#Fortresses Under Fire

[emaadsidiki]

Fortresses Under Fire🎨 Keith Ferris🖌️ Thunderbirds🛩️

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

More in the AU where Elrond and Elros are 16 years old rather than 6 when Sirion is sacked. Tag is "older kidnap fam fic" for previous installments

Elrond wakes up draped over the rump of a horse.

Not, to be clear, his own warhorse. His faithful stallion is being ridden by one of the few remaining warriors of the Gap, the great cavalry of the Noldor, who will be able to keep her seat regardless of what the horse tries.

Elrond isn't initially sure who is riding the horse that he's been set over like a sack of baggage. His arms are stretched out past his head, tied wrists dangling toward the ground, and his ankles are tied as well, tighter than the hobble that he had while walking. He can't see anything but horse flank.

Elrond wriggles around to try and get a better view, and someone notices.

"Lord Maedhros, it seems your guest is awake."

Maedhros pushes down the middle of Elrond's lower back to pin him more surely to the horse. "Lie still. If you fall off while riding in formation you're liable to get stepped on by the next horse, even if the rider wished to avoid you."

"I know how to ride properly."

"Yes, I saw that you were quite skilled when you killed my soldiers, which is why you're staying right there."

"Could I at least sit upright, even if I have to ride behind someone else like an infant?"

"Maybe tomorrow, if you give your word not to escape."

"I'm not stupid enough to try and bargain with you again, after you broke your word about setting us free from the cellar."

"I never said I'd set you free, I said I'd leave the city and wouldn't kill you. Sirion crumbled in the first assault, but I did no more damage after taking you and your brother into custody. If they're smart enough to repair the castle first, everyone should be able to keep warm this winter."

"And if they focus instead on burying their dead, or rebuilding their houses, or rescuing their kidnapped princes?"

"Who knows? But I'm not king of even the Noldor anymore, and the people of Sirion are not my responsibility."

"You would just let them die?" Elrond wanted to glare at the Feanorian, and nearly slipped backwards off the horse as he tried to sit up.

Maedhros caught Elrond deftly by the bound wrists and pulled him back into place. "Next time you do that, I'll let you fall"

"So you don't actually intend to even spare my life."

"I agreed to spare you, not to save you . None here will harm you, but I won't rescue you from consequences of childish stupidity, no more than I will rescue Sirion from winter. If you would rather bash your head open rather than remain my captive, I am not so cruel as to deny you that escape."

Elrond had nothing to say to that topic, as his first retort about more palatable escapes seemed likely just to enrage his captor, as did any question about cutting off hands. "Where's Elros? Was he at least left back in Sirion?" Elrond wanted his brother to be safe, and his people to have a leader with his mother drowned. But he, selfishly, also did to want to be alone with the kinslayers.

"He's here as well, don't worry. Nornmalo has him, and I trust him not to torture a prisoner, despite what it may sound like."

"The moans of pain might be a headache, he drank rather a lot of beer while we were trapped."

Maedhros laughed. "Well, a hungover child soldier. He will at least bother Nornmalo less with questions."

"Could I give him something to soothe the headache? I know a bit of healing."

"No. A headache won't kill him, and he'll get water when we stop same as you."

They stopped only once that day, to water the horses at a stream. Elros was pulled down from the saddle - feet first, luckily, though he still landed in a heap - and his hands untied. Maedhros tossed him a canteen, and said "if you need to piss, now's the best time. You won't get piss all over the horse or your clothes, and we're downstream of the rest of the company."

"My legs are still tied."

"The ropes low enough you should be able to unfasten your belt."

"Are you going to watch me the whole time?"

"Until I find another guard, yes."

Elrond drinks little enough water to avoid the issue, for the moment.

When it's time to ride again, Elrond puts up a fight about having his arms tied again. That just gets Maedhros pinning his face in the dirt while a soldier ties the rope.

Elrond is slung back on the horse like a parcel.

They stop again just before sunset to make camp.

Elrond's hands are untied again for dinner.

The food is simple, waybread and water, and Elrond wonders if he should mention that Men need to eat more than once a day.

Far more exciting than the food though is the figure dropped on the grass next to him, clutching his own canteen and waybread.

"Elros!"

"Elrond! By Ulmo, you're alright!"

"I am, just a bit bruised from the horse. You?"

"Here's something for your healer's notes: do not put people with hangovers upside down for hours. I must have thrown up a dozen times."

"That's terrible! Maybe we can ask-"

At that point the guard tells them to hurry up, they'll be taken to where they're sleeping in ten minutes regardless of how much dinner they've had. Elrond and Elros focus on eating.

They are not, apparently, going to be sleeping near each other. "Too much chance to plot."

The Feanorian soldiers have tents. Some of them share, some of them have their own. A few soldiers have tents obviously designed for two or three that they go into alone.

The horses stolen from Sirion are tied to a picket line. It's loped through the reins, but one person untying the end would let all the horses scatter.

The horses the Feanorians rode into town on are not tied at all. They are loyal old warhorses, and will not flee from orcs in the distance. If wolves do sneak past the guards into the camp, better for the horses to run, and come back at their masters' call when the danger is passed.

Elrond, by contrast, is tied to a tree trunk. His hands are tied in front of him rather than behind, and his legs are unbound. Maedhros's brother - and Elrond learned from a careless remark that their is only the one left - even tossed a blanket over Elrond's legs, to guard against the chill of the night air.

It is the most freedom of movement Elrond has had all day, but that's saying little.

He is stuck sitting up, feeling every root and rock underneath him, unable to reach his hands back to where the rope is tied behind the tree.

Elrond sleeps poorly, stirring at every noise, whether it's a guard on their rounds or an owl hooting its warning.

In the morning, Elrond is given a breakfast of water and waybread again.

Maedhros says "You know it would be suicidal to flee, alone in the wilderness, yes?" and lets Elrond ride behind him sitting up.

Elrond's hands are still bound, and a rope leads passed Maedhros to the saddle horn. If he fell off, he better hope he can keep pace with a cantering horse, or else be dragged on the ground.

Elrond stays on the horse. He figures out his balance well enough to turn, and sees Elros riding similarly.

Thing continue like this for over a week, until they reach Amon Ereb.

[masters-and-magnets]

Alright, I drew him. I downloaded some custom brushes and wanted to practice digital painting.

Meet Rudolf, my BLU Medic OC. He exists to suffer. He's the human equivalent to a wet paper towel.

[the-halloween-jack]

DC ✢ When he realised he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

The moment had been a quiet revelation, in a silence so profound it frightened him. The kind of silence that followed the first crack of thunder, one moment loud and undeniable, the next building with tension, waiting for it to strike again. 

You were sitting in the library of the manor, an arcane book resting open upon your lap, the fire crackling softly behind you. He had just returned from patrol — broken, bloodied, and defeated.

You looked up, eyes wide, alarmed at his state and asked, ‘Bruce?’ You had spoken as if he were not the Batman, not an emblem of vengeance and grit, but a man, just a man, whose hurt mattered.

Something in him gave out. Not in an ostentatious, cinematic collapse, but in the subtle yielding of defences too long held taut. His mind, a fortress of rationale and boundaries, fell silent.

She sees me, for all I am, it whispered. And yet she stays.

He had not believed in unconditional love since the alleyway. But in that moment, with the stench of blood from his suit and the leaden weight of the city upon his back, he saw love for what it was — not a sanctuary, but a quiet understanding, and a choosing. And she had chosen him.

It terrified him. Because now he had yet another thing to lose, to protect, something that was not abstract. It had a name. A voice. A laugh. It sat in his home and softened his world.

He had never been the same since.

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

It crept up on him — not a wave, but rather a tide. Quiet and constant and utterly irreversible.

You had fallen asleep in his bed, still holding a game controller, your brow furrowed even in your unconsciousness. He watched you in the blue glow of the screen and thought, God, I’d die for her.

And then came the laugh — low, bitter, surprised. Because of course he would. He was always ready to die for someone.

But this felt different. This was not a compulsion, a sense of duty. It was not about legacy or guilt. It was about you. And the way your presence grounded the part of him that had always been just suspended above the world, half-grieving, half-trying.

He remembered kissing your forehead before leaving for patrol that night. Slow. Lingering. The kind of kiss that was not about want, but reverence.

That was when he knew.

Love was not a thrill. It was a weight. And he had never wanted anything to anchor him, to tether him to this sphere, more than you.

The realisation made him smile. And then it made him ache.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

Jason felt it like the first rays of sun upon his back after a piercing winter, it flooded his system, warm and compelling. It struck him all of a sudden — new, unfamiliar, and… unwelcome. He did not want it. He had not asked for it.

You were brushing your teeth, half-asleep, wearing one of his old shirts, humming a song under your breath as though nothing was wrong in the world, as though it were not in a state of disrepair just beyond the window. And while watching you, he could believe it for a moment too.

Jason stood in the doorway, paralysed. Because he had seen too much tragedy, too much carnage. He could hardly believe that a quiet instant of peace, like this, could even exist, let alone in his reality.

His first instinct was to run. Not literally — he could never leave you. But to emotionally retreat, to steel himself for the moment this fleeting softness was stolen from him.

But you looked at him. Just looked — toothpaste foam and all — with a kind of amused concern, and asked, ‘You okay?’

After everything he had been through. He was not sure he had ever been less okay.

He loved you. He loved you with a passion that made him feel unworthy, as if he had tainted something holy.

A voice in him protested — said it was weakness. Said this would end in catastrophe. But he ignored it, just this once. He stepped forward and kissed your temple.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just tired.’ But he was not. This was a lie. His mind was reeling.

He did not sleep that night. He lay awake memorising your breathing.

T I M⠀D R A K E

It was a question you asked that did it. Something ordinary, like, ‘Did you eat today?’

Tim wanted to laugh because it was such a cliché, wasn’t it? But clichés exist because they are true. No one ever asked him that, not like you had, not like it genuinely mattered. 

Then you brought him a coffee, one of those orders so tailored it was essentially an identity. You did not need to ask what he wanted. You simply knew.

He blinked down at the cup, then at you, and suddenly the task he was completing meant nothing.

He felt the world tilt. Quietly. Like the axis of his orbit had shifted. And it had.

Love, to Tim, had always been a puzzle he did not have time to solve. A thing for normal people, with normal lives, for people who lacked the responsibility he had garnered.

But there it was — simple, unassuming and irreversible.

He did not tell you. Not for a long time.

But he began cataloguing what made you smile. The way your face changed after a laugh, crinkled and carefree. He noticed the way your eyes sparkled just a little brighter when you spoke of things that made you passionate, and how the corners of your lips turned up when you were lost in a quiet thought.

This love became his sustenance, it was the first time in years he feared forgetting something.

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E (Aged up as Batman)

It had infuriated him. The sheer idiocy of it.

Love was chemical, juvenile, a distraction. Or so he had been taught. So he had believed.

And yet there he stood — across from you in the garden, where you were speaking to a stray dog as if it were royalty, and something in his chest pulled.

At first, he mistook it for contempt — annoyance at your softness in a moment where he was attempting to be serious. But then you looked up, grinned, and said, ‘I think she likes me.’

And the words caught in his throat. Not because he did not believe them, but because he liked you. Against every grain of his upbringing.

He wanted to scold you, retreat, build walls. But instead, he asked the cat’s name.

That was the beginning. The fracture.

He loved you. In an old, mythic sense. In the way poets spoke of their love — fierce, unyielding, as though it could bend the very fabric of time. 

And that it did, time slowed every time you entered his concentration.

He began to dream of futures — a concept once as foreign to him as mercy.

He has not told you. But he will. In his own time. For now, he will continue to relish in it, and continue in this alluring descent. 

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He did not realise. Not at first. Because what he felt for you was too immense, too intrinsic, to label with as small as a word as love.

It was not until you fell asleep in his arms, mumbling about a stressful day, completely unaware of the god you were held by, that it hit him.

You did not see him as Superman. You saw him as Clark Kent. You simply saw him. The man. His hope. His grief.

And he realised then — you are his tether.

He thought of Krypton. Of its loss. Of the gaping emptiness it had left as soon as he had learnt of it. And for the first time in years, he did not feel hollow. He felt… full. He realised, that the planet could never have been home to him like she was. 

You snored softly. He laughed. Then cried.

Love, he realised, was not loud. It was simply your hand over his heart. It was your laughter in the next room. It was your body next to his.

He had not fallen in love. He had found it, unexpected and irrevocable, and for all the power he had been bestowed, this force had left him helpless to resist.

And now he guards it with everything he is. Because you are not just his world.

You are his home.

If you're interested, I've since posted a follow-up called 'When he admitted he loved you' linked, here. Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[glitchtechv1]

Yo how do people like... deal with multiple hyperfixations? IK i said at one point in a reblog that they're conducting guerilla warfare in my mind to clamour for my attention but-

My mind fortress is being sieged by multiple forms of blight and brainrot. From BG3 to DnD to the more recent COTL and being stewed in that and reading wonderful comics and fanfictions posted on this HELLSIGHT

I had undertale resurfacing due to Twin Runes and that Gaster Blaster Dragon comic thing- THEN HOMESTUCK RISES FROM IT'S UNMARKED GRAVE IN THE SAME SPOT I BIRTHED IT DURRING LOCKDOWN DUE TO THE UPDATE AND JAMES ROACH AND- HOW. WHY.

[orangeblossomsintheair]

GRIEF ASIDE (1/4) | MV33

summary : You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

wc : 13k

an : this took.. a while ☹️ anyway

For as long as you could remember, you had been engaged to Max Emilian, scion of House Verstappen.

On paper, it was a triumphant match, a union to secure your house's fortunes for generations. To be betrothed to the son of a duke was a dream most could only aspire to.

Yet, no one envied House Button’s lovely heiress.

Instead, the court pitied you.

Jos Verstappen, your future father-in-law and Duke of the North, was a name steeped in infamy. Known as the Butcher of the North, his reputation was as frigid and cruel as the land he ruled. Whispers of his war crimes haunted corridors, and songs of lament cursed his name in taverns.

To marry into such a legacy meant tying yourself to shadows you could never escape.

But duty had bound you to this path as tightly as the chill of the northern wind now clung to your skin.

Raised to bridge alliances and strengthen bonds, you had no illusions about the weight of your role.

Now, you stood before the towering iron gates of the Verstappen estate, carriage behind you, your wool cloak and one of your knight’s heavy coats offered little respite from the North’s unforgiving cold.

“Keep your chin up, my lady,” Lily murmured beside you, adjusting the trunk she carried, her voice nearly drowned by the howling wind. Her cheeks were flushed from the frost, and her attempts at reassurance felt as thin as your cloak.

You nodded mutely, clenching your chattering teeth. Complaining about her poor preparation, or your shared underestimation of the northern winter, would achieve little.

The gates groaned open, revealing the sprawling estate beyond.

The fortress-like walls loomed high, their grey stone stark against the snow-laden landscape. Narrow windows glinted like ice shards under the weak winter sun.

Smoke curled lazily from the distant stables, a muted sign of life in an otherwise bleak expanse.

“Cheerful place,” Lando muttered behind you, his voice dry. He pulled his hood lower, trying to shield his face from the biting wind.

“More like a tomb,” Oscar replied, tone low. His eyes scanned the walls warily, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Crossing the threshold of the estate, you were greeted by a cavernous main hall that carried little more warmth than the outdoors. Though a fire crackled at one end, its heat barely touched the far corners of the room.

The scent of pine mingled with the cold tang of iron, likely from the spiked chandelier that loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

“Presenting Lady (Y/N) of House Button,” the steward announced, his voice echoing up the vaulted ceilings.

The words washed over you, irrelevant compared to your struggle to stop trembling. The knight closest to you, Oscar, shifted closer, his presence a silent bulwark, but you scarcely noticed.

A figure descended the grand staircase, drawing your attention despite the icy haze clouding your mind.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

He moved with a grace that could only be borne from years of court presence, strides measured and deliberate yet still managing to not look stiff.

Pale hair neatly combed, save for a few strands that fell across his forehead, softening the otherwise hard edges of his face. His broad shoulders were draped in a heavy black coat lined with fur, swallowing what little light the room offered.

You had heard tales of him: a skilled warrior, an even better horseman, and a temper so fierce people began claiming the Verstappen rage was a hereditary trait.

His eyes fell on you then, surprise flickering across his face before being quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and the unmistakable air of annoyance.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, his tone cold enough to make you flinch.

You stiffened, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

Was that usually how the Northern Lords greeted their betrothed?

Max’s eyes roved over you, taking in your trembling form, pale cheeks, and the inadequate cloak clutched around your shoulders.

His frown deepened, and he turned sharply toward your knights, his expression hardening.

“Why in the seven hells is she dressed like this?” he demanded.

Sir Lando bristled but maintained his composure. “My lady insisted, Lord Verstappen, that we keep ourselves alive. We offered additional layers-”

“She’s half-frozen. Who cares if you're alive if your Lady is dead?” Max cut him off, already shrugging out of his own coat.

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist you were fine, but before you could utter a word, he was draping the fur-lined garment over your shoulders.

The residual warmth from his body enveloped you, burying you under the scent of pine and leather.

“Your stubbornness will kill you,” he muttered, crouching slightly to adjust the coat. His tone was still sharp, but his hands were steady and careful as they brushed over you.

You glanced at Lily, who hovered nearby, her eyes darting between you and Max. “Fetch tea,” Max ordered, voice brooking no argument.

She hesitated, clearly unsure whether to take orders from a person who was decidedly not her Lady, but a sharp look from him sent her scurrying away.

Max turned back to you, his expression unreadable as his hand brushed over your elbow, guiding you forward. “Sit,” he gestured to the high-backed chair closest to the hearth.

You sank into the seat gratefully, abandoning the appearance of grace in lieu of the warmth of the fire and the heavy coat easing the worst of your shivers.

Max crouched before you, his face illuminated by the flickering light. “You were standing in the cold far too long,” he said, softer now as though talking to an injured bird.

“I didn’t realize…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Max’s lips quirked in a faint, reluctant smile. “Not even when you were shivering like a leaf?”

He leaned back, regarding you for a moment before adding, “The North will swallow you whole.”

His words should have stung, but you found it hard to be insulted for there was no malice in them, only a hint of amusement.

The tea arrived swiftly, Lily handing it to you with a pinched expression, steam curling from the delicate porcelain as if reluctant to break the stillness of the hall.

You wrapped your frozen fingers around the cup, savoring the way the heat kissed your skin, thawing the numbness in your fingers.

Max walked to stand a few paces away, matching your knight and maid's distance, watching you with a detached sort of interest, his arms still crossed over his chest.

The flickering firelight carved sharp angles along his face, illuminating the high cut of his cheekbones and the stern set of his jaw.

“You look better now.” His voice was quieter this time. “At least you have some color in you.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a kindness or merely an observation, but you offered a polite nod regardless.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Max will do.”

The correction startled you. Men of his station, sons of dukes especially, rarely made such allowances. Betrothed or not.

“As you wish… Max.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished just as quickly.

“I imagine you have questions.”

Of course, you did.

Too many, and yet none seemed appropriate to ask.

You had spent years preparing for this union in theory, but now that you were standing on the threshold of it, the rehearsed words died in your throat.

“Only a few,” you said carefully.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Then ask.”

You hesitated. “Your father… the Duke… is he here?”

Max’s expression cooled.

“No. My father is at the border fortresses, inspecting the garrisons. He will return before the winter feast to welcome you.”

Relief and dread tangled in your chest. It was a reprieve not to face Duke Jos immediately, but you knew it was temporary at best.

“And your father will be joining us soon enough as well, won’t he?” Max’s tone was unreadable, though something sharp glinted beneath it.

You nodded. “Yes. My father will come north after his duties are finished. To meet with the Duke and… formalize the engagement.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue. This visit wasn’t just a quiet retreat to adjust to your future home. It was a public commitment. Before long, the entire North would know you belonged to him.

You dreaded what that would do to your public image.

Max’s jaw tightened although his expression remained carefully distant. “Of course.”

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the cold stone hall.

“You’ll find the North is not like the South. Comfort is scarce, and the people scarcer. They will not warm to you easily.”

His words felt more like a warning than a courtesy.

“I don’t expect them to.”

That seemed to surprise him. Perhaps he had been expecting you to be one of those Southern ladies that demanded everyone to bend over backwards for their comfort.

His eyes flicked back to you, studying you in a way that made you want to shrink under his coat.

“Good.”

The fire cracked loudly, sending a shower of sparks upward. Max tilted his head toward it, the flicker of light catching in his pale hair.

“You’ll need to adjust quickly. My father won’t tolerate weakness in his house.”

“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened.

“I won’t coddle you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t. But the way he said it made your stomach twist.

Still, you straightened your spine. “I wouldn’t ask for that.”

A tense silence settled again, though this time, it felt more contemplative than cold.

Max’s gaze drifted from you to the door behind you.

“You must be tired from the journey. I’ll have your rooms prepared.”

“I thought we would stay in the west wing,” you said, recalling the arrangements made in the letters exchanged between your families.

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“The west wing is being repaired. Storm damage. You’ll stay closer to the main hall until it’s finished.”

It was a small thing, perhaps, yet it unsettled you.

The west wing was meant to be yours. A space to adjust quietly, away from the imposing grandeur of the estate.

Now, you were being denied that distance.

But what could you do? Refuse? Argue?

“Very well,” you said softly.

Max nodded once then turned to the waiting steward.

“Have the rooms near the library prepared. And make sure the fires are lit.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Oscar and Lando approached then, boots scuffing against the stone floor as they stopped just shy of your side.

Their eyes darted toward you, assessing your posture, searching for some silent confirmation that you were unharmed.

You gave them a small nod, and the tension in Oscar’s broad shoulders seemed to ease, though Lando’s hand remained near the hilt of his sword, his body coiled like a spring.

Max’s sharp gaze swept over the two knights, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly calculating.

“Your people will stay nearby,” he said, his voice firm but unhurried. “Your maid is not to wander without escort. Your men may walk around but not too far from the fortress. I'd rather not deal with the politics of a Southern knight dying in my land.”

Lily bristled at the casual remark, her cheeks coloring with indignation. “We Southerners aren't as fragile as you seem to think,” she said sharply, her words cutting the silence like a knife.

“Lily,” Oscar said quietly, catching her arm before she could step forward. His grip was gentle but firm, head shaking in a silent plea for restraint.

Max didn’t even flinch at her outburst, his cool demeanor unwavering as his gaze flicked back to you.

“Your people are bold.” His tone was tinged with something akin to amusement. “Let’s hope they’re wise enough to temper it.”

“They’re loyal,” you replied evenly, meeting his eyes without faltering. “I wouldn’t have brought them otherwise.”

“Loyalty is admirable but it doesn’t mean much if it gets you killed.”

Lando shifted beside you, jaw tight. “With all due respect, my lord,” he began without much respect at all. “We’re more than capable of keeping her safe.”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Max’s gaze settled on Lando. “But I’ve seen capable men bleed out on these stones for lesser causes. My rules are for your protection as much as mine.”

Lando’s grip on his sword tightened, but Oscar’s hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“We’ll abide by your rules,” Oscar confirmed, voice calm.

“Good.” Max turned back to you. “Come. I’ll show you the library. You should know where it is if you’re to live here.”

The offer caught you off guard. The scion of House Verstappen switched conversations so casually he seemed to slap you with his casualness.

“The library?”

“You can’t spend all your time staring at the snow,” Max replied evenly, though there was a faint lilt to his words.

Was that… humor? It was hard to tell with him.

“Well..” You tugged your coat tighter. “It is very captivating snow.”

Max’s brow arched. “And yet, I think you’ll survive without it for an hour.”

You blinked, taken aback by the dry remark.

Was he… teasing you?

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, you rose from your chair, trailing behind as he turned and strode toward the door.

You glanced at your companions, giving them a small and, hopefully, reassuring smile before stepping forward to follow Max.

Max’s pace was long, purposeful, and you found yourself scrambling to keep up without looking breathless.

(You decidedly ignored Sir Lando's small snort of laughter.)

The manor was a labyrinth of cold stone and dim corridors, the walls lined with tapestries dulled by age.

Shadows flickered where sparse torches burned, giving the place a haunted sort of stillness.

You found it hard to ever imagine yourself calling this place home.

Max moved through the halls like someone who had been shaped by this place, his presence carved into the very bones of the estate.

His stride was confident, measured, purposeful.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider, a stranger, each step heavy on the cold stone floor.

Finally, Max stopped before a pair of massive oak doors, their wood darkened with age. He didn’t look back at you as he spoke, his voice low, but managing to carry through the quiet hall.

“Your men stay outside. Your maid may enter,” he said, the command clear.

Your knights exchanged a brief look.

Lando’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly less than thrilled with the command. He let out a sigh, posture straightening with a resigned huff.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he moved to one side of the door, giving a theatrical bow as though he were playing a part in some grand performance.

Oscar shook his head but followed suit, taking his place at the other side, hands clasped with a more restrained expression.

Lando’s voice broke the silence, dripping with mock sweetness. “Enjoy the library, my Lady. Try not to get too lost in there.”

You laughed, unable to contain yourself and bid them a silent goodbye.

Without another word, he pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest, and led you and Lily inside.

The library was vast and dim, lined wall-to-wall with shelves that stretched high into the shadows above.

Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light filtering through the narrow, arched windows, painting the room in shades of gold and gray.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling your senses.

“It’s beautiful…” you breathed, the words slipping out unbidden.

“It is,” Max replied, stepping farther into the room. “And it’s yours to use as I allow while you’re here.”

You followed him in, your fingers brushing the spines of the books closest to you. They were thick and heavy, their titles embossed in faded gold.

“Are these… first editions?” you asked, your voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might awaken some slumbering beast.

“Many of them, yes,” Max said, his gaze sweeping the shelves as if cataloging them in his mind. “You’ll find original prints of histories, poetry, philosophy. Most of it quite rare. Some of the works were commissioned specifically for this collection.”

“Commissioned?” you echoed, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He nodded. “Yes. House Verstappen has always valued knowledge. There are some volumes here you won’t find anywhere else.”

You let your hand fall from the books and turned to face him. “You must spend a lot of time here then.”

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted, his tone crisp. “But I’m familiar with the layout. If you’re planning to lose yourself, I can point you in the right direction.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his phrasing. “Lose myself?”

“It happens.” He shrugged, glancing away.

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of warning me?”

“A mere suggestion,” he corrected, his lips twitching in what might have been the hint of a smile. “Start with the poetry under the windows. It’s a good place for… wandering minds.”

