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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

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wherethewolfsbaneblooms · 10 months ago

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The jarl awaits, basking in the glow of a full, highland moon. What will you offer her, should you accept her invitation?

Keep an eye out for Shield Me Chapter 7 in the next few days. For now, have Jarl Dimitrescu lounging in the moonlight chin up titties out.

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allfearstofallto · 10 months ago

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PLS CAN YOU FEED US MORE hero of the nation knight!childe ON MY KNEES I LOVE YOUR WORK SO MUCH AND I SEARCHED EVERYWHERE FOR A FIC LIKE THIS

This took FOREVER to write, but here you go!!

Blessings Be to The Hero of the Nation

Historical AU

Yandere Hero of the Nation! Childe x Fem! Reader

TW: yandere themes, stalking, minor character death, blood, threatening, forced marriage/engagement

He kept one of your hair ribbons wrapped around the hilt of his sword. It billowed in the wind constantly and would draw watchful eyes to it. That pastel pink fabric didn't match a single thing on his brutish, usually bloody exterior, but he still kept it regardless. You tragically didn't give it to him in a blatant display of affection and well wishes for him on his journey, instead, he found the little ribbon after it'd blown off your head and up to the wind. A little pout formed on your lips realizing you'd lost it, but you decided against retrieving it. He didn't though. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket, taking it home to clean off the dirt and grime.

That same ribbon was clenched in his hands when he arrived at the gate of your manor, along with a few other gifts that he would give to you. He'd just slayed the dragon, the wretched menace that was terrorizing the nation, now and only now did he feel worthy to ask for your hand. Cleaning off all the blood and gore that was on his armor, polishing it into light metal that could blind anyone who looked directly at it, he was certain that this would charm you off of your feet.

When he was invited into your home by your parents who were surprised to see the hero himself at their door, he didn't care about the tea or the cakes. The praise meant nothing coming from them. He skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the point. He wanted your hand in marriage and he wanted the wedding to be soon.

A skittish expression crossed your father's face as he gritted his teeth, “We've decided to leave that decision up to her.” Childe smirked, that was even better. He'd never met a woman who wouldn't fall for his charms.

You were called down from your room, eyelids heavy and half open, still in your thin sleeping gown with a robe over it. You were rubbing the tiredness from your eyes as you walked down the stairs, your other delicate hand gripping the banister. And when you saw him, you bowed. A deep traditional bow, given to those of a respectable higher status.

He kneeled down on one knee before you. The male kneeled for only one person, the queen herself. His sword pulled from its sheath, he laid it flat against his palms, offering it up to you. That knocked the sleepiness from his body and suddenly your eyes were wide open. Genuine shock was making your body stiff as a board and you looked back and forth to your parents who didn't say a word.

“Your visage has danced around my heart non stop since the first time I laid eyes on you. I wish to use this sword only to fight for you. Won't you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Words spoken in honor, with him meaning every bit of it. You were meant to take the sword from his hands, tapping it gently upon each of his shoulders, but you didn't. You just stood there, lips trembling, but not saying anything.

A marriage proposal via a letter was easy to ignore or reject, you didn't have to see their reaction. But never had you had someone be so bold as to propose to you in person. And not only that, the very hero that saved the Kingdom. Rumors told you he'd be marrying the first princess, she obsessed over him before he became the hero and those feelings seemed to only grow stronger after he waltzed into the city with the bloody head of the beast. Yet here he was at your feet, patiently anticipating your answer which he was positive was going to be a yes.

“I-'' you began, trying to think of the easiest way to let him down gently, “I fear that I'm not ready for marriage yet.” You said hurriedly. That wasn’t entirely a lie. You spent countless hours looking at the list of marriage candidates and scoping them out at balls and parties, but quickly realizing that none of them suited your tastes in that way. The entire idea of being wed barely satisfied you. You wanted to push it off for as long as possible.

“I'm willing to wait for you until the world crumbles. I'd even accept being your fiance until the day we die, as long as I can say you're mine,” he was persistent, you'd give him that.

You fiddled with your fingers nervously. Time felt as if it had stopped and this moment would never end. No matter what you did, he was still going to be there, “I thought you were to be wed to her highness, the princess?” You questioned him.

A scoff fell from his cherry pink lips, eyes looking you up and down, drinking in every inch of your body in that thin nightgown, “She does not interest me. Not the way you do.”

“There is really nothing interesting about me,”

“Won't you let me be the judge of that?”

Your shoulders slumped as you looked to your parents. They seemed as surprised by his persistence as you did, but weren't going to step in to help you, they always affirmed that it was your decision, they wanted you to be independent.

“Forgive me, hero, but I can not accept your offer,”

For just a split second you saw that princely expression slip. His eyes grew dark, lips in a deep frown, a rage you'd never seen before. But he was back to his usual expression in less than a second, that charming smile forming on his lips again as he stood from his knees and sheathed his sword a little too slowly.

“You wound me, my lady,” he'd mutter softly, hands still conveniently tight around the hilt of this sword, “Won't you please accept my gifts? And if you are to begin considering marriage, I hope that my proposal will be remembered fondly.”

Childe showed himself out, a little too quickly, but you didn't dare tell him to slow down. It was only once he was out those large double doors, did the air in your home feel breathable, you finally felt safe again. You watched his carriage leave from a window, watching as his eyes went dull again, losing all shimmers and feeling like a hollow mimicry of what humans were supposed to look like.

You were quite embarrassed to say you fell in love after that. Not with Childe, of course. You mentally tried to push the man from your mind after the way he startled both you and your family. Instead, your feelings developed for a commoner boy. You found yourself eyeing him when he'd deliver produce to your home, his face being one of pure beauty despite his messy exterior. As months went by, you'd catch yourself stealing bashful glances at him, locking eyes only for both of you to look away shyly. When the engagement was announced, Childe was one of the first to hear about it.

You twirled around the house in your wedding dress. Something plain and basic, but it was what your family could afford, and quite honestly, you loved it. You didn't want to take it off. Your fear of getting it dirty lessened as the days went by, until the wedding was only a week away.

“A guest for you, my lady,” one of your maids had said. Typically, when the employees of the house saw you dressed in your white gown, they'd smile at you, overjoyed as well. But she didn't. She looked worried, even a bit tense as she made the announcement to you.

“I hadn't arranged to meet anyone today,” you said a bit quietly, going to you closer to pick out something to change into, “Please tell them to wait in the day room.”

She stood stiffly for a second, then opened her trembling mouth to speak again, “I tried to, my lady. But he insisted on seeing you right now. He's just outside the door,”

A part of you wanted to ask who it was, who would be so disrespectful as to barge right up to a lady's room without her permission. But you already knew. There was a sense of unease sinking into your stomach. Unease and recognition. All the gifts and letters he'd sent weren't enough, were they? The man you were ignoring just had to come see you in person.

“Let him in,” you told the maid. She seemed confused at the ease at which you allowed such a thing, but still opened the door, revealing Childe who stood still in the hallway. He stepped past her, eyes only trained on you, “You're dismissed,” you said quietly, with a reassuring smile to the maid. Hesitance danced across her face, looking back and forth between you Childe, but she still did as told, bowing before leaving.

“You look lovely,” he said breathlessly, taking in the sight of you in that pure white dress.

“Thank you,” was all you could think to say back. Now that he was here before you, your mind was growing blank, all the things you wanted to say suddenly getting lost in fear. You tried not to notice the tension in the room, the way he was eyeing you like a predator about to pounce on a rabbit, but even your tough exterior was easy to see through.

“My heart aches for you, my lady,” he speaks softly while taking slow steps towards you. The terror of this situation made you move backwards, until your feet had made you press your back against the wall, “I fear that my haste might've made me do something…irrational.”

His dominant hand seems focused on the sword at his hip, making you look at it. It was only when you saw the red speckles all over his hand, hilt of the sword, and the oddly familiar pink ribbon he kept tied around it, did that coppery smell fill your nostrils.

With a trembling voice and a fake smile, you tried to assure him, “Any mistake is fixable, Sir Childe.”

“Not this one,” his hand continued to hold the hilt of his sword, squeezing it a few times as of testing the weight of his blade, “Do you know the best part of being the hero? The dragon slayer?” He asked, waiting for your response which was just a slow, forced shake of your head, prompting him to continue, “It's not the riches or the praise. It's not even the women.” As he speaks, one of his hands slides down from your cheek, to your neck, to the bodice of your dress. Tearful eyes look down to see him smearing that red liquid, that blood onto you white dress, staining it.

“I don't understand,” you mumbled, but your words fall on deaf ears.

“The best part of being the hero, is the freedom to do what I want. With no prosecution. Who in their right mind would stand up to the man who saved our failing nation? The answer is no one. Not the king, nor his workers, and especially not your weak little fiance,”

The sight and smell of blood, Childe's deep, hollow blue eyes, the way your heart felt as if it wanted to lurch out of your mouth. All things you tried to focus on as his words pounded their way into your skull, understanding washing over you like a wave that was trying to drown you where you stood.

“Wh-what did you do?” Your voice, so high pitched and breaking as the weight of the words forced through your body.

His hand, cold, soft, wet with blood rubbed your cheek, while his face never faltered, those dead eyes never changing, he had no remorse. It made you sick to your stomach, images of your fiance flashing through your head as you tried to imagine what he looked like, the hopeful ones saying that he was at least still alive.

“I'm going to ask again, nicely this time,” he began while pulling a ring from his pocket. Much more intricate than the one your fiance had given you, seeing as he had the hero's budget. But that didn't make you feel any less light headed when it was slipped onto your ring finger, freezing cold against your warm skin, “Will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

#mai<3 answers #genshin #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #yandere x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #genshin childe x reader #childe x reader #historical au

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cry-ptidd · 11 days ago

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When coming back from battle, the voivode would always greet his favorite warrior (unless he was called to come along) with an amicable kiss of peace as a sign of their platonic male friendship

#hellsing #my art #andercard #historical au #vladcard #alexander anderson #art block art block go away #it's messy but it works #don't look at the horse's reins and saddle #I do not care for them

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heedeungism · 11 months ago

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synopsis: the duke loves you dearly, yes, but how could you possibly know that? includes: bridgerton au, suggestive, profanity , hoon is a rake

as duke and duchess of hastings, it was expected that you produce an heir within the year. being the notorious love match of the season, the diamond and the duke, the image of your family back in london was counting on your ability to ‘perform your duty’, as the ton loved to put it.

sunghoon, your husband, the duke, had been the one to propose the deal. you’d been told your whole life that your interests meant nothing if your husband did not share them, yet he had asked you what your favorite color was. you had been told that horse riding wasn’t ladylike, yet he had shown you his favorite mare and asked you if you’d ever ridden.

he was all the right things, you’d thought. though truthfully, he had one quality you couldn't look past. he was a rake. he frequented brothels, fucked whores, but called on you and gave you the most expensive flowers, and spoke the sweetest of nothings. it was almost enough to look past. you’d thought that you’d be able to get past it, that if he was in love with you enough to propose he’d be in love enough to stop visiting the brothels.

that hope was shattered the moment he’d proposed. it wasn’t romantic, nor was it anything you wanted.

