehaerys. “You have a third child, do you not?” Eraena asked and brushed the little blonde hairs away from the babe’s eyes. “Yes, Maelor, but he is still fast asleep.” Eraena nodded and returned her attention to the babes.

She would expect Jaehaera’s attention would be on the new toy but Eraena saw purple eyes on the necklace on her neck. “I—I want,” Jaehaera mumbled and tried to grab the emerald pendant that was gifted to her on her most recent name day. Eraena’s eyes widened as Jahaera pulled on the necklace, making the elder princess jerk her head forward. “Jahaera, no!” Her mother said and came to Eraena’s aid. “I’m sorry, I—“ Eraena smiled, “It’s fine; my younger brother, Viserys, has the same habit.” She said and moved to unclasp the pendant so the young princess could inspect it more. When Jaehaera had the pendant in her hands, a toothy grin spread across her face, making Eraena laugh at the adorable face of the younger princess. She surpassed the urge to pinch the cherubic cheeks and turned to Jaehaerys, who now played with both figurines.

It was then that Eraena remembered that there was another party amongst them. Her obsidian eyes found a lilac one. “Do you not have to train, brother?” Helaena asked. The prince’s eyes moved to his sister, and he silently shook his head. “Really? You are often in the tiltyard at this hour,” Helaena mumbled, “Yes, won’t Cole miss you terribly, uncle?” Eraena did not even realize the teasing words escaped her lips. Once she did, she felt her hands grow cold. Aemond was ready to throw yet another disparaging word to the girl but Helaena was quick to speak. “Tea!” She said, and the two turned to her. “Eraena, would… would you like to join me for tea?” She asked, and her invitation was quickly accepted. They handed the children to a nurse and made their way into the gardens. The emerald pendant was long forgotten.

“Oh, I’ve missed you terribly. It became dreadfully lonely these past years,” Helaena said truthfully. The princess sensed melancholy in her eyes and tone. I know what you mean, especially when you are mostly surrounded by brothers. I was lucky to have Rhaena. No matter, I am here now,” Eraena smiled, took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Sister, there you are!” Jacaerys’ voice intervened. “Oh, Jace, join us, will you?” Helaena asked softly, and Eraena's brother obliged, taking his seat across from his sister. There was an awkward silence that enveloped the group. The one-eyed prince had followed the two princesses and sat across from his sister. A knight arrived, and Eraena thought maybe he was there to call over the other prince and save the group from tension. “A letter from Dragonstone, princess,” Eraena was handed a scroll of parchment with a seal she knew all too well; the girl tried her best to hide the blooming smile on her lips, remembering her brother was seated across from her.

“Dragonstone? Who writes to you from Dragonstone? We’re all here.” Jace asked with a raised brow as Helaena turned to Eraena with an intrigued look. “No one. None of importance,” Eraena says and hides the scroll from her brother’s view. “Hm,” she heard a hum coming from the left, making her turn to Aemond, whose eye had been on the scroll. Eraena prayed, prayed to the gods that her brother would not question the scroll once more, and prayed that the burning gaze of a lilac eye would stop. Eraena tried to ignore the man on her left and listen to the conversation between Helaena and Jacaerys. Avoid him; do not engage. She told herself once more.

When tea had ended, Eraena found herself with her sisters. “How long are we still to stay here? The trial had already ended. I doubt anyone else would question Driftmark’s line of succession after yesterday’s events.” Eraena asked the two. “Itching to go back to Dragonstone now, are we?” Rhaena teased, and Eraena let a smirk slip on her lips. “As a matter of fact, yes! I miss my room, the beds in here are quite lumpy. The sun is too hot; I miss roaming around without being judged! And I miss my other dresses and—“ She was cut off by Baela. “And Arthur,” She snickered, and Eraena rolled her eyes. “No! Well… yes, but I mostly miss my other dresses and jewelry.” She sighed and traced the flower patterns of her gown. “He sent me a letter,” Eraena then said, which intrigued the two girls.

Eraena looked around. They were still in the gardens, seated on a bench in a spot that not many passed. She took the scroll from her pocket and broke its seal. The two girls hovered over their sister's shoulder and read its contents.

My, Dearest, Eraena.

How are you, my flower? It has only been two days since you left, yet the island already feels so desolate without your radiant presence. The sun's rays seem dimmer, and the vibrant colors of your flowers are starting to fade; they are missing your touch. How long are you to stay there? Have the people of Kingslanding fared nicely to you, my princess?

I long for your return, yearning for the day when you shall grace us with your presence once more. It would seem that my heart longs to rest its gaze upon you. Come back soon to me.