“Poetry under the windows,” you repeated the words under your breath, glancing toward the far end of the room where a faint glow spilled across the shelves. “Any other recommendations?”

“The histories on the east wall are worth your time.” He gestured briefly. “And if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s a collection of letters on the upper mezzanine. They’re in French, though.”

“I can manage French,” you said with a small smile.

His eyebrow arched faintly. “Good. Then you’ll also find some rather colorful accounts of court scandals tucked in the back corner. A few are probably embellished, but they’re entertaining nonetheless.”

Your laughter came easier this time. “Court scandals? I didn’t expect you to recommend something so… frivolous.”

“Frivolity has its place,” he said dryly. “Just don’t let the staff catch you reading them. They might talk.”

“Noted.” You attempted to suppress your grin.

For a moment, the two of you stood in companionable silence, the quiet weight of the library wrapping around you like a cloak. You turned back to the shelves, running your fingertips lightly over the spines once more.

“This is incredible,” you murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder at his lack of a response, catching a faint glimmer of something softer in his eyes, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

Max seemed to compose himself, clearing his throat. “You will be fetched come dinner time.”

The heavy doors of the library groaned shut behind him, leaving you and Lily in the cavernous stillness.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, Lily let out a sharp exhale, breaking the silence. “I thought he’d never leave,” she muttered, her voice pitched low but urgent.

You turned to her, startled by her tone. “Lily-”

“He’s impossible to read!” she interrupted, her hands gesturing animatedly as she paced a small circle near the door.

“One moment, he’s scowling like the world owes him something, and the next, he’s… he’s practically pointing you toward the best books for a cozy evening! What am I supposed to make of that?”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “I don’t think it’s meant to be deciphered, Lily.”

“But it should be!” she shot back, stopping abruptly to face you. “You’re supposed to marry him. How are you supposed to live with someone who switches moods faster than the weather?”

“I don’t think he’s as unpredictable as you think,” you said cautiously, though you weren’t entirely convinced of your own words. “He’s… reserved.”

“Reserved?” Lily snorted. “He looks like he’s trying not to bite anyone’s head off half the time.” She softened slightly, adding, “Although, I’ll admit, it was nice of him to show you this place.”

Her eyes wandered around the library, her earlier frustration melting into a quieter awe. “It really is something, isn’t it?”

You nodded, letting your gaze sweep the towering shelves. “It is. I could lose hours in here.”

“Maybe you’ll have to,” Lily said, her tone lighter now. “If he’s not going to be forthcoming about himself, you might have to dig through the history books to figure him out. Perhaps you'll even find a diary of his.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think even the books might not have the answers to that mystery.”

Lily gave you a sly grin. “Well, if anyone can figure him out, my lady, it’s you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you turned back to the shelves. “My betrothed's dour personality aside.. help me find that poetry section he mentioned.”

Lily smiled, stepping closer to follow you deeper into the quiet sanctuary of the library.

“Of course, my lady.”

—

Hours later, as the manor stirred for the evening meal, a servant was dispatched to your quarters. The boy found it strange that the two knights he'd heard his Lord's betrothed had come with weren't stationed by the door.

A sharp knock echoed once. Then again, louder, more insistent.

“My lady?”

Silence.

The servant hesitated, damp palms against the polished wood.

“My lady?” He said again, voice cracking. “My lady, may I come in?”

“...My lady, I'm coming in.”

Then, cautiously, he pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. The bed still perfectly made, the hearth’s fire reduced to flickering embers. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and a chill crept in where warmth should have lingered.

Panic tightened his throat.

He checked the adjoining rooms. The empty sitting area, the silent halls. Nowhere.

Not even your guards and maid were present.

Sweat gathered at his brow as he hurried through the winding corridors, heart hammering as he sought out Lord Verstappen.

He found Max standing near the great hall’s window, dusk spilling through the glass in muted gold.

“My lord,” the servant panted, voice tight. “She’s- she’s gone.”

Max turned slowly. “Gone?”

“I searched her chambers, the halls, the west wing-”

“And the library?” Max’s voice was sharp, cutting through the servant’s stammering explanation.

The servant faltered. “The… the library, my lord?”

“Yes,” Max said evenly, already striding toward the east corridor. “She’s there.”

The servant froze, his jaw slackening. “You… you allowed her inside?”

“Are you questioning me?” Max didn’t even glance back as he continued down the hall, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.

“N-no, my lord!” the servant stammered, bowing reflexively. “But should I-”

“Stay where you are,” Max ordered. “I’ll handle this myself.”

Your two knights stood sentinel by the library doors when he approached, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of boredom and indifference.

They barely acknowledged him, their attention elsewhere as the echo of his boots rang down the corridor.

Max didn’t slow his pace. “Is she still in there?”

Lando flicked a glance toward Oscar, then shrugged. “Yep. She's buried in a book or something,” he said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, as if it were of little concern.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think to remind her of the time?”

Oscar raised a brow, voice dry. “A certain scion has, unfortunately, forbidden our entry, my lord.”

Max sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Lando was quick to interject with a smirk. “And it’s a lost cause trying to pry our Lady away from a good book. Trust me, we’ve tried.”

Max’s frustration bubbled over into a short, exasperated laugh as he pushed the heavy doors open.

And there you were.

Curled into a high-backed chair, utterly absorbed in the thick, ancient book resting open in your lap.

A few other volumes lay scattered around your feet, their spines cracked open, as if you’d moved through them in a frenzy of curiosity.

Max’s gaze lingered on the sight before him. On the way your head tilted slightly as you read, your brow furrowed in concentration.

His grip on the doorframe loosened, but his jaw remained tight.

“My lady.”

You glanced up, startled but then smiled when you saw him. “Oh, my- Max, What are you doing here again?”

Max’s brow arched slightly at your casual tone. His irritation wavered.

He knew you were about to say ‘my Lord’ again, knew it was a mere slip of the tongue, court etiquette taking over before personal sense.

But.. my Max. Yes, he supposed he was indeed yours.

He couldn't say that though so when he spoke, it was only a disinterested, “It’s dinner time.”

You blinked, glancing toward the tall windows where the light had shifted to deep amber.

“Already? I hadn’t even realized-” You glanced down at the book in your lap, reluctant to put it aside. “I haven’t even finished this chapter.”

His gaze dropped to the title in your hands. “Faust,” he noted, tucking the information away. “You read German?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… only at an elementary level.”

Max's eyebrow arched slightly. You were either a liar or terribly humble.

“Faust,” he repeated dryly. “Hardly a book for someone with only elementary German. Your skills are passable, at least.”

“Just enough to get by,” you admitted, more honest now, brushing invisible dust from your skirt as you stood.

Max offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation this time.

He noticed, though he said nothing about the change, afraid that if he voiced it out you'd withdraw again.

“You might find Faust more rewarding if you read it in context,” he remarked as you walked down the hall, your knights and maid following behind.

You glanced up at him, curious. “And what context would that be?”

“Understanding Goethe’s philosophical explorations, for one. Or at least recognizing the poetic structure in its original form.”

You tilted your head. “So now you’re saying my German isn’t good enough?”

“I’m saying it’s a pity to read something monumental in fragments,” he replied. “Not a criticism.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The corners of your lips quirked upward.

“Take it as you like.” He offered you a small shrug, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “Which German do you struggle with?”

“Official documents,” you admitted. “The kind that's full of overly formal phrasing and unnecessary flourish.”

Max hummed, thoughtful. Most official documents were indeed like that. “I could assist with that, should the need arise.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You would?”

“If I find myself having time.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, brushing off your words. “And don't sit too close to the mezzanine shelves,” he added. “They’re unstable.”

Your brows rose. “Unstable?”

“I don’t need you buried beneath three hundred years of German history,” he said, his tone casual but his meaning clear.

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’d miss me, then?”

“More likely, the servants would revolt,” he said, gesturing to the doors to the dining hall. “Dinner then, shall we?”

—

The dining hall was an expansive, imposing space, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows over the vast table.

Candles decorated much of the available surfaces in a surprisingly tasteful way.

Their flames flickered weakly, struggling to combat the cold that clung to the stone walls like it was a living, breathing thing.

The table stretched far ahead, but only two places were set.

Max took his seat at the head without so much as a glance in your direction, and you slid into the chair opposite him.

Lily quietly withdrew to prepare for your night routine while Lando and Oscar remained a fair distance away, leaving the two of you some privacy to discuss.

Servants moved efficiently, placing the first course on the table: roast venison, honeyed carrots, and freshly baked bread that had already begun to cool in the chill air.

The earlier conversation about books had petered out, leaving a quiet in its wake.

Max ate as though entirely alone, his focus on the meal before him.

You shifted in your seat, the faint scrape of your fork against the plate feeling almost intrusive.

"You know," you began tentatively, "for someone who seems to enjoy books, you’re surprisingly difficult to talk to about them."

Max’s knife paused mid-slice, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There was no hostility in his gaze, but his expression was unreadable all the same. “Talking about books is rarely as rewarding as reading them.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse,” you said, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the moment. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to have a proper discussion about them.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if the idea amused him, though he didn’t smile. “Do you often accuse your dining companions of conversational ineptitude, or am I a special case?”

“That depends.” You tore off a piece of bread. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

Max tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity, like someone turning over a puzzle piece in their mind.

“Very well.” He set his knife down carefully. “What would you like to discuss? Goethe? Schiller?”

“Bold of you to assume I am especially fond of German authors. Perhaps I just picked up Faust in the library on a whim.” You smiled. “But if you must know, I’ve been working through Balzac recently.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting slightly, though still difficult to read. “Balzac? Ambitious. And how are you finding him?”

“Dense,” you admitted with a laugh. “Brilliant, but dense. Definitely not light reading.”

“Few worthwhile things are,” he replied, returning to his meal. “Though I’ve always found Balzac’s fascination with ambition rather… tiresome.”

“Really?” you asked, curious. “Why?”

He took a measured sip of wine before answering. “Because I’ve seen enough ambition in reality to find little appeal in it as fiction.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. A product of generations of ambition.”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not in anger.

There was a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, before he spoke. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “You’re treading close to dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” you asked, though your tone was gentler now, almost teasing. “I thought we were just talking about books.”

Before he could respond, the servants re-entered, clearing the first course and placing the next before you.

The interruption softened the tension, and you let the moment breathe.

When the room was quiet again, you spoke, this time more cautiously. “Alright, then. Enough about me. What about you? What are you reading?”

Max’s fork paused mid-motion, and he set it down with deliberate care. “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” you replied, leaning forward slightly. “How else am I supposed to judge your taste?”

For a moment, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of a smile. “If you must know, The Sorrows of Young Werther.”

You blinked, surprised. “Goethe’s most sentimental work? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Sentimentality has its uses,” he said dryly, though there was no real bite to his words. “Even you might agree.”

“Are you suggesting I’m sentimental?” you arched a brow.

“I’m suggesting you’re curious,” he replied, his tone even. “Perhaps overly so.”

“Fair.” You conceded with a small laugh. “But I’m curious.. what draws you to it? The tragedy? The unrequited love?”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before he answered.

“The futility,” he said quietly, lifting his wine glass. “Of longing for something you cannot have.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond, the honesty in his tone catching you off guard. When he didn’t elaborate, you picked up your own glass, letting the silence linger without pressing further.

“You have a rather bleak outlook, don’t you?” you asked finally, your voice softer now.

“Realistic,” he corrected, not unkindly, his gaze flicking back to yours. “Not everyone has the luxury of optimism.”

You frowned slightly, not entirely sure how to reply. “It’s not about luxury,” you said after a pause. “It’s about perspective.”

“Perspective is shaped by reality.” His eyes met yours, boring. “And reality is rarely kind.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time it felt less uneasy and more thoughtful.

As dinner wrapped up, Max glanced at your knights before settling on you, his tone lightening as he spoke. “I trust you can find your rooms?”

You nodded, standing from your chair. “Yes, I think so.”

“No late-night wandering, then?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Max’s lips twitched again, softer this time, as if he might actually be considering a smile. “Good. I’d hate to have to rescue you from some misstep in the dark.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What makes you think I’d need rescuing?”

“Experience,” he said simply, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The air between you shifted slightly, the earlier sharpness fading into something more subdued.

You allowed yourself a small laugh, breaking the lingering tension. “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of finding my way around.”

“Is that so?” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His tone had softened, the sharp edges dulling to a quiet curiosity. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll trust you.”

“Trust,” you repeated, letting the word hang between you. “A bold move, considering we’ve only just met.”

Max regarded you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Bold, perhaps. But necessary.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. There was something in his voice, quiet, measured, and entirely unexpected, that made you pause. The weight of the moment settled around you like the faint flicker of the candlelight, warm yet fragile.

“Well,” you said finally. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He rose from his seat with practiced ease, the flicker of warmth in his eyes quickly hidden behind his composed demeanor. “Goodnight, then.”

You watched him as he left the dining hall, his steps measured and deliberate, the echo of his footsteps fading into the vast, empty space.

For a moment, you sat in the quiet, your gaze lingering on the door where he had disappeared.

Finally, you stood, the faintest smile playing at your lips. “Goodnight, Max,” you murmured to the empty room.

—-

The first light of dawn crept through the heavy drapes of your room, painting the walls in soft hues of gold and silver. The air carried a sharp chill, the promise of frost lingering just outside the thick panes of glass.

Everything was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustling of fabric as Lily moved about with quiet precision.

She bent over a polished wooden chair, her deft hands smoothing out the folds of the attire she’d chosen for you.

A cloak of deep crimson lay draped across her arm, its rich, heavy fabric catching the faint light. You stirred in your bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she worked.

“Good morning, Lily,” you murmured, sitting up and drawing the blankets closer against the morning chill.

Lily turned with a warm smile, setting the cloak on the bed beside you. “Good morning, my Lady. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, your fingers brushing the thick velvet of the cloak. You tilted your head, examining it with curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing this in my wardrobe before.”

“It was delivered just this morning,” Lily explained, her tone light but tinged with amusement. “A gift, I believe, from Lord Verstappen.”

Your brows lifted as you traced the intricate embroidery along the hem, tiny silver threads woven into delicate patterns. “From Lord Verstappen?”

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her. “He must have assumed the worst given your attire yesterday.”

“It’s rather heavy,” you remarked, holding it up to feel its weight.

Lily gave you a knowing smile, her tone dry but affectionate. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that I’d rather you walk with less grace than freeze, my Lady.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you draped the cloak over your shoulders.

It was impossibly warm, the kind of warmth that seeped through your skin and settled in your bones. “You’re not wrong. I suppose there’s no room for vanity when winter comes knocking.”

“None at all,” Lily agreed, moving to adjust the cloak, fastening the silver clasp at your throat. “Besides, the color suits you. Lord Verstappen has surprisingly good taste. I'd have assumed he’d just grab any old thing and force you into it.”

You raised a brow at the tone that laced her words, giving her a sidelong glance. “Flattery for him, Lily? Are you trying to curry favor? And here I thought you were quite ready to sock him just yesterday.”

She feigned innocence, stepping back with a twinkle in her eye. “Not at all, my Lady. But if he keeps sending gifts like this, I might just start.”

Your laughter filled the room, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. You were somewhat glad Lily saw him as redeemable after yesterday.

After all, she was usually a good judge of character.

As you stood, the cloak fell around you like a royal mantle, its weight grounding but comforting.

By the time you entered the dining hall, Max was already seated at the long table, a vision of composed efficiency.

His pale hair was still perfectly swept back, not a strand out of place, and a small stack of documents sat before him.

His pen moved steadily across the paper, his focus unbroken even as the golden morning light softened the sharpness of his features.

“Good morning, Max,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him, your tone deliberately chipper.

Max glanced up briefly, eyes meeting yours with the barest flicker of warmth.

“Good morning,” he replied, setting his pen down with the precision of a man who never did anything carelessly. “You’re up early.”

“It’s rather difficult to stay in bed when the frost feels like it's climbing up to sleep with you,” you said, grabbing a warm roll from the plate near you. “Do you have a deal with the weather to ensure I never sleep in?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll admit to nothing. But if the frost succeeds, perhaps I should reward it.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” you said, tearing a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. “I’ve made my peace with it, though. I realized there was a charm to the winter once I got over the whole ‘freezing to death’ aspect.”

Max arched a brow, his eyes sparkling faintly with what you hoped was amusement. “A charm, you say? I wasn’t aware you were so poetic in the mornings.”

“Oh, I’m a veritable bard before breakfast,” you said. “In fact, I was just composing a sonnet about how frostbite builds character.”

He snorted softly as he reached for his tea, the sound barely audible, but it felt like a victory. “I’ll be sure to commission a copy of it for the library.”

You leaned back in your chair, feeling emboldened by his rare moment of humor

“Speaking of things worth writing about, I was thinking of spending some time in the garden today. It looks magical with the frost.”

Max paused, his teacup halfway to his lips, and gave you a look that bordered on incredulous. “The garden? In winter?”

“Yes, the garden,” you said, undeterred. “You do realize it’s still a garden, even when it’s cold?”

He set his cup down slowly, as if trying to process your words. “You are aware that nothing grows in the garden during winter, yes? Unless you count the weeds, which I doubt have much aesthetic appeal.”

“There are flowers that survive in winter,” you said with a pointed look.

He tilted his head, his expression blank. “Like what? Frozen dandelions?”

“Snowdrops, holly, winter jasmine,” you listed off, ticking them off on your fingers. “I saw some while passing by yesterday. Honestly, do you even know what’s in your own garden?”

Max leaned back slightly. “I delegate. Why bother when there are people who are willing to brave the frost to catalog it all for me?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “How magnanimous of you.”

He inclined his head slightly, as though you’d paid him a genuine compliment. “It’s a skill.”

“You should come with me,” you said suddenly. “A little walk in the fresh air couldn’t hurt. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said finally, his tone carefully polite. “But my duties don’t often allow for such… luxuries.”

“Luxuries?” you raised a brow. “Surely even a Lord like yourself deserves a moment to himself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, but it faded quickly. “Perhaps another time.”

You nodded, masking your disappointment with a practiced smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your responsibilities.”

“Distraction,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary.

Something unspoken flickered in his eyes, and though his expression remained composed, there was the faintest hint of something warmer beneath the surface.

“Perhaps,” he said again, this time softer, almost to himself.

You glanced down, heat creeping up your cheeks, and busied yourself with your breakfast.

—-

The steady scratch of a quill against parchment filled the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers.

Max leaned over his desk, eyes scanning the dense columns of reports.

The study was dim, the late afternoon light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Yet, for all his focus, his pen paused mid-sentence.

His thoughts drifted. Again.

To you.

He could see it vividly in his mind: the garden cloaked in frost, each branch thin and brittle beneath the weight of winter.

You would be there, wouldn’t you? Bundled in that wool cloak you favored, breath curling in the cold air as you traced the icy edges of dormant rose bushes.

You had mentioned it offhandedly this morning, your plan to spend the afternoon outside despite the chill.

Max let out a slow breath, frowning at the parchment before him.

The words blurred, meaningless.

It was ridiculous.

You were likely gone by now, the cold too sharp to endure for long.

Rationality urged him to stay, to finish the reports that demanded his attention.

Yet the thought persisted.

Why did it matter if you were still there?

It shouldn’t.

And yet.

The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stood.

He didn’t bother with his coat. The cold would be a brief inconvenience.

His steps were measured as he left the study, though there was a certain tension in his stride, as if he was trying to convince himself this was a simple walk and nothing more.

The manor’s halls gave way to the biting air of winter, and Max inhaled sharply, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeves.

The gravel path crunched beneath his boots as he crossed into the garden.

The world was quiet here. Still.

The pale sun sagged low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over frost-laced branches and brittle hedges. Even the air felt suspended, holding its breath.

He scanned the expanse, expecting, no, hoping, to see a flicker of movement among the barren trees.

Nothing.

Max’s jaw tightened.

Of course. You wouldn’t have waited. Hours had passed. Why would you linger in the cold for him? The thought was absurd.

He moved forward anyway, slow and deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as if that could restrain the growing restlessness in his chest.

Each turn of the path yielded only more empty frost-covered stone.

Once.

Twice.

A third time around, and still nothing.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

He turned to leave.

Then, faintly, the sound of movement, a soft rustle of fabric.

His head snapped up.

And there you were.

Tucked into the curve of a stone bench, half-hidden by the skeletal branches of the hedgerow.

A book lay open in your lap, your gloved fingers idly turning the page.

Max stared.

You hadn’t left.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, something between relief and unease.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. For a moment, he simply watched you, the way your breath misted in the cold, how your hair caught the pale light.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come out here.

But now that he had, he found he didn’t want to leave.

Max exhaled quietly, letting the breath curl away into the cold.

He stood perfectly still, half-concealed by the bare limbs of the hedgerow, his figure blending into the stark winter landscape. The cold gnawed at him, a sharp wind threading through the thin fabric of his sleeves, but he didn’t move.

His breath escaped in thin, controlled streams of vapor, dissipating into the frigid air.

And still, his eyes remained fixed on you.

You sat quietly on the stone bench, bundled in the cloak he'd ordered a servant to bring to you last night come morning, its edges stiff with frost.

A book rested in your lap, your gloved fingers lazily tracing the brittle page edges as you turned them.

Every now and then, you paused, eyes lifting to watch the pale sun as it sagged toward the horizon, before returning to your reading.

Max’s hands tightened behind his back.

He shouldn’t be here.

There was no reason to be.

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He told himself it was coincidence, that his steps had simply led him here after hours of restless pacing in his study.

But even that excuse felt thin, crumbling under the weight of his own unease.

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching in the cold.

Why didn’t you go inside? The air was sharp and biting.

Anyone with sense would’ve retreated to the warmth of the manor by now. Yet you sat there still, as if waiting for something.

Or someone.

A ridiculous thought.

Max’s jaw tightened.

"You know," a dry voice cut through the stillness, "standing there staring is a bit creepy, my Lord.”

Max turned sharply, his cold glare snapping to the armored figure leaning casually against the frosted stone archway.

Oscar.

The knight stood with an infuriating air of nonchalance, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other shoved lazily into the crook of his elbow. His breath misted lazily in the cold air, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re out of line.” Max’s voice was flat, the warning unmistakable.

Oscar only raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Probably. But you’ve been standing long enough that I figured someone should say something.”

Max’s glare deepened.

Oscar tilted his head slightly toward the garden. “You could just speak to her, you know. I’m half certain she wouldn’t mind.”

“I have no intention of interrupting her,” Max said coolly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Oscar made a thoughtful noise, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. “No, of course not. That’s why you’re skulking in the hedges instead of being a normal person and saying hello.”

Max’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You have duties. Attend to them.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I am attending to them. Protecting the lady, making sure her suitors aren’t lurking about. You know, the usual.”

Max’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“Did she not mention this morning she hoped you’d join her out here?” the knight asked offhandedly, brushing frost off his shoulder. “But maybe I heard wrong. Could’ve been the wind.”

Max didn’t respond.

Oscar let the silence stretch for a moment before shrugging. “Well. Suit yourself.”

With that, he pushed off the archway and strode casually toward you, boots crunching against the frost-laden gravel.

Max didn’t move. His gaze followed Oscar with a cold, sharp focus, but his feet remained planted, weighed down by something heavier than pride.

Oscar’s figure grew smaller as he neared you.

And then, you looked up.

Your face softened in recognition, lips curving into a faint smile as your knight approached. Max’s chest tightened inexplicably.

“You’ve been out here a while, my lady,” Oscar remarked lightly, stopping beside the stone bench.

You laughed softly, the sound carrying faintly through the still air. “Longer than I meant to. Has it gotten that late already?”

“Late enough,” Oscar said, leaning slightly against the stone edge. “Cold enough too, I imagine.”

You exhaled, watching the breath curl away. “The cold’s not so bad.”

Oscar smirked. “If you say so. Though I passed Lord Max earlier. He was out here too.”

Your eyes lifted, blinking in quiet surprise. “Was he?”

Oscar hummed. “Looked like he was thinking about joining you. Or maybe just staring at you. Hard to tell with him.”

Your gaze flicked toward the distant paths, searching the empty garden.

Oscar watched you carefully. “Still might be lurking somewhere. Shadows seem to agree with him.”

You smiled faintly, but your eyes lingered on the hedgerows, thoughtful.

Oscar nudged a frost-coated pebble with his boot. “You know… if you wanted him here, you could just call him out. Maybe the shame will make his feet move.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow.

He smirked. “Just a thought, my Lady.”

Oscar pushed off the bench. “Come on. You’ll catch cold if you stay out much longer.”

As they turned to head back toward the manor, Max stood still, hidden beyond the hedges.

His hands clenched slowly at his sides.

And then, finally, he turned and walked away.

The frost crunched beneath his boots, louder than before.

—

The rest of the month at the Verstappen estate unfolded in slow, deliberate strokes, like the steady brush of winter wind against frosted glass.

The walls of cold formality between you and Max didn’t crumble overnight, but there were cracks now. Thin, hairline fractures where something softer threatened to seep through.

Max remained composed, distant, his every word and gesture measured. Yet every so often, something flickered.

A hesitation before he spoke. A glance that lingered longer than necessary.

Small, fleeting moments that barely seemed to matter, but they did. They built something fragile and new, fragile as frost on stone.

It started with the garden.

You had grown fond of the winter gardens. Quiet, stark, and untouched. The biting air sharpened your senses, and the stillness gave you space to breathe, something you often struggled to find within the Verstappen estate's cold, towering walls.

You were seated at the breakfast table one morning, fingers curled around your tea for warmth.

Your eyes traced the frost-laced hedgerows beyond the tall windows, lost in thought.

“I’ll accompany you today.”

The voice was quiet but certain, breaking through your reverie.

Your head snapped up.

Max stood across the room, a stack of documents in hand, his expression unreadable.

“…Pardon?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “To the gardens. I’ll walk with you.”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “You want to… walk. Outside. In the cold.”

A slight tilt of his head. “Yes.”

“You?”

His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Frankly? Yes.” You set your teacup down carefully, studying him. “Don’t you have something far more important to do than trail after me like some-”

“I hardly think safeguarding my betrothed is beneath me,” he cut in smoothly, though something in his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

You raised a brow. “Safeguard me? Max, it’s a garden, not a battlefield.”

He didn’t answer, only held your gaze steadily.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Well, far be it from me to refuse the protection of a lord.”

Max inclined his head, as if the matter was settled.

—

The cold met you both immediately as you stepped into the garden.