“a deal?” you remember asking when he had looked at you with eyes you had never seen so unfeeling, “or a marriage?”

“you will be allowed the estate. every luxury you desire will be yours.” he had stated, “while i—“

“spend your nights at your beloved brothels?” his face when you had spoken those words had sent your heart into its own frozen hell. “you do not have to explain yourself, your grace.”

and so, the two of you married. you knew that despite the pieces he had left your heart in he would keep his word, and he did. you’d never worn such luxurious gowns nor felt fabric so soft and breathable as your nightdress.

your mama had told you little about what the night of your wedding entailed, only that if a certain event did not transpire the marriage would be null. that event was never described in full to you by your mother, only hinted at by jane austen, and yet it had been nearly a month since your nuptials and the duke had left the space between the two of you alarmingly obvious. the large bed that while you both slept on you did not share, the avoidance of eye contact, and the heat of his hand on yours only for him to pull away before you can let it pool.

on mornings that you allow yourself to sleep in, you are unsure if the ghostly touch along your cheekbone and the gentle tucking of your hair out of your face is your imagination or just the breeze coming from the open window. on nights that you are plagued by the feeling of being undesirable, you can feel his gaze on your back when he thinks you’re asleep.

on a night like this one, you find yourself reaching a point of exhaustion. “your grace.” you greet as you enter his study, the place he would keep to himself and even eat on most nights.

he barely glances up from his paperwork, “do you need something?”

shaking your head, you pull the shawl you have over your shoulders to cover the skin that your nightdress didn’t. the pink color of the fabric was what you had described as your favorite when the duke had asked. it’s the color of nearly every dress you have been provided with since moving into clyvedon. “no, i simply came to inform you that i am having the maids move my things into the duchess’s chambers.”

his interest is piqued, and he finally looks at you. “why ever would you have them do that?”

“is reason needed to move into my own chambers?”

your response garners a look from your husband, “separate rooms shall not be suffered.”

his words cause you to scoff, “yet a silent marriage will be?”

he is silent for a moment before he speaks, “jones.” the butler standing by the door straightens up, “inform the maids that they will under no circumstances move the duchess’ belongings from our chambers.”

“sir.” the man nods, exiting the room and leaving you with your husband.

“will you continue to go about your days acting as if i do not exist?” you question goes unanswered as sunghoon resumes his paperwork. “fine, i will move them myself.”

“you will do no such thing.”

“oh, i believe i will.” you retort and sunghoon stands, hands placed on the desk as his jaw shifts.

“i forbid you.”

the audacity baffles you, frustration turning into fury within the second, “you forbid me?”

sunghoon walks out from behind his desk, stopping beside it, “you are my wife. your hatred i can tolerate but i will not allow the agony of separate rooms.”

“am i your wife?” you ask, watching his hands twitch at his sides and his eyes darken, “we had a wedding, yes, but if we did not spend that night together are we truly married?”

“you speak nonsense.” he dismisses, eyes no longer on you as he turns away, “go to bed.”

“do not speak to me like i am a child—“

“i said-“ he starts, voice raising as he turns back toward you with a darkness in his gaze, “go. to. bed.”

his eyes pierce your own as his voice is low and nearly breathless, you lower your chin just the slightest as your heart aches, “i am not a child, nor am i a fool. i know you do not love me but i did not think you cruel enough for trickery.”

“trickery?” he asks, seemingly clueless as the what you mean.

you begin, “the day we met in that garden i thought you different, kind. you led me to believe such lies, you knew i could not say no to you, you trapped me in a loveless marriage that you knew i did not desire—“

“loveless? if that is what you believe this marriage to be, it is not i who is the cause,” he argues, and you narrow your eyes.

“am i to believe that you love me? have your actions up to this very moment warranted such beliefs?” your question causes your husband’s jaw to shift.

“go to bed.” he looks down at his desk again.

“do not tell me what to do.”

“what do you want from me?” he whips around to look at you. “i have given you riches, i have given you every gown you could possibly desire, i have had the finest soaps imported from india and yet you continue to oppose me. what. do. you. want?”

“i want a husband. not a stranger that i share a bed with, not a keeper.” you state, “i know you do not love me, but if I am to be duchess and produce an heir i deserve better than an absent duke.”

sunghoon remains silent for a moment before his hands clench into fists and his cold eyes meet your own. “call me a stranger, loathe my existence for the rest of your life but never think for even a moment that i do not love you.”

you are stunned into silence, and he continues, stepping closer and closer until your breaths mingle as he says, “i have spent the past fortnights in agony. suffering through the nights i cannot touch you. speaking to you is not enough, nor is being in your company. i have never in my life felt as though i cannot inhale what another does not exhale and yet i find myself suffocating with every moment i am not by your side.”

his fingers ghost over your cheekbone and you find your breath caught in your throat. “i have loved you ever since i saw you in that garden. do not dare question that.”

your lips part and his eyes follow them. your chest rises as you inhale sharply and deeply, attempting to process the words leaving his lips as well as their close proximity to your own. “you…love me.”

your tone is not one of question, and his pleasure in that fact is shown through both his actions and the three words you had yearned to leave his lips since he’d proposed. the same lips that capture yours in a hungry and insatiable kiss that has you in shambles.

your knees buckle, legs turning to jelly, and like he had expected it his arms wrap around you and pulls you closer. his tongue meets yours the moment your lips part and as he brings you to sit on his desk, the pressure of his body between your legs sends a jolt of pleasure you have never experienced before up your body, prompting a choked whimper to escape between the mess of lips and tongue.

“your grace.” you exhale against him, quickly silenced by his lips once again as he breathes you in like you’re the last atom of oxygen on earth.

“your grace.” he responds in kind, hand trailing up your thigh under your nightdress. then, there’s contact and a loud keen that like the rest of them, he swallows with ease.

©heedeungism : do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission.

#enhypen #park sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x yn #bridgerton au #historical au #marriage of convenience #sunghoon smut #sunghoon enhypen #sunghoon drabble #enhypen drabbles #enhypen x reader #enhypen x yn #sunghoon bridgerton au #suggestive #romance #bridgerton #hoonie 🩷

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seongwars · 8 days ago

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𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 | 𝐭𝐰𝐨

Pairing: Viscount!Choi San x Countess!Reader AU: non-idol | regency Rating: T/NC-17 Summary: After falling prey to one of Choi San’s cruel games, you vowed yourself to a life of eternal spinsterhood. But when a fire leaves the Choi estate in ruins, the very man you swore you would never forgive re-enters your life. Word Count: 6.2K Warnings: one swear word, minor violence, use of firearms, inaccurate depictions of the era (sorry history buffs 😭)

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a/n: happy new year everyone! 2024 was certainly a tough year for a lot of us but i'm manifesting brighter days for us in the new year!

The late summer air felt stifling to San as the Choi family’s carriage approached the Kang estate. Even with the screens lowered, the faint breeze that slipped through offered little relief from the oppressive heat. He focused on the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, trying to drown out the whirlwind of emotions brewing inside him.

The fire that had left the Choi estate partially burned had started in the kitchen, but its cause remained a mystery. It had spread swiftly, destroying much of the west wing before the servants managed to bring it under control. Though the main manor was spared total ruin, the damage was extensive. Repairs would take months, leaving the family no choice but to seek refuge with anyone willing to take them in.

His parents sat across from him, speaking in hushed tones but he wasn’t listening. He had heard this conversation often enough in the past weeks to know where it would lead.

“Would this not be the perfect opportunity to get close to Y/N?” Viscountess Choi remarked, her voice deceptively light.

San felt a knot tighten in his stomach, realizing where this conversation was headed. The subtle shift in his mother’s demeanor, the way her lips curled into a knowing smile, made it clear that she had plans for him—plans that involved you.

“Do you not find it inappropriate, mother, to discuss alliances when our home was nearly reduced to ash?” he replied, his voice laced with a bitterness he couldn’t entirely suppress.

Viscountess Choi’s smile didn’t waver. “Precisely why this is the perfect time,” she replied smoothly, her words tinged with a maddening confidence.

“The Kangs have graciously opened their home to us. It would be unwise not to show our gratitude.”

Gratitude. That’s what she was calling it now. San clenched his jaw, his gaze returning to the passing scenery outside the carriage window. He knew better than to argue when his mother’s mind was already made up. But the idea of using his family’s misfortune as a stepping stone for her ambitions made his stomach churn.

There had been something between you once, though calling it close now felt like a cruel twist of fate. San had always been someone who commanded attention, whether he sought it or not. His charm, once something he wielded effortlessly in your presence, was now a weapon that had turned against him.

He had spent countless nights over the years replaying that moment in the garden, as if by thinking about it enough, he could somehow undo it. But no matter how many times he revisited it, the outcome was the same. You had trusted him, opened yourself to him in a way no one else had, and he had destroyed it all in a single reckless moment.

No matter how many letters he wrote, how many conversations he rehearsed in his mind, it was as though he had been erased from your world. And perhaps, in a way, he had.

Whenever you were near, it felt as though the air itself had grown colder. You would sweep past him at gatherings, head held high, never sparing him a second glance. You spoke to everyone but him, and when your gaze brushed over him, it was like staring through empty space.

He had done this to himself. He had betrayed your trust in the most humiliating, selfish way possible. And your brother made sure to remind him of that. Yeosang had come storming into the club the very next evening after the ball.

San could still recall the moment vividly, every detail seared into his memory.

“Where the fuck is he!?”

San only had a moment before Yeosang came bearing down on him, his fist connecting with his jaw. The impact was staggering, sending him reeling backward into a table, knocking over bottles and glasses in a chaotic crash.

“Of all the people in this world, you made a wager on my sister?”

San’s eyes darted between Yeosang and the crowd, his shock turning to regret as he slowly began to comprehend the magnitude of his actions.

“I never meant to hurt her.”

The regret in his expression was immediate, but it did nothing to quell the fire in Yeosang’s eyes. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that was somehow more terrifying than his entrance.

“Did you think you could just make a fool out of her and walk away unscathed? That you could treat her like some plaything, and there wouldn’t be consequences?”

San swallowed hard, the reality of his actions finally crashing down on him. He had played the game too far, crossed a line he could never uncross.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, his voice barely audible, the words tasting hollow and useless even as he spoke them.

“Sorry?” Yeosang repeated, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Do you really think a simple apology can undo the damage you’ve caused to her reputation?”

Yeosang leaned in, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that was heard by everyone in the stunned crowd.

“Let me remind you of something,” he continued, his tone darkening with every syllable.