Yours,

Arthur.

Baela and Rhaena smiled at the blush on Eraena’s cheeks. “My flower,” Rhaena teased, making Eraena roll her eyes. “Must be nice to be sent a letter with such… flowery words,” Baela said. “Jacaerys’ letters only contained about health and the weather, sometimes a story about his ventures with Vermax but never like…” Baela drifted. “Aye, Jacaerys was never one for words.” Eraena agreed and took her sister’s hand in hers, giving it a comforting squeeze.

In the afternoon, Eraena changed into her riding leathers. A wheelhouse delivered her to the pits, where her dragon awaited her excitedly. “Alina,” Eraena sang and waited for her dragon to reveal herself. The princess’s voice echoed through the pits, and what emerged was not her dragon but her uncle instead. Aemond had a fiery stare in his eye, and the girl wondered why he was already in such a state.

“Will you be quiet? You are disturbing the dragons with your grating voice.” Ice-cold words clashed with the fire in his eye. Eraena pursed her lips and rolled her eyes but nodded. Standing still, waiting for her dragon, she turned to her side, and Aemond stood alongside her. “Why are you here? Vhagar does not even fit here,” she asked and folded her arms across her chest. “Mind your own business, niece.” He spat.

Alina has still not emerged and Eraena was growing weary. She turned to her uncle once more; he had a torch in his hand. She thought to ask for it, so she could get Alina herself, but her mouth could not move and ask. Instead, she walked into the dark pits. “Alina,” Eraena called once more. The princess squinted her eyes in the dark. Only now did she wonder, where were the keepers? Eraena chewed on her lip and waited for the whine of her dragon; she was only met with furious footsteps and the orange hue of a torch. “What are you doing?” Aemond asked and took hold of her arm. “Trying to find my dragon.” She said as if it were the most obvious thing. “You do not go into the pits,”

“Hm, were you not the one who often got into trouble for constantly venturing here?” She asked innocently, remembering an instance from their childhood. The ground shook, and they turned to the she-dragon with pearly white scales that shimmered gold in the light. “Hello, my love!” Eraena said giddily and practically skipped toward her dragon. Alina bent her head toward the girl, who placed a kiss upon its snout. Eraena inspected the mighty beast, trailing her hand upon the scales. She checked the breastplate that secured her saddle, a breastplate made of gold and dragon glass.

Alina growled lowly as her obsidian eyes, eyes like her rider, landed upon the prince. “Lykiri. Lykiri, Alina.” Eraena murmured and stroked her dragon’s snout. “It would seem you agitate my dragon, uncle,” Eraena observed as she made her way to her saddle. She turned to the prince who seemed to have a contest of stares with the beast. “Do not mind the small man, Alina,” Eraena said in ancient tongue and stroked its neck. “If you would, uncle, please step aside. Would not want you to get trampled on, however tempting it is.” Eraena said. She watched as Aemond huffed and was certain that he mouthed the words ‘spoiled bastard’ under his breath, but Eraena could no longer find care; she was to fly!

Alina soared through the skies, and Eraena smiled widely, seeing Kingslanding grow farther and farther away. Alina ascended higher, and the familiar feeling of liquid in Eraena’s stomach returned, and she felt her heart pace faster. Alina liked to toy with her rider, flying as high as the heavens and then dropping back quickly to earth. “Alina!” Eraena shouted in glee as Alina flew downwards. Another roar of a dragon took Eraena’s attention, and she felt her stomach fill with dread as she saw Vhagar heading towards them. “Higher, Alina.” Eraena quickly commanded. Scared of the mighty beast her uncle rode. The princess turned back and still saw the dragon behind them.

For what seemed like hours, Eraena tried to find ways to avoid the two beasts. Stirring Alina in every direction, she tried hard not to let her fear shine through, knowing her dragon would feel it through the bond. Eraena sighed and decided that maybe she should stop flying. The girl felt annoyance surge through her as she returned to the pits once more. She sullenly removed her riding gloves and entered the wheelhouse, wholly upset at Aemond for ruining her ride.

When afternoon came, the princess found herself in the library scanning through the books she had read from childhood. Countless tales of princesses and knights, wizards and kings. Little Aegon’s name day was approaching, and Eraena thought it a good present that she made one of her favorite stories into an illustrated book for her younger brother. Little Aegon loved her paintings and illustrations, often sitting on her lap as she painted back in Dragonstone. She originally wanted to write the story herself, but it was quite a large undertaking to create a story that her brother would enjoy. Eraena stared at the stack of books before her, thinking hard as to what story she would use.