You drew your coat tighter. Max, of course, didn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

His steps were measured, boots crunching against the frost-dusted path. He kept half a step ahead of you, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

The silence stretched. And stretched.

Then, abruptly-

“Those are evergreens.”

You blinked.

“…Yes. They are.”

Max gave a small nod, as if confirming a fact. “They endure the winter well.”

"That is typically how evergreens work."

Silence.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to surface.

Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking forward again. "I thought it was worth mentioning."

"It was very insightful," you teased lightly.

His jaw tightened, though you noticed the faintest flush at the tips of his ears.

The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel so suffocating now.

"I don’t…" he started, then stopped. His hands flexed behind his back. "I’m not particularly… good at this."

You tilted your head. "At walking?”

A sharp exhale, half a laugh, half frustration. "At this. Talking. Being-" he paused, as if the word itself burned. "-approachable."

You considered him for a moment. "You’re not as terrible as you think."

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain.

"You just talk about trees a lot."

That earned a genuine huff of breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

"I’ll… keep that in mind.”

—

Days slipped by like soft falling snow, quiet and unhurried. And so did the walks.

The first few outings had been brittle, every step and word sharp with awkwardness. But little by little, the stiffness began to melt.

It wasn’t anything grand, no sweeping gestures or sudden confessions, but something quieter. Subtle.

Max no longer fumbled for conversation, and you no longer waited for him to.

Sometimes you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t. And somehow, the silences became easier.

There was comfort in it, like the steady crunch of frost beneath your boots or the way your breath curled in the cold air.

It started with small things.

One morning, as you walked past a thicket of frost-covered hedges, Max slowed his pace, watching you with a flicker of curiosity.

“You always stop here.”

You glanced at him, surprised he noticed. “It’s peaceful.”

His eyes followed yours to the bare branches dusted in white.

“Hm.” He made a low sound of acknowledgment, then fell quiet.

The next day, you noticed he lingered near that spot, as if waiting for you to pause first.

He didn’t say anything, but it was enough.

Another morning, you stumbled slightly on the uneven path, your boot catching on a patch of ice.

Before you could right yourself, a steady hand caught your elbow.

You blinked, looking up.

Max’s hand hovered there, his grip careful but sure.

His expression was unreadable, but his touch was steady.

“You should watch your step,” he murmured.

You stared at him for a beat too long.

“I was,” you said finally, a little breathless.

His hand dropped back to his side, and he turned away before you could see the faint pink creeping up his neck.

The next day, the path had been salted.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But the air between you felt lighter.

Then, there was the matter of the scarf.

It was colder than usual that morning. Bitter wind snuck through the layers of your coat and scarf, nipping at your skin.

Max noticed.

“You’re cold,” he said flatly.

You glanced at him, defensive. “It’s winter. Everyone’s cold.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he unwound the dark wool scarf from his neck and held it out to you.

You blinked.

“…What are you doing?”

“You need it more than I do.”

You stared at the scarf, then at him. “Max, I’m not going to take your scarf. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he replied, tone perfectly serious.

You huffed a laugh. “Oh, is it? And what about you?”

“I’ll manage.”

His expression didn’t waver.

After a long pause, you sighed and took the scarf from his hands.

It was warm. Warmer than yours, and it smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like winter air.

You looped it around your neck, hiding a small smile.

“Happy now?”

Max gave a short nod. “Good.”

The next day, he wore a thicker coat.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But his gaze lingered on the scarf around your neck.

And that was enough.

The silences softened after that.

Some days, Max would walk slightly ahead, hands behind his back, eyes on the path.

Other days, he matched your stride, quiet but near.

Once, as you passed a row of brittle rose bushes, you paused, brushing your glove over the thorns.

Max stopped beside you.

“They won’t bloom again until spring.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“They’re still... nice to look at,” he admitted.

You glanced at him.

“That’s surprisingly sentimental of you.”

A slight shrug. “They’re resilient. Even now.”

You smiled, soft and secret.

Another day, you caught him watching you when you laughed at something small. A small squirrel darting through the snow, slipping and scrambling back up a tree.

Max didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his eyes.

Not amusement.

Something warmer.

He looked away when you caught him, but you didn’t tease him for it.

The walks stretched longer. The conversations grew softer.

There were no grand declarations, no sweeping changes.

Just the slow, steady thaw of winter.

And for now, that was enough.

—-

It happened on an ordinary day, so ordinary that you couldn’t have guessed it would stand out for any reason at all.

You were sitting in the common room, absentmindedly flipping through a file, your thoughts half on the task and half on the cup of tea cooling beside you.

You were aware of Max nearby, as you always seemed to be. The two of you had taken to spending your quiet moments together for some reason.

He was seated at the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of papers, his focus presumably locked on his work.

Or so you thought.

It wasn’t until you reached for your tea, your eyes lifting momentarily, that you noticed it. His gaze.

Max was staring at you.

It wasn’t a casual glance or a quick flicker of attention. His eyes were fixed, steady, like he was studying you without even realizing it.

There was something almost unreadable in his expression, his usual guarded demeanor softened by a hint of… curiosity? Thoughtfulness? You couldn’t quite place it.

For a moment, you froze, unsure what to do. Should you look away? Pretend you hadn’t noticed? Confront him?

The options raced through your mind in a tangle, but before you could decide, Max blinked, as though snapping out of a trance.

His gaze shifted back to the papers in front of him, his movements abrupt and uncharacteristically awkward.

He cleared his throat quietly, shuffling the documents with more focus than necessary.

You felt your cheeks warm, a faint heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t like Max to lose his composure, even slightly.

You wondered what he’d been thinking. Or if he’d even realized what he was doing.

“Everything alright?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch uncomfortably long. Your voice was casual, light, as though the moment hadn’t happened.

Max didn’t look up immediately, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was a faint edge to it, something almost defensive.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat longer. “You sure? You looked… distracted.”

He finally met your gaze, his expression unreadable again, but this time you thought you caught the faintest flicker of something.

Embarrassment, maybe, or irritation at being caught.

“I’m sure,” he said, his tone more even now.

“Alright,” you said lightly, turning back to your file with a small shrug. But your heart was still racing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what had just passed between you.

As the moments ticked by, you resisted the urge to glance at him again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of his earlier stare.

—

The two of you found yourselves in the library again, a rare moment of calm amidst the usual chaos.

Max sat across from you, his attention drifting between the book in his hands and the room around him.

For once, he wasn’t buried in paperwork or fielding endless questions from others, and the quiet was almost comforting.

The soft rustle of turning pages and the muted hum of your own reading filled the air.

It was a stillness that wrapped around you both, unspoken but shared, a silence that felt like an unacknowledged truce.

Until the peace fractured.

A faint groan of wood sliced through the quiet, subtle at first but growing louder, sharper. You frowned, your eyes flicking upward from your book.

Max noticed the sound too, his head tilting slightly as his attention shifted.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as the groaning intensified. “Stay here,” he muttered, already rising from his chair.

But before either of you could move further, the source of the noise revealed itself.

The tall shelf in the corner swayed unnaturally, its weight shifting in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Max-” you started, panic creeping into your voice.

And then it happened. The shelf gave way.

Books tumbled from its upper shelves like a cascade of water, filling the air with dull thuds and sharp cracks.

The massive structure pitched toward you, and you froze, your feet rooted in place.

“Move!” a voice yelled.

You barely registered the shout before a strong hand grabbed your arm, yanking you back with such force that your book flew from your grasp.

Your back slammed into something solid. Someone’s chest.

A deafening crash filled the room as the shelf slammed into the ground, its impact sending vibrations through the floor.

Books scattered in every direction, some sliding to a stop at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Max’s voice was sharp, edged with panic. His hand still gripped your arm, his knuckles white from the effort.

You turned toward him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I… I think so.”

His eyes darted over you, scanning for any sign of injury. “Did it hit you?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less urgent.

“No,” you managed. “I’m fine. Just… shaken.”

Max exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension left him.

He dropped his hand from your arm, stepping back to give you space, but his gaze stayed locked on you.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I knew it was old..” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “You couldn’t have known it would fall like that.”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “I should’ve checked it. What if-” He cut himself off, his jaw working as he looked away.

“It didn’t,” you said firmly. “You pulled me out of the way. That’s what matters.”

Max’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepened. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I should’ve-”

“Stop,” you interrupted, your voice firmer than you expected. “Max, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t push the shelf. You didn’t make it fall.”

He met your gaze then, his eyes dark and filled with a storm of emotions. “But I could’ve stopped it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The raw guilt in his voice surprised you. It was rare to see Max shaken. You didn't even think it possible.

“You did stop it. At least for me,” you said softly.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he sighed and stepped toward the wreckage. “This is a mess,” he muttered, his tone shifting to something more clipped, controlled. “I’ll get someone to clean it up. You should go sit down. Get some air.”

You followed his gaze to the pile of broken wood and scattered books. The sight made your stomach twist, but you forced yourself to speak. “I’ll help. I was here too.”

“No,” Max said quickly, holding up a hand. “You’ve had enough of a scare for one day. Just… take a break, alright?”

You hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

Max gave a short, almost reluctant nod in return. “Good. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back at him. He was already moving toward the debris, his focus shifting entirely to the mess. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and you knew he’d be carrying the weight of what could have happened for a while.

And so would you.

—-

The realization that you fancied Max struck with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

You fancied your fiancé. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

The thought struck you like a bolt of lightning, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest as you paced back and forth across your room.

With each step, the walls of the room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with the suffocating pressure of your own spiraling thoughts.

How had this happened? Why him? Of all people, why Max?

Stoic, distant Max, the man you barely even knew.

“It’s a trick of the mind. A reaction to circumstance,” you whispered, the words directed at your own reflection in the mirror.

Your face was pinched, your brow furrowed, and your eyes wide with a mixture of dread and something… else.

You rubbed at your temples, as though the act might banish the errant thoughts swirling in your mind.

“It’s admiration,” you said aloud, as if hearing the words would make them true. “Respect for his… demeanor. His resolve.”

You faltered, the image of Max flickering to life in your mind.

His measured gaze, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he was deep in thought.

The way his presence seemed to command the air around him.

Stop it.

“Lily!” you called out suddenly, your voice higher than you intended, panic rising sharply in your throat. “Lily, please, come here!”

The door creaked open, and Lily entered with her usual composed air, her eyes softening as soon as she took in the sight of your distress.

“My Lady, what’s wrong? You look...” she trailed off, hesitation in her tone as she glanced at you, clearly noting the unease written across your face.

“Don’t even say it,” you interrupted quickly, pressing your palms to your temples in an effort to stave off the rising panic. “I’m losing my mind, Lily. I think... I think I have feelings for Max.”

Lily regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in her eyebrow.

A hint of intrigue that you couldn’t quite place. She did not seem surprised.

“Max?” she asked, her voice calm, though the faintest hint of something stirred in her eyes. “As in, your betrothed, Lord Max Verstappen?”

“Yes! That Max!” you exclaimed, turning toward her with wide, frantic eyes, feeling the chaos inside you deepen with every word you spoke. “What other Max would I be talking about?!”

Lily paused for a moment, her eyes assessing you, the soft lines of her face betraying no judgment, only careful understanding.

Finally, she spoke, her tone even, but with an edge of something like amusement.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m glad it’s not hatred you’re feeling.”

You blinked, surprised at her response. “What?”

She gave you a small, wry smile, her hands folding gently in front of her. “I’m glad you don’t detest the man you’re engaged to. That’s a start, isn’t it? At least you’re not loathing him.”

You gaped at her, your mind still reeling from the gravity of your own emotions. “But this isn’t nothing, Lily! This isn’t just some passing fancy. I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time he’s near, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t know how to act around him. It’s like- like he’s too close and I’m too far from myself.”

Lily’s gaze softened, but she did not rush to soothe you with easy words.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice measured but firm. “Feelings like these don’t appear overnight, My Lady. They don’t disappear either. But you’re right. You don’t know him very well yet. You’ve got time to work this out, slowly. You don’t have to have it all figured out now.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as a new wave of uncertainty washed over you.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this, Lily. What if I say something wrong? What if I act like a fool in front of him? What if... what if he doesn’t care at all?”

Lily stepped closer to you, her presence steady, constant.

“Then he doesn’t,” she said simply. “If he doesn’t care, then... then you’ll be no worse off than you are now, My Lady. But know this: no other woman is taking him from you. He’s already yours. That’s settled.”

Her words settled over you like a weight.

He was already yours.

There was no escaping the finality of it, the truth in her calm tone.

The idea that you didn’t need to chase after him, that he was already tied to you in ways you couldn’t control, both unsettled and reassured you.

“I’m not even sure I want him, though,” you murmured, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what this is. What if I’m just... confused? What if it’s just... attachment? I mean, he’s always there, he’s my betrothed, but- he’s not-”

“Stop,” Lily’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts. “You don’t need to understand it all right now. You don’t need to be sure of your feelings just because you’ve realized them.”

You took a slow breath, your chest tight as you tried to keep your composure.

Her words were soothing in their simplicity, but they didn’t change your feelings. “I just... I don’t know what to do with all this. It’s too much. Too fast. I can’t keep up.”

You let the words hang in the air, unsure if you were speaking to her or to yourself.

Lily gave you a small, understanding smile, though it was tinged with a trace of amusement.

She didn’t speak for a moment, as though carefully weighing her response. “Then take it slow, my Lady. You’re allowed to feel all of this, in your own time. You don’t have to rush to make sense of it. No one’s going to force you to figure it out on anyone else’s schedule.”

A tiny sense of relief swept over you, but the knot in your stomach still refused to loosen.

You glanced at the door, as though the mere idea of being near Max would send everything crashing down again.

“So... you’re saying I can avoid him... for a while?”

Lily raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the suggestion. “Avoid him?” she repeated, the edge of disbelief creeping into her voice. “My Lady, if I may-"

“But I can?” you pressed, cutting her off, eyes wide with urgency. “You said I could take my time, right? Well, avoiding him sounds like taking my time to me.”

Lily sighed, the sound long and heavy, as though you were testing her patience. “Yes, My Lady, your free will does indeed allow you to avoid him, if that’s truly what you wish.”

A spark of triumph flickered inside you.

“Perfect.” You stood straighter, a plan forming in your mind. “Call for Sir Lando and Sir Oscar.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she eyed you suspiciously. “What for, My Lady?”

You gave her an almost manic grin, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly as your plan took shape. “They’re going to help me.”

“Help you... with avoiding your betrothed?” Lily asked slowly, a hint of disbelief creeping into her voice. She crossed her arms, studying you with a bemused expression.

“Yes,” you replied firmly, not an ounce of hesitation in your voice. “They’ll help me stay away from him. They’ll distract him, tell him I’m busy with... other things.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself, narrowing her eyes at you as if you had just suggested something ludicrous.

“My Lady,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone of mild reproach, “I must say, I don’t think that’s the most productive course of action.”

“Oh, please.” You threw your hands up dramatically. “I’m just trying to buy myself some time here. I can’t face him, not with these... feelings…whatever they are…bubbling up every time I even think about him. If I can just avoid him for a little while, I can breathe again.”

Lily shook her head, a small, resigned smile playing on her lips. “I don’t think this is the solution you’re looking for, My Lady. But if you insist on this... strategy, I can’t stop you.”

You raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued by the shift in her tone. “You can stop me, can’t you? You’re my lady’s maid. You’re supposed to stop me from making poor decisions.”

Lily raised an eyebrow right back at you. “I’m also supposed to help you navigate poor decisions, not prevent them entirely. And right now, this is just one of many decisions I’m going to let you make on your own.”

She paused, eyeing you carefully. “But just know, avoiding him isn’t going to give you the answers you need. It’ll only prolong the inevitable.”

You smiled sweetly, still not convinced. “Sometimes, a little delay is exactly what I need. Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. We’re betrothed, after all.”

“That you are,” Lily replied, her tone becoming slightly sharper. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be avoiding him. You’ve got time, but you also have a responsibility to work through your feelings. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”

You glanced toward the door, already plotting the next phase of your plan. “I’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, I’m going to need some assistance.”

Lily sighed again, louder this time.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze flicking to the door as though she were silently debating whether or not to humor you.

Finally, she gave a small nod. “Very well. I’ll fetch Sir Lando and Sir Oscar. But I’m warning you, My Lady, this avoidance strategy won’t last long.”

You grinned triumphantly as she turned to leave. “Thank you, Lily. You’re the best.”

As she stepped out of the room, you sank back into your chair, letting your mind wander to the next step of your plan.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing, but it felt better than facing Max and trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside you.

For now, avoiding him was the only option that seemed remotely manageable.

When Lily returned with your knights, they each looked at you with varying degrees of confusion and amusement, but you gave them a firm, confident look.

This plan was going to work.

You could make it work.

“Alright,” you said, standing tall, as though the sheer gravity of your decision had transformed you into a seasoned military strategist. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to make sure Max never sees me again.”

A pause hung in the air, heavy and expectant.

“Or at least… not for a while.”

Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance. Lando’s lips twitched upward, the beginnings of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, while Oscar’s furrowed brow and pursed lips betrayed his confusion.

“Right,” Lando said finally, leaning back and crossing his arms. His tone was equal parts incredulous and amused. “This ought to be good. What, exactly, do you want us to do, my Lady? This sounds like it’s going to be excellent for my boredom.”

Oscar’s expression tightened further. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, half to himself, his arms now folded.

You straightened your back, summoning all the confidence you could muster. “I am entirely serious. From this moment forward, I have suddenly become… extremely busy.”

Oscar blinked. “Busy,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes, busy,” you replied, the words tumbling out with an exaggerated air of importance. “So busy, in fact, that I won’t have a single moment to spare. And I need you two to help make sure that’s… believable.”

Lando arched an eyebrow, a grin now fully blossoming on his face. “Wait, let me get this straight. You want us to..what? Fabricate your life for a bit?”

“Exactly,” you said with a flourish of your hand, as though the absurdity of your request was irrelevant. “A little misdirection here, a well-timed excuse there. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can come up with something convincing.”

Lando let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “So, you’re asking us to keep Max, the man who has been running this house like a clock, distracted? To throw him off the scent entirely?”

“Precisely,” you said, lifting your chin.

Oscar looked less amused and more concerned, his practical nature coming to the forefront. “And what exactly is this plan supposed to achieve? You think if we keep him occupied for long enough, he’ll just… forget about you? You do realize who we’re talking about, right?”

“I don’t need him to forget,” you replied quickly, your voice rising slightly in pitch. “I just need him to be… preoccupied. Thoroughly distracted. He can’t be allowed to think about me, let alone come looking for me.”

Lando, who had been quietly observing, suddenly burst out laughing. “This is incredible. You’re trying to dodge the one man who could probably find you in his sleep.”

Oscar sighed again after a moment , clearly reluctant. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Excellent,” you said, clapping your hands together. “Now, let’s get to work.”

As Lando leaned back in his chair, still grinning, and Oscar reluctantly nodded his agreement, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. Surely, this would work. How hard could it be to outmaneuver Max Emilian Verstappen?

You tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that you might have just made a very, very big mistake.

—-

Permanent tag list:

@papichulomacy

[saturnsorbits]

LiSyK: Lesson One

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Warnings: Prince!Bakugo, Concubine Reader and Kirishima, Smut, Voyeurism, Unprotected Sex, Unprepared Sex, Cum Eating (Kinda). Word Count: 5k.

A/N: So, it's a series... No regular uploads, I'm just going to see where it goes.

Bakugo claps his hands, the sound echoing around the chamber like a rifle shot. 'You'll find my bed behind you.'

You blanch. 'Your bed, my lord?'

Concubines were a fixture of the royal rooms and have been for as long as anyone could remember. It wasn't unusual to see a collection of beautiful men and women lounging in living rooms or bedrooms, their skin almost entirely bare with only silk and gold to adorn them. Some, if favoured enough, were even gifted their own rooms were they could entertain their lord at their leisure.

And yet, it was unheard of to entertain a prince in his own chambers.

'Is there something wrong with my bed?' Bakugo's voice is a growl, low and deadly in the back of his throat. The idea of seeing you, the two of you, in his own bed sets up a stirring in his groin – one the demands to have its reward.

'No... No, I -.'

Kirishima's voice is an even timber when he steps in, easily picking up where your babbling had left you off. 'To share your personal bed chamber is a true honour, my lord.'

You curtsey, bowing you head low, thankful for the out.

The implications of Bakugo's excitement swarm in his head, but the buzzing never comes close to dampening his desire. Nodding towards the bed, he clenches his jaw tight. He'll deal with whatever fall out that comes later, right now... Both his heart and cock are set on this. 'Continue.'

Perching on the edge of the bed, you scoot backwards until your back presses against the plush cushions piled at the headboard. You can feel your pulse migrate, its steady rhythm sinking lower and lower until you're forced to resist the urge to cover your sex.

At the foot of the bed stands Kirishima. He smiles, soft and without his teeth, the apples of his cheeks swelling as he tries to render you at ease. The bump of his throat bobs as he leans forward, hands braced on the mattress as he prepares the advance on you, but before he can move, Bakugo's voice is ringing out clear from across the room.

Even across the room, Bakugo's throne feels far too close for comfort. He perches there, one knee raised with all the posture of a boy king. Atop his head the gold circlet of his crown sits off centre, the mess of his hair forcing it to tip towards his forehead. Beneath, his ruby eyes shine – deadly in their stare as he grips the edges of his chair with an almost white-knuckled force.

'Strip.' It's a command. One he's glad doesn't slip from his tongue with the anxiety that bubbles in his stomach. The acid is thick there, anticipation turning to bile as he fidgets, hoping neither of you can see his cock already raising to half mast under his trousers. 'Bare yourself to us.'

You swallow, tasting trepidation at the back of your tongue as you sit up and work at the straps of your covering. You'd been gifted new clothing after being chosen by the prince, upgrading your simple cloth rags for finer silks and golden bands. Now, a thin silken top cascades over your chest, the folds of the material deep and red, like waves of fresh fire licking at your skin. At your neck, a chain keeps the material from falling as it hangs from your golden collar.

The collar bares a series of symbols. Those for both the house of Bakugo, granting you movement throughout the entire fortress and those for the prince himself: a mark of his ownership. The chain wraps your back too, meeting in a clasp that you quickly undo, allowing the material to sink and expose the edges of your breasts as you work at loosing the chain to let the entire article slip away.

Kirishima's eyes linger. He can't help it. The fabric covering you slips to the mattress and immediately leaves you bare. Soft tits fill his vision, the gentle rise and fall of your chest making them jiggle slightly as you try and calm your breathing. His palms are sweating, making him thankful for the bedsheets under his hands and his voice demands he speak words of praise and devotion, even despite his not having permission to utter a word.

For the prince to be able to touch you seems obvious, for you're nothing short of a royal gift, but for him... He's not quite sure how he managed to get so lucky to be allowed to lay his eyes on a treasure such as you.

'Show him everything.' Bakugo clicks his tongue. His fist is balled in his pants, pulling them from his crotch to save their staining. Shifting in his seat, he attempts to hide his arousal. Not for the first time, he's glad he placed himself away from your gazes.

'Yes, my lord.' Your breathing catches as you unbuckle the silk skirt at your hips. You'd been denied underthings. Such items are inconvenient for the prince, should his cock wish to be buried in your tight heat at short notice. Instead, leather straps sit at your hips with long silken strips of material stitched to their edges. Falling to mid calf, the material flows effortlessly with your movement just as it drifts easily to the floor now as you unbuckle it.

'Knees apart.'

You comply, sensing the tightness in the princes voice and drop your knees, exposing the softness of your inner thighs and the sweetness of your sex to the air.

You're dripping. Even from this distance Kirishima can tell. There's a sheen coating your skin, a slick mix of arousal that gives off a heady scent. It infests his lungs, soaks into the roof of his mouth as he drags more of your aroma into him with each breath. His fingers twitch on the mattress gathering more sheet between them as he tries to stop himself from moving too soon and gaining the punishment of the prince.

Bakugo leans so far off his throne he's not confident he won't fall. He's never smelt sex before, but if it smells anything like you do, he's not sure he'll ever be able to be without it. Your musk is an aphrodisiac, making his mouth water and his cock twitch as he gives up attempting to hide his erection. Reaching for his belt, he loosens the buckle and reaches into his pants squeezing around the base of his cock as he pulls it into the air.

The princes cock is average in length. Delicate, almost, in how it bends slightly to the left – the rose petal head rounded and plump, dribbling more than it's fair share of pre-cum down the man's fist. Along the pale shaft, a series of purpling vein's break up the tone. Most are wide, pulsing with his heartbeat and splaying as they reach his base, where a delicate crop of blonde hair obscures the rest. It's darker than the hair on his head, closer to the brown of his fathers as it trails, reaching up over the muscle of his stomach and beyond.

Kirishima gulps, quickly snapping his gaze from over his shoulder and back to you. He can't say for certain, but he's pretty sure he has a bigger cock than the prince.

It should be an ego boost, something to brag about in those few moments of peace he's awarded outside of his royal duty, except there's just one thing he's worried about.

You.

'Stretch yourself...' Clenching his teeth, Bakugo refuses to show his breathlessness. His cock kicks in his hand, demanding a friction he withholds; but even with his precaution, there's no removing his affliction entirely from his visage. He straightens, rolling his shoulders to flatten against the back of his throne. Still, greed and longing sink into his tone. 'Let me see.'

Reaching between your thighs, you do as your told. The stickiness of your cunt clings to your fingers immediately, your clit twitching as clumsy fingers spread into a 'V' to expose your insides.

'Fuck.' The word trips from Kirishima's tongue carelessly and drops into the air like the last firework at new year. Around him, the world freezes – the muscles of his shoulders tense as he watches your abdomen hitch. He hadn't been given permission to speak. For all he knows, your allure has truly become the end of him. After all, it isn't unknown for rulers to punish their concubines for far less than speaking out of turn.

Bakugo clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and savours the knot that appears in the centre of Kirishima's back. The muscles bunch, writhing in a manner that makes him wonders if he could recreate it. 'Yeah...' He sighs. 'Fuck.' Coughing the delicacy from his voice, he licks over his lips before addressing the scene again. 'You. Kirishima. Strip.'

Kirishima complies in a heartbeat.

His loin cloth is much like yours in design, a thick strip of leather wrapping his waist just below his navel that buckles at either hip. Attached is the same material, thin and translucent and falling to mid-thigh; sheer enough to almost see the heft of his cock as it lays against his thighs.