“Contrary to what the rest of your bastards think, my sister is not some wallflower you can toy with and discard. If I’d let her have her way, she’d have set the hounds on you and hunted you through the woods herself.”

Yeosang’s gaze remained fixed on San, his eyes blazing with an intensity that brooked no argument.

“You’re lucky,” he hissed, “lucky that I’m the one standing here tonight and not her. Because if she were here, you’d be running for your life right now, and there wouldn’t be a soul in this room who could save you.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving San alone in the center of the room, the eyes of everyone upon him, the full weight of his actions bearing down on him like an unforgiving storm.

He had turned something precious, a genuine connection, into a game, a fleeting moment of amusement at the behest of his peers. And in doing so, had ruined any chance of earning your trust or your friendship, perhaps even more.

The Kang estate came into view, an impressive silhouette against the sky, and the knots in San’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t sure if it was the looming confrontation with your family or just the fact that you were inside, somewhere, plotting against him.

As the carriage approached the gates, a commotion reached their ears. San squinted, his brows furrowing. The sound of your voice carried through the air, clear and indignant.

San blinked. The footman hadn’t even opened the carriage door yet, but the clamor outside piqued his curiosity. He stepped out on his own, descending the steps cautiously as he tried to make sense of the chaos erupting from the grounds.

“Kang Y/N, stop this nonsense!”

The sharp voice rang out, unmistakably that of Lady Kang, her tone tinged with exasperation and disbelief.

“You are not becoming a nun just because the Choi family is staying with us!”

San’s lips parted, but before he could question what was happening, a blur of movement caught his eye. Down the main path leading to the estate, he saw you, clutching a little sack in one hand and lifting your skirts with the other as you darted away. You whipped around, casting a glance over your shoulder as your mother pursued you, flanked by two bewildered servants.

“You’re asking me to endure the unspeakable horror of living under the same roof as Choi San!”

San felt his breath catch in his throat. Of all the ways to be greeted, this was not one he had anticipated. For a moment, all he could do was watch the spectacle unfold, half wondering if he should intervene or simply retreat back into the carriage and pretend he hadn’t witnessed any of this.

But then your eyes snapped to him, and his breath hitched. You froze mid-step, staring at him as though his mere presence had upended all your carefully laid escape plans. Your hair was slightly mussed, your face flushed, and despite your obvious distress, there was a defiance burning within your eyes.

You had changed. The sharp wit he remembered was still there, but the woman standing before him now was entirely different, a force to be reckoned with. In that moment, everything about you seemed to shine brighter, commanding his attention in a way that left him breathless.

Was it too late? Or was there, against all odds, still a chance? Perhaps this would be the fateful encounter where you’d be reunited after four long years, and begin to rebuild the connection he’d so carelessly destroyed. Or–

“You!” you sputtered, your cheeks burning with equal parts humiliation and indignation.

And just like that, his hopes were shattered.

San straightened instinctively, his heart lurching as he grasped the carriage door for support as he blinked at you, confusion plain on his face.

“Me?” he asked, pointing to himself as if there were any chance you were yelling at someone else.

“Mr. Choi!” Lady Kang’s voice rang out, skirts swishing with enough force to send a servant scuttling out of her path.

“Mr. Choi, stop her!”

San blinked again, his gaze darting between you and your mother. Stop her? He glanced at the sack clutched tightly in your hands, then at the determined set of your jaw, and then back to your mother, who seemed moments away from fainting.

Your movements were sudden and sharp as you darted past the gates and onto the estate’s main road. San’s eyes widened, and without thinking, he took a hesitant step forward.

“M-Ms. Kang! Wait!” he called out, his voice rising in pitch as he tried, and failed, to process what was happening.

You didn’t slow down. If anything, his call only seemed to spur you on, your legs pumping faster as your mother shouted from behind him.

“Is something the matter with Y/N?” Viscount Choi asked, poking his head out the carriage door.

San turned halfway, floundering for words. “Uh, well–”

Lady Kang was practically in hysterics, still clutching at the folds of her skirts as she tried to regain her composure. She spun on her heel, a forced smile plastered on her face as she approached San's parents, who were now fully out of the carriage and observing the unfolding chaos with mild amusement.

"Viscount and Viscountess Choi," your mother greeted, her voice an octave higher than usual.

She spread her arms as if trying to shield them from the scene of servants half-collapsed in exhaustion, Joe bent over with his hands on his knees, and you, a fast-disappearing figure on the horizon.

“Is it always this lively here?” the viscount asked with a hearty chuckle. His footmen were unloading the trunks, seemingly unbothered by the commotion.

Lady Kang’s smile twitched dangerously, but she nodded in agreement, her fingers twisting anxiously in her skirts.

“Oh, yes. Quite lively! It’s never dull here at our humble estate.”

“I can see that,” San’s mother remarked, her tone bordering on bemused as she exchanged a glance with her husband.

“It seems your daughter is rather…spirited this morning.”

“She’s just getting some fresh air! It’s been a long week preparing for your arrival, after all! Come, allow me to show you to your quarters. There’s plenty of room here for everyone!”

San barely registered their exchanges, his mind still reeling from the scene that had just unfolded. Your departure struck him as a sharp reminder of the pain he caused you years ago. Four years had passed since he had recklessly used you in a wager, and yet, here you were, fleeing from him and the mess he created.

He knew he had no right to feel this way, no right to want to make things right when he’d been the one to destroy everything between you. But the thought of you with your unrestrained fury made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t ignore.

This was supposed to be an opportunity for his family, a chance to rebuild after the fire that had brought them to the Kang estate. But for San, it already felt like a return to the very thing he’d been trying to escape—his own mistakes.

⊹

The dining room was suffocating. Servants moved about, arranging dishes with care, the clink of silverware and the soft murmur of polite conversation filling the space. The voices of your mother, the Viscountess, and Yunho wove around you, their cheerful tones grating on your nerves.

After Jason and your mother dragged you back to the manor, you’d barely had time to shake off the humiliation of your failed escape attempt. The skirt of your dress was dusty, littered with debris from the tree you had climbed, and your hair was a windswept disaster, complete with leaves that clung stubbornly despite your frantic attempts to smooth them away. Every inch of you felt like a spectacle, and you trudged up the steps, wishing the earth would swallow you whole before anyone, particularly him could catch sight of your current state.

Not that it mattered. The more displeasing you were to Choi San, the better. He was an intruder in your life, a thorn in your side, and you were determined to make him regret every second he spent on your family’s estate.

That’s it! All you had to do was make yourself so insufferable that San would want to leave of his own accord. As you plotted against him, you mindlessly rounded the corner near the drawing room, only to find yourself face-to-face with none other than the man himself.

San stopped in his tracks. His dark eyes roamed over your disheveled state, taking in every humiliating detail. Yet his expression was uncharacteristically soft and curious, and the subtle rise of his brow suggested he wanted to say something, yet he remained silent, as if he, too, was caught off guard by the moment.

Your face warmed under his attention and you stiffened, determined not to look flustered even as his gaze lingered. This was already humiliating enough without him turning it into an opportunity to tease you further.

With your head held high, you brushed past him, ignoring the dust on your dress and the leaves tangled in your hair. His gaze followed you as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he had been waiting years just to see you again and wasn’t sure if this moment was a dream.

San sat across from you at dinner, his shoulders rigid, his hand hovering with uncertainty over his glass as if caught between drinking and fidgeting. You refused to look at him directly, though occasionally, you felt his gaze land on you. Each time it happened, your grip on the knife tightened, and you deliberately lifted it just enough to send a message.

His gaze flickered away immediately, his ears turning an alarming shade of red.

Beside you, Yeosang sat in silence, his brow furrowed as he cast you a sidelong glance. He had clearly noticed your little game and seemed torn between amusement and disapproval. Thankfully, he said nothing, though his lips twitched once or twice as if he was holding back a laugh.

“Before I forget,” Yunho announced suddenly, breaking through the polite murmur of conversation, “I’ll be hosting a hunt at my family’s estate in a few weeks.”

“Oh, how splendid!” your mother exclaimed, her voice overly bright.

“Y/N, you’ll attend, of course.”

Your knife paused mid-air, hovering over the roast pheasant on your plate. You shot your mother a pointed look, the corner of your mouth twitching in irritation.

Your mother had always adored Yunho, he was your brother’s best friend, after all. Perhaps it was due to his boundless energy and unfaltering cheer, that mamas within the ton fawned over him more than their daughters did.

“Worry not, Your Grace,” you replied, tone dripping with exaggerated sweetness. “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

“And you, Mr. Choi? Will you be joining us? Or is hunting not your kind of sport?”

San stiffened slightly, his posture straightening as he met Yunho’s gaze. His jaw tensed, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t answer, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” San replied coolly, though the slight grit in his tone betrayed his irritation.

The viscountess chimed in with a lighthearted comment about the joys of hunting, but the tension between Yunho and San was palpable. You could feel it radiating across the table, an unspoken battle of wills that neither man seemed willing to concede.

Men, you scoffed, picking up your glass. Whatever ridiculous posturing or rivalry Yunho and San were engaged in, didn’t concern you.

While your mother would likely fret over your attire and the chance to parade you before eligible bachelors, you had far more practical matters to attend to. Your hounds, loyal and eager, needed to be checked over, their training refreshed. You’d also have to inspect your firearms, ensuring they were polished and in proper working order.

If you were to endure the company of San and the Viscount for the hunt, you might as well have a little fun at their expense. Men were often so boastful about their skill with firearms, yet so easily unnerved when confronted with a woman who wielded them with confidence.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have rifles that need polishing and hounds that need training,” you announced, setting down your silverware. The murmurs of conversation around the dinner table faltered as heads turned your way, but you ignored the curious glances.

“Viscount, if you are so much as interested, you are more than welcome to glance over my late father’s collection. It’s quite impressive, even if I say so myself.”

The Viscount’s eyes lit up, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. "I remember the first time I saw it," he said, gesturing animatedly with his hands.

"I assumed he’d stolen half the royal armory! I’ve been wanting to get my hands on one of his French imports for years!"

"Father did have a fondness for Le Page pistols,” you added in an attempt to prolong the conversation just enough to needle your mother. But before the Viscount could say more, your mother cleared her throat delicately, her eyes narrowing in that way she always did when she sensed you veering off the path of propriety.

“Y/N, it is hardly appropriate to abandon dinner so abruptly,” she chided softly, her tone laced with forced politeness.

You leaned back in your chair with an innocent smile, meeting her gaze with just enough defiance to make your intentions clear.

“Apologies, mother, but preparations for the hunt cannot wait. Besides,” you added with a touch of nonchalance, “Norman hasn’t been let out of the kennels all day.”

“Norman?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly, her composure beginning to slip. Her expression shifted from mild disapproval to thinly veiled horror, and you had to suppress a laugh.

“You cannot possibly mean to bring that dog into the house!”