“A book is to be opened and read, not stared at.” Eraena heard a cold voice cut through the stony silence of the room. Eraena turned her head to Aemond, who stood before her. The girl was still quite annoyed by his actions earlier. The princess crossed her arm across her chest once more and stared unamused at the prince. She watched as Aemond raised a blonde brow at her scowling face. “You look ghastly when you scowl,” it only made Eraena’s frown deepen as he said words that Jacaerys had said before. It made her believe that she did look ghastly with not just her brother’s testimony but as well as her uncle's. The girl started to unconsciously pout as she tried to remove the scowl on her face.

“No word for your uncle, I see,” Aemond said and took a seat across the girl. “I have no words for foolish men who would use a dragon of war to chase other riders. Do you realize how dangerous that was?” Eraena asked and sat up straight. “It was simply a jape,” Aemond reasoned, and Eraena could not help but frown once more. Since when had he been one for japes and jests?

“That is not a jape; that is how war starts, Aemond,” the girl sighed. “Do not be so dramatic, Eraena,” the prince rolled his lone eye. “I am not being dramatic! You do not use a war dragon for a simple chase! It only knows of conquest and blood!” She watched as the prince pursed his lips, thinking of a reply. “What are you even doing here?” she asked, letting annoyance seep into her tone.

“To read,” He said as if it were the most obvious thing. “Why here?” Eraena asked, and Aemond only frowned. “Because this is the library, has your stay in Dragonstone turned you into a simpleton, Eraena?” He asked, lips twitching upwards as the frown returned to the princess’ forehead. “No, what I meant was, what are you doing here, sat upon where I had sat first. There are other places for you to read.” She said and pointed to an empty nearby table and chair. She watched as Aemond turned to the spot she had pointed to, and the prince shrugged.

Eraena rolled her eyes in response and stood. Taking the stack of books and moved to the empty spot, not wanting to be near the prince. Aemond watched, amused, as the princess took a seat that had her back turned to him. He was not even sure as to why he was in the library, not quite certain as to why he was engaging with the girl. She obviously wanted to be left alone, but Aemond could not let her have what she wanted, not when her whims and wants were always met.

Eraena tried to focus on her task once more, trying hard not to turn and glare at the prince whose gaze burnt in the back of her head. For just having one eye, he surely knew how to stare someone down, the girl thought. It was quite some time as the two sat separately in silence; Eraena was done for the day, already picked a story that she would draw illustrations of, but she did not want to be the first to leave. Somehow, her pride convinced her that she should not be the one to leave first the uncomfortable presence of the room; it would be seen that she was bothered by the prince’s presence, that Aemond had the capability to unnerve her. So, she just sat there, staring blankly at an open book, pretending to read, turning its pages as if she were actually consuming literature.

“Eraena, there you are!” She heard Rheana’s voice, and the princess quickly looked up. She watched as her sister cautiously eyed the prince seated behind her. “Your… brother has been looking for you for the past hour.” She said, confused as to why it was just the two of them in the library. Eraena nodded and stood up, taking her chosen book in hand, and quickly rushed out of the room. Her pride cannot be wounded in this situation; she did not leave because of him; it was because her brother had asked for her presence!

“What were you doing alone, with Prince Aemond.” Eraena frowned at her sister’s query, “Do not word it as such! I was not alone with Aemond. I was… was simply in an empty common room… with him.” Eraena explained. “We saw you two in the skies earlier,” Rhaena said. “That idiot made his dragon chase me and Alina!” Eraena complained. “Really? It just looked like the two of you were flying around in circles; it looked quite fun.” Rhaena shrugged, and Eraena frowned; it certainly did not feel that way. “Why was Jacaerys searching for me?” Eraena asked; Rhaena shrugged.

“Sister! There you are!” Jacaerys said from the end of the hall, walking briskly toward the two. “What is it?” Eraena asked. “There is to be a hunt two days from now,” Jacaerys said, his excitement obvious. Though Eraena was at a loss as to why he had concerned her with this. “So?” She asked. “You must teach Lucerys and me to shoot again. Luc is waiting for you in the tiltyard.” Eraena looked at her brother oddly. “What? Why me? Ask Ser Harold or even Father to teach you.” “I’ve asked them, and they told me to ask you instead,” Eraena shook her head, “No, I cannot; I will be under scrutiny from the court. They already frowned upon my venture in the gardens alone; what else if I be the one who had to teach my brothers to shoot an arrow?”