Thick fingers work at the buckles, nimbly loosening the leather until he can swiftly shuck the material down his legs and discard it with a flick of his foot.

From his throne, Bakugo has to bite back the groan that threatens to rock through his chest and spill into the air. His mouth waters. Kirishima's cock is larger than he'd expected... A lot larger than he'd expected.

It bends under it's own weight, almost hanging despite his being fully hard. His foreskin is dark, a flush of deep mauve that slips back just enough to expose a slither of dark cherry head. Pre-cum leaks from him like a tap. It glistens on his skin, making the two thick vein's that raise from his skin just below his head glow in vague purple as they pulse. The crop of hair at his base is thick and black, a stark contrast to his own pale, downy hair.

Bakugo swallows, ridding his throat of the desire to be full. His tongue flattens to the roof of his mouth, his taste buds desperate for a lick of whatever divine nector drips from the pair of you. 'Go on then...' He barks, excitement flooding his bloodstream as he attempts to maintain some kind of dignity with his hand still squeezing the base of his cock. 'Fuck her.'

'I... Uhm,' Kirishima's cock bobs, threatening to steal his cohesion. He struggles to remember his teachings, a million and one things racing through his mind as he tries to remember the diagrams and words of the old mothers. 'I need to, to... Prepare her first.'

'Of course.' Bakugo frowns. He knew that. Of course, he knew that – he's eager, that's all. Maybe a little too eager.

'Can... Can I?' Kirishima's eyes shine when he brings them up to meet you. There's a gentleness there, a softness that barely disguises the blind pleasure that coils his stomach into knots. He reaches forward, a hand brushing the skin of your shin as his thumb draws an awkward half-circle in your calve.

You nod. With your fingers still spreading your cunt, you can feel the rush of slick that gathers there as you wait under his gaze for your devouring. It coats your fingers, leaving strings of pearl on your skin like jewellery.

Kirishima climbs up onto the bed, forcing it to dip under his weight. You feel bare laying there, exposed, as you watch his eyes dip between your legs and grows hungry. Fighting the urge to snap shut your legs and scramble away, you force yourself to relax. No-one has seen you quite like this before. Your intimacies have always been your own, exposed only to the King's consort Inko to confirm your virginity before a bright 'V' had been painted on your chest.

You wonder if you're pretty down there. If you look appealing... Fuckable.

A large hand wraps your thigh, a reassuring squeeze drawing you from your thoughts and back into the moment. Kirishima smiles, the tips of his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he reaches out with his other arm and hovers centimetres away from your sex. He catches your eye, eyebrows raising slightly on his forehead as the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 'You'll tell me if you want me to stop, won't you?'

There's a trepidation lingering under his skin, the kind of anxiety that is laced with excitement and easily highlights his inexperience and yet, his movements are sure when he finally touches you.

The pad of his thumb swipes at your clit making your back arch. Your eyes widen as the breath is taken from your lungs, a soft gasp leaping from your mouth. You become aware of your body then, more aware than you've ever been as the tingles of pleasure begin to recede with his touch. It leaves you raw and desperate, hips lifting from the bed in order to seek him out once more.

'Louder.' Bakugo's voice is broken. His cock still sit in his hand, pulsing angrily at it's neglect. Already he can feel his balls pulling up tight against him, threatening an end to something he hasn't even been able to start yet. 'Make her louder.'

Kirishima repeats the action. This time, the pad of his thumb presses harder, circling, until he earns another gasp from your lungs. He's surprised to learn that you're soft. Softer than he'd expected. You're so wet he can feel it clinging to his skin, the heat radiating through his thumb and making his mouth water. Against the mattress his cock stirs, smearing pre-cum against his stomach as he grinds down, offering himself only the smallest amounts of relief. He licks his teeth. 'Can...' His thumb moves lower, slipping off the wet hood of your clit and hovering over your entrance. 'Can I?'

'Please.' Lifting your hips from the bed, you attempt to rub his thumb back over your clit, desperate for more of his touch. You don't know what he's offering, you're not sure you care as long as it means you get to feel his hands on you again. 'Please...'

With your permission, Kirishima presses into you until you squeeze around the base of his thumb. You're hot inside, your walls silken and soaking, tightening around him as he pulls back out, testing your reactions. His eyes flicker to yours, a quick check in before he twists his wrist and offers you two fingers. This time you struggle with the stretch. He can feel it, the flutter in your walls as you breathe through the intrusion, but soon enough, you're relaxing, sucking him in and whining soft and breathy above him.

Your voice doesn't feel like your own. Each noise that escapes you is new, sinfully sweet as it escapes your throat and floats through the air. The women at the temple may have trained you, but they had never prepared you for this. Their lessons had always been focused on pleasing, not being pleased – the pillow dances and allure routines, all of it was useless here with you on your back and a man's thick fingers pressing up into the spongy roof of your cunt.

You writhe as a pressure builds below your pubic bone, encouraging a series of moans to leak from your mouth. It feels as though you might burst as your cunt clenches, but before you can discover just what comes next Bakugo's voice is spilling into the room and Kirishima's fingers still inside of you.

Bakugo is hanging on by a thread. His cock has gone pale with his grip around the base, his balls pulled so tight he can feel his pulse beating through them. Still, he refuses to embarrass himself. Not without seeing what he came to see. 'That's enough...' He speaks through his teeth, gritting out his words. 'Fuck her already.'

Kirishima looks to you before he moves. His brow is set, his eyes cool as he waits for your permission once again. He crawls over you until his arms bracket your shoulders, your chests almost level.

You look stunning like this, your lips shining, eyes wide and watery as you heave in deep, steadying breaths. There's no denying that he wants you, the sheer fact he's been allowed to touch you alone has his cock jumping against his stomach, but his mother's taught him to be respectful before anything else and so, he waits...

'I said...' Bakugo growls, but before he can finish his sentence, you're shifting.

Looking between you body and Kirishima's, you stifle a squeak as you see just what you have to contend with. Lined up as he is, it seems as though he'd reach your navel with ease – a far from appetising idea and yet, there's a yearning that spreads from the curve of your stomach to the depths of your cunt. One that has your insides tingling.

You don't care how big he is.

Don't care if it'll hurt.

As a matter of fact... A small piece of you wishes it will.

You reach between your legs, petting over your pubic hair until you can smooth your fingers across the twitching peak of your clit. A breathy whine slips from between your lips, but you continue, denying yourself in the quest for something more. Slipping further, you take two of your own fingers and arc your spine, feeling the beating of your cunt squeezing around you softly. With the other hand, you lean forward, taking Kirishima's cock in your palm and giving it a slow, gentle tug.

The man shudders at your touch. His whole body quakes at the faintest gripping of your fingertips, thick muscles rippling like he might collapse. Locking his elbows, he narrowly avoids falling on top of you as you ease him down and press his tip to your clit. He's panting openly now, his chest heaving as he struggles against the sin of your hands. If he's like this now, he dares not to think of what the tight heat of your cunt will do to him.

Tapping him against you once, twice – you enjoy each jolt of pleasure as it zips down your legs. It leaves you tingling and wanting more as you finally, finally line him up with your entrance. His cock catches against you, but before you can bask in the power you hold over him, Kirishima slips his hand between your bodies and collects your wrists in one, large palm.

He doesn't speak when he pins your hands above your head, he doesn't think he can. Instead, he holds your eye and hopes you can see what you're doing to him. Shifting his hips, he rocks into you and almost sees the Gods when the head of his cock sinks into you. You feel divine, hot and wet and tight and begging for his release. He breathes, unsure just how long he'll last. For a moment he waits, giving you just the tip and nothing more, waiting for the both of you to adjust.

The stretch he gives you is impossible. Even with so little of him inside of you, you feel full, incapable of taking the more you know he's going to give you. There's a burn radiating through your pelvis, a persistent, but delectable pain that subsides only as you breathe through it. You moan, a pretty noise escaping your throat as you feel him rut just a little deeper, taking the air from your lungs. Fisting your hands in whatever bedsheets you can find, your ribcage lifts from the bed, tits pressing flush with Kirishima's chest.

Bakugo thinks he might explode. He can see the rim of your cunt, Kirishima's cock stuffing it full and barley a quarter in. It's exhilarating as he watches both of you shiver, trying to hold it together as much as possible. Loosening his grip on his cock, he chances a slow, but firm pull upwards and quickly regrets it.

You moan, eyes rolling as flick up your hips as harshly as you can. The movement sheaths him further inside of you, dragging a harsh grunt out of his lungs as he falters. His cock presses up into you, bringing tears to your eyes as he slides back out almost immediately, but his fullness isn't a sensation you're willing to give up. Desperation claws at you, begs you for more, for a release you're dying to experience. 'Please, please, please...'

You're incensed, but then again, so is Kirishima.

Maybe that's why he gives you what you want, despite knowing you probably can't take it. Dipping his head to your neck, he rolls his hips to fill you completely and hopes he he can hold out long enough to please both you and the prince.

Your body struggles, cunt pulsing with that familiar sweet throb as he stills his movements once more and waits. You feel light headed, your body pulled taught as you hiccup through your next few breaths.

Teeth graze the junction of your shoulder, a whispered 'Is it too much?' tickling your ear before you feel the slow sensation of him pulling out. You move instantly. Wrapping your legs around him, you stop his retreat and squeeze tight, anxious to keep him inside, to be stretched and full.

The moan he lets out is pure sin. It's deep, guttural, lingering in his throat as he rocks his hips back into you and basks in the heaven that your cunt provides. With your ankles locked at the base of his spine, he's forced to bottom out – his thicket of pubic hair brushing against your clit making you twitch and writhe against him.

A strangled whine leaves Bakugo's throat as he comes to terms with his nearing end. He fucks his fist, hips lifting from the cushioned throne seat as he quickens his pace, eyes glued to were your two bodies meet on the bed. It takes barely a handful of strokes, especially when Kirishima's hips begin to move earning a cacophony of moans from both of your throats.

You can't help it. Neither of you can.

Both of your eyes drift to the back of the room, stealing quick glances at the prince. He looks ethereal, lost to his own throws of pleasure with his eyes squeezed shut and his head tipped back. A trickle of moans sneak from his lips despite his breath catching behind his Adam's apple, making goose flesh prickle on both of your arms. It feels wrong, to watch him like this – to see him so vulnerable, throat exposed, cock in his hand and cumming in his own fist, but you swear you've never seen a more beautiful sight.

He cums in waves. His body shaking as he coats his fist, his hand still smoothing the rest of his orgasm from his body. Eventually, his breathing levels out, the faint tingle from his release making him loose and light-headed. His skin prickles. The odd tug of being watched itching at the back of his neck, but when he finally blinks open his eyes there's no-one watching him.

Kirishima groans. He could feel you, your cunt pulsing around him as you watched the prince come undone. It spurs something inside of him, calls on him to please you in the way your body so desperately wanted to be pleased. Spreading his legs a little wider, he forces your hips open allowing him to reach even deeper inside of you and begins to rock his hips.

Something spoilt bubbles in your stomach. Watching the prince has made you hungry, but before you can get carried away feeling jealous of his release Kirishima begins to fuck you. Each of his thrusts gets deeper, his pace quickening until it becomes hard to concentrate. His cock fills you perfectly, making your whole body raw in a way you've never felt before.

It isn't long before Kirishima feels the tell tale pit in his stomach begin to swell. His balls pull up tight, the muscle in his abdomen twitching as he holds onto his composure with his finger tips. Still, he knows exactly what he has to do. Angling his hips down, he ensures his pubic bone brushes yours with each stroke, the thick mess of hair at his stomach tickling over your clit with each stroke.

You moan with each of his thrusts. There's no pain now, no sharp stabbing as his cock presses up inside of you. Instead, there's the dullness of a rising pleasure, one that threatens to tip you over the edge at any moment as you hold on for dear life. With your wrists still bound in his, it's impossible to pull him as closely as you want him, but Kirishima seems to read your mind.

Without pausing his rhythm, Kirishima presses his forehead to yours. Your eyes lock, the wildness in your iris' laid bare for him as his brow scrunches in concentration. He learns more about you in those following few seconds than he has for the week you'd been sequestered together before the selection. It's as if he's attuned to every inch of you, every hitch of your breath, each twitch of your lip and pulse of your cunt.

That's why he sees it coming.

He watches as your eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back towards the ceiling of the bed chamber. Your chest heaves, breath lodged there as a wave of pleasure strong enough to steal your breath rolls through you. Your mouth drops open, lips spit slicked and shining.

And then, then he feels your cunt pulse.

You milk him endlessly. Tightening around him in a vice he's not sure he'll ever want to escape, your pleasure is the most delectable thing he's ever experienced. A groan leaves his throat raw, his biceps shaking as he keep fucking your through your high, prolonging it for as long as possible. There had always been talk of what it was like to make a woman cum, the teachings endless, but none of it had come close to the real thing.

'Not...' Bakugo is breathless. His crown is still lob-sided, his smile lazy and satisfied as he kicks a leg back over the arm of his throne. 'Not inside. Don't come inside of her. That's an order.'

'Yes... Yes, my lord.' With his composure waning, Kirishima waits barely a beat, just until your cunt relaxes, the ghost of a smile tugging at the side of your lip. And then, he pulls out.

You whine, lurching forward as your wrists are released, but you don't get very far before thick strings of pearl are being lashed over your tits. The liquid is warm and coats your skin generously, painting you in his release. Above you, Kirishima fists his cock. His abdomen is tight, his nose scrunched, eyes heavy and half-lidded as he fights to keep looking at you.

And then, just like that, it's over.

The prince allows you a moment of reprieve, a minute or two to bask in the enormity of what has just occurred. The deflowering of a concubine was often a ritualised event and yet, here you were, with the spend of another concubine on your chest having just been taken for the first time. Kirishima's palm curls around your shoulder, steadying you as your world spins. His comfort is welcomed, something you offer him back with a hand on his thigh.

Bakugo clears his throat. 'Go...'

Your head snaps towards him, eyebrows scrunched. There's a shake in your knees still, one you're not sure will support you if the prince chooses to toss you out of his chambers so soon.

Licking his lips, there's a new softness in Bakugo's tone when he speaks again, shifting in his seat as he does. 'Go clean yourselves up. There's a bath through those doors, the servants should have it warm by now. You're welcome to it and whatever you wish to use in there. Sooth your muscles and return to your own quarters. I'll call for you again tomorrow.'

Kirishima glances at you and shrugs. There will be time to talk about the princes strangeness later, for now, you're not about to turn down a chance for a dip in the royal baths. Scrambling to your feet, Kirishima supports you into a messy curtsey before the prince before you slip out of the room and descend upon a world of luxury.

The door to the baths slams shut behind you, leaving Bakugo alone once again. He shouldn't have let you in there either, people will certainly talk if you're discovered, but the servants are obedient folk and his harsh nature keeps away the other prying eyes efficiently enough.

Springing from his seat, he crosses the room in barely two strides before he's at the bed. He crawls across it, feeling the warmth of your bodies still radiating through the sheets as he goes, imagining what it will feel like to be caught between the scene he witnessed only moments earlier. There's evidence of the act. Dips where you'd been lying, the sheets rumpled and tossed, but the thing that catches his eye is the darkened wet patch clear on the bed.

He doesn't think, he just moves. His chest meets the bed, his tunic falling open to allow rosy nipples to rub against the sheets as his tongue slips from behind his teeth and drags across the wetness. The taste of you bursts across his tongue. A deadly mix of both you and Kirishima ensnares him, causing him to go back for more. He laps at the sheet until his saliva mixes with your essence overpowering your tastes, leaving him wanting.

Collapsing on the bed, Bakugo stares up at the ceiling and listens to the hushed tones and splashes of you in the next room.

Tomorrow. He thinks.

Tomorrow, he'll have you...

Or, at least some of you.

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[skyguytoast]

DARK SIDE, SOFT HEART: SUITLESS!VADER X YOU

SYNOPSIS: where suitless!Vader is the right arm of the emperor with anger issues and you are his soft-spoken girlfriend who knows exactly how to bring him to his knees—with nothing more than a look.

WORDS: 600+

WARNING: nothing just fluffy, just a tiny bit of angst

A/N: hiii, dear lovers, I wrote this while waiting for my class to start. It’s a bit small, like probably one of the smallest as I wrote. 😉😘 anyway, comments, reblogs are appreciated. kisses and good reading 🥰🤩 Dividers by @cafekitsune

Vader was possessed — not by the Force, not by vengeance, but by the failure of a mission that should have been flawless.

Everything had gone wrong.

He had led a squad of Inquisitors in pursuit of one of the last remaining Jedi, a mission that was supposed to be swift, surgical, and final. It wasn’t even a full Jedi — just a Padawan. And yet… somehow, they had failed. Miserably. Two Inquisitors dead, another maimed. The others had fled — fled — like frightened children, disgracing everything he had trained into them.

Vader had expected power, precision, dominance. What he had seen instead was weakness.

And weakness had no place in his world.

The survivors suffered for their cowardice — his wrath descended like a star collapsing. He punished them without hesitation, a lesson carved into their flesh and bone. There would be no tolerance for failure. Not again.

By the time he returned to Mustafar, the fire inside him had grown unchecked. Fury rolled off of him like heat waves. His crimson saber roared to life, cleaving through anything and anyone foolish enough to be in his path — droids, furniture, command consoles, even the occasional stormtrooper caught in the wake of his rampage. Walls cracked. Steel melted. The fortress trembled under his wrath.

And then, suddenly, he was in your doorway.

The doors slammed behind him like a final verdict. You flinched, eyes wide, caught mid-page in your book, silk nightgown flowing like soft petals around your legs as you sat on the bed. The light from the hallway was devoured by his presence, all shadow and fury. His shoulders heaved with ragged breath, and those burning yellow eyes — normally hidden beneath the cold, black mask — flickered with a murderous storm.

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

You simply set your book aside, your fingers steady even as your heart raced. There was blood on his hands. His jaw was clenched tight, his entire body wound like a drawn wire. He was still ready to strike — to kill.

“Anakin,” you said softly, and it struck him like lightning.

That name. The name buried beneath layers of darkness and armor. Only you called him that, only you dared. And right now, it felt like an anchor thrown into the storm raging inside him.

He turned his head, jaw twitching. “Don’t,” he growled, voice raw, trembling. “Don’t say that name right now.”

But you were already rising from the bed, bare feet touching the cold obsidian floor. You approached without fear. Your hands reached for him — not to pull him close, but to ground him.

“I know what happened,” you whispered. “You lost control. They failed you. But you are still here. Still standing. You don’t have to carry this rage into our space.”

His fists were clenched, saber still in hand, his breathing ragged. His eyes flicked to your face — so calm, so tender — and for a moment, he was still. Then, with a trembling exhale, his weapon fell to the floor with a heavy clang.

And then… he dropped to his knees.

Not in defeat.

In surrender.

To you.

His forehead pressed against your stomach, his hands clutching your thighs as if they were the last solid thing in his galaxy. You slid your fingers into his sandy hair, gently tugging him closer, cradling him like a wounded beast.

“I’m here,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his temple. “You don’t have to be a god or a monster with me. Just breathe.”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled.

You were the only force in the galaxy that could bring Darth Vader to his knees — not with power, but with gentle. With love.

And as the chaos of the galaxy raged on outside, you held him together piece by piece, reminding the broken soul within the armor that he was still human, still Anakin — and still yours.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld

[writermani4c]

Me and the Devil | Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You're a nun at an isolated convent. He is in your mind, eating away your mind bit by bit, soon destroying the pillars of your faith. Until you have no choice but to surrender to him, he will destroy all that is necessary.

warnings: He's a vampire. Of course he doesn't have to play fair, does he? There is mind control and there are some rather bloody deaths. I don't think I'm really good with that, I don't think it's too heavy, but it's good that there's a warning.

:: We girls can't bear to see a vampire who is completely obsessed with a woman, who will spill as much blood as it takes to get her, and who has already fallen in love with her. I'm completely obsessed by Nosferatu, even though I couldn't get a screening where I live. This is basically my brain being eaten away by Bill Skarsgard's hunger… I'm always hungry for Bill, but at this point in time I could be kept in a secluded castle to give birth to all of his babies, and I mean that. I hope you enjoy this. By the way, good luck in 2024!

The high-pitched squeak penetrated the stones of the convent, seeping like moss into the soft, bumpy cracks in the porosity, and imitated the soft voice of a wanderer saying a prayer in a dead language, older than time. His understanding was forgotten by men, but that didn't silence him. That voice was still preserved in the air that surrounded you like a thick mantle covering a thick cotton habit, as light as the coat of a holy lamb, which covered you from head to toe in a sacred enclosure. 

Through the narrow window of his room, all that showed were the orange Carpathian mountain ranges in the middle of a mild autumn, with the taste of hot tea and the smell of a fire burning in the evening, when the temperature dropped at night.

The mountain ranges and that stone fortress, far from the convent and yet terribly close.

Every day, the castle seemed to move. When you weren't watching it with your stoic expression, it seemed to grow tentacles over its foundation and creep up slowly. Depending on the day, it seemed further away, with only the tip of its towers appearing between the hills. But when you were getting ready for bed, tucked up in the modest comfort of your little room and wrapped in the soft blanket of your nightgown, the castle seemed terribly close to you, so close that you could feel its evil aura as you raised your hand in a vain attempt to touch it. 

He was calling you. A strength, a terror, a hungry longing.

Come to me, my eternal beloved. 

Tormented, you choked on your own breath. The deep, seductive sound of that voice crept under your blankets at night, and under the modest garments of your nightgown, finding your soft, easy-to-creep skin. His touch was physical, even if you often groped your skin in search of those hands and found nothing but loneliness, and intimacy. So intimate that not even the devil himself, cruel and cunning, could emulate such evil in his attempt to corrupt the Lord Jesus in his trial in the desert.

It scared you.

The feeling of intimacy that belongs to something, that is lost until it is regained. That invisible hand, as well as the voice that only you heard, shook your sense of self and made you feel the narrow mattress slipping off your back, the thin blanket sliding off your body and your fear of dissolving as you floated above the bed. A demonic, ghostly vision, with your eyes rolled back in a trance that nothing and no one could stop.

You felt it, more intimately than you felt anything else, and that was scarier than any of the other traps in hell.

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— My child — greeted the voice on the other side of the wooden confessional booth. The only voice you could turn to in times of extreme need. Father Lengyel was an elderly authority in the convent, as was Mother Superior Illés. If it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't have had the courage to confide in him your greatest fears, seeking the reassurance of his gentle voice. — In your praiseworthy stillness, I can see that something is troubling you. You owe me your ordeal, child.

— Father, help me! — Tired and sleepless after a night awake, with your knees against the floor praying to ward off the tentacles of evil, you felt your eyes grow heavy as you saw the low, hunchbacked shadow of the priest. — I'm cursed. I didn't do anything about it, but I know that the shadow that haunts me was born with me, wrapped around me like an umbilical cord that has never been amputated. I feel it and sometimes I hear its impatience calling my name.

— Fear not, my child. No shadow of a curse is stronger than our Lord's mercy on your spirit, waking you up every morning with a breath of life.

But maybe it's not our Lord, you thought bitterly. You almost disbelieved that God would even work in your cause, probably deciding to wash his hands of you and leave you alone on your ordeal. This thought angered you, wondering how God, your holy God to whom you dedicated your time and efforts to serve with blind devotion, could leave one of his daughters helpless when the claws of the nefarious one threatened to entangle her? 

And anger, even though it was blasphemy with your Father, was easier to manage in your restless spirit than the fear that perhaps God hadn't let go of your hand. Perhaps he was there, following in your footsteps not long ago, weeping blood for not being able to do anything to prevent the evils that awaited you. Maybe there were forces greater than the salvation you blindly tried to reach like a child afraid of the dark.

That thought you swept from your mind, because if that thing was stronger than the Savior you were turning to, there would be no reason to be reluctant in its evil call.

— I beg you, Father, with all the infinite goodness of your being, pray for my soul. 

— I will, my child. You too, pray for wisdom and that the Lord, in his infinite love, will bring you comfort. 

When you left the confessional, you got down on your knees in front of the proudly erected altar. The suffering face of that poor man in his moment of greatest difficulty never comforted you, but inspired you. If even he, the son and Messiah, found the purpose to remain firm on the narrow road of faith, you too would find the strength to stay in the light. You would have to pass through that tortuous valley to have your healing.

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You weren't the youngest in the convent, but you weren't the oldest either. When you arrived, with your only bag with a few belongings and a photo of the home you grew up in, the home that always seemed unworthy of your torments about the terror that was trying to get its claws into you, there were older girls who took you in as a younger sister, teaching you the trade so that you could also teach those who came to the convent after you. This was the mission: you didn't serve God's pure purpose alone, but learned from your sisters so that you could teach others in a cycle that stretched out like an infinite patchwork quilt. 

Among his protégés, the young Agnes was the most cherished. So young and intelligent, she was your faithful dog in the convent corridors. Agnes, who came from a poorer and more literate family than yours, found comfort in listening to you read the Psalms, the book they were given to study. Agnes' chubby cheeks and earthy brown eyes reminded you of the child you would never have, the one you could never run your hand through and love. The Lord was merciful to you in giving you a sister to fill that void and you gave her all the attention you could. Your beloved Agnes sat next to you while you ate your lunch in silence. The soup was thinner, to save supplies for the harsh winter, and the bread was smaller. All deposits were saved and all fasting was done in summer and fall, because in winter your bodies' strength was tested by the ice that seemed to be trying to infiltrate your bones. They would have to eat better to survive until spring.

Next to him, young Agnes choked on her bread.

— Eat slowly. 

— Pardon me, sister! — She stopped eating, lowering her head as if she expected to be punished. You smiled, running your hand over your protégé's head. 

— Don't be like that. I'm talking for your own good, chew better, it also helps to fill your stomach.

The girl turned her face towards you with a soft, youthful smile. 

A low, loud sound caught their attention. It was as if the ceiling had broken, so you looked up in doubt, but it seemed as firm as ever. Surprised gasps and the sound of footsteps moving across the stone floor made you stand up and look around, at the shocked faces of your sisters. 

— Stay behind me, Agnes. — You stood in front of the girl, shielding her with your body, while you searched for the cause of the commotion among the others. 

Another thud made you find the source of the terror. Your older sister, a girl so genuinely kind that she wouldn't mind giving up her own shoes and going barefoot if she had to. Olga. Olga, who was so generous that she always presented the others with little embroideries on old linen handkerchiefs, making them priceless pieces. Olga who hugged you as soon as you arrived, immensely happy as if you were a relative she hadn't seen for years and who was returning home. Your beloved sister Olga's nose was covered in blood and her front teeth were in an equally miserable state. Her blue eyes were completely covered by dark pupils, making them animalistic as she looked around at the familiar faces until she stopped at you. 