“He’s my best companion and hunter. Loyal, well behaved, and far less troublesome.” You let the words linger, then turned your eyes deliberately toward San, your glare sharp as you emphasized the last word.

San’s posture stiffened, the pointedness of your words cutting through any pretense of oblivion. He dropped his gaze to his wine glass, swirling the liquid as though it might offer an escape from your scrutiny. Beside him, Viscount Choi let out a nervous chuckle, his jovial demeanor faltering as he glanced between you, San, and your mother.

“Ah, yes, a good hunting dog is worth its weight in gold,” he offered, attempting to steer the conversation into safer territory. “Your father was always fond of terriers.”

Your mother’s sharp intake of breath signaled her growing exasperation, but you ignored it, standing gracefully and excusing yourself with a polite nod. It wasn’t just about the dog, of course.

Bringing Norman inside was your way of asserting a small act of rebellion, a reminder that you weren’t some pawn in your mother’s endless games of social maneuvering. Let her fume.

You were your father’s child, and you’d honor his memory in your own way, even if it meant bringing your rowdy wire fox terrier to disrupt the order of the manor.

San prided himself on many things: his charm and his uncanny ability to talk his way out of, or into, anything he pleased. Navigation, however, was not one of them.

It was meant to be a simple task: find his father, Yeosang, and Yunho to discuss hunting plans over a game of billiards. Yet here he was, standing in an unfamiliar garden, surrounded by an expanse of hedges and flowerbeds that seemed to mock him with every meticulously arranged bloom.

He sighed, placing his hands on his hips, and turned in a slow circle, trying to piece together how he’d managed to stray so far.

"This way?" he muttered under his breath, taking a tentative step toward a stone path before freezing. "No, absolutely not. I recognize that planter, I definitely passed it at least twice now."

San exhaled sharply, brushing a hand through his hair. The maze of hedges had successfully bested him, and he was now grappling with the humiliation of calling for help or wandering aimlessly until staff stumbled upon him.

Just as he was weighing the cost of his pride, a sharp bark rang out across the garden. He froze, his body going rigid.

Norman.

The terrier with boundless energy and an uncanny knack for finding mischief. He was just one of the dozens of hunting dogs your family kept for the sport, but he was unquestionably your favorite. While he wasn’t the fastest or the strongest, he was clever, spirited, and utterly devoted to you.

He rounded the hedge like a bullet, a streak of white and brown hurling straight toward San. His pulse quickened, and his mind raced. Had you trained the dog to attack him? He wouldn’t blame you if you did. He took an instinctive step back, hands darting to his side as if to ward off an incoming assault.

You crouched low by the hedges, furrowing your brow as you watched the scene unfold. Surely, the feisty terrier would bark San off the estate and send him running.

But no.

Norman skidded to a halt in front of him, tail wagging furiously and eyes alight with mischief. The dog let out an eager yip, crouching down with his front paws stretched forward in a playful bow.

You groaned inwardly as San’s lips curved into a soft smile, and he knelt to ruffle the dog’s fur.

“You must be Norman,” he murmured, his tone warm and easy.

Norman, utterly delighted, barked again and darted in circles around him, pausing only to nudge San’s hand with his nose when the petting stopped.

“Traitor,” you muttered under your breath, sinking deeper behind the hedges. With a resigned sigh, you stood and dusted off your dress, forcing yourself to sound as casual as possible.

“Norman!” You called out, as if you hadn’t just been crouched behind the bushes plotting San’s demise.

Norman, ever the opportunist, interpreted your call as the start of a game of chase. His ears perked, and with an enthusiastic bark, he darted out of your line of sight, his legs carrying him toward the fountain at full speed.

“Wait, no, no, no—Norman!” you shrieked, launching into a sprint after him. Your voice only spurred him on, his wagging tail disappearing behind a hedge before you caught sight of him again.

The terrier took a running leap and soared into the fountain, splashing around in its shallow pool. You stood frozen for a moment, watching the dog paddle gleefully in the water.

“Oh, fuck me,” you grumbled, running a hand down your face as Norman paused mid-paddle to taunt you. He splashed again, as if daring you to join him.

With a resigned huff, you approached the fountain, crouching slightly as you leaned over the edge. Carefully, you extended an arm toward the mischievous terrier.

“Kang Norman, come here,” you gritted.

Norman responded with a bark, kicking his little legs to paddle just beyond your reach. You let out a frustrated sigh, adjusting your position as you gathered the skirt of your dress to kneel against the stone ledge. The water brushed against your fingertips as you leaned in farther, your balance growing increasingly precarious.

“Y/N!”

Startled, you turned to face San, wide-eyed, just as your foot slipped on the damp stone edge. He lunged forward, his hand gripping your arm in an attempt to steady you, but your momentum carried you forward.

His grip faltered, and you slipped from his grasp, tumbling into the cold water with a loud, humiliating splash. As you began to fall, he leaped into the fountain after you, arms outstretched in a desperate attempt to catch you before you were fully submerged. Water sloshed over the edges as you flailed for a moment, finally sitting up in the fountain, thoroughly drenched and utterly defeated.

To add insult to injury, Norman waded over to you, barking cheerfully and wagging his soaked tail as though congratulating you for finally joining him.

“Are you alright?” San’s voice was breathless with concern as he knelt in the water, his arms still loosely around you from his attempt to break your fall.

You blinked up at him, stunned. His shirt clung to him, dripping from his hasty attempt to save you. For a heartbeat, you forgot about your own disheveled state, captivated by how breathtakingly handsome he looked just then—his guard down, his focus entirely on you.

How dare he look at you like that? Like you mattered. Like he hadn’t shattered you and left you to piece yourself back together alone.

Then it hit you. You were in his arms.

With a startled flail, you shoved at his chest, splashing water everywhere as you squirmed to get free.

“What are you doing?” you demanded sharply.

“You fell headfirst into the fountain!” San replied, his words spilling out too quickly, flustered and breathless. His brow furrowed, cheeks flushed.

“I noticed!” you snapped, scrambling to stand upright.

“I thought you might have hurt yourself.”

The audacity! Did he think he could fool you again? That a moment of concern could undo everything? You knew better. You knew this was the same man who had used you to repair his broken ego, the same man who had tossed you aside the moment you weren’t convenient for him anymore.

But there was a softness to him that made your resolve waver. It was maddening how in this moment, he left you momentarily spellbound despite every fault you’d sworn to hold against him.

“I’m fine,” you huffed, turning away with as much dignity as you could muster in your sodden state.

San cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly as he looked around, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that he was standing knee-deep in the fountain with you. There was a beat of silence between you as you sat there, dripping wet and too close for comfort. You moved away slightly, crossing your arms against the water seeping into your clothes.

“I should return to the manor,” you said, clearing your throat in an attempt to sound composed, though the reality was anything but.

You scooped Norman into your arms, the terrier dripping and delightfully oblivious to the chaos he had caused. His tail wagged enthusiastically, sending water droplets flying in every direction.

“Before a scandal breaks,” you added.

“R-Right,” San stammered, nodding quickly.

Water dripped from the hem of your soaked clothes, forming a trail on the garden path, and your sodden shoes let out a loud, humiliating squeak with every step you took.

“My lady!” Anna’s voice rose in a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. She hurried forward, her eyes darting between your drenched form and the steadily growing puddle beneath your feet.

“Oh, heavens!” she gasped, wringing her hands. “What happened?

Several maids rushed forward, their concerned murmurs filling the air as they scrambled to retrieve towels.

“Someone fetch a blanket!”

“Quickly before she catches a cold!”

“This,” you replied flatly, hoisting Norman slightly higher in your arms. The fox terrier, blissfully unaware of the commotion he had caused, panted happily with his tongue lolling to the side.

The flurry of activity came to an abrupt halt as San stepped through the doorway behind you, his boots squelching comically against the floor. His shirt clung to him, outlining his chest in a way that wasn’t exactly helping his drenched appearance.

The maids froze, their arms full of towels, as they stared wide eyed and speechless.

The scene was entirely innocent—at least, it should have been. Yet, in that moment, with the dripping mess and the lingering tension, it felt anything but. Anna’s breath hitched audibly, and she glanced between you and San, her lips parting as if to speak but unable to form the words.

“He was only assisting in catching Norman. That’s all.”

You cleared your throat, breaking the awkward stillness. The others quickly snapped out of their daze, resuming their efforts to gather towels and muttering apologies as they darted around you.

San’s head shot up, his eyes widening in disbelief. Did you just…defend him? His heart raced but you remained cool and detached as you avoided his gaze. Not that it mattered.

That night, San tossed and turned in bed, unable to shake the day’s events. From the way you fled the estate that morning to your fiery encounter in the fountain, the encounters replayed on an endless loop in his mind.

In your anger, you looked…beautiful. More than beautiful. He groaned, dragging a pillow over his face, as if smothering himself could calm the relentless pounding of his heart. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him, tinged with disbelief.

“Idiot,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. “She hates you.”

Still, his lips curled into a wide, giddy smile as he rolled onto his side, clutching the pillow beneath him. You’d been near him, spoken to him, glared at him, shoved him, and somehow, that was enough to make him feel like the luckiest man alive.

⊹

The Jeong Estate was as magnificent as ever, its manicured lawns rolling in lush waves of green, punctuated by bursts of color from sprawling gardens that seemed to stretch endlessly around the grounds. But today, the beauty was secondary; your focus laid elsewhere as you prepared yourself for the day’s hunt.

You cocked the shotgun with a sharp, mechanical click, testing its weight. You turned, holding the weapon at the ready as your eyes landed squarely on San. For a moment, the world seemed to still. San’s eyes locked on to yours and his mouth went suddenly dry. His eyes flicked nervously between the barrel and your face, unsure whether to laugh it off or raise his hands in surrender, unsure if even the slightest movement would prompt you to pull the trigger.

“Y/N, put that thing down!” your mother chided, her voice pitched high with mortification. She skittered into view, her skirts swishing as she cast a tight, strained smile toward a group of ladies passing by.

You lowered the shotgun a fraction, the barrel dipping just enough to avoid sending San into cardiac arrest. Still, your gaze remained fixed on him, your narrowed eyes making it clear he wasn’t off the hook yet. With a huff, you turned on your heel, striding toward the stables, the shotgun still in hand. Your boots crunched against the gravel, each step a sharp punctuation to your frustration.

"Pointing a gun at other guests is highly inappropriate, Ms. Kang.”

You turned to see Yunho striding toward you, his eyes sparkling with amusement, as if he had just caught you in the middle of some mischief he couldn’t wait to comment on.

"He’s lucky I didn’t pull the trigger.”

Yunho’s brow quirked and his grin widened. “You’ve certainly mastered the art of making a memorable impression within the ton. Though I have to wonder, were you aiming for him or his pride?”