“Who cares what they think? Come now, sister, you are the best archer here!” Jacaerys tried to persuade the girl. With a couple more compliments and flattery, Eraena reluctantly nodded. “Fine! But I shall only stand by the side and watch you two. I’ll make comments here and there, but I will not touch a bow or arrow.” She explained as they headed to the tiltyard. Eraena’s eyes enclosed on their younger brother who had failed to set the arrow free. Rhaena no longer followed them, not interested in watching as Eraena grew frustrated teaching the two boys.

“Straighten your back,” Eraena instructed from the side. “Keep your shoulders lax. Lucerys feet apart,” she said. “Only use your dominant eye upon the target,” “We know Eraena!” Lucerys groaned. “Do you? You have missed every time, brother.” She said, her eyes going to the failed attempts of the two. Arrows started to pile up on the dirt ground. “You are lacking force, Lucerys; readjust your shoulders,” she said, and Luc nodded. She then turned to Jacaerys, “You do not have an aim. I fear for the others joining you in the hunt.” She said and saw as her brother rolled his eyes. “Release,” she instructed.

Lucerys had not quite hit the center but at least his bow finally stuck to the target instead of just falling into the ground. Jacaerys’ arrow, however, flew to a pile of hay. “Good Luc!” Eraena said and smiled at her younger brother. “My, my, what do we have here? Training for the hunt boys?” Aegon’s voice sounded out making three dark eyes turn to the prince. “And what are you doing here, Eraena? I had never thought you were one to spend time in the tiltyard, or are you training once more on how to maim men.” Eraena tried to surpass the grin as she saw Aegon had a slight limp to him. “Just watching my brothers, uncle,” she replied.

Aegon made his way to where the princess stood. “Then let me join you, dear niece.” The elder prince stood a bit too close to Eraena and the girl was quick to step away, putting. A hearty distance between them. Her brothers turned to her and she nodded, and the two set aim once more. Once again, Lucerys lacked force, and Jacaerys lacked aim. The girl wanted to groan, growing frustrated at the two. “Feet apart, Lucerys!” Eraena cracked, not caring that Aegon was there. She went to her brother and used her foot to indicate what the younger prince’s stance should be. “And you, Jacaerys, you must close your other eye! Your vision is being split!” She groaned and used her fingers to forcefully close her brother’s eyelid. “I can’t! I physically cannot just close one eyelid!” He said, and Eraena huffed. “Might you borrow one of my brother’s eyepatches?” Aegon mused a smirk on his lips as he watched the princess scold her brothers.

Eraena turned to Aegon, considering his suggestion. She knew it to be a jest but it would solve Jacaerys’ lack of aim. “No!” Jacaerys said, seeing the look his sister held. “Well, you won’t do well in this hunt!” Eraena returned to her spot next to Aegon. “Again!” She instructed. “I must say, I never thought you to be such an authoritarian,” the elder prince said and inched closer to the princess, though it was futile as she was returning to her brother to show him the proper stance once more.

“Back straight, Lucerys, and your foot! I swear to the gods I will nail your foot if you do not keep them apart.” She warned. She now remembered why she had not been assigned to teach Joffery high Valyrian or teach anything for that matter. The girl was too impatient. “You're growing red, Eraena,” the younger prince mumbled, and his elder brother snickered. The princess threw her brother a glare. “I’ve had enough of this, I told you. You should have just asked Ser Harold,” Eraena grumbled and returned to stand next to Aegon on the side. “So impatient, little niece… Though, I think I like you better domineering.” The elder silver prince mused. Eraena turned to the prince with a disgusted look on her face, her round lips upturned, brows once again furrowed. Aegon only laughed at his niece’s face. “Do not fret, Eraena; I shall teach your brothers to shoot. Would not want to aggravate that pretty face of yours.”

The prince made his way to take the bow from Lucerys, and the younger prince turned to his sister, who nodded. The two brown-haired princes watched as their uncle took his stance. Aegon had let go of the arrow and had impressed Eraena. He was not a terrible shot. She thought. It was slightly off-centered, but it was better than any shot her brothers had made. “Luc, look at Aegon’s footing,” She instructed, and her brother mimicked their uncle’s stance. Eraena walked closer to them, Aegon ready to let go of another bow. He felt fingers upon his upper back, “Straighten your spine, Aegon; do not hunch,” Eraena instructed. He did like her better when she was giving out orders, obviously growing annoyed. “As you wish, sweet Eraena,” he said and let go of the arrow, landing it upon the center.