She gritted her teeth painfully, teasing the veins in her neck. Olga no longer knew you. She didn't look at you like her younger sister, but with anger.

— Ungrateful! Damn you! — She pointed her slender, cocked forefinger, the knuckles seeming to ache with the effort. — Ungrateful and  damned, unfortunate creature! Look what I do to what you love so much, look what I do to the object of your efforts!

Olga moved her face away from the table enough to almost fall backwards, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers tightly, before putting all her strength forward and, with a hollow sound of something breaking, smashing her nose against the wooden table. The noise tore you apart. Young Agnes' arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you pushed her back. 

Mother Illés rushed into the dining hall. 

She gave you an appeasing look and you understood. With agility, you gathered all the younger girls, totally terrified, and asked them to follow you out while Olga, surrounded and supported by her older sisters, screamed:

— Love me! Devote yourself to me! Command me if you wish, but don't ignore me, my beloved, don't deny me, for I am your lord and savior! I am the master of your pure and tormented soul, my beloved! 

But you, terrified, denied his call once again. You covered your ears as you led the girls into the courtyard outside. The dry autumn wind enveloped you, your voices, but did nothing to muffle the terror in your minds. Little Agnes was still wrapped tightly in your body and soon the others followed suit, seeking warmth in your shivering, freezing body. Concentrating on them, on reassuring them, took your mind off the torturous thought that, yes, he was impatient.

All those years of “tranquility” were his gift, his way of making you surrender voluntarily. But he was lonely. He was hungry. 

Now he controlled Olga's body. 

But not just her. 

That same night, while Olga was tied to her bed under the watchful eye of Mother Illés, Annabeth began to dance as she blew out the candles. You didn't see it, you were busy with your chores, but the others saw it and told you about it in sad, frightened voices. Annabeth, so young and playful, began to twirl around and the others thought she was just playing. The girl liked to play games, hiding pine cones under her pillows and little flowers in the sleeves of her habits. 

She spun around mesmerized, spinning faster and faster and more violently. Her feet seemed bewitched and she suffered without even being able to move her mouth to do so, her teeth clenched in a painful grind as her jaw unhinged. The candles on the altar grew, fueled by something supernatural and unworthy, dancing along with young Annabeth.

That macabre dance ended in a tableau and the flames touching the young woman's habit. The fire consumed her without anyone being able to put it out; no amount of water could stop the flames. They consumed Annabeth until there was nothing left. In her death, she said nothing, but tearing her clothes to get rid of the fire, her name was torn into the soft skin of my body. Her name was everywhere, written with love, sorrow and anger. Like a love-hate letter, he wrote to you through the skin of an innocent girl. 

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You hadn't slept a wink for three nights. 

At the slightest sign of unconsciousness, as you blinked your eyes a little more slowly, it was as if he was lurking there waiting to take you, and this made you resist even though your body could barely stand.

The mother didn't let you take part in the funeral, allowing you only a brief farewell before you were taken to your chambers to rest. 

You didn't want to rest.

Even so, you didn't have the strength to move. Perhaps it was tiredness or apathy, the feeling that all your efforts were useless.You lay there in your narrow bed, watching the day fade away through the shadows on the wall.

The night was his territory. 

Night was when he hid in the wind and entered his room.

Even though he wanted to, there was no voice in his throat to scream and a hot tear ran down his left eye. 

The door to his room opened and, to his relief, Father Lengyel entered his room. The black cloak swirled solemnly around him, like something divine coming to his rescue.

— What ails you, my dear!

— A large, slender hand, smelling of scrubbed earth, touched his face. There was a certain softness to it, even though the ice in your palms made you sigh with the thermal shock. — My poor little lamb! 

The man held your face lovingly, with such care that you simply let go, allowing yourself to cry in dismay at his attentive care. Father Lengyel, so small and twisted, sat on the edge of your bed. A candle burned on the chair on the other side of the room, the glow of the fire casting shadows on the wall next to your bed and leaving you cloaked in that lonely corner. Father Lengyel kissed your cheek, with those closed, dead lips, so cold they made you shiver.

— Father!

— Poor creature!

— My shadow is growing. — You confessed, leaning your face on the old man's hand. — My shadow consumed poor Olga and Annabeth, casting them into the valley of the storm. 

Father Lengyel pulled the blanket away from your body and, in the narrow space that barely fit a body, he lay down with you. Your eyes widened as the man pressed himself against your body. The man you had always seen as a loving and attentive father, a listener incapable of the slightest judgment, lay beside you with the warmth of a lover. 

— You curse us all, my sweet. — His mouth curved into a smile that only reflected darkness. — Everyone, everyone, everyone. My eyes, so blessed with the beauty of your soft skin and childish eyes, your sweet mouth and the shaggy strands of your eyebrows, became the object of his dark admirer's envy and, look, what he did to me.

In the short distance between your faces, that distance you wanted to increase at all costs, you could make out the old man's wrinkled features. His withered cheeks, the corners of his eyes creased by years and years of study and service to the church. His thinning hair was pearly white on his straight head, with little spots like freckles. The eyes, previously blue, weren't there. 

In their place, there was the emptiness of two hollow holes whose darkness seemed to feed with pleasure. 

The priest smiled in her direction.

— Smile, my dear. Who else in the world would be as adored and cherished as you? What other soul would be as worthy of all the fascination of eyes that have seen the rise and fall of empires as the rising and setting of the sun? There are worse ways to live. In complete ignorance, never seen and never remembered, gradually rotting away like this old man. 

In an unknown breath, you felt the instinct to fight with the same strength as the archangels as you sat up in bed, your body trembling from the effort. The priest continued to lie there, moaning with satisfaction as he enjoyed the smell of your hair against the pillow where you had shed your tears. 

He was totally possessed. The evil had taken hold of the most benevolent man you've ever had the pleasure of knowing, save only his own father, a man so generous that he gave up his beloved daughter to the care of a convent without ever doubting his desires to follow a holy life. All was lost.

You got out of bed, your legs wobbly as you dragged yourself out of the room. There were few lit candles and a long corridor. Carefully, you hugged your body and left your quarters, dreading the next demonic sight you would encounter on your way.

The convent seemed more alive than ever. A complete organism. The walls moved as it breathed and guided you in silence, the cold accompanying you like a guardian, a raven on your sullen shoulders. The moon was high in the sky, its pearly glow illuminating what not even candle flames could touch. And you walked, leaning on the walls, groping for balance. In the dining hall, where Olga's blood was embedded in the wood of one of the tables, you saw the shadows of the feet of all your beloved sisters and your devoted mother.

They all floated solemnly, with ropes around their necks. They all looked at you with pupils consumed by darkness and wide smiles, so big that they seemed to rejoice in your presence. 

— My beloved! — cried Clara. 

— Beacon of my darkness! — said Lucia. 

— Don't you see, my beloved? 

With dread, you walked around the tables, looking into their faces. Every single one of them. The rope wasn't taut, they were floating under the invisible force that kept them alive only for a brief moment. Just long enough for you to see them, to remember their names and their faces, their voices, their lives and their untouchable faith. Because they, like your Savior, had no power to stop the terrors you were cursed with at birth.

As soon as your cry marked his arrival in this rotten, petty and cheap world, he also felt the pain in his chest, where his lungs were supposed to work. Your soft cry marked the raw, lifeless gasp of the thing that woke up to take in its big, slender hands what was rightfully its: that poor soul, which had never found a single day's peace, shrouded in the melancholy of that fateful encounter. 

Nothing could stop her soul from touching him, much less his emptiness from possessing her soul.

It was a perfect fit, an unspoken agreement between heaven and hell. God, all merciful, gave you up for the greater good. You were eternally linked. 

And your sisters, mother and father paid the price for coming between the two of you, for taking you away from your true home and your true master. They filled your days with their miserable little lives, with miserable knowledge, with miserable privations for such... miserable glory. 

— I have set you free, my beloved. I have loosened the nails that bound you to your cross. — Murmured the mother, with jubilant eyes, cheeks streaked with sweet tears. Your stern and beneficent mother. — My obsession is the key to this filthy, worthless prison. Come, darling, and enjoy with me all the pleasures you've been denied. Come quickly, my beloved, put an end to my loneliness.

His shadow has grown over you, outside in the courtyard.

— Spare them! I beg you! — Her voice roared over the tearful smiles of her sisters. Young Agnes wiggled her legs, looking at you with that untouched childish gaze, as if she were throwing herself into dense fluffy clouds and not into the abyss of death, into the blackness of darkness. — Spare them and I'll follow you without looking back. I will never desire anything other than your company, nor will I follow any other path than the one your feet once trod.

Your sisters' laughter exploded through the high ceiling, laden with a mockery that didn't belong to them.

Bewitched, they all looked down at you with equal dark amusement, their voices blending together like a spiral that drained the strength from your legs. 

— Don't you understand yet, my holy lamb? — Smiled sweet Agnes. — There's no bargaining. Whether they live or die, you will still be mine.Even in death, I will pull you back and chain you to me. I myself have suffered many years of being bound to the prison of my desires for you, waiting for you for countless years, feeling the weight of your rejection, cruel lover. 

— But you love me, don't you?

— Every part of me to every part of you, my sweetness. 

— So give me these gifts. Spare my beloved sisters, my fellow human beings, those sweet women with pure hearts who have guarded me long enough for you to come and take your rightful possession. They are not guilty, but guardians. — On your knees, you clasped your hands to your chest, begging the devil for mercy. — I know I wasn't good to you, I was insensitive to your call, but they are not to blame.You'll have all my devotion if you spare them, but if you kill them, even though you have my body and my spirit, you'll never have a drop of my attention. 

The silence of the souls hanging from the ceiling of the convent refectory echoed their inconsolable weeping.Thick tears and a plea so strong that it could make the souls turn over in their graves. 

The doors opened in a rush, letting the cold wind enter the dining hall. 

For the first time, under the ethereal light of the moon, as if in a macabre mixture of dream and nightmare intertwined by the thin veil of unconsciousness, you saw it.Not its aura or its agonized call, you saw the creature with your own eyes. 

You, who know so little about men, had never seen such a figure. 

So tall that you had to stoop to pass through the door that you would walk through without any difficulty.Eyes so deep that no light could reach them. A face hardened by the spectre of death, with a long nose and a thick moustache of a deep shade of black.He entered the sacred ground with equal parts ease and pain, each step a necessary torture to reach the object of his desire. The soul he so coveted in his millennial solitude, forgotten by the world, completely abandoned under the promise of a single soul that the heavens did not claim, a soul he could corrupt at will. 

Yours to devour, he thought at first, perhaps resentful that he was also chained to a lowly mortal, a wandering and very basic creature. Yours to torment, he thought, when you were very young and saw his shadow in your room for the first time. Yours to worship, he realized now, pulling her by her bare arms to stand up.

The creature, hungry for something, for some compensation for its endless loneliness, brought its face close to his and, with a touch of malice, stuck out its tongue, licking the length of his tears with its cold, inhuman breath. 

— I thought you'd wait for me in your habit, my beloved.I was particularly looking forward to it. — He lowered his cold, vile gaze, delving into the shape of your body beneath the nightgown with which you were forced to rest, a fabric so thin of light cotton that it hung down your body, revealing through the worn nature of the fabric the color of your stiff nipples against the fabric. He gasped with pleasure. — But what unparalleled pleasure it is to see you in such intimate attire, my eternal obsession. 

His hands, holding her face, were huge, with large, aged nails. Nails that would have dug into the earth to escape the grave. Their coldness was uncomfortable, but, given the horrors in your mind, you found yourself accepting their touch as a shred of comfort.

It destroyed your sanity, that it would at least give you the soothing balm of a caress.

— Please! — you sighed with a breath, a breath as anguished as it was tired. 

Your hands touched his, your eyes full of life and fear threatened his darkness with such a benevolent request, something the creature had never witnessed. 

Those like you, mortals, used to beg for mercy on your own life, on your knees and with the greatest promises of riches and pleasures.And here you were, a soul who would never reach heaven, asking for mercy for others when it was your fate that was at stake.

How he loved you! How he hated you!

— Treating it as my personal gift and demonstration of my esteem, these women live by my ability to have mercy on the requests of your heart. — He approached your warmth, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the salt of your feverish skin. All his vitality was more than banal desire, he was madly fissured by every cell of his anatomy, every rudimentary bit of his mortal Anatomy, and so doomed to the horrors of putrefaction. — My eternal living flame, how it tormented me not to be able to touch it. How it torments me right now to feel the softness of your skin. 

The creature's eyes mapped your face, his eyes so vivid and striking in color, the visage on your skin, the softness of his mouth as you breathed audibly, so bruised by fatigue that you didn't even budge when he wrapped you in his arms like a bruised little bird. Her soft sigh, nesting her head against his shoulder, was the fuel for him to release the women from their ropes, gently lowering them until their feet touched the ground.

— As long as you live, my ladies, be the witness of my triumph in having my sweet beloved in my arms for eternity.

He lowered his face in your direction, the ancient smell on his clothes made you scratch your nose. 

The texture of his mustache was thick. When his funeral lips touched yours, you tried to resist. Never before have you felt the pleasure of a passionate kiss or a love that took your breath away. But he knew what he'd been waiting for, holding you tightly by the back of your head, wrapping himself around you menacingly as his mustache scratched and skin immaculate from his face. His lips were hard, demanding and hungry.

His mouth ate you as his last hope, the last of pleasures and torments, a feast for a dying man.

The exchange, life and death, touching each other for the first time ignited an impulse in you. The impulse that matched his kiss, because that was the deal. You gave in, letting your lips submit to the kiss. Your body was surprised as you gasped with pleasure at corresponding with him, stimulated by the passion with which he held you. The human body is capable of many bargains to continue resisting.

And you, who had resisted for so long, gave in to that bittersweet feeling of surrender, feeling it take against your body.

Her body gradually sank into the feeling of being supported. As her dark lover's lips devoured hers, the world became a darker and darker place, the hiss of the wind seeping into her ears like spilled poison.  Between soft gasps, feeling the creature suck on his lips, unable to be completely satiated, his body gave in to the strain, falling into a powerful sleep. Realizing that you no longer corresponded with him, he walked away, looking at her with apprehension. His right hand, large and bony, rested on his chest. 

The beating of his heart was quiet, yet powerful. Each beat rumbling softly against the bones of his chest. 

Under the gaze of the bewitched nuns, he disappeared with the night, carrying with him the only one with whom he could share his eternal night.

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[internet-rat]

Aemond Targaryen x wife reader

He makes you sit on his lap after a long day in the Red Keep~ No warnings~ A little Aemond fluff bc he needs love

In the seclusion of Aemond's private chambers in the Red Keep, the torches flickered against the stone walls, casting dancing shadows that played across the grand furnishings. The room was adorned with the luxuries befitting a prince of the realm — rich tapestries hung heavy and fragrant incense burned in the corner. The door was firmly closed, muffling the distant sounds of the feast celebrating Maelor's nameday.

Aemond sat sternly in a high-backed chair carved from dark wood, his one good eye reflecting the fire's light with a predatory glint. The sapphire that filled his other socket shimmered eerily, adding to his imposing presence. His long silver hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his sharp Valyrian features. His expression was one of contemplation, his lips pressed into a thin line.

As you entered, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that caused the air to thicken. With a firm but gentle hand, he beckoned you closer. There was no need for words; his desires were clear in his silent command. His strong hands grasped your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap, facing him. The proximity to him was overwhelming; his presence enveloped you, his heat and the scent of spiced leather and metal filled your senses.

Aemond’s touch was both possessive and protective, a complex amalgamation reflective of his tumultuous nature. His fingers traced the line of your jaw gently yet with a firmness that reminded you of his undeniable strength. Leaning in, his voice was low and husky, a sound that resonated with a command yet carried an undercurrent of vulnerability that he revealed to no one but you.

“Today’s revelries matter little,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Here, with you, I find a moment’s peace amidst the storm that ever churns around me. Tell me, my love, does the heart of the Red Keep feel as oppressive to you as it does to me?”

His question hung in the air, a testament to the rare occasions he chose to voice his concerns. In these private moments, Aemond Targaryen, the fierce dragonrider and prince, sought solace in your presence, showing a side of himself kept hidden from the world. His fingers continued to explore, tracing the lines of your arms down to your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours, grounding himself with your touch. His fingers were rough and calloused, but undeniably warm and strong. He used his thumbs to caress your hands. To ease his worries you plant a soft kiss on his cheek. As the softness of your lips graced his scarred cheek, a subtle shift occurred in Aemond's demeanor. Such a tender gesture, simple yet profound, pierced the hardened exterior of the prince known for his ruthless aggression. His eye, usually so piercing and guarded, softened remarkably, reflecting a fleeting glimpse of the man buried beneath the layers of duty and battle scars.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of your hair, a mixture of lavender and the subtle hint of the sea, perhaps a memory of calmer days. His grip around you tightened momentarily, a silent acknowledgment of your comfort before he relaxed again. Each touch from you seemed to anchor him further away from the tumultuous thoughts that plagued his mind.

"Your kindness is my fortress," Aemond confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting something sacred and secret. The intensity of his gaze locked onto yours, seeking, perhaps, a haven only you could provide. With his other hand, he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

In a soft voice you tell him you love him and nestle closer to his chest. Reacting to your tender words and the closeness of your body nestling against his, Aemond's armored façade melted away under the warmth of your affirmation. His hand, typically prepared for war, shifted with a gentleness reserved solely for these intimate moments. He cradled the back of your head, guiding you to the security of his chest, where the steady beat of his heart played a rhythmic testament to his deep, abiding affection for you.

"I love you beyond the reach of shadows," Aemond whispered, his voice a deep, melodious rumble that resonated within the confines of his chest. The breath of his confession brushed against the crown of your head, imprinting his vow into the very air around you.

In the sanctuary of his embrace, the world's weight—that of a prince expected to be both a warrior and a ruler—seemed to dissolve into the background. Here, in the quietude of his chambers, you were his solace, and he, your unwavering protector. His arms tightened around you, a fortress built not of stone and steel, but of flesh and bone and heartfelt promises.

"Your love is the star by which I navigate the darkest nights," he continued, his hand tracing soothing patterns along your back. The intimacy of the moment grew with each shared breath, pulling him further from his usual world of strategy and strife.

"Let us forget the court, forget the intrigues," Aemond suggested, his tone a blend of longing and decisiveness. "Tonight, it is only you and I, and nothing else shall intrude upon this peace." His fingers paused at the ends of your hair, playing with the strands as though they were precious silks.

[beloveds-embrace]

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls of the bedroom. Outside the windows, the winter winds howled, rattling the glass panes. John should have been sleeping soundly all of his lovers, beside you, the rise and fall of your breaths a comforting reminder of your presence. But the dream- no, the nightmare- gripped him too fiercely.

In his mind, he saw a version of himself he did not recognize. Cold, detached, and unfeeling. He saw you sitting alone at the grand dining table, the candlelight flickering as your plate sat untouched. Your dress, once bright and elegant, seemed dull and rumpled, a reflection of the neglect you endured. It lacked all the love and care Simon ensured each dress of yours would have- it was a mere fabric worn.

In the nightmare, Kyle avoided your gaze when you asked for help organizing the household. He brushed you off with clipped words and empty agreements, leaving you to flounder alone. Kyle. The same Kyle who melted each and every time you’d cup his face and kiss his brows, your love too much to be contained.

Johnny, once so warm and playful, no longer lingered in the kitchens with you. Instead, he turned his back, whispering in hushed tones when you passed by, his laughter cruel instead of kind. Johnny. The same Johnny who uses the sauces and creams to write how much he adores you and wishes you good day, whose arms you’ve slept in more times than can be counted in the hidden nooks of the gardens.

And Simon… Simon barely spoke to you at all. His glances, so full of affection in waking life, were instead sharp and disinterested, as though you were nothing more than an inconvenience. An obstacle. It was harrowing to see Simon, of all, treat you like that when John knew he was well on his way to losing count of the amount of paintings of you that Simon had commissioned and drawn himself.

But the worst of all was himself. The John in the dream sat behind his desk, a fortress of papers and letters and a vast, cold chasm between you. His words were short, his tone clipped. He watched you cry once, silent tears slipping down your cheeks as you excused yourself from his office, and he did nothing. He did not reach out for you, did not comfort you, and when the door closed behind you, he felt nothing but relief that you were gone.

In the dream, you withered.

You wilted under their coldness, your once bright smile replaced with shadows beneath your eyes and quiet, careful movements, as though afraid to disturb them. As though afraid to take up more space than allowed.

You were unloved.

John woke with a start.

His chest heaved, heart hammering so violently it drowned out the sound of the wind outside. His body was drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around his legs. But none of it mattered- none of it- because you were there.

Curled up beside him, Kyle’s arm around your waist from the back, your face was peaceful, your features relaxed in sleep. The gentle rise and fall of your chest reassured him that you were here, real and warm and safe.

Still, he couldn’t shake the lingering tendrils of fear. He reached out with a trembling hand, brushing your hair back from your face. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake, instead leaning unconsciously into his touch.

God, how could he ever let himself act like that? Even in a dream?

When you woke the next morning, it was to the smell of freshly brewed tea and the sound of soft footsteps. John was already up, but instead of heading to his study as he often did, he was the one by your side with a tray of breakfast.

“John?” you murmured, voice still heavy with sleep. You were so comfortable, and your sleep was ever so peaceful in their arms.

“Morning, love.” He said, setting the tray down before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You blinked up at him in confusion as he fussed over your pillows, propping you up before offering you a steaming cup of tea. “What’s all this, John?”

“Breakfast.” He said simply, though his eyes lingered on you in that way that made your cheeks warm.

You took a sip of the tea, and your lips curved into a soft smile. “You didn’t have to do this. It’s not like I’m sick.”

John didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat beside you on the bed, taking your hand in his and running his thumb over your knuckles. His gaze was… unusually troubled, now that you noticed. But he spoke before you could say anything.

“Are you happy, Duchess?” he asked suddenly.

Your brows furrowed, tilting your head. “…What?”

“Are you happy?” he repeated, voice quieter this time. He reached for your hand, calloused thumb carressing the soft skin of your palm. “With me. With us.”

You stared at him, unsure where this was coming from, but the vulnerability in his expression tugged at your heart. Setting the tea aside, you turned to him fully, cupping his cheek in your other palm.

“Of course I’m happy,” you said softly. “You’ve all been so good to me, John. Better than I ever expected. More than I could have ever asked for.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, but you could tell something was still bothering him.

“John, honey?”

“I had a dream,” he admitted. “It- it was awful. None of us treated you right. You were lonely and hurting, and we didn’t care. And I just- ”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips warm and soft against his. When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, your fingers curling into his hair.

“That’s not real,” you whispered. “You’re not like that. None of you are. You make me feel loved every single day, I swear.”

His arms came around you then, pulling you into his lap and holding you close. “I’ll make sure you always do,” he promised, voice rough. “Every single day.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of tenderness. John refused to let you lift a finger, taking your workload of the day with a kiss to your forehead and sending you to keep Kyle company. Johnny outdid himself with lunch and dinner, plying you with your favorite dishes and desserts. And Simon lingered near you whenever possible, his sharp eyes softer than usual as he kept you close.

By the end of the evening, you were so thoroughly spoiled that you teased John for treating you like porcelain.

“Not porcelain,” he said seriously, cupping your face in his hands as he leaned down to kiss you again. “But precious.”

And as you melted into his embrace, you knew- no nightmare could ever change the way these men loved you.

dukedom au masterlist

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Babe I need a pick me up pleeasassseee

can I please request Simon and wife ! Reader want to go out for a long weekend for their anniversary, Simon (unfortunately ) trusts and puts Gaz and soap in charge of Tommy while they are gone

Chaos ensues

Boys on Their Worst Behavior

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, chaos, dad!Simon, uncle!Soap and uncle!Gaz disaster babysitting, minor swearing, a child on a sugar high, a destroyed couch, accidental hair dye, offscreen spicy anniversary celebration, hangovers, absolute mayhem

Author's Note: Warning, do not leave your child with their two chaotic uncles! Otherwise you get chaos, now with 200% more poor decision-making and loving regret. Enjoy!!

Summary: You and Simon want one long weekend for your anniversary. Just one. He’s hesitant to leave Tommy behind—but you convince him to trust Soap and Gaz, who are way too eager to babysit. Unfortunately, you both severely overestimate their parenting skills.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It all started on a Thursday afternoon.

The living room was warm, Tommy was building a Lego fortress in front of the TV, and you were curled up in Simon’s lap with your head on his shoulder, scrolling through hotel listings on your phone.

"Look at this one." You angled the screen toward him—a cozy little cabin by a lake, complete with a private hot tub and no internet service. "Three nights. Quiet. Remote. Romantic."

Simon made a thoughtful noise but didn’t say yes.

You tapped your finger against his chest. "Come on. We never get time like this."

"We’ve got time now," he murmured, nosing behind your ear and making you giggle. "Tommy’s busy, the house is quiet—"

"Yeah, for twenty minutes. Then someone’s throwing a tantrum because we won’t let him wear his Spider-Man costume in the bath again."

Simon huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing circles against your back. "Don’t want to leave him with strangers."

"I wasn’t thinking strangers," you said, lips curling into a grin. "I was thinking… Soap and Gaz."

He pulled back and looked at you like you’d just suggested setting the house on fire for fun.

"No."

"Simon—"

"Absolutely not."

"They love him," you said. "Tommy loves them."

"They once let him eat ten mini cupcakes and then put him in a cardboard box to race down the stairs."

"That was kind of my fault."

"He called it the ‘S.S. Yeet Machine.’"

You grinned. "Tommy’s creative."

Simon muttered something under his breath, but you weren’t giving up. You climbed fully into his lap, facing him with your hands on his shoulders and your best sweet-eyes stare. "It’s one weekend. Our anniversary. Remember? The one where we swore we’d actually get away this year?"

His brows knit together. "What if something happens?"

"We’ll leave emergency numbers. A whole list. I’ll prep all the food. And I’ll bribe Soap with those lemon bars he likes."

He stared at you for a long beat. Then at Tommy, who was now making explosion noises and knocking over Lego towers.

"…you’re really gonna bribe them with lemon bars?"

You kissed his cheek. "Already made them this morning."

—

The Drop-Off

When Friday morning rolled around, you and Simon packed the car with overnight bags and a cooler full of carefully prepped meals. Simon triple-checked the emergency folder. You left sticky notes on the fridge, the bathroom mirror, and even the dog.

Gaz and Soap were waiting on the porch when you opened the door—matching grins, sunglasses, and a terrifying amount of confidence.

"Operation ‘Cool Uncles’ is a go!" Soap declared.

Tommy ran past you in a blur, launching himself into Soap’s arms. "UNCLE JOHNNY!"

Soap spun him around. "What’s up, gremlin?!"

Gaz took Tommy’s bag and gave you a hug. "Don’t worry, love. He’s in excellent hands."

Simon squinted. "Define ‘excellent.’"

"Alive, fed, entertained," Gaz said, ticking off fingers. "In that order."

Simon gave you a look that screamed this is a terrible idea.

You smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek. "Let’s go, soldier. We have a lake waiting."

As you drove off, you glanced in the mirror and caught a glimpse of Tommy jumping on the couch with a Nerf gun, Soap cheering him on, and Gaz trying to remove a juice box from the DVD player.

Simon groaned and muttered, "We’re never gonna see the house in one piece again."

—

Day One: Descent Into Chaos

By 9:13am, you were sitting on the porch of your lakeside cabin, coffee in hand, soaking in the quiet. Simon was beside you, surprisingly relaxed—until his phone buzzed.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: He ate three toaster waffles and a handful of marshmallows. He’s vibrating. Help.

Simon stared. "What the hell do they mean vibrating?"

Ten minutes later, a video came through: Tommy sprinting in circles around the living room in his dinosaur pajamas, blurting out something about a secret mission and how his new name was "Agent Blue Lightning."

Soap was laughing in the background. "He’s got so much energy! Think we broke a record!"

Sparklez Man✨🤩: "He’s speaking in tongues."

Simon gave you a look that screamed, ‘We’re going home.’

You tugged him back down. "Nope. You’re going to drink your coffee and pretend we don’t have a son for 72 hours."

—

Later That Day

Gaz attempted bath time. You knew this because at 7:12pm, Simon’s phone buzzed again.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: We tried to do bath time. He escaped. He’s hiding under the bed and hissing like a cat.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: He bit me.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: He’s literally holding us hostage with a plunger.

Simon set his phone down, deadpan. "I changed my mind. He is feral."

You, very happy that you had the chance to say those infamous words to Simon. You didn’t hesitate when, "Told you so," slipped from your lips.

At 8:00pm, a final photo arrived: Tommy passed out on the couch, a fake mustache drawn across his face, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: He fought valiantly. But we won.

Simon shook his head and whispered, "He’s biding his time."

—

Day Two: Mistakes Were Made

9:00am – You were lazily tangled with Simon in bed, sharing breakfast when another ping hit.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: He asked to dye his hair like Uncle Johnny. I thought he meant temporary spray. Soap gave him semi-permanent blue. It’s... very blue.

Simon sat up like he’d been shot. "They what?"

You choked on your orange juice. "Please tell me it’s not—"

Another message came in. A video.

Tommy stood on the table, shirtless, now sporting neon blue hair and wielding a plunger like a sword.

"I AM UNCLE SOAP JUNIOR!"

Simon immediately sent a message,

Skull Head💀💍: We’re coming home.

Best Mama✨💍: Just make sure Tommy is alive please when we get home!!

You, laughing so hard you cried: "We are not. This is the best anniversary ever."

—

Day Three: Silence Is Never Good

By midmorning, you noticed something strange.

No texts. No chaos. No updates.

Simon frowned. "Either they’ve finally figured it out or they’re unconscious."

You were still debating when your phone buzzed.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: We’re alive. Barely. Your child put gummy bears in the coffee machine. We now serve ‘Espresso à la Diabetes.’

A follow-up message from Gaz had you concerned.

Sparklez Man✨🤩: Couch is broken. Don’t ask. Just know Tommy learned how to suplex.

And finally: a photo of Tommy knocked out in a blanket fort, Gaz face-down beside him, and Soap sitting on the floor, eyes vacant, ice pack on his temple.

Bubble Head🧼🫧: He won.

—

Coming Home

You pulled up to the house Sunday afternoon. Everything was... quiet.

Too quiet.

The door creaked open. The living room looked like a war zone. The couch listing to one side. Juice box puddles on the floor. A slice of cheese on the ceiling.

Tommy ran straight into Simon’s legs, shouting, "DADDY! I HAVE A NEW NAME! I’M THE WARRIOR KING!"

Simon blinked.

Soap walked in holding a mug that read #1 Uncle, looking like he hadn’t slept in years.

"Welcome home. He’s yours now."

Gaz dragged himself in next. "We’re not having kids. Ever."

Simon turned to you. "Next time, we’re bringing him."

You laughed, grabbing his hand. "Next time, we leave him with my sister."

—

That night, in bed, Simon lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

You curled into him, completely blissed out. "Best anniversary ever."

He grunted. "They dyed his hair."

"He looks cute."

"They broke our couch."

"He learned how to suplex."

He paused. "…That one’s on you."

You smiled against his chest. "Still. Worth it."

He looked down at you. And despite it all—despite the hair dye, the Nerf guns, and the chaos—he nodded.

"Yeah. Worth it."

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (8)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 9.6k

Warnings: mentions of death, betrayal, fire, knives, dead parents; farewell; feels; tension

Author’s Note: This is not the end, no worries. Wouldn’t leave you guys hanging like that. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It stands tall in the distance.

Rising above the emerald treetops, like a melancholic monarch draped in shadows and light.

The grey stone battlements jut against the hazy sky. Turrets - clearly emboldened by the hues of the background - spiral toward the horizon, austere and elegant, crowned by banners that flutter limpidly in the distance.

The very stones seem steeped in centuries of command, and each mark of weather bears testimony of its history and storms - the memories of which, it seems, they still hold with great dignity.

The castle seems at peace, standing upon its cliff, hanging suspended from the rocky outcrop, as though it grew from the very rock, planted there, eternal. A sentinel of this kingdom. The kingdom that belonged to your father.

Craggy towers break the swell of pallid sky, their dark slate roofs glimmering under the wan light filtering through clouds.

The sight of this castle holds a strange pull on your senses - a magnetic foreboding that you can’t seem to shake.

It looms powerful but sinister, an observer too heavy with secrets for history to bear. Around it, trees keep dancing in and out of shifting hues of green and gold, branches stirring to a wind barely in existence, each gust swaying leaves like a restless audience to your arrival.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There is more here than just the daunting architecture pressing on your psyche. Something personal smolders in the shadow of that place.

You try to put your finger on it but only grasp fleeting impressions - the way your father spoke in clipped tones about duty and appearances, the pack of expectations, the noose he metaphorically kept around your neck.

Beside you, Bucky’s presence shifts. He seems to slip into a hesitating step. The muscles of his shoulders tense against the still slightly stained fabric of his armor.

He does not take his eyes off the castle. The blue steel of his gaze sharpens. You can feel the tension emanating from him, a tangible energy that snakes through the air between you. There is a hostility in the way he looks at that castle. A hardness that knots his jaw. A tautness that frames his mouth.

Somehow he wears apprehension with discomfort.

And it shakes your heart with an inexplicable dread.

He always moves like a man accustomed to balancing control with instinct. But his breathing pattern changes slightly. You ignore the fact that you know his normal breathing pattern in the first place. But there really is a slight strain in his breath.

Your gaze snaps back to the castle, peering through the branches framing its silhouette. Even from this distance, you can feel something lingering around the fortress - energies unvoiced, but undeniably ancient, as if the very stones remember.

A strange chill skitters down your spine. But you can’t really say why. The path underneath your boots is softened with fallen leaves, giving off a musty, earthy scent. You want to hang onto the smell, with its cool air gliding across your skin and the tranquil solitude of the forest. But your gaze keeps wandering back to the castle looming still so far off. It is magnetic. Impossible to ignore.

A realization comes with a blow to your heart.

This might be your destination.

Perhaps this castle is where he's meant to bring you.

A bittersweet and aching pang lodges beneath your ribs. You can’t imagine the journey that has momentarily intertwined your paths is perhaps going to be coming to a close.

You steal a glance at Bucky’s profile. If this is where he is meant to take you, then why does he seem so tense at finally getting here?

Trying to interpret the small frown tugging at his lips, the rigid line in his jaw, you let your eyes sweep. There is a weight of something hanging from his brows, drawing them down.

The wind around you changes direction, ruffling branches and making leaves hop around as if to note the abrupt transition occasioned by you.

The entire atmosphere between Bucky and you seems to stiffen.

The twitch of his fingers at his sides almost betray a gesture of need - to make a fist. He controls his breathing too deliberately for your taste.

Your gaze drags back to the castle ahead. To Bucky. To the castle. And back to Bucky. And back to the castle.

Here stands the proud fortress, untouched by the ravages of time, like one who has never been forced to bow before the wickedness of mankind. Never had to bend to the world’s cruelty. But perhaps, this too, is an illusion. Perhaps it became something wicked, something cruel itself.

The thought strikes you, brief and sharp.

Clouds sweep across the sun and the light dims. Shadows weave itself through the forest. You take in the now cooling air.

No words pass between Bucky and you, but with every step, the mounting tension between you both gets stronger.

It feels flimsy, like glass waiting to shatter.

You want to ask him. Want to ask if this castle is where you are going to part ways as soon as you reach it. It will take some time still. Maybe a day. Maybe less. Maybe more.

But it feels so dwindling and you can’t grasp the time you want to keep.

The sight of the castle only clutches your heart with hands showing not an ounce of mercy, squeezing your breath thin and shallow.

You always knew this journey would come to an end. Even had hoped so for some time. Had complained about relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, sleeping on the hard ground of the forest, not being able to bathe in the warmest water. You have complained about practically everything in this godforsaken forest. But you don’t want this journey to end so soon. Maybe because it’s not the forest at all you want to keep yourself surrounded with.

It’s Bucky.

And admitting that to yourself only tells you that your fear is rising. That this travel with him might really be over soon.

Some part of you grew accustomed to naively believing the road would go on forever. With firelight embers in the dark after making camp for the day. Quiet conversations held in the dark. The endearing way his lips would twitch when he tries to suppress his amusement with you. The way he keeps you afloat even when your world is crumbling into itself. Giggling at his gruffness when he doesn’t like the small ration of food you eat just so he can have some more - him calling you stubborn despite the fact that he mostly won the argument in the end. Walking beside him in the forest and listening to both of your crunching footsteps on the ground. Lying awake at night and listening to his breaths. Exchanging fleeting glances, that linger longer than they should.

You try and swallow the prickling pain at the back of your mouth, but it remains raw and bubbling.

You’re not even thinking about what might await you at the castle. The only thing you can’t get out of your mind is the realization that Bucky will leave you here, will vanish back into the woods, and whatever shadows formed him before both your paths crossed.

And for some reason, just the idea of his absence is a wound that would bleed more than anything your father’s kingdom could ever conjure.

You want to rip through the wall built between the two of you since the castle came into view - but words are pulled between hesitation and instinct. You almost feel lost in whether that silence needs filling or should just remain untouched.

And yet, there is something that settles the attraction to walk beside him. An anchor, if you will, though the world feels like it could collapse at any second due to the weirdness surrounding him.

You cast him another furtive glance, feeling suddenly breathless at the faint tinge of something slashing in his gaze.

He must have felt your eyes on him because he moves his head slightly, the hardness of his expression mellowing just a fraction as he glances down at you.

And for that small moment, you feel light again.

The path turns deeper into the woods, trees obscuring the vision of the castle again.

And once more, you keep walking.

The sun is barely setting when you settle down for the night, cloaked in the golden haze of a waning afternoon.

Shadows grow long and thin across the forest floor, folding themselves beneath the reach of the branches above.

Bucky moves with specifically calculated slowness, like he’s trying to keep control of something.

He collects a small amount of dry wood and then kneels beside the fire, striking flint against steel with sharp and quick movements. You always liked watching him do it. But now it hurts.

A spark breaks, catching on brittle wood and setting it alight.

Instead of observing Bucky, you keep your eyes on the meager lights ascending, tiny glints that illuminate the sky momentarily before they are absorbed into the gathering darkness. Just about like this fleeting moment, which you already feel slip away.

Bucky didn’t give you any reasons as to why you stopped to rest earlier than usual. But you know. The heaviness in his gait, the reluctance in his silence, the way he can’t meet your eyes for longer than a few seconds. It’s clear enough.

This is your final night with him.

The thought penetrates you profoundly, like a punch to your already bruised ribs.

You have expected it since seeing the castle rise among the trees, but it only gets more real the more time passes. It’s a present hollowness in your chest and all you can focus on is the fire crackling angrily, filling the empty space of your chest with everything but the things you want.

Slumping down in front of the fire, you tuck your legs beneath you and let the heat slightly brush against your face.

There is still a chill nipping at your back, but it’s not what makes you shiver.

Wordlessly, Bucky lowers himself onto a fallen log near the fire, letting out a sigh as he drags a hand across his face. He looks tired. Not just physically that is, but in a way that suggests of something deeper.

He stares into the fire, eyes distant, the flames reflected in his eyes like fragments of something burning far deeper than the wood.

The tension is continuously buzzing between you, caressing your skin in a manner that suggests it doesn’t even know how to handle itself.

It’s in the way he doesn’t quite look at you, though you can feel his gaze every time you aren’t the one watching. It feels somewhere between heat and static. You wonder what he is thinking, but are too scared to ask.

Instead, you engage yourself in preparing a simple meal for Bucky and you, hands moving almost mechanically through the familiar motions. The aroma of dried herbs and roasted meat mixes with the smoke from the fire, but the food tastes like ash in your mouth when you finally take a bite.

The silence weighs down, carrying words neither of you knows how to say.

A distant call of a night bird is the only thing talking.

Every now and then, your eyes stray to him - just brief stolen glances exchanged across the flames. His gazes ignite a spark on your skin. He sits with his elbows braced on his knees, shadows throwing across his face, making the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones even more defined and painfully enticing.

His lips are pressed into a thin, unreadable, line and you wonder if he is fighting to find the right words to break the silence as well.

Your heart aches to think that this will, in all likelihood, be the last night spent together, surrounded by nothing but trees and stars and the comforting crackle of the warm fire. Whatever flimsy bond you’ve built with Bucky will be severed by duty and distance.

When your eyes go back to their favorite sight, you find Bucky already watching you. His gaze holds yours for a moment and even the fire seems to have stopped burning for a second. Leaving Bucky and you alone in this situation.

There is something sore in his eyes. Something he couldn’t have prepared for or you would not be able to spot it that easily. It staggers your breath.

Then, he breaks your gaze and only leans further toward the ground.

The silence is getting stern. Unsparing. It enclaves you.

The sputtering fire only gets louder, and something tells you that whatever slips away into the curling smoke fading into the night, it will be something you can never hold onto again.

You shift slightly, adjusting your body on the rough texture of the wood you’re sitting on.

Bucky’s gaze flickers towards you again. Brief but piercing enough. It lingers just a second longer before he looks back at the fire. Shadows play with the lines of his features.

Leaves brush against each other in whispery sounds above you. The wilderness seems reluctant to let go of daylight, its golden glow retreating with a hushed farewell, until only a few pale shades of the dusk remain.

The light of the fire causes shifting patterns to sweep over the forest floor. The night feels delicate, almost. And you can’t shake the sense that this is your last evening spent like this, the very last tranquility you will have with the tamed nature and the stars just starting to blink awake overhead. And of course, Bucky sitting just a few feet away, so close that you could touch, but also so far that loneliness can’t be avoided today.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the noise deepening into a long, low sound and it makes your chest hurt at the same time.

The silence holds until it can no longer.

It breaks with a clear of his throat. The sound is low and rough, scraping against the quiet.

It makes your head snap up. You blink at him.

“There’s an outer gate,” he starts, working the words out slowly, hoarse, as if he is dragging them from some reluctant place inside him.

His gaze remains fixed on the fire as soon as he’s confident you are listening to him. The orange brightness flickers in the pale blue depths of his eyes.

“That’s where I'm s’pposed to take you.”

You don’t need him to explain to you what place he’s talking about. He knows you know. The castle looms as graphically as it has the first time you saw it between the trees. A place carved from stones and shadows. Of course, that’s what he’s talking about. But hearing it from him - hearing it made real - cracks something open inside you.

“You will probably be expected by now,” he continues, the notes softening in his voice as though the words hold an unfathomable weight. “Can’t take you through the front gates. Don’t wanna attract too much attention.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm taut. A vein stands out. “Guess only the important people’ll know 'bout your arrival.”

Important people. The words land sharp between your ribs. Reminding you of where you come from and where he does not belong - or maybe does but refuses to.

You swallow thickly and taste the bitterness of knowing that your father and his web of control likely extends even here, even after his death.

Bucky still does not voice that he means that castle. But he doesn’t have to. There is an implicit understanding in the way his voice falters, in the way he watches the fire like it holds answers neither of you are ready to hear. He seems to have drawn the conclusion that you know your destination is near.

But truly knowing for real only hardens the pang that tears through your chest. It’s a violent and splintering thing, as if something solid inside you is crumbling, breaking down into fine, snaggy crumbs that settle into the hollow spaces in your chest. They make a sound with every inhalation, scraping against your insides and stabbing at the tender places that have already endured enough.

You look down at your hands, curled loosely in your lap, fingers trembling slightly despite your effort to still them.

The thought of this being the end - of stepping through that gate alone, of watching Bucky turn and disappear into the forest without you - makes your breath hitch painfully in your throat.

You’ve known this was coming from the beginning. You hoped this was coming at the beginning. You’ve known it since the moment you agreed to leave behind everything you knew and put your fate in the hands of a man who wanted nothing to do with you. It hardly helps to think about it.

The fire isn’t the only heat between you. Something else is crackling there. In the air. But you can’t tell what exactly.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched tightly as he stares at the ground. There is something edgy about the way he sits, as if he might be somewhere between wishful thinking and physical presence.

And maybe that’s what makes this all the more unbearable - the fact that he doesn’t seem unaffected by this either. The slumping of his shoulders, the hesitation in his words that speak to something more than mere obligation.

Still, he doesn’t really look at you. And maybe that’s for the best. Because you’re not sure you could hold his gaze without breaking entirely.

And the world just keeps turning, ignorant of the slow destruction lying half-lit between you and Bucky.

Everything feels tremendous. Monumental. Every breath, every sigh, every thought you nearly speak out loud, every glance that never quite meets its mark.

And when it sinks in how very heavily all of that rests in the pit of your stomach, you wonder how you’re supposed to survive stepping through that gate alone.

“What do you know about this place?” you ask hesitantly, voice small.

Bucky’s gaze lifts briefly to meet your own. His forearms rest on his thighs, fingers flexing. He exhales through his nose, a faint shake of his head following. “Not much.” His voice is low and tinged with weariness. “Just that it’s where I’m s’pposed to take you.”

Supposed to. Like some invisible hand has mapped out your fates long before you ever had a say in them.

Something cold and gnarling twists in your chest. His answer tells you nothing - no assurances, no comfort.

It’s unsettlingly simple.

You stare into the fire, its embers glowing brighter as your thoughts turn darker. That castle you know is not too far away anymore. The one who stood so proudly at the edge of the cliffs - beautiful, imposing, and so wholly foreign - takes a larger shape in your mind.

Your heart grows heavy with apprehension. What might await you there? Your mother, even in death, has always held a protective influence over your fate. The instructions for your journey to this castle may have been hers. After all, that’s why Bucky is here. Because he promised your mother.

But maybe this destination does not come from your mother at all. Sure, Bucky and this journey is her doing but maybe not where you end up going to. Maybe she didn’t have a say in it. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she had something else in mind for you as a final safeguard in case everything crumbles.

You can’t know. You also can’t know if she perhaps was the first to die. And that last order for you to be sent away did not come from her at all.

A chill of fear blooms at the base of your spine, unfurling upward in wavy patterns.

Maybe this is your father’s doing.

He was not the man who made decisions for your happiness or peace of mind. His schemes were calculated, self-serving, often cruel beneath their polished veneer. You can’t shake the unabating thought that this place might have been his command, not your mother’s - a contingency for his ambitions even beyond the grave.

Maybe they even both ordered for you to be sent here. Just out of different intentions.

Your fear is awfully gripping. And you won’t know whose will is being carried out until you step through those gates.

Your muscles twitch as an unbidden tremor rattles through you.

“Do you believe it might have been my father who ordered it?” you ask Bucky with a slightly shaking voice. Heavy with doubt.

Bucky has been watching you dealing with your inner struggles. His eyes are deep pools of alertness. They search you. His voice is even. Slow. “Could be.” There is a reluctant pause, tension rolling through his shoulders. “Banner told me to take you there. It’s where you’ll have to go he said. Never talked to your mother or father ‘bout this. Only ever through Banner. And he didn’t give me much. He said your mother would want you protected, but I’ve got no clue if that’s what she meant.” He lowers his head for a moment, a little guilty. “Never bothered to ask.”

You don’t blame him.

Though it doesn’t make this easier.

Sir Banner has always been a kind man, one of the few in your father's court who treated you with genuine warmth. You remember his thoughtful smile, the way he spoke to you as though your opinions matter even when the rest of the court dismissed you.

But even Sir Banner - loyal and true - has ultimately served your father first and foremost.

Has he known? Has he seen your father’s real face?

A swift and aching slash tears through your chest.

Maybe Sir Banner has genuinely believed he was acting on orders meant to protect you. Or maybe he just hasn’t known the full extent of your father’s motives. The thought makes your throat prick and tingle. The man you held dearly in your heart might have been complicit, unwitting or not.

It doesn’t matter that your parents are gone. Their commands will still echo through the kingdom, shaping the path you are walking on even now. Your father’s words carry the weight of stone. And even from beyond the grave, it could crush you.

Bucky’s jaw has tensed immensely. His eyes find you and stay. You might believe he is thinking the same thing. Cool air brushes against your back, igniting a shiver that lingers.

If it was your father’s order then the motives could be far more insidious than you dared to imagine - isolation, subjugation, control, banishment, your own lonely prison.

“Do you believe Sir Banner knew everything my father did?”

You just can’t seem to stop asking for his input.

Bucky’s mouth is a flat line. He swallows and grimaces lightly as if the words taste bitter on his tongue. “Don’t know,” he admits, voice sounding throaty. His body shifts before answering. But he looks at you. Keeping his eyes on you in a way that has you feeling he tries to make this easier for you. “But he seemed sure this is the right place for you.”

You take in a deep and wavering breath and nod at him slightly. Thanking him for his honesty without being able to get the words out. Your fingers fidget in your lap and you look down at them for a while.

You want to trust that whatever awaits you in that castle is a place of safety, not another, even worse gilded cage built from your father’s manipulation.

But you will be walking into the unknown. You might as well be blindfolded. And the man sitting across from you, who has fought and bled for truths buried by men like your father seems just as wary.

Being out in the woods and always in the presence of Bucky has become a strange kind of sanctuary - a place where you learned to breathe freely and hope again despite the dangers lurking in the shadows. But it’s coming to an end. And it feels so abrupt. So frightening.

Your fingers clench around the fabric of your cloak and you fight to steady your breathing.

You glance at Bucky again. His profile glows starkly against the fire, his silhouette strong against the dark woods and you feel your gaze soften at the way his own does. Not enough to give everything away but enough to offer something without words. Reassurance. A promise.

It makes your breath hitch.

The air seems to take on a softer quality itself. Hushed by things never spoken of, he holds something precious in his eyes.

But there is also a sudden sadness glinting within those blue babies. Something you’re not sure isn’t reflected in your own eyes. It seems to be such a rare thing for him.

His presence is a gift.

You’re aware of that now. Though it might be too late.

He became your only tether in a world that has violently spiraled off its axis.

He moves protectively without being overbearing. He never crowded you but always seemed within reach.

It’s the tiny gestures - a glance to check your footing on bumpy ground, a steadying hand when you stumbled, him shifting so he would block you from the cold wind, the way he always ensures you have the warmer side of the fire without ever making a fuss of it, the way he made sure you weren’t going to sleep hungry.

And it’s not just about keeping you alive.

Bucky has done far more than fulfill some vague promise of protection.

He has been tasked with keeping you alive but he has done so much more than that.

He kept you sane when everything around you came crashing down. He became the grounding force you never got your whole life.

When sleep eluded you at night, haunted by shadows of loss, it was the sound of his breathing mere feet away that lulled you into rest.

He became the reminder that no matter the odds, you have him just right there.

He warmed you in every way that fire and shelter could never. Comforted you without needing to say a word.

And what makes it all the more profound is that he didn’t have to. This journey, this promise - none of it required him to care beyond the basics of survival. Yet he did. He does. Bucky cared about more than keeping you physically safe, he cared about you.

He didn’t have to watch out for you in those small, thoughtful ways. He went beyond duty, quietly and without fanfare.

Bucky Barnes is good.

And not just competent or capable, but good in a way that runs deep.

You blink back the stinging in your eyes as if to ward off that very realization. Even despite the burdens and the scars and the doubts he carries, he is a good man. He might not necessarily believe it himself - you heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes - but you do.

You saw it firsthand, felt it in the moments he stood between you and the chaos of the world, protecting you from the ruins.

But what makes your heart bleed red crimson is the fact that you don’t have the time to make him believe.

Because this journey is ending the very next day.

Your heart feels like it’s being pulled in two different directions - toward the promised safety that lay ahead unknown and the comfort of what you have unexpectedly found.

And after this, what will happen?

Once the castle is in clear sight and his task is completed, what then?

Will he leave just like that, fading back into the forest this time without you?

Will you be left with the ache of his absence, suffering in the understanding that you’ve known something so rare and special, only to lose it?

You don’t know.

He was meant to take you somewhere safe and see you through to the other side. And you are nearly there.

What comes after is up to you.

You’re not even sure what you want - what you could even ask for - but the idea of stepping into that castle alone, without him at your side, fills you with trepidation.

Your heart stutters, unsure whether to face forward or shrink back. A needling chill spreads beneath your skin, making it itchy.

Your body seems to brace itself against the time ahead but there is no way to wrestle it into place.

The fire pops, showering sparks into the night.

Bucky moves a fraction, adjusting himself on the log, gaze pinned to the flames again. His broad shoulders are bowed slightly forward, his head tilted lightly. The grim set of his mouth is shadowed as the orange light is rather flashing on the stubble along his jaw.

You are drawn by him, by something beyond logic or necessity.

It almost even feels unnecessary to acknowledge that the weeks spent together have forged a little something between you two.

And though this travel is coming to its end, the hope remains within you, that perhaps it does not also have to be the end of whatever it is.

“Princess.”

Your head snaps up at the husky sound of his voice. He tries for a smile. It looks sad.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

No. Not without you.

Maybe in another life, you’d be able to say that out loud.

****

You basically spent the night searing him to your memories.

Not even the creaking branches or the swaying leaves were able to catch your attention anymore. Only him.

You committed everything you found out about him to memory.

He didn’t seem to sleep all that much as well so you couldn’t exactly stare at him too long. But you worked with what you already picked up, tracing his features in your mind.

That would be the endearing spray of freckles along the side of his face, scattered like stars in a constellation. It’s an unforgettable map etched into his skin.

The strong and proud slope of his nose, that sometimes moves with his mouth when he speaks.

You followed it down to the fullness of his lips, plump in a way that almost makes them look gentle despite the hard set they often carry.

Then there is his smile. So mesmerizing. It starts with a tug at the corners of his lips like it is something he doesn’t want to show but can’t quite suppress. And when it breaks free, it’s devastatingly beautiful.

And his eyebrows, able to relax when he sleeps or even when a fleeting peace washes over him that oftentimes has something to do with a glance your way.

His voice is clear in your mind, gruff but low and warm when he speaks those little nicknames. He no longer laces them with mockery and hearing them always makes a light rise in your chest that heats your skin.

And his eyes. God, those eyes. You tried to name their exact shade of blue, scouring your memory for the right hue. Could it be the light blue of forget-me-nots, those little blooms always so delicate in your hand when you went to seek them out at the palace gardens? Or maybe a more cornflower deep blue, looking so alive between other shades. No, probably more a nice soft, thick, tranquil velvety blue of hydrangeas, looking royal but still so brittle. Or freesia, with their delightfully tender beauty.

None seem quite right. Yet you search anyway. Desperate to pin down something so elusive.

And the way those blue eyes would search your own. Like he is always trying to figure you out, always trying to look deeper than you are sometimes comfortable with.

Your fingers flex slightly at the memory of his touch. The rough callouses and textures of his palm were stark against your soft skin, but his touch has always been gentle. The way he would hold your cheeks, sweep his thumbs over your skin, and tend to your wound, as if you are somehow a precious thing he wants to handle with care. A choice made rather than an obligation fulfilled.

And his hair - chestnut brown, but catching glimmers of gold in the firelight. You liked to watch those wild tendrils whip around his face in the wind. You remember how it looked when dampened by sweat, still unruly, sticking to the sides of his face.

His stubble - the rugged frame along his jawline that heightens his intensity. The one he would scratch at, or run his hand along once in a while. Especially in moments of thought.

You want to remember all of it.

Getting it all in memory locked away inside your mind to access whenever you need him.

Every laugh, every glance, the smallest change in his expression.

The night tried to propel you into the inevitable future, but you put up a fight as best as you could. You lingered, documenting every detail of him, making a mental capture of his perfection. Because he’d be gone.

So you took the time of the last night with him to memorize him, wishing the memory would be forever bright behind your eyelids. Never to fade. Never to leave you alone. That somehow against the odds, he would be there with you long after this journey reaches its conclusion. If not in flesh, then in your heart forever.

But for all the silent preparations you made under the shroud of the night - fixing Bucky Barnes into the tender folds of your memory, knowing you would have to let him slip away into the corners of a life without you - nothing could have braced you for the reality of the gate that enters your vision in the distance.

It stands looming and gnarly, iron bars reaching for the sky like the black ribs of some primeval creature intent on eating you alive. It’s menacing and grating in all its ridges. Almost like Bucky himself.

The path narrows as you tread forward. And with every step, your feet grow more heavy. The earth beneath your boots will be the last reminder of this journey you are so reluctant to leave behind.

The wilderness - the forest - has become such a peculiar place of comfort, full of campfire smoke, marked with whispers, and Bucky’s omnipresence - the stable wall just half a pace in front of you right now.

He scans the terrain, letting his eyes sweep across the landscape in his animalistic way. He surveys every tree, every shadow, looking for anything threat-like that might lurk here in the bushes around you.

There is no part of him that looks unsure. But you know better now. You’ve learned to read the subtle language of his body - his silence, his pauses, the set of his jaw when he’s holding back more than he is willing to share.

Wind brushes around the silence between you.

His earlier instructions echo in your head, just before you took off again this morning. His tone was clear and clipped and detached in a way. So practical. Too practical. You’ll approach the gate together to a certain point. Guards will be waiting on the other side. They will know who you are. They will take you in.

And you will go alone.

You remember his jaw clenching, teeth-gritting with each distinct word as though it caused him actual physical pain to say it, to try and shape this farewell into something more tolerable.

But the gate is in your sight already, far off, and nothing feels tolerable about that. It feels cold even from a distance.

Your breath hitches at the hope your body is already beginning to abandon.

You will have to walk the rest of the way alone. One breath of air in, and one breath of air out for every step. A deep gulf opens within you as the grim truth of that tries to settle. Bucky will stop walking any second and watch you take your first steps through those iron bars, leaving you to the kingdom waiting beyond.

Guards will be placed there. Waiting.

For the princess.

You have to remind yourself that that’s you.

The title no longer fits, awkwardly belonging to the body that has outgrown it much like a gown delicately torn at the seams.

The girl who once danced in marble halls bedecked in jewels that sparkled like shards of stars no longer exists anymore. What is left is the stark truth of exposure - physically and mentally - and survival driven by fear and fire through and with the unforeseen solace of companionship. Perhaps even friendship if you might.

And yet, here they are, waiting for a princess.

They're prepared to welcome back their princess like you’re something valuable to be retrieved. But god, you don’t feel like it.

You feel fractured, worn down by grief and guilt and the truths you’ve come to uncover along the way. The title is a relic from your old life that people now expect you to slip into again. Like a pair of shoes. As if it would be that easy.

You briefly look over at the back of Bucky’s built, broad frame, gripped with tension. His discipline surrounds him, the protective air he wears like his brown armor. But there is something more uneasy in the way his shoulders move.

You don’t know what might await you. What fate that castle will write for you. Bucky doesn’t either. And he almost seems to hate that fact considering the way he keeps his eyes on the gate ahead.

It isn’t just a passage. It’s a threshold. Crossing it will sever something irrevocable. Leave behind everything you’ve come to rely on, everything that’s kept you steady through the burn of your ruins.

Bucky.

You don’t know how to do this without him.

Your steps falter, but Bucky’s don’t.

He presses forward almost fiercely, determined. But still so stiff. You wonder if it is easier for him this way - to keep moving, to treat this as another mission, another battle won.

But he’s no soldier anymore and this is not a mission.

He is simply a man who keeps his promises.

And it hurts.

It hurts so much.

Each step brings you nearer to the end of something special, something you haven’t even fully understood before it began to elude you.

And then Bucky stops.

Your heart might as well have stopped along with him.

He turns his gaze toward you, indecisively, slowly, as if he is unsure whether he wants you to see what waits in his eyes.

But you do see. Oh, you see. And it hits you with a force that tears the breath from your lungs.

There is a rawness there, sharp like frost - something jumbled and aching underneath all that grit and stoicism he acknowledges as a part of himself.

You thought you knew those many different shades of Bucky Barnes by now. The gruff protector, the silent watcher, the man who said more with a tilt of his head or a blink of his eyes than with words.

But this is new.

This stripped-down, unguarded version of him - brimming with something that makes your heart stutter. The pattern it's been following for weeks not making sense anymore.

Your breath stumbles in your throat, rough and halting, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Chilled fingers clench uselessly at your sides, wanting to clutch something, wanting an anchor.

There is no relief. Only him. And that is worse, since even he feels far away now, like a shoreline that seems to slip ever so farther from your reach.

Even Bucky’s stance is off. Unfamiliar. He’s always stood like bracing for a blow, feet planted firm and shoulders squared in resolution to receive whatever blow came his way. Now he stands as though bracing for something else entirely - something no less brutal, something no less punishing.

Something like heartbreak. Or at least something dangerously close to it.

The tension between you is electric with a tingling spiral that tightens with every breath neither of you seems to take.

Words hang unspoken. They force themselves against the back of your throat, refusing to be formed into that simple goodbye you both know is coming.

You drop your gaze, unable to withstand those searching eyes any longer. They fall back to the road leading through the woods into what has become a strange sort of home for you.

The trees loom big and indifferent, the breeze swishing their leaves and whooshing against your cloak.

“I have to thank you.” A shaky breath leaves you, an attempt to steady the tremor in your chest. You try to look at him. “For everything you did for me.” It comes out weak but sincere, each word trembles in its truth.

True. How heart-wrenchingly true. He has done so much more than he was ever bound to. He kept you safe. He kept you whole. And there aren’t enough words in the world to say what that means to you.

You hear the sharp intake of his breath. His head shakes. Almost quick. Almost desperate. As though trying to wave your words away before they take root.

One hand scrubs across his troubled face, ruffling his hair more aggressively than probably intended. The brown strands fall haphazardly back against his temples. Wild and beautiful.

“You don’t gotta thank me,” he rasps out finally, his voice thick.

Of course, he would think that. After all, he merely kept a promise, hadn’t he? Delivered you to safety and nothing more, like some grim knight. That’s how he would see it.

But it’s not how you see it.

“I do,” you insist, voice slightly steadier now though your heart is anything but. “In earnest. I mean it.”

You are drowning in your appreciation for this man.

You do not want him walking away from here thinking he was just a means to your own survival, that this was nothing more than duty completed.

He has been more. So much more. And he deserves to know that.

The tendons in Bucky’s neck strain as his jaw stiffens further. Muscles in his face jump.

But he doesn’t look away. His blue eyes - blue like forget-me-nots and cornflowers and every flower you’ve ever tried to compare them to - flit between yours, looking for cracks, for lies. But there are none.

Silence crashes back in again. And something appears to be shifting in it. It’s not goodbye yet, not quite - but it’s close. So close you can feel it brushing against your skin so frigidly final.

You wonder if he feels it too.

Remembering, you shrug off the dark cloak around your shoulders. He bought it for you at that market so long ago - or perhaps not so long. Time has become rather vague on this journey, but that day stands crystalline in your memory. The warmth of his unexpected gesture. The protection it symbolized. The way he did it without a blink.

But you can’t keep it. It’s no longer yours. And he can use it far better if he continues on his journey to wherever it will take him next.

But before the fabric can fully slip off your shoulders, Bucky’s hands tighten it back around. Making sure it sits properly. His hands linger on your shoulders.

“No,” he says firmly, gritting his teeth slightly. He shakes his head once.

“You should take it back.”

“No,” he repeats, still sternly but quieter. “It’s yours.”

You snap your mouth back shut at the insistent way he stares at you. Letting your hands drop from the fabric, Bucky adjusts it another time before slowly moving his arms back to his side.

His eyes sweep over you. Meticulous. Unhurried. It makes your heart stutter painfully.

He seems to be doing what you have been trying to do - committing you to memory. Tracing every line of your face, every shot of emotion that passes through your eyes, and tucking it away where it will be safe.

The moment feels suspended. Infinite. But fond.

This was never meant to last.

But it hurts like hell that it’s ending.

And so you linger. Just a second longer, you tell yourself. Unsure how to step away from the place you’ve both come to, where the boundary between protector and protected has long since blurred into something softer, more human.

You’ve tried to brace yourself for this moment in a hundred quiet ways - attaching him to a place in your mind, memorizing the cadence of his breaths and the rough edges of his voice - none of it has prepared you for how impossible it feels now that it’s there.

You don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You can’t let this moment pass by without trying to hold onto it for just a little longer. Even if it doesn’t make the ache go away.

“What will you do now?” Your voice is bordering on tipping over but you try to keep it even enough. “Where will you go?”

You do want to know. Even if curiosity isn’t the whole of it. Maybe knowing will help make sense of losing him. Maybe if you can picture him somewhere - walking new roads, finding new places - you won’t have to carry your carved-out heart around all the time.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, his face fixed somewhere in the distance. There is a crease in his brow. His fingers flex absently like he is working something through. For a moment, it seems he won’t answer at all.

“I’ve got a place to go, darlin',” he utters finally, the term slipping out as naturally as breath. “Don’t you worry about me.”

But there is something strange about the way he says it. Something weighted. An odd note in his voice that catches on the corners of your heart and refuses to let go. His voice is too quiet, the syllables too thick with meaning he doesn’t name. There is an implacable sadness around the words. So much thought. Something mournful lingers there, as if he might be grieving something. A thought he never dared to say out loud. A question he never dared to ask. And now never will.

It makes the ache in your chest fester and rip at the same time, urging you forward even though you don’t know where this conversation will lead. “You could stay here,” you offer. “Maybe for a while.”

You approached the suggestion timidly, like a leaf teetering on falling. You’ve made it sound careful, hesitant, afraid of disturbing whatever delicacy remains between you.

Bucky stands frozen. Head slightly bowed. His breath catches, a sound that is more of a sharp exhale than a laugh. Breathless, lacking any real mirth. Disbelieving. His head tilts lower toward the ground, perhaps searching for something there, something grounding. His shoulders shake subtly, as if he needs a second to pull himself back together.

When he lifts his head again, there is a tightness in his throat you can see in the effort it takes him to swallow.

“You know that won’t be possible, your Highness.”

Well, that hurt.

There’s a punch to your gut. There’s a stab to your heart. There’s a blow to your head.

All at the same time.

It leaves you bleeding so deeply, you don’t know how you’re still standing.

It leaves you gaping. With your heart in your hands. With your blood dripping to the dirty and leaves-covered floor.

His words don’t slice you open because they are mocking. God, that would be easier to dismiss.

No. His words pain you because there is no mockery at all.

None of his usual teasing lilt. No wry amusement or humor curling around his voice.

It’s gone. Everything stripped away until nothing is left but the sincere intent. He didn’t even call you princess. He called you what he was expected to call you. And he meant it.

He addressed you as a princess. As the most important person to your father's kingdom now that the king and queen are dead.

The persona you have distanced yourself from.

The persona you’ll have to step back into.

You’re so hurt you can’t breathe.

Because in that one utterance, he’s already bid you goodbye. Made it real in a way that spins you around, gutted and rootless.

In your ears, your heart beats to the thunder of a title that expects too much of you. It drums against your skin, as if in revulsion to your existence or perhaps the existence you are expected to have now.

And just like that, the freedom you hoped to have found in this forest - the warmth of the fire, the shared moments, passing glances - cracks apart and slips further from reach.

You want to protest, to tell him titles shouldn’t matter, not after everything you’ve experienced together. But his voice has been so pained.

And that’s the most heartbreaking part of it all. Because you know Bucky Barnes is a man who will carry this goodbye quietly, tucked deep into the hollow places of himself where no one will ever see it.

And you’re afraid that’s exactly what you’ll have to do too.

Because he is not meant to walk that path with you.

You try to hide and swallow the sting his words have caused.

But the pain that crossed your features has already been detected by Bucky.

And before you can step back, he leans toward you, closing the small space.

His hands lift without hesitation, large palms brushing against your skin as he cups your face between them. The hard lines of his fingers are familiar. So is the tenderness in which he holds you. He smells of pine and ash and Bucky. He is so close. Almost pressed up against you.

And your breath catches at the warmth seeping from him, at the fierce storm in his eyes. Remorse and sorrow bleed into the blue, shimmering with a kind of sympathy that nearly makes your knees buckle.

You can’t look away. He won’t let you.

And god, you wish he would, because this moment is everything and nothing you were ready for.

“You listen to me, darlin',” Bucky rumbles out, voice low and rough, with a gentleness that has you floating around his orbit. There is determination in his gaze. Not for himself, but for you. “You’re not your father. You’re not even like your mother. And that’s good. That’s good, because you’re better. Better than all the fools that’ll try to tell you otherwise.”

Your breath shudders against your lips. He leans in even further. Forget-me-nots actually do capture his eye color pretty well. You will have to find those flowers in your new gardens.

“You show 'em that,” he urges, though he still takes his time with telling you. Making his conviction come across. His thumbs brush ever so lightly against your cheekbones. “Make 'em believe it. I know you will.”

His belief wraps around your shattering heart, holding it together even as cracks threaten to tear open.

“You’re gonna be okay.” There was a slight waver in his voice but he caught it. “You are what these people need. Keep that in mind, yeah?”

His words are so achingly earnest. They have you teetering on the verge of tears.

“Yes,” you breathe out, giving him a nod. Just in case that whisper did not even reach him.

You feel something bloom inside you. Wildflowers perhaps, the color of all those you have spotted throughout your travel with this man. They push through cracks in stone and fill some of those spaces you had thought were left to be hollow forever.

The muscles in your jaw are trembling. They want to spill out a sob or a laugh or something else. But you hold firm.

Still, your breaths are released in shivers.

He believes you to be strong. He believes you to be your own powerful person without being shadowed by the ghosts of your parents.

And yet, there is something you spot in his eyes that you don’t want to see there. It’s a flicker of doubt. A tiny glimmer of self-deprecation that tells you he is convinced he is not part of that strength. And that he will never be.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for him, but you don’t dare move.

His eyes are still rooting you to the spot.

His breaths are mingling with yours.

The unrelenting blue of his eyes is so intently drawn to your own gaze.

There is nothing but him.

His touch sets every nerve in your body ablaze, buzzing with a tension so fierce it’s impossible to overcome.

You feel it thrumming between you. A crackling pull.

His eyes flicker down to your lips. And before you know it, your own eyes betray you as well. You trace his plump red mouth. Like poppy flowers. You would have to find those too.

He feels closer. The space between your faces is shrinking. So tentatively.

Your heart races wildly and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly against your skin, seemingly torn between letting go and pulling you closer.

You want to close the distance.

You want him to close the distance.

A wave of sensation sweeps through your spine, leaving your skin tingling.

It would be so easy. Just lean up a tiny bit and press yourself against his lips. You already seem to be standing on your tippy toes anyway.

You could let this moment become something even more tangible and real, something you could carry with you in the spaces of your heart reserved just for him.

His lips hover just a breath away from yours, and you can feel the warmth of him. Everywhere. You feel him everywhere. His breath fans over your face so sweetly.

You both know where this is leading.

And unfortunately, you both know why this can’t happen.

Before your lips get the chance to fully touch, he pulls back. Slowly at first. Only an inch, studying your reaction, flipping his eyes between yours so rapidly you can’t keep up.

But then, reluctantly, he lets you go and takes a step back. His hands fall to his sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.

This is the end of the road.

If you fall into his arms now, it will only make the parting more difficult.

But it’s still not even nearly easy.

With a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and pull the cloak tighter around yourself. Just so you have something to do.

A gust of chilly wind hits you and you miss his touch in an instant. You feel removed. Cold.

You’ll carry this hurt, just as you will carry him. Just not behind the same door.

The space between you seems haunted now.

Like something has been stolen from the both of you.

You feel like you’re about to be pressed into the earth.

You know this is the part where you have to go. Where fate and duty carve their lines through your shared path, splitting it in two directions. He takes one half of your heart along with him.

Bucky’s eyes remain steadfast on you. Shadows are turning in and out of his gaze. He watches everything - the wind pulling at your cloak, the slight tremble of your lips, the desperate defiance in your gaze as though willing this not to be the last time.

Breath quivering, you force yourself to stand taller, chin lifted, although you don’t feel like it.

You don’t want to walk away. You don’t want this to end. But it has to. It always had to.

Your voice is thin and brittle like the last leave holding onto a winter branch. “Goodbye, Bucky,” you breathe.

And it still tastes inadequate on your tongue. It doesn’t hold even a fraction of what you truly feel, of what he’s come to mean to you.

Bucky’s movement is a slow gesture of a nod, almost seeming to store this moment away in a secure place deep within him. “Goodbye, darlin'.”

You take a step back, each inch widening a chasm between you. The pain is an entity that breathes inside your chest. Your legs are stiff, the earth not wanting to let you leave itself.

When you are about to turn, your throat clogs and his voice catches you in your tracks.

“Do me one favor, will you?”

You pivot cautiously, meeting his gaze. “Anything.”Fracture lines your voice. But you make it sound resolute. You’ll hold whatever he gives you tightly in your heart where it will live forever.

The corners of his mouth lift into a ghost of a smile. It’s feeble and laden with sorrow. It holds his final goodbye. The sight takes the wind right out of you.

“Don’t forget about me, yeah?”

You won’t.

How could you ever forget about Bucky Barnes.

“I’ll spend a lifetime remembering you.”

- Astrid Suu

Part nine

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

[redvexillum]

@alastorthirsty thank you for making the request! This ain't silly and over-the-top at all. I mean...did'ya look at some of my other requests *cough* I love this ask because I can go full on drama-mode and not sure if you know this about me, but my favourite animal is a drama-llama. Haha! Anyway, I realllllly indulged in this one, so bless you for giving me the opportunity 💖👉👈

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, possessive!alastor, p in v, established relationship, love making, gentle s♡x, c♡nnilingus, cuddling, soft!alastor, demisexual!alastor, light b♡ndage with shadow tentacles, smuff (smut + fluff)

Alastor’s fingers dug into your wrist like talons, yanking you through the narrow hotel hallway, up the creaking stairs, and into a suffocating, shadow-cloaked corridor. The acrid stench of fire and ash clung to your skin, a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded – the devastation of Vee’s tower, the flames still dancing in your memory.  

Everything felt so surreal, the shock still pulsing through your veins, leaving you breathless, your mind scrambling to catch up with the frantic pace he set.  

Your legs struggled to keep up, each hurried step barely matching his long, relentless strides. He hadn’t looked at you. Not once. There was no concern in his eyes, no reassurance in his touch – just cold purpose.  

His grip was iron, biting into your flesh with a fierceness that made you wince. You could feel the sharp edge of his claws digging into your skin, a silent punishment for your recklessness.  

“A-Alastor...it hurts,” you whimpered, your voice fragile, cracking under the weight of pain and fear. Your words seemed to snap something in him – his shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched, and without a word, he loosened his grip just enough for you to breathe. But his pace, his determination, never wavered. He was a storm, sweeping you up in his fury, and you were powerless to stop him.  

The moment you crossed the threshold into his room, the door slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the dark space. Your heart pounded, the rhythm erratic and wild, each beat thundering in your ears. The familiar atmosphere of his room – rich with his scent, a dark blend of metal and the bayou – washed over you, yet it offered no comfort.  

Instead, it only magnified the tension crackling between you, the unspoken anger simmering beneath his silence.  

Your mind flashed back to Vox, the twisted grin on his face as he flaunted his control over you. The Overlord had known exactly who you were and, more importantly, who you belonged to.  

For nearly a year, you had been nothing more than a pawn in his cruel game, locked away in his opulent prison, displayed like a trophy to mock Alastor. You had heard his taunts in the darkness, seen his cold, mirthless eyes as he laughed – Vox had relished every moment of your captivity.  

You had been so foolish, thinking you could appeal to him, thinking you could change anything. Guilt ate away at you, bitter and unrelenting, as memories of your naivety surged back. You had thought that maybe you could free Angel Dust from Valentino’s grasp by being Vox’s friend, by playing along with his twisted games.  

How utterly wrong you had been. Your idealism had shattered, and now all you were left with was the shame of your failures.  

And yet, even as guilt weighed heavy on your chest, there was relief – a deep, painful relief. Alastor had come for you, breaking through Vox’s fortress to drag you out of Vox’s grasp.  

But at what cost? 

A burning flush crept up your cheeks, the sting of shame and self-loathing settling deep in your chest. The adrenaline that had fuelled you, kept you moving, now drained away, leaving only raw, vulnerable emotions in its wake. You had wanted to help, to do something right. But instead, you had been nothing but a burden, another problem for Alastor to fix. Your heart ached with the weight of your failure, the knowledge that, once again, you had only caused trouble.  

“I just wanted to help,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath in the thick silence. But the words felt hollow, empty. Because all you had done was create another mess, another disaster – one that nearly cost you, and him, everything.   

Before an apology could form on your lips, Alastor’s hand was suddenly cradling your face, fingers warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. Through your blurry vision, you saw that ever-present grin, his piercing red eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart thump faster, harder, against your chest. Your lips trembled, unsure of what was coming next. Would he yell at you? Scold you for your recklessness? Or worse, would he finally grow tired of you – of all your mistakes? 

You waited, bracing yourself for the inevitable sting of rejection or anger, but it never came. Instead, Alastor leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, featherlight kiss. It felt so delicate, almost accidental, as if the brief touch wasn’t meant to happen. But then, before you could process it, he moved closer, crowding your body against the door, trapping you between the cool wood and the heat radiating from him.  

The next kiss was different – urgent, ferocious, and brimming with unspoken need. His hands, trembling ever so slightly, traced the contours of your face before sliding down your neck, lingering as though savouring every inch of your skin. Then, in a swift, possessive motion, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, every inch of his body pressing into yours.  

Kisses came, over and over again, each one deeper, more demanding, as if he were trying to reclaim every moment you had been apart, every second lost to Vox’s cruel game. When your lips parted, gasping for air, he didn’t hesitate – his tongue slipped past the seam of your lips, exploring, tasting, claiming every part of you with fevered desperation. He devoured you, marking you in a way that felt primal, raw, each movement of his mouth more insistent than the last.  

You felt him – all of him – pressed hard against your navel, the heat between you growing with every passing second. His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your jawline, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck with gasping, hungry breaths. But just as quickly as the tension built, something in him shifted. His muscles tensed, his body stiffening against yours, and then he stopped.  

Your hands, still clutching the lapels of his jacket, trembled as you tried to catch your breath. You looked down at him, confused, his face buried in the crook of your neck, unmoving, like a statue. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, and you could feel the barely contained tremor running through him. His ears twitched, laying flat against his head before perking up once more, as if caught between conflicting instincts.  

Suddenly, he pulled back, the air around him crackling with static, a low buzz of white noise filling the space. His eyes flashed – flickering between red radio dials and his usual, sharp, black slits. That ever-present grin twisted, tightening into something more akin to a scowl, a dangerous edge creeping into it. Unexpectedly, he grabbed you, dragging you toward the bayou side of his room.  

“Al-Alastor?” you called out, your voice small and hesitant. He let you go abruptly, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, an ornate porcelain bathtub appeared in front of you, its gold clawed feet gleaming under the dim light. Hot, steaming water cascaded from the silver shower head, the water draining to who-knows-where.  

Before you could react, dark tendrils – his tendrils – wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground and unceremoniously dumping you into the bath, clothes and all. The warmth of the water soaked through your clothes, sending a rush of heat through your body. You gasped, coughing as water splashed into your mouth.  

“Alastor!” you sputtered, blinking up at him, confused, your face drenched as you wiped the water from your eyes.  

He stood over you, straight-backed, shoulders rigid, his hands neatly clasped behind him as if he were merely surveying a piece of art. His crimson eyes glinted down at you with cool detachment, that maddening grin still plastered on his face. 

“You don’t smell like me,” he said simply, his tone matter-of-face, but with an underlying possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine.  

You blinked, still dazed, unsure of what he meant, your heart pounding in your chest. “W-what?” 

His grin widened then, dark amusement dancing in his eyes as he leaned in, his shadow casting over you. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll make sure you do.” 

With a sharp snap of his fingers, a bar of soap materialized in Alastor’s hand – the kind with a woodsy, metallic scent, popular in Cannibal Town. You had never been fond of its pungent odour, but you knew Alastor adored it, and at this moment, that was all that mattered.  

His focus was singular, almost obsessive, as he leaned forward, the water streaming down his face, drenching his usually pristine hair. His movements were slow but deliberate, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he undressed you, peeling the wet fabric from your skin.  

You caught the slight twitch in his left eye, the tremor in his fingers – he was lost deep in his thoughts, buried somewhere you couldn’t reach. His silence was suffocating, filled with the weight of everything he wasn't saying. As your clothes fell away, baring your vulnerable form before him, your shoulders curled in, and your hands moved to shield your chest.  

But Alastor wasn’t having it. His long fingers captured your wrists, pulling your hand away, gently but firmly. Then, with deliberate care, he began to massage the soap into your skin, the rough texture gliding across your wet body.  

“Where did he touch you, darling?” His voice was deceptively light, playful even, but the malice underneath was unmistakable. His question dripped with venom, barely concealed beneath the surface. “You didn’t let him...” His hand, still holding the soap, drifted up your arm as the hot water poured over both of you, saturating your senses. Alastor, now fully in the tub with you, crouched low, his eyes boring into yours, searching for any hint of truth, any flicker of something unsaid.  

Your wet hair clung to your face and neck as you shook your head, droplets falling in rivulets down your cheeks. “He didn’t touch me like that, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice soft yet steady. For the first time since he rescued you, you found the courage to reach out. Your fingers trembled as they brushed a few strands of his soaked hair back from his face, your touch tender, hesitant.  

Alastor inched backward until his back hit the edge of the tub, his legs unfolding slightly as he stretched out beneath you. You straddled his hips, your thighs brushing against the rough fabric of his wet clothes, the friction sending a shiver through your core. Your chest pressed against his soaked shirt as you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.  

“I promise,” you murmured, your lips ghosting over his as if your words could seep into his very soul. His eyes fluttered shut at the intimacy, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you closer, closer until there was no space between your bodies.  

“I hate the scent of that noisy picture box,” Alastor muttered against your lips, stealing another kiss, his voice low and rough with barely contained frustration. “Sharp, unpleasant,” he continued, his hips grinding into you, the friction sending jolts of heat through your body. The pressure of him, firm and insistent against your core, drew a soft stifled moan from your lips. “Masking everything,” he growled, the words vibrating against your mouth.  

Your hands moved of their own accord, fingers tracing down the lapels of his jacket, your lips trailing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, down the curve of his neck. One button, then another, came undone beneath your touch, revealing the sharp jut of his collarbone, his skin slick with water. He groaned low in his throat, his hands finding their way between your bodies, undoing the button and zipper of his pants with swift, practised ease.  

The moment his hot shaft pressed against your slick folds, a gasp escaped your lips, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through you. His hips moved slowly, tortuously so, grinding up and down, creating an unbearable heat that built with each stroke. “Did you miss this, darling?” Alastor murmured, his voice like velvet, thick with desire, as his hips continued their slow rhythm against you.  

Your head fell forward, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, and you bit down on your lower lip, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your throat. But Alastor wouldn’t allow it. His clawed fingers slipped beneath your chin, tilting your face until your eyes met his. “Don’t hide,” he whispered, his voice laced with command and something darker, more animalistic. “Not when I finally found you.” 

The sound of the shower created a steady backdrop, like heavy rain pouring down, but all that mattered, all you could feel, was him. His body pressed against yours, his hands gripping your hips, his gaze locking you in place as if daring you to look away. And at that moment, there was nothing else – no past, no fear, just the two of you, lost in each other.  

Slowly, you dragged your sensitive clit along the edge of his cock, teasing him with every slight movement. His low, throaty sigh filled the space between you as you positioned yourself above him, your core hovering just over his tip. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, softened with raw desire, a hunger that mirrored your own.  

With purposeful slowness, you sank down onto him, feeling the pleasant stretch as he filled you, inch by inch, the heat between your bodies sparking into something untamable.  

Alastor hissed through clenched teeth as your tight warmth enveloped him, his grip on your hips tightening, claws digging into your skin as though afraid you’d slip away. The moment you let out a soft, breathless moan, he responded. His hips bucked upward, thrusting deeper into you, your walls clinging to him, making every movement feel electric.  

The slick sound of wet skim meeting wet fabric filled your ears, mingling with the steady beat of the water raining down from the shower. It was as if the outside world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you and the pleasure that built between your bodies.  

“A-Al,” you gasped, your voice trembling as your fingers clawed at his shoulders, gripping the wet, rough fabric of his soaked suit jacket. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide as he watched you, every reaction you made, every shiver of pleasure fuelling his own.  

Without warning, Alastor’s shadowy tendrils wrapped around you, lifting you effortlessly off his lap, suspending your body in midair. The tentacles curled around your calves, your thighs, spreading you open for him, baring your slick, pulsing core to his ravenous gaze.  

You wobbled, barely able to keep your balance as you were held aloft, your hands clutching his shoulders for stability. But before you could stabilize, Alastor surged forward, thrusting himself into you with a brutal intensity, his hips pounding against yours.  

His pants had slipped down to circle his ankles, but that didn’t slow him. His sharp teeth gritted in pleasure as he watched the way your bodies connected, his cock disappearing inside you over and over again, each thrust sending waves of ecstasy crashing through you. 

His pace was erratic, frantic, as if he couldn't get enough of you, and your moans only spurred him on. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your face flushed with heat, and just as you were about to come undone, he pulled out, leaving you empty and aching.  

A needy whimper escaped your lips, the absence of him unbearable, but before you could protest, Alastor was on his knees before you, his eyes flickered up meeting your own.  

The tendrils adjusted your height, keeping your legs spread wide as he dove forward, his mouth latching onto your dripping pussy. The water from the shower ran in rivulets down your body, tracing the curves of your breasts and rolling over your heated skin, but all you could focus on was the feel of his tongue.  

He plunged it inside you, swirling and licking, tasting you with desperate fervour. His hands gripped your backside, kneading the soft flesh as he feasted on you, his moans vibrating against your sensitive folds.  

A sharp cry tore from your throat as he sucked and nibbled at your clit, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You could feel your pussy clenching, grasping at nothing as his tongue worked you over, your head spinning with the intensity of it all.  

Your body tilted backward, but more tendrils sprouted to hold you in place, keeping you suspended as Alastor continued his ministrations, devouring you as though he couldn’t get enough. He was a man stranded in the desert, finally taking the first gulp of water.  

The tension inside you built, higher and higher, your muscles clenching tighter with every flick of his tongue. His moans were muffled against your flesh, but they only heightened your arousal, the vibrations making you gasp. Your climax hovered just unreachable, so close, and as his tongue flicked over your clit in rapid succession, your entire body tensed.  

“Al-Al-Al!” you cried, your voice breaking as the crest of your orgasm finally surged through you. Your muscles clenched, your back arched, and waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in the sensation. Alastor didn’t let up, his tongue relentless as he rode out your climax, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from your trembling body until you were left breathless and spent, your heart thundering in your chest.  

But before you could fully come down from the high, Alastor stood, his cock hard and dripping. He slammed his hips into yours, his cock burying itself deep inside you, filling you in one swift motion. His balls slapped against your soaked skin from the sheer force of his thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Each time his thick, blunt tip pushed against your sensitive spots, all you could do was cry out, your voice lost behind the steady beat of the shower.  

“Darling...darling,” he moaned, his voice ragged, full of need. His claws dug into your hips, pulling you closer as he relentlessly drove into you, his hips snapping forward with wild, desperate force. His movement became erratic, his breaths coming in short gasps, and you felt the trembling in his muscles as he pushed himself deeper, chasing the same release that had just consumed you.  

When his body finally gave in, he groaned softly, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His cock pulsed as he spilled hot, thick cum inside you. He slowed, his thrusts becoming shallow, tender, as if savouring the moment, each gentle motion prolonging the feeling of you milking every last drop from him.  

With a final deep thrust, he buried himself inside you completely, pressing against your trembling walls until you were pressed right into his hilt. The tendrils of shadow that had suspended you vanished, and your body felt heavy and spent.  

Alastor pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you tightly, his claws gently pricking the soft flesh of your back. His chest heaved with each breath, his face pressing into your hair as he held you close, his heart thundering against yours. You could hear it, or perhaps it was your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears as he held you, locking in each other’s embrace, under the rain of the shower.  

The heat of the water cascaded down your bodies, but all you could feel was his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he held you as if he would never let go. His silence spoke volumes, the words he couldn’t say hanging in the air between you. He didn’t need to say them – his touch, the way he clung to you, said it all.  

He had missed you, more than words could express. There hadn’t been a moment where you weren’t on his mind, and now that he had your back, he seemed frozen in time, desperate to savour this moment for eternity.  

You rested your head against his chest, the sound of the water blending with the rhythmic thumping of your hearts. Neither of you moved, content to simply exist in the quiet, shared warmth of one another, as the rest of Hell faded away.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[yo-ri-su-ki]

The blade can also tremble

Jealous!Vergil Sparda x shy reader

An: here's your first story, thanks for 250 likes!!

The sky outside was the color of bruised lilac, heavy with rainclouds. It had been raining all day—soft, persistent, and cold. Water trickled in slow streams along the stone pathways of the ruined fortress, dripping through the cracks in the old roof and pooling near broken columns. The fire in the hearth crackled quietly, offering the only source of light and warmth in the vast room.

You sat curled up in an armchair far too large for you, legs tucked under your body, a worn blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cocoon. A book lay open in your lap, though you hadn’t turned the page in what felt like an hour. Your hands were too busy clinging to the warm mug of tea Vergil had left for you earlier without a word.

He was always like that—silent, composed, distant. A shadow with a sword and eyes like sharpened ice.

But he had brought you here. He had protected you from the chaos, the demons, the bleeding sky. And while he never said why, you had stayed.

Across the room, Vergil stood by the broken window, watching the rain. The faint wind tugged at his coat, the dark fabric fluttering like wings around his tall frame. He was impossibly still, as though carved from stone. The only movement came from the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You glanced at him, heart skipping. The silence between you was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just full of things unsaid.

You liked it that way, honestly. Words were hard. You were never good with them, especially around someone like him.

Vergil’s voice, low and calm, broke through the hush.

“You’re trembling.”

You startled. Not because of the words, but because he had noticed.

“I-I’m fine,” you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You gripped the mug a little tighter, heat seeping into your cold fingers.

He didn’t move from the window at first, but his gaze flicked to you, unreadable. Then, slowly, he walked across the room—his steps silent, measured. When he crouched by the hearth, you could feel the temperature shift. Not from the fire.

From him.

“I told you before,” he said, his voice as calm as ever. “You are safe here. No harm will come to you while I draw breath.”

You swallowed. It should’ve been comforting. And it was. But it wasn’t fear that made your hands shake.

“I’m not scared,” you said, softer than before. “Not of you.”

Vergil turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing with interest. “Then what is it?”

You hesitated. Every instinct screamed to retreat, to deflect, to stay quiet. But the words came anyway—fragile, halting.

“I’m just… not used to someone like you.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened—curious, perhaps even cautious.

“Someone like me?”

You met his gaze for a moment, the intensity of it stealing the breath from your lungs. But you managed a small nod.

“You’re… controlled. Strong. Quiet. It’s intimidating. Not in a bad way,” you added quickly, eyes darting to the fire. “Just… different.”

Vergil stood slowly, shadows licking at the hem of his coat. He said nothing at first. You wondered if you had said too much, crossed an invisible line. You always worried about that.

But instead of walking away, he moved to stand beside your chair.

“You think me intimidating,” he said, voice low. “Yet you speak the truth to my face.”

You blinked up at him. “I… don’t want to pretend.”

Something flickered across his face—a shift so subtle, you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been looking. He turned slightly, one hand resting on the back of your chair, fingers curled loosely.

“I find… no reason for you to pretend,” he said. “Your presence does not demand masks. It is… honest. Quiet.”

You weren’t sure what to say. A part of you didn’t believe him. Another part, the smaller, braver one, clung to those words like a lifeline.

He looked down at the floor for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then:

“You remind me of stillness,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Stillness?”

“Yes.” He straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “In the eye of a storm, there is a moment of calm. Silent. Untouched. That is what you are.”

Your heart thundered.

Vergil’s gaze returned to the window. “I’ve chased power my whole life. Lost myself to it. But when you are near…” His jaw clenched slightly. “There is quiet.”

You couldn’t move. Could barely think.

He turned back to you, eyes softer now—less like ice, more like mist.

“You don’t need to speak if you don’t wish to,” he said. “Your presence… is enough.”

That was what undid you. Not the poetic metaphor. Not the fact that Vergil—cold, stoic, unreachable Vergil—had just compared you to the eye of a storm.

It was that he meant it.

You looked down quickly, cheeks burning, fingers tightening around your mug. “I’m… glad,” you said, voice trembling.

He was quiet for a moment, watching you.

Then, slowly, he reached out—fingertips brushing your shoulder. Light. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

Your breath hitched. The contact lasted a heartbeat. Maybe two.

Then he pulled away.

“I will return before nightfall,” he said, already turning to the door. “The wards will protect you in my absence.”

You nodded, still too stunned to speak.

The door creaked softly as he left, the cold air swirling in after him before it settled into stillness again.

And you sat there, tea cooling in your hands, heart still racing.

Because despite all your doubts, despite your quiet, awkward nature…

You were not just tolerated.

You were seen.

And to Vergil Sparda, that meant more than any declaration.

It meant you mattered.

The days blurred after that moment.

Vergil continued to vanish for hours at a time, leaving you behind in the forgotten fortress, guarded by invisible barriers and the echo of his words. But something had shifted between you. His glances lingered longer. His silences felt less like walls and more like invitations.

You noticed the small things first.

A second mug of tea placed beside yours without a word.

A book, carefully left on the table, written in your native language despite the region’s ruins offering only old demon-tongue scrolls.

A blanket, folded and left on the arm of your chair—not just one of the tattered ones from the storage room, but his cloak. His cloak.

You touched the soft blue fabric hesitantly, heart fluttering. It still smelled like him. Steel, rain, and something ancient. You never quite had the courage to wear it, but its presence was enough.

Vergil never asked questions, never demanded conversation. But one evening, as the rain stilled and the clouds began to part, you found him sitting—not standing—by the hearth for the first time.

A book rested in his lap, unopened. His gaze was distant, eyes reflecting firelight.

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure if you should speak.

“You always hover,” he said suddenly, voice soft. “Come closer.”

You flushed but obeyed, padding silently across the stone floor. You sat a little closer than usual. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. Not just from the fire.

Vergil didn’t look at you at first. “I find myself… restless when you’re far.”

Your heart skipped. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

“You don’t.” He turned his head, gaze cutting to yours. “You never have.”

You looked down at your hands, shy. “I don’t really know what I am to you.”

He stood slowly, as if needing to move just to think. “You were once a burden,” he said bluntly. “An inconvenience I accepted out of necessity.”

The words stung, but he wasn’t finished.

“Now,” he said, turning to face you fully, “I find myself searching for your presence the moment you’re out of sight. I notice when you don’t speak. I wait for your quiet footsteps down the hall. I listen for the sound of your breathing at night to remind myself I’m not alone.”

You looked up at him, lips parted, heart in your throat.

“I do not understand this attachment,” he said, voice tight with restraint. “It weakens me, and yet… I cannot bring myself to let go.”

You stood then, nerves buzzing, and approached him slowly.

“I never asked you to let go,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. His eyes searched yours, and for the first time, his hand reached up, hovering near your face—hesitating, as if waiting for permission.

You gave a tiny nod.

His fingers brushed your cheek.

It was such a gentle, reverent touch—like you were something sacred.

“I don’t know how to love gently,” he admitted.

You smiled faintly, heart racing. “That’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m not fragile.”

The days grew warmer. The fortress, once cold and dead, now stirred with quiet life—flowers growing through cracked stone, moss softening sharp corners, and the ever-present fire that never seemed to burn out anymore.

You noticed Vergil spent more time within the manor walls, staying close to you. He didn’t say it, of course. But you saw it in how often he stood outside the door while you read, or how he’d walk in with some half-destroyed object—an old carving, a page of poetry—and silently place it on your desk as if gifting you a piece of a forgotten world.

Then one morning, while collecting water near the ward’s edge, you met a traveler.

A human. Lost, scared, clearly out of place in the demon realm. He was kind, though—a bit loud and nervous, but friendly. He kept talking to you as you guided him back toward the safe boundaries. Asked your name. Offered his. Told jokes.

And you… you laughed.

Not much. Just a little.

But it was enough.

Vergil was standing at the edge of the courtyard when you returned, Yamato gleaming on his back, his coat fluttering gently in the breeze.

His eyes locked on the traveler. Then you.

And something shifted.

The man’s words slowed as he looked nervously between you and Vergil’s piercing stare.

“Uh, thanks for the help,” he mumbled to you before hurrying away. You turned back toward the doorway—only to find Vergil still watching you, unmoving.

You swallowed. “He was lost. I couldn’t just leave him.”

“I didn’t say you should,” Vergil replied. But his tone was too calm. Too sharp.

You stepped closer, frowning. “Are you… angry?”

His jaw clenched, just slightly. “No. But I find myself… displeased.”

You tilted your head, trying to read him. “Why?”

Vergil looked away, gaze cast toward the horizon. “Because you laughed.”

You blinked. “Is that… bad?”

“You laughed for him.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Vergil finally turned, stepping closer. His presence was magnetic—intense and overwhelming.

“He looked at you like he could touch you,” he said, voice low. “Like he had the right.”

Your breath caught. “And you don’t?”

That made him freeze.

His eyes softened. For the first time, something cracked. The mask slipped.

“I want to,” he whispered.

The admission felt heavier than any weapon. His fingers twitched at his side, unsure.

“I see the way others look at you,” he continued. “Like you’re someone to be claimed. Possessed. They don’t know what it means to deserve you. I have killed for less.”

You stepped forward, heart thudding. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

Vergil’s breath hitched. Then, in a voice raw with restraint: “Peace. And peril. A calm that undoes me.”

You reached for him. This time, you were the one to touch first—your hand gently resting over his chest.

“I don’t want anyone else,” you said softly. “Just you. Even when you’re cold. Or cruel. Or distant.”

His hand came up—slow, deliberate—and cupped your cheek.

“This… thing inside me,” he murmured. “It burns. It claws. But when I touch you…” He leaned forward, foreheads nearly touching. “It goes quiet.”

And then—finally—his lips brushed yours.

Soft. Careful. But desperate in the way he trembled.

You kissed him back, shyly at first, but the moment deepened when his arms came around you—pulling you close as if he feared you'd vanish like mist.

He kissed you like he didn’t know how, but wanted to learn. From you.

When you parted, he pressed his forehead against yours, breath shallow.

“I will never let anyone take you,” he said. “Not while I breathe. Not even from myself.”

And for the first time, you saw it.

Not just his power.

But his fear.

Of losing you.

Of loving you.

And it only made you hold him tighter.

Vergil’s gaze burned, locked on yours. “Yes, you are. And still you remain.”

You leaned forward, just enough that your forehead touched his chest.

He froze—but only for a moment.

Then, his arms came around you. Slowly. Carefully. As if he were afraid you'd disappear if he held too tightly.

You could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek—steady, controlled… but faster than usual.

“I don’t need grand gestures,” you said softly. “Just… don’t leave me behind.”

He bent his head slightly, lips brushing the crown of your hair.

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Even if I wanted to.”

There was no kiss that night.

But his arms around you, the way he held you like a promise, said everything you needed to hear.

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!

an: YALL PLEASE REQUEST MORE VERGIL STUFF I FUCKING LOVE HIMMMM UGHHH

[i2rizz]

can i ask a version of “no way he pulled that”about shidou? where reader is not only gorgeous, she’s also like the total opposite of him, please and thank u💗💗

Sure girll! There were also other requests for shidou from anons so this is for yall too.

No Way He Pulled That Pt.12

There was a rumor floating around NEL.

Not the usual one about Rin and Isagi’s passive-aggressive arguments, or about Reo buying three new jet skis just to race them down the hallway (which did, in fact, happen). No, this one was different. More outlandish.

Apparently… Ryusei Shidou had a girlfriend.

Which—let’s be real—no one believed.

Rin straight-up laughed. "No woman with a functioning nervous system would voluntarily be with that thing"

Barou didn’t even entertain it. "You mean someone tolerates him?"

Even Isagi, ever the peacemaker, said, "He probably made her up"

Chigiri had the most logical explanation: "She’s probably imaginary and lives in his ego"

But Shidou kept talking about you like you were real.

"I got a volleyball queen, bro. She's got that ‘I could ruin your life and you'd say thank you’ kind of look! Trust"

No one bought it.

So when NEL organized a beach day—partly to relax, partly to stop Shidou from threatening to set the weight room on fire again—Shidou just grinned. "Hope y’all like volleyball"

It started like any other beach day: sunscreen flying, Bachira doing flips in the sand, Reo building a comically massive umbrella fortress, and Nagi lying facedown under it like a collapsed Roman statue.

Kaiser tried to start a game of beach soccer. Isagi threatened to drown him. Typical stuff.

And then someone said, "Hey, isn’t that a volleyball net set up down there?"

The boys looked.

Farther down the beach, the sun caught the glint of a net swaying lightly in the breeze. And then they saw her.

You.

You moved like poetry in motion.

Barefoot in the warm sand, black volleyball shorts hugging your legs, a fitted swim bra that left just enough to the imagination, and your hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that bounced as you leapt up—smack!—and absolutely spiked the volleyball over the net like your life depended on it.

The way your muscles flexed, the confident arch of your back, the way you laughed when you missed a hit but adjusted with ease the next second—

You were dangerous.

Not just beautiful—but lethal. That mix of elegant and athletic, with a face that belonged on the cover of Vogue and a presence that screamed: I could ruin your ego with a single comment.

And God, you were smiling. Not just sweetly—fondly.

Especially when your eyes drifted toward the group of NEL boys gawking from a distance. More specifically—to him.

Shidou, who had been unusually quiet for five whole minutes (a personal record), was grinning so hard it looked painful.

"That’s her" he said proudly, like he just dropped a nuke on their fragile psyches.

"NO WAY IN HELL!"

Isagi dropped his water.

Aiku blinked and whispered, "I think I’m in love with her already"

Barou scowled harder than the sun could burn.

Rin squinted. "She’s…smiling. At him?"

Chigiri looked personally betrayed. "You’re telling me he pulled that?"

Kaiser straight-up choked on his drink. "No. No way. This is PR. He hired her"

"Oh? She lookin’ this good for fun now?" Shidou smirked, tossing his shirt over his shoulder like the menace he is. "That’s my girl, boys"

As if to punctuate his statement, you jogged over after winning the set, your smile radiant, your arms glistening with a sheen of sweat, volleyball cradled in your hand like a trophy.

"Baby!" you beamed.

Baby.

The boys blinked.

You jogged straight up to Shidou, leaned into his space like you owned it (you did), and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He grinned so wide he developed dimples.

They lost it.

"THAT'S ACTUALLY HER?" Isagi hissed. "I thought he made her up!"

"No way," Chigiri muttered, looking personally offended. "She's normal looking. Like, emotionally stable and everything"

"Maybe she hit her head" Rin said.

"You think she's being held hostage?" Nagi offered.

"Blink twice if you need help!" Reo yelled across the sand.

You just laughed.

"What, didn’t believe me?" Shidou purred, arm snaking around your waist. "Told you I don’t cap about perfection"

You rolled your eyes, tapping his nose. "You also told me dolphins were just ‘ocean dogs,’ so forgive their skepticism"

"See?" Aiku hissed. "She’s funny, too! And she touches him without flinching!"

"She deserves an oscar for putting up w him" Isagi muttered.

"She needs therapy" Rin grumbled.

"She could kill me and I’d thank her" Bachira added dreamily.

Nagi, still lying facedown in the sand, mumbled, "Too much light. Can’t look directly at her"

Meanwhile, you turned to Shidou again, gently fixed his crooked necklace, and said, "You forgot sunscreen on your shoulders again, didn't you?"

The man who once bit a player on the field melted instantly. He looked like a golden retriever being praised.

"Oh my god," Barou said in horror. "He's soft"

"He let her touch him," Bachira whispered, stunned.

"He didn't bite her," Isagi added.

"He kissed her cheek," Charles muttered.

"Maybe she has a taser," Rin concluded.

You turned to them with a sweet smile and a wave. "Oh btw, I'm (Name)!"

Dead silence.

Then Bachira, bless his soul, grinned. "Can I get adopted into whatever romantic comedy you two live in?"

Shidou tossed an arm over your shoulder. "Don't get jealous now, losers. You could never"

And that was the day the NEL realized: Ryusei Shidou did, in fact, have a girlfriend.

Not just a girlfriend. A walking, talking goddess with soft eyes, who gently told him to stop harassing seagulls and actually listened when he started ranting about new goal techniques.

The worst part?

You actually liked him.

You laughed at his jokes. You held his hand. You kissed him like he didn't start fistfights just for fun. And every time he looked at you, it was like watching a rabid pitbull turn into a very confused housecat.

Shidou would grin and say, "Yeah, I'm the luckiest bastard alive"

And everyone else would whisper behind his back, "How the hell did he pull her?!"

And the cherry on top?

When Shidou turned and yelled, "Ey! Who wants to get demolished in volleyball by me and my queen?!"

You just smirked, tossing the ball in the air. "Losers serve first"

They never stood a chance.