You shot him a sideways glance, feigning exasperation. Yunho had always been this way—playful, quick-witted, and never one to miss an opportunity to tease you. Yet he was observant, capable of reading between the lines. It was part of the reason you found yourself oddly comfortable around him.

“I’m expediting his departure from the estate,” you replied dryly.

Yunho laughed, a rich and infectious sound that drew the attention of a few nearby guests.

"Don’t you think you might be pushing him a little too hard? Poor Mr. Choi looked like he was about to faint."

You scoffed, though your lips twitched in a small smile, betraying the hint of amusement in your eyes.

"He’s not that delicate, and you know it."

San stood a few paces away, watching the casual banter between you and Yunho, his jaw tightening involuntarily. He told himself it shouldn’t matter. Yunho was a close friend of your brother, someone you’d grown up with. Of course, you’d be close. It was all perfectly innocent. Rational, even but still—why did it bother him so much?

"I don’t blame her for fancying him," Wooyoung interrupted with a dreamy sigh. San shot him a pointed glance, his irritation clear, but Wooyoung just grinned, completely unapologetic.

“What? If I were her, I’d rather be a Duchess.”

It’s not like that between them, San told himself firmly, trying to quell the unease rising in his gut. He wasn’t one to let Wooyoung’s jabs get to him, but somehow, this one lingered, leaving him uneasy and more unsettled than he cared to admit.

As you approached the stable yard, the familiar hum of the estate, murmurs, laughter, the soft clink of silver, faded into the distance. You were greeted by Darcy’s familiar silhouette, his ears flicking forward in recognition, as you reached out to scratch the spot just behind his ear. The stallion leaned into your touch, his head bowing in a gesture that felt almost like a hug.

You slipped him a treat, his muzzle brushed your palm with a gentleness that made you smile.

“…A right mess that fire was, but he did what he was paid for.”

You froze in place. Your heart skipped a beat, as the clop of heavy boots and a murmur of voices approached. You edged closer to the shadows of the stable wall, ducking into Darcy’s stable, but before you could catch a breath, a soft snort sounded right by your ear, followed by a damp, insistent nudge against your shoulder.

You tried to brush his nose away with a quick wave, but the horse was undeterred. His large, expressive eyes blinked innocently down at you as he pushed his head into your space once more, this time almost knocking you off balance.

“Thought it’d be small,” one of the voices continued, closer now, “but didn’t expect half the place to blow up like that!”

“Keep it down, would ya? You want the whole bloody place to hear?” a second voice said.

They were talking about the fire. At the Choi’s estate. The stablehands didn’t sound remorseful, only wary, as though they knew they tread dangerous waters.

“Aye, well,” the first man muttered, his voice lowering, “it’s not like he had much choice, did he? Poor sod got backed into a corner. When they’re waving that kind of coin, who’s gonna say no?”

A chill crawled up your spine. Paid for? The fire wasn’t an accident. Someone had set it deliberately—and whoever they were, they’d been bought off.

“Still,” the second voice added nervously, “don’t know if I’d call it clean work. You reckon they’ll figure it out?”

“No one’s gonna find out. Just keep your mouth shut, and it’ll be fine. Heard there’s another job coming for the Parks.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Another job. The Parks.

You stayed perfectly still as the voices faded, their owners disappearing around the corner. Once you were sure they were out of sight, you exhaled shakily, leaning against the stable wall for support. Your mind raced, trying to process what you had just overheard.

Paid off. Deliberate. Not clean work. The pieces clicked together, forming a picture more sinister than you’d imagine. The fire at the Choi estate hadn’t been an unfortunate accident—it had been orchestrated.

But why?

Whoever had set it in motion wasn’t some petty criminal. This was calculated, ruthless. This was someone willing to destroy lives to achieve their goals. And if the Chois had been a target, then the Parks were next.

A sick feeling churned in your stomach. What guarantee was there that your family’s home wouldn’t follow? What guarantee was there that anyone in the ton was safe?

The idea was unthinkable, but so was everything you’d just overheard. If there was even the slightest chance that your family could be in danger, you couldn’t let it go unanswered.

One | Three

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pricetagged · 1 month ago

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(don't you know) that death is a very stable job ii

Poor little Dormouse, with her cruel father and labourer's hands. You find an unexpected guard dog in one of the passing Knights. Medieval/Fantasy Knight! Simon AU. 8.9k As mentioned in Part i this was inspired by a scene in 'The Serpent Queen' and @/bi-writes 'a hand for a hand'. Content: mild violence, power imbalance (social hierarchy ew), oral (f-receiving), PIV sex,. Reader is described as a young woman, (generally body-neutral but implied to be plump/curvy).

________________________________________________ -------------------------------------------------------------- ii

As the Palace loomed taller and taller you felt you stomach drop lower and lower. You imagined that Simon's horse must be kicking it up the street by now.

Lady Thamesbury's maid had braided your hair into some intricate crown that Simon said looked 'real pretty on ya'. You let Simon pick your riding clothes and fasten your cloak, content that he wouldn't have you looking a fool. Still, you feared that you could look like many other things to the nobles of the court.

It was almost anticlimactic, reaching the doors and being ushered in by staff who flustered around to welcome the Duke of Northmire and Earl of the Northern Isles. You leaned heavily on Simon's forearm as he walked you towards the throne room, his heavy bootsteps echoing the pounding of your heart. Ornate wooden doors opened to reveal a large hall, bisected by a long, elaborate carpet leading to the throne itself. It seemed rather empty, actually. You had expected to see throngs of corseted and besilked courtiers watching you from over the tip of their noses, waiting to see if the silly little dormouse would scratch up the furniture. Instead, the Heralds announced you to the King who sat upright like a cat on his dais. The only other occupants were a lean, handsome man, an upright, elegant lady, and an imposing, whiskered man by her side.

For all your anxiety, it was rather inconsequential. You stuck like a limpet to Simon, ducking and curtseying as he bowed, nodding and smiling as he spoke. The King seemed only mildly interested in you, offering bland congratulations and agreeing to meet with Simon to close the marriage banns and approve the union. He seemed distracted. You had the distinct feeling that you had walked into something important. Something intense. It hung in the air, heavy and viscous as clay. It clung to the walls, to the faces of those gathered, thick and dark and cracking. You hoped that it would flake off, terra fluttering down as you scurried away and out of sight.

Out of mind.

"Good to see you again, Simon," The bearded man clapped him hard upon the shoulders, familiarity warming his smile. He nodded your way, "I see you’ve been busy."

The corners of your lips twitched, smile sprouting up under the glow of this friendly attention. He was big, almost as tall as your Knight. He stood tall, too, finely dressed and fully armed. There was an ease of movement to his steps, his words, like he was used to stating his will and having it be so. Your keen eyes caught the signet ring snug against his thick fingers, and the decorative scabbard at his hips. The weapon within was doubtless more dangerous than its ornamentation would imply.

"Y'r Highness," there was a note of irony in Simon’s voice. Irony without teeth. Playful. "This is my wife."

His warm hand clutched at your waist, strong forearm steeling your back. You bobbed a little curtsey, flustered at the attention.

At the contact.

"Where did he find you, eh?"

"More like where did she find him?" the handsome man at his side cut in, eyebrows quirking between you and Simon.

"Not loungin’ around the palace playing quoits and collectin’ favours from pretty ladies’ maids," he rumbled over the sound of Johnny’s snicker.

"But Simon, the ladies’ maids know all the best secrets," he shot back, rakish glint undimmed in his eyes. Shaking his head slightly, he continued more seriously. "We missed you, Your Grace. Lot of things happening lately."

The four men shared a look, familiarity and trust allowing secrets to leap between them without words. The unspoken danced in the air, silent and striking. You looked away, unfamiliar with the steps and turns. Not privy to the unutterable brotherhood that bound them.

The outlander, the echo of your father’s voice dripped poison in your mind. Playing pretend at the palace.

Only, that wasn’t quite true.

Cold light filtered through stained glass, turning kaleidoscope on the flagstones. On you and Simon. Simon who had yet to leave your side, arm pressing you to his as you bathed in softly coloured apricity. Your sentinel, shielding you under his shadow from the swill-soaked streets of the lower pits all the way up to the palace. Of course he felt how you stiffened, shrinking in on yourself a little. Of course he noticed your shiver, the slight tilt of your head down and to the side. His fingers stroked gently across the softness of your waist, soothing.

"Well, you still got your courtly manners or wot?" He looked between the two men. "Been ridin’ all day. Want to get to our chambers, settle a bit."

"Me an’ all, cannae feel my legs," Johnny slapped at his thighs, perking up at the thought of a soft bed and warm hearth. "Where hae they put me this time?"

"You’re down in the stables with the other beasts, MacTavish," the handsome man cut in again, cheeky. You could hear the grin in his voice.

Johnny swaggered forwards, clapping his friend hard on the shoulder as they all laughed. Tension swept away, you walked along winding corridors swathed in rich tapestries and flickering sconces. As you went, you got the names and titles of your new companions. The confidence of the bearded man made sense, serving now as a Grand Duke but having worked in the service of the Crown for decades. John was his name, and only he outranked Simon. The final man, charming in both face and manner, was Kyle, Prince of Thamesbury. You could see now the similarities between him and his sister, both tall and lissome. Both blessed with a prepossessing sort of beauty, inviting and familiar.

They bid farewell at your door, all bowing at you with a promise to meet with Simon later. Johnny, naturally, made a show of raising your knuckles to his lips to land a smacking kiss that shocked you into laughter so much that you didn’t even think to be embarrassed of your scars.

Their footsteps grew fainter and fainter into silence.

Just you and Simon, like those first few days. A little thrill warmed your chest, like an ember glowing happily red in its fireplace. You wondered if he could feel it, if the warmth suffused outwards to him through flesh and bone and armour until it buried deep into his chest cavity, ribs and gristle acting as the hearth for whatever this was to grow. To blaze brightly.

The door shut, heavy oak and iron ushering you both into your own little world.

"C'mere."

You didn't even think, just folded yourself into him before the final syllable left his lips. He was still outfitted in riding gear and half armour, cold and hard pressing against your cheek. Strong arms enveloped you, cradling you against his bulk. You tipped your head back, gazing up into his eyes. His face was obscured, but you knew what lay underneath. His eyes, dark but so soft, crinkled slightly as you looked up. You imagined the harsh lines of his gnarled face were soft, too, beneath the mask. Your lips parted, aching to ask him-

The rough pad of his fingertip stopped the words before they could form.

Confused, you blinked up at him. There was a barely perceptible shake of his head, finger still gently shushing you. He leaned down, fabric rustling against your ear as you strained to hear his low rumble.

"Wait. Walls 'ave ears."

Like a cat, you nuzzled your face closer to his. His warmth bled through the mask as your lips traced the valley from cheek to ear.

"When?" you felt him shudder as you whispered, the ghost of your breath almost louder than your voice. "I want to know what's going on. I want to help you."

"Tonight. I'll tell ya tonight. After the feast. Few things I still need t' scope out."

He felt your nod.

"Good girl," he pressed his forehead to yours. You felt, more than heard, the rumble of his voice. "Behave y'rself. And remember, you don' answer to anyone who isn't me."

------------------------------- Simon sent away the ladies maids with a curt nod. They'd come to drop off the evening's clothes, to dress you and braid your hair. He watched all the while, eyes never leaving wherever they touched you. They recognised the warning that lay in his silence, never lingering on your skin or teasing you to draw out stories and gossip. You couldn’t even say that you felt like a doll, because you'd always seen the rich girls talk to theirs as they draped them in little cotton overskirts and twisted their flax string hair. As they plucked and pulled and bundled you supposed that you could be akin to a stump doll. Not the soft, delicate, pretty kind but rather the ones roughly hewn from wood into human form. Harder. Sturdier. And yet, as they lifted your arms and twirled you around you reminded yourself that you were malleable too. You could articulate your limbs, turn your head, and weather through the rough and the cold.

And maybe, as Simon's signet ring glinted behind you in the vanity mirror, maybe the storms had passed.

You stared into the mirror as you watched him dismiss them. It was a big, gold ornate thing. Almost grotesque in with its twisting gilt frame, little cherubic faces and animals warped into the design. It was the largest one you'd ever seen. The clearest, too. You could see each and every strand of your hair, swept back and gleaming as decorative pins glistened like dewdrops above your brow. Your skin glistened too, some of that warm little ember in your chest heating you from the inside and making you glow. You looked softer than you ever had before, even when looking at your reflection in the sudsy, shimmering waters of the river where you once stooped and sweated your labour.

Maybe it was the candlelight, maybe it was the past few weeks of care and good food. Maybe it was-

Your Knight stepped up behind you, too tall to be entirely within frame, and placed his heavy hand softly on your shoulder. He leaned down, cheek against yours as he looked at you through the looking glass. His pale blond lashes trembled slightly, pupils flickering across your image as if he sought to study it. To keep you in this frame, you and him imprinted together on polished silver. You wondered if the superstitions were true, if mirrors really could capture the soul and keep it bound forever in the confines of cold metal and glass. His dark, burning eyes met yours and you flicked the thought away. It wouldn't matter if it were true. There was no frame that could hold a Ghost, and if he couldn't be found there then neither would you.

"Suits ya," he trailed his fingers across the dense, glossy velvet of your cotehardie. "I should dress y'in more than just black 'n white. The colour suits ya."

"I like your colours, though. They suit you."

It was true. Black and white. Dusk and dawn. Beginning and end; it was a study in contrasts, the underlying tones and shades to every colour in existence. You could picture it now, the Squire boy from a township not unlike your own. He must have been tall for his age, some kind of strength burning in him and catching the attention of those who normally wouldn't deign to look at errand-boys and helpers. You could picture him older too, black armour on a pale white horse cutting a swathe of red across a copper-drenched field. And now, his pale, scarred face was free from its usual black mask. Gazing right back at you.

"Would you give me a favour? Something in your colours to carry to the feast?"

He huffed a little, dour expression belied by the warmth in his eyes.

"Isn't it meant t'be the other way around? You granting me a ribbon or a handkerchief or a lock of y'r hair?"

"Well, I don't exactly know how these matters work, Simon. I wasn't raised for it," you felt no embarrassment referencing your past to him now. Here. In your chambers. "But I know enough to say that one normally is granted a favour before embarking on a quest or challenge."

There a was a little archness to your tone, a silly attempt to mimic the cadence of the women you'd heard shuffling around the courtyard.

"I see," he couldn't quite suppress the twitch of his thin, scarred lips. "Cheeky thing, aren't ya. Attending a feast as my wife that difficult, eh?"

Your nose scrunched, protest etched into your nerves before the words formed. "Attending the feast is. I'm not well educated, but I am not stupid, Simon. I know that something is afoot - yes, I know you'll tell me later. I- I'm just not entirely sure what is expected of me."

Instead of answering, you watched as he tugged at the fastening of his surcoat until the thick, black cord slipped free. It was exhilarating watching hands that wrought death move so dexterously. You had never considered yourself an aesthete, but imagined that gazing at Simon would make you so. There was a sort of rawness to his beauty, like a cliff weathered by sea and spray. The valleys and ridges, the pockmarks and scars, stood as a testament to strength and endurance. And now, it was brought low before you.

His reflection dipped lower and lower out of your line of sight, a mountain brought low by a breeze. He still appeared huge, behemoth, on his knees. It caused something to cramp in your belly, watching through the mirror how he matched you height even as he crouched to the floor. You burned, low and furling in your core until it rose languidly up to your cheeks. Your underlayers, the soft cotton chemises, felt suffocating and itchy against your dampening flesh. You held your breath, scared to snuff out this moment, this dizzying feeling that made your face hot and sent your thoughts swirling.

It was excruciating, feeling the heavy drag of your skirts inching up your calf. The rough, uneven pads of his fingers ticked the curve of your ankle as he lifted it to his lap. Cool, woven leather coiled around and around, tying a little piece of him around you. It wasn't tight, just nestled comfortably, but you knew that you'd feel it as you walked. As you sat and listened and talked, all the while pretending that you couldn't feel the extemporal wedding-garter nestled under your skirts. Secret as a whisper.

His hand lingered, fingertips swirling higher above the makeshift anklet, taking in the softness of your calf. How the muscle twitched as you tried not to shudder. You licked your lips and finally, finally, dragged your eyes away from you own blown pupils staring back at you through the mirror. You looked down past layers of tight bodice and velvet skirts until you could see that his pupils were just as blown as yours.

His eyes never left yours as he stood, brushing close to your chest util he towered over you once more. You could feel the rise of his chest through your bodice, his calm, steady breaths belied by the intensity of his gaze on yours. Maybe he could feel your pulse, hammering so hard that it must surely be visible in the delicate line of your arched neck. Maybe he could feel your hitching breaths, just as he could feel yours. His rough, warm hand came to caress your cheek like unpolished wood meeting velvet. You leaned in, held your breath, and let your eyes drift closed.

In the autogenic darkness of your lids you watched shadow turn to phosphene as you felt his face dip lower. The slight tickle of stubble on your cheek wrought a shiver, before you melted into the press of his scarred lips against yours. It was languid, slow, dragging across your lips until they parted. His large hand cradled the back of your head as he tasted you, wet and open-mouthed, until you felt dizzy and weak-kneed. His lips moved up, stopping finally to kiss your forehead as you swayed in his arms.

"I told ya already. Be good, be wary. And don' answer to anyone who isn't me." You nodded slowly, looking up at him with head heavy and hot. He smiled, then, a gristled, toothy thing that twisted his already scarred face. You couldn't help but to smile back. "There she is, my wily little dormouse. Time t'go."

Arriving at the Great Hall was a blur, but somehow he managed to direct your bambi legs across uneven flagstones and winding stairs. Your thoughts cooled as you journeyed through the damp, castle halls, leaving behind something viscous and sticky on your flesh. Between your thighs. You shivered in the cold, stone halls, grateful now for the heavy clothes that earlier had felt so burdensome. How far had you come from the girl who knew nothing of men except to avoid them? The girl who imagined slipping in the shoal of the lower districts, unsteady on the grit of the sandbanks until the water swelled and took her away. In lieu of pinching yourself at the table, you crossed your legs and pressed one ankle into the other, the facsimile of elegance and ease.

Only you knew that you sought to dig the cord around your ankle deeper, let it tear through integument and tendons until flesh healed over top and fused it into you.

Would even that be enough? Would anything?

His meaty thigh pressed into yours.

You smiled prettily up at him, something secret in the curve of your lips and the fluttering of your lashes. The wine at the table was heavy, fragrant, and made you lightheaded almost as much as Simon had earlier. Almost enough to set you at ease, to make you forget about all others in the room.

The bubble burst as feasting turned to frolicking.

You didn't know how to dance. The reason was multifold, the first being that it simply wasn’t a part of your education. People danced in the lower districts, yes, but you imagined it to be a little too raucous, too unrefined for current company. Another reason was that it hardly fit the directive - be quiet, be meek, be sweet - that ruled most of your life as you scurried away from the sight of others. Who had the time, energy, or inclination to dance when each day was spent splitting skin with lye and cold water, working until the body ached and belly rumbled? You hadn't even had the coin for a glass of cheap, tavern swill after handing all earnings over to your father.

You noticed how, during the feast, the threat of Simon's reputationn had killed any attempts at conversion. You wondered, now, if alcohol and music would embolden anyone beyond curious glances and hushed whispers. Hopefully not.

You were joined only by the men you had met earlier. Simon's friends; the Ghost's brethren.

"Dinnae fancy a dance, Yer Grace?"

"Not if y'r offerin'."

"Nae offering you, that's fer sure," Johnny turned towards you after slapping Simon on the shoulder. "What d'ye say, Bonnie? Know how tae jig?"

You shook your head hard, lips pressed together to suppress a smile. You could picture it, sure that he'd be nothing if not an enthusiastic partner, twirling you around the floor like a leaf on the breeze. He was outfitted in a slightly more decorative version of his usual islesman garb, gold threads intertwined with the heavy wool of his tartan. His eyes still shone a little too bright, that same intensity dancing across his face, but it didn't alight your instincts. Simon trusted him. You trusted Simon. There was comfort in the simplicity.

"I'm not much of a dancer, My Lord. I'd only step on your toes."

"My toes can take it, nae bother."

"She doesn't want t'dance. Go bother one of th'other ladies." There was no real heat in Simon's voice, amusement clear in the tilt of his brow.

"Yer no fun. Just plannin' tae glare from the corner o'the hall all night?"

"You could join us, if ya want. Might change the glare t'a glower once the candles burn down."

Johnny chuffed through his nose at that, rolling his eyes at thr approaching Kyle. With a nod in your direction, he addressed his friend.

"Disnae want tae dance, barely will talk without a dour comment. Got any ideas to liven them up, Gaz?"

"Don't look at me, I'm here for some quiet too. Too much chatter, not enough said over there," he nodded towards the group of men he'd just left across the hall. Earlier, the heralds had announced them as the King's military advisors and diplomatic envoys. They looked it, too, standing tall and with the ease that is born of power and prestige. Their swords glinted and mouths smiled even as their eyes remained flat and shifty. Arch and calculating as a gentleman fox.

"Yer all dreich as a ditch in winter," he groaned half-heartedly, winking at you as you tried not to laugh.

Simon caught your eye, too, something playful flickering around him, turning his shock of blond hair into a nimbus. Your mind was already able to fill in the blanks of his face, to paint over the black maw of his mask. You knew that he was smirking, tongue running across his teeth as he savoured what he was about to say.

"I'll tell ya a joke, then, Johnny-"

"-oh, naw, not another one o'those-"

"What do you call it when a wizard's wand is broken?"

"A wizards..? Dinnae ken."

"A spell of bad luck."

Even Kyle groaned at that, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water. "That was terrible. I heard better over there," he nodded towards the strategic envoy across the floor.

"Okay, okay. One more. What do y'call a Knight with poor swordsmanship?" Simon crossed his arms across the wide barrel of his chest and leaned back against the wall, all ease and confidence despite the heckling audience.

"Dinnae know."

"Y'call him John MacTavish," he didn’t wait for the line to land before he let out a quiet hehehe, laughing even as Johnny's face turned red and chest puffed up.

"Yer a roaster, Simon, an absolute roaster. That's my cue tae find Price," he called over his shoulder as he marched towards a nondescript side door.

"You best go and join him, Simon. The Captain was looking for you too," Kyle must have read the hesitation in his frame, the way his face lingered on yours. "I'll be here."

It left you off-kilter, slightly. The heavy weight always balanced at your side was striding across the room, cutting a swathe through revelers as they tried both to avoid him and keep him in their sights. Little flocks of feathery, pecking creatures banding together as the wolf skulked through their coop.

They didn't even warrant a glance from him.

But for you it left you lopsided. Watching as he slipped into the shadows. Missing him. Maybe you'd always feel that way, always need something to ground you. Before, it was the weight of a basket set against your plush hip, digging in and leaving bruises with the heft of sopping shifts and underskirts. Now it was him, wide, warm palm frequently brushing the swell of your waist. Large shadow always in your periphery.

In the future, could that space be filled with something of yours? Both of yours. Something sweet and small and-

could it-?

"It must have been an interesting courtship," Kyle's low, smooth voice cut through your reverie.

"Yes, most unexpected," you turned to look up at him. With just the two of you, temporary wallflowers decorating the fringes, you could take in more of his face. Neat little mustache; big brown eyes. Beautiful. Smart. Like the bloodhounds who stirred around the forest's edge, just waiting to catch the right scent. "But I'm glad for it."

Wordplay was best-served when honest. You were not as skilled as those around you, perhaps, but you had experience in knowing when and where to hold your tongue.

"As are we," he must have caught the slight widening of your lids, the parting of your lips. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, all sincere camaraderie. "No need to look surprised. I've followed him to the bleakest, blood-soaked fields this side of the known world. I've never known him to make a bad decision. Don't let others find room for doubt."

It was strange, this ready acceptance from his men. It was all the more stark when contrasted with the strangers at the palace. You'd seen the glances around the room, yes, the curious eyes. The occasional sneers. The whispers of The Ghost and his captive bride. But you'd grown hardened against rumours over the years, though attention still left you askance.

"Noted, my lord." you played coy - be sweet-. "I defer to your expertise."

He laughed, smile lambent as the light from a candle. "Johnny tried to tell me you were skittish."

"His lordship likes to talk."

"And you don't, I see. That's good. Some things are better left unsaid."

"Yes, so I've seen," you sent a pointed look at the door through which your husband had disappeared.

He looked at you, then, something like respect under the arch of his brows. "Smart too. Though, Ghost was right to keep this to himself." It was silent for a moment before he squinted at something across the ballroom. "You could help, if you wanted."

"Help with what?"

"With a little fishing. The man on his way - yes, him. Blond hair, black tunic - he's been sniffing around all night for scraps. He's very keen to see what Ghost has been doing since the Zakhaev Campaign in the East."

You were reminded starkly that the man who knelt at your feet and kissed you so softly spent most of his life blanketed in the smoke and splatter of the battlefield. It wasn't something that you had forgotten, per se, as you thought back to the circumstances of your meeting. Rather, it was known to you in the same way that you knew the sun would rise in the morning. You saw it from a distance, admired it even, but did not think on it beyond that. Perhaps it was naïve, brushing off the reputation of your husband whilst others whispered it in fear. But you thought back to his directive to you, 'Don't answer to anyone who isn't me,' and turned to regard the approaching newcomer.

It was as clear as the crystal you'd been sipping from all night; you wouldn't leave this hall without speaking to this man.

Rather, he wouldn't leave this hall without speaking to you.

He sought you out. He thought that he anything you would reveal would be to his benefit. You hid your smile behind your wine glass.

"He's important, I take it?"

"You've heard of 'The Shephard'?" he continued at your nod. "The King's advisor. An old war dog. Graves answers to him."

It swirled around, more information clouding the glass rather than clearing it. You weighed it up in your mind, testing the form and density of your thoughts. One stood out, and you cradled it. Let it roll around in your mind and still your tongue-

-Whatever this intrigue was, it truly didn't interest you.

As a girl, when you hungered so deeply that it gnawed at you even in your sleep, you cared nothing for the palace. The Crown meant nothing to you, nothing to the other laundresses, as you pounded stains against rocks in the long, humid days of summer. Knights and Lords and their ilk seldom slid far enough down the tiers to be seen in your village. They meant nothing to you. Not when food, fire, safety were hard to find and hard-won.

But perhaps that's why your interest was stirred a little. With belly-full and body-warm what were you left to think of? When 'Simon' became synonymous with 'safety', what would you do to keep it that way? What would you do to fight for it the way your bone-tired body once fought for basic dignity?

Simon had spilled blood for you. Had painted the cobbles at your feet with the sluggish, rusty ichor of your worthless father.

What would you-?

You glanced at the buffet table to your left, setting down the shield of your wine glass. It slopped over, a little claret stain bleeding onto the tablecloth. You tried not to take it as an omen. You gazed at the excess of the banquet, a kaleidoscope vanitas of fruits, cheeses, meats. Would they be left to rot? Untouched as the nobles twittered and flitted 'til the small hours. Would the servants be privileged enough to feed off the scraps after they'd been left to go stale? You let the rich, heady scent turn bitter and harden your face.

"Your Grace, may I present Philip Graves, Commander of the Shadow Company," Kyle gestured at the newcomer, all ease and neutrality. "Commander, the Duchess of Northmire."

"I believe that congratulations are in order," he bowed, a lazy half-nod in your direction. "Allow me the pleasure of your company with a dance."

"I'm not much of a dancer, my lord. But, you are welcome to keep our company as we observe," you demurred, eying the sharp cut of his smirk.

"Oh, I insist. It is a ball, after all," he licked at his lips, "You can, uh, balter as much as you please."

You played off your sneer as a smile. A little twitch of your nose. "But of course."

As he drew you forth you spent the gallows steps to the floor studying your quarry. He was handsome, yes, but there was something cold and sharp to his face. All angles and slopes in shades of pewter. You thought to handle him like a particularly sharp knife.

"Enjoying the festivities, ma'am?" you let him draw you just close enough to be polite, and slipped into his steps. "How does it compare with the parties back in your lands?"

"It doesn't; this is the palace, after all."

He hummed, dead eyes and charming smile. "That's a real pretty accent. I didn't quite catch where Ghost snapped you up from."

"My father arranged it. Not so exciting as to be the topic of court gossip."

That earned you what must have been a laugh. A soft chuff as he fixed you under his frigid gaze. Perhaps he thought you'd squirm, that you were some simple country lady raised to be sweet and obliging as she was packed off to the palace. You'd scurried from men like him, before. The kind of greasy, nipping dog that was sent down badger holes and rabbit warrens, slick and fast and mean. The kind who was powerful under another's command, crunching through necks and then coming to heel when called.

"I'm not one for gossip, My Lady," something stirred behind his lips, mouth twisting as he considered his next words.

Whatever they were, they were left unsaid.

"Been lookin' f'r ya."

"Ah, Ghost" he greeted your husband like an old friend. "Congratulations. Quite the charming little parvenu you've got here."

You didn't need to look behind you to feel how those words settled about as well as vinegar in the stomach. Sour. Biting.

"Be careful, Graves," his voice was rough, like the words scraped over angry, spitting coals before he released them. The firm, heavy bulk of his body pressed close to your side. You melted into him, leaning close so that the three of your stood in a clumsy isosceles. "Run on back t' Shepard. Heard he's callin' ya, missin' his dog."

"No need for that. We were just having a chat, weren't we now?" You kept your lips sealed, chin held high as you fidgeted out of his grasp and towards Simon. You didn't like the look on his face, the mocking, smug set of his smile as his eyes darted between you both. He sighed, like you'd somehow disappointed him. "You know, Ghost, playing knight-errant doesn't suit you."

Once back in Simon's arms you realised how Graves had left you distorted, shoulders hitched high and neck twisted and taut. Where you'd joined hands felt tacky, like dipping your fingers in the thick, greasy tallow you'd once used to make soap. You didn't look as he strutted away, instead just breathed in the comforting leather and musk of the sentry at your side.

Your eyes found the banquet table again, still glistening with fats and sweets. Only now, you could see the flies hovering around, rubbing their bristly black-stick legs together and burrowing in deep. ----------------------------

You were loath to slip away from Simon after that, now used to having him fill that empty, aching place in your chest. But the walls were closing in.

The air in the room had grown balmy and sweet, spilled drinks and sweat saturating the tablecloths and curtains. It reminded you of the drinking districts, of grubby hands digging into your arm and dragging you down to - to -

-to whatever didn't happen that night. That night Simon showed up.

Still, you needed air. You needed something cold; some sharp, icy breeze to sweep through the foliage sprouting in you mind. You sought to forage through what was left, scrabble over the dead leaves and twigs until you uncovered the verdant little buds below (I belong here. I belong-). You felt unmoored, like a spiraling sycamore leaf battling weather and wind until you were blown into the palace. Ready to be swept away. It was so easy to believe Simon when it was just you and him. You imagined the matter was as simple to him as breathing. The blood of other men spilled because he willed it. Men listened to him because he said so. You were his because he found you.

Simple.

But as you navigated the warren of palace halls in your fancy clothes and borrowed finery, you felt the acetous bubbles of doubt fizzing in your stomach. It was not Simon you doubted, but rather yourself. Little dormouse playing pretend. Talking and walking as if your timorous little heart wasn't fluttering in your chest. As if the petticoats and overskirts didn’t feel warm and burdensome, like the kind that would swell with water and drag you under back when you were nothing but a timid, inchoate shadow under the thrall of your father.

Something of Grave's words niggled at you - knight-errant. You know he meant it as an insult, but it just didn't quite fit Simon. Like throwing a cheap blow against the steely armour on his hulking frame. It just glanced off. But a little scratch lingered. The hint of something accusatory - like he'd slipped the leash, wandered too far and-

Low, rolling voices echoed off the damp stone walls. The sconces flickered as you looked around, boxed in between a heavy tapestry and unlatched door.

"-distracted by that little pony he's picked up from god-knows-where." It was Graves, cocksure and brash. "Now's the time, boys. Order's from on high."

"Allen is already in place with Kingfish. Awaiting your missive."

"That's what I like to hear," you could hear the swell of his chest. Anticipation let his words flow like honey from a hive. "Now, you and your brigade are to, uh, accompany the 141 when they're sent to El Reino de Las Almas in two days' time. Remember, no loose ends."

"Yes, Sir."

"Dismissed."

The blood rushing past your ears drowned out the rest of the exchange. Your whiskers twitched, prickling with unease as you glanced about for an escape. The sound of the door scraping across the tiles killed that hope.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" It was hard to turn your head, like trying to mold stiff wax, but you managed it. "Little far from the Grand Hall.

Your mother's advice echoed in your mind, as familiar and comforting as well-worn clothes. (Be quiet, be meek, be sweet-

-Don't answer to anyone who isn't me).

"You're right," you let out the breath you were holding, hoping to pass it off as relief. "I'm glad to see you, Commander Graves. Perhaps you would do the honour of escorting me? I'm afraid I'm a little lost."

"Don't do that. Don't think that I'll be taken in by that. You're puttin' me in a tough spot," he seemed to chew at his next words, rolling them around as he pinned you down with his dead eyes. "My lady."

Run, you thought. You eyed up the man before you, not as big as your Knight but still not worth underestimating. But a glance down the shadowed, unfamiliar halls had you thinking again. Run where?

He caught your furtive little twitch, tutted at you as he grasped at the meat of your upper arm. "Let's have a little talk, you and I."

You would have tripped over the layers of your skirts were it not for his vice grip holding you up. He let go abruptly, letting you stumble into the study from which he'd just emerged.

This time the door latched shut.

Papers littered the writing desk, all maps and missives that you couldn't read. You watched the slow, rolling drip of the candle wax in the corner as you tried to calm your racing thoughts. Would it burn down before you got out of here? Would someone stumble in, see only you and the cooling puddle of paraffin spilled across the floor?

What would Simon do, you thought. Simon, who was being set-up by the sinewy, sharp-toothed predator pacing behind you.

What would I do for Simon?

"It's real unfortunate you had to hear that." Funny. There was nothing of misfortune in his tone. "See, I don't much fancy what has to be done. But I can't let you go tellin' tales."

You raised your arms to your chest as he approached, letting the sleeves roll down and reveal your forearms. Your tough, cross-hatched labourers' hands.

He raised an eyebrow at your silence, somehow managing to look down at you from paces away. You knew his type. Like the nasty little terriers your father used to bet on, cheering as they tore into the squeaking, scrabbling rats trapped in the ring. It was nothing personal for him, you were sure, but that wouldn't stop him from enjoying it.

"Telling tales implies that my words would be fictitious," you couldn't resist one little dig. Let him chew on that, sniff at the bait you cast as your mind raced with what to do next. What to do, what to-

"Cute," it bought you only a second. "You realise that this is bigger than you, sweetheart. If it were up to me-"

You darted for the letter opener to your right, papers flying as your shaking, numb fingertips grappled to pick it up. There would be no talking him around, no amount of demurring and fluttered lashes that would get him to unlock his jaw.

"Now why'd you have to go and do a silly thing like that?"

It was silent for a beat, your wide, glossy eyes fixed on his unblinking stare. He was cold, focused in a way that tugged at the animal instincts in the back of your neck. You watched as he tilted his head to the side, sure that his teeth were slick and limbs coiled ready to snatch you as you made a mad dart for the door. Only, that wasn't your plan. You weren't the meek little ingenue he written you off as. A softer thing would have swooned as he manhandled her into the room alone, unchaperoned. A gentler creature would have bristled at his familiarity, calling you 'sweetheart' like he had the right. His years surrounded by lesser men and court sycophants had blinded him to one simple truth.

You weren't one of them.

It seemed to catch him off guard, shifted him slightly off kilter as he watched you steel your jaw and brace yourself near the table's edge. You'd hauled heavier loads than the delicate little paper knife biting into your hands. You were soft, yes, but it was a layer built over strength. Years of labour had seasoned you to pain, had hewn muscle and callouses just as valuable as those earned by other means. You weren't strong enough to fight him, true, but you were damned sure you would hold him off.

You tensed low and balanced, surefooted on the tiles as much as you were on the riverbanks. Shadows flicked under the sway of the dying candles, obscuring the razor contours of his face. Ephemeral. Volatile. You gulped down the bile bubbling up your throat as he advanced lazily towards you.

Only, something else emerged from the shadows. Transmuted from black and grey until he was not a shade but a man. A Ghost.

The candle snuffed, sooty trails of charcoal spiraling up. You saw through a haze, achromatic. Felt the shifting of weight, the dull thuds of fists hitting meat. Sluicing through sinew until you scented something metallic and hot. Your racing thoughts and galloping heart couldn't keep up with the scene, uselessly flitting across apparitions as the details struggled through the thick sludge of your mind.

-two shadows, or three? more?

hands grasping at you - no, holding you -

- something soothing -

-someone crying? were they-? -something heavy, trussed up and dragged-

-'We've got it, Simon-'

Your trembling fingers clutched at something slick, solid.

"Easy, easy dormouse," your quivering chin was pressed hard against the soaked fabric at his neck. You tasted salt on your lips, hot and wet and bleeding down your cheeks. Simon. Simon stroking at your hair as he cradled you close. He was so big. How could have forgotten the heft of him, the way he swallowed you up in arms as thick as branches? "I've got ya. You're with me."

You swam through the mire, nuzzled your nose into his neck one last time before peeling back. It was still dark, hazy, in the room. But pressed this close it didn't matter. You reached up, shaking fingertips stroking along the lines of a face revealed only to you. You could just about make out the pale crown of his hair, the whites of eyes that rested heavy on your face. You wondered how you looked to him, if he saw past the shuddering breaths and cracked lips to recognise that it was joy that sprung your tears. More than relief, more than gratitude it was some kind of retrouvaille. You wanted to cup the feeling, let it ripple and glimmer in between your palms as you brought it to his lips.

He'd lap at it - no, he'd drink it down greedily. Your sentry. Your paladin. The man who made you an orphan just to take you in.

How foolish of you to doubt that, to doubt yourself. You, who survived every winter and every famine made harder under the roof of your father. You, who bade the man who told you he wasn't made for anything but bloodshed, yet knelt at your feet.

You pressed your lips to his through the fabric of his mask, let him taste the words that cut through your sobs. "Never again, Simon. Never again."

Doubt. Faltering. Loneliness. Meekness, quiet, skittishness-

Never again. ------------------------------- You didn't flinch from the sight of the red that splattered the finery of your clothes. You'd seen gore before, had scrubbed at it until your fingers burned and skin peeled. Only, that wasn't your job anymore-

The snick of a match snapped you from your reverie. You were back, ensconced in your chambers with your knight. Your husband. You weren't sure of the time, of what happened at the ball or in the study. It didn't seem to matter, not when you were tucked away in the safe little suite where only you and he existed.

"I drew a bath f'r ya," his voice was soft, restrained. That just wouldn't do.

"Simon, look at me, look," you reached for him in a wispy parallel to your night at the townhouse. He was solid, planted to the ground but you felt him give as you tugged him close. You had to arch your neck back just to meet his eyes. "I- won't you join me?"

It rolled between you, this suggestion. You saw exactly when the idea took root, heat blossoming to burnt umber as his pupils dilated. You pressed in close, feeling the soft give of his stomach. If you placed your ear to his chest, would you hear his heart race? Could he want you as much as you wanted him? Did he know about the covetous, greedy thing that quivered inside your chest and cried out for you to bite down on the dense, keloid-slashed muscles until you tasted iron?

Would he let you?

It was scalding, searing heat that had simmered all the while he carried you back. Dizzying and fervent you wondered for a moment if you'd died in that room. That you'd risen some hungry, gluttonous creature driven only by voluptuary urges. But then you remembered the longing from earlier, the heady rush that sapped the strength from your legs as you watched him kneel before you.

"Will you make me beg for it? Make me say please?"

"Never," he spoke it like a promise. "Think I'd leave ya wanting?"

His hand felt cool against your cheek. You closed your eyes and leaned into it, hoping it would douse the flames somewhat.

It stoked them higher.

You reached for the tie of his mask as he reached for your dress. The fabric prickled at your skin as it slid down, laces loosened at the front and revealing your chest to him. Your breasts felt heavy, nipples pebbling in the cool air under they were covered by his palm. You could see his lids dip low, desire making them heavy as he kneaded your sensitive flesh until you arched into it.

"Beautiful," he groaned as he dipped his head down. "Fuck, just need to have a taste-"

His large hand spanned your back, keeping you upright as he knelt before you once more. The heat of his mouth surprised you, wet tongue laving at soft skin as his other hand reached up to squeeze and roll at the sensitive peaks as you gasped and squirmed. You tugged at his hair, nails scratching into his scalp in a way that seemed to spurn him on. He pulled at your skirts, urgency tearing the seams against your hips and making you hiss. He mouthed down the swell of your stomach until he kissed away the sting, sucking new marks atop the ones he just left.

Desire sparks followed his mouth, leaving you sticky and pulpy until you sagged against the bed. It was an ouroboros kind of appetite, where the more he satiated himself the hungrier you grew. You felt raw, winded, as he spread your thighs to make space for his broad shoulders. So broad that the stretch hurt, made you arch up from the bed to paw him away with clumsy fingers.

"Simon, I can't- what are you-?" you whined as his teeth left imprints in the softness near your core.

"Shh," he soothed you with his tongue. "Need t'get you ready f'r me. Just lie back."

His forearm bulged as it banded across your stomach, keeping you pinned. You pressed your lips together, swallowed your cries as you felt him nudge at the wetness between your thighs. Gentler than you expected, he parted your folds, running his thick finger through the wetness that had gathered there.

"Ah-" you bit back a whine as he found the spot where you throbbed, circling the little bud at the apex of your core until your knees shook. Only the bulk of his shoulders prevented you from snapping them shut.

"That's it, love. Don' fight it. Let me see ya," he rumbled over the buzzing in your ears. You felt too hot, too heavy to do anything but twist against the pleasure that he wrung from you. Spread out, naked on satin sheets that stuck to your drenched back. You were open to him, entirely laid bare and thought made you ache. You felt yourself drip against his rough palm, soak the fingers that prodded your fluttering entrance.

"I need you, but I don't-"

"S'alright, I know what y'need."

You tried to follow the pull of his voice, to raise your head off the mattress and watch but the nudge of his nose against your folds had you falling back. His mouth felt hot, tongue laving over your sensitive flesh in a way that had you clawing at the sheets. You keened out, wanting to squirm away and press closer all at once. The noise would have embarrassed you, slick and loud in the quiet of the room. Would have, except you heard him groan into you, felt the rumble of it against your cunt as he feasted. He ate you like he was starving, fingers digging into your thighs so hard that you knew he'd leave an imprint in purple and red. Your thighs shook against his grip, body twisting against the pleasure building