He turned to look at the girl, hoping to find a look of impressed on her pretty face, but she had moved her attention to her other brother. “What are you doing?” Jacaerys asked as Eraena wrapped her handkerchief around his head, covering one of his eyes. “Shoot,” Eraena instructed; her brother was hesitant but did as she told. Finally, a centered shot from Jacaerys! A look of achievement adorned her brother’s face. He made to shoot another, and a laugh escaped his lips. “This is easy!” He said, and Eraena rolled her eyes. “All right, don’t get cocky.” Eraena returned her attention to Luc. “Ready?” She asked and her younger brother gave a nod. “Release,” The bow was off-centered, but it was close enough. “Good,” Eraena said. “Just try to aim better, and do not forget your footing.” Aegon and her returned to the side, “Thank you,” she said lowly. If he had not intervened, she would have stomped off the tiltyard. Aegon nodded with a smirk on his lips, his eyes not turned to his niece but to the figure above, watching them with a burning eye.

Another supper with the entire family was held. However, the girl could not fathom why they would think it was a great idea, especially after the events of the other night. As Eraena entered the dining hall, her seat in between Jacaerys and Aegon was gone, instead, the only empty seat was next to her other uncle. The gods really love to toy with me, don’t they? The girl thought. Dinner was started with prayer once more. It would seem appetite eluded Eraena, only pushing around the food on her plate. “I saw two dragons in the skies earlier, Vhagar and Alina. Did the two of you enjoy your ride?” Alicent asked the two silent individuals to her right. Eraena peeked through her lashes to look at Aemond, his good eye on her. He made no indication to respond to his mother, so Eraena forced a tight smile on her lips. “You can say that, my queen,” she fibbed, she did not enjoy her ride, not at all. Alicent gave the girl a small smile and returned to her meal.

“I saw the prince Aegon with his nephews and niece in the tiltyard, practicing for the hunt, I assume?” The hand inquired. Eraena turned to the three, who nodded. “The princess? In the tiltyard? You are not joining the hunt, are you, Eraena?” The queen asked, almost scandalized. “I—I am not, your grace.” She replied. “Eraena was merely supervising her brothers,” Daemon interjected. “Supervising? I would not think that a princess should have been the one to teach princes a skill such as archery,” Eraena bit back her tongue and took a chalice to her lips to hinder her from speaking out of turn.

“It…gladdens my heart to see… to see you all getting along.” The king suddenly spoke. “This… this is how it should be,” Eraena could see a smile breaking upon his cracked lips. Her mother smiled and took hold of her father’s hand. Supper ended fairly quickly, unlike the other night; this held less violence. Eraena walked the hallways of the keep, alone and her mind wandering off once again. She passed by a window alcove and paused, staring up at the crescent moon before her. Eraena leaned upon the opened window and took in a deep breath, the cool night breeze fanning her face.

“It is not wise to lurk these halls at night,” she heard the cold silky voice of Aemond. “I am not one to lurk, uncle; that is your specialty if I remember correctly.” Eraena sighed and turned to the man who stood behind her. “You seem to enjoy my brother’s company,” he said, and Eraena raised her brow. “Well, I would always enjoy the company of those who do not make chase on a war dragon’s back,” she said and watched as Aemond’s jaw ticked. “Let it go, Eraena,” The prince sighed and stepped closer to the prince. “No,” the girl felt a smirk coming to her lips but hindered it. “I will not until you apologize,” she said and wanted to laugh at the look of appalled on Aemond’s face. “I will never apologize to a bastard like you,” the girl shrugged, the word bastard rolling down her back as if it were not a deep insult he had made it to be.

“Then I shall be here to constantly remind you of your idiotic actions; what happened to the cautious boy I once knew? Has your vigilance gone with your eye, uncle?” She asked and finally let the smirk pass to her lips. It was quick to be wiped by Aemond’s next actions, forcefully pushing her to the curved wall of the alcove, his hand enclosed on her neck. Eraena’s obsidian eyes widened in fear, and her breathing stopped. She clawed at the prince’s hand. “A—Aemond,” she wheezed out, but the prince was too far gone in his own rage. Eraena closed her eyes, feeling his hold tighten, lifting the girl from the ground by her throat. “How easy it is to be rid of you now, bastard,” Aemond seethed, and Eraena felt tears run down her face. It was not until her salty tears hit Aemond’s hand that he grew aware of what he had done.

The prince quickly let go of the girl, who fell harshly to the ground. “Eraena…” he managed to say, voice growing soft. Eraena tried catching her breath and turned to the prince in horror. She quickly stood up, gathered her skirts, and ran to her chambers in fear. When in the solace of her own chambers, Eraena broke into tears. Anger cannot find a place in her being; she is only wrapped in fear. What has Aemond come to? So cruel and callous that he did not even give a second thought about taking her life.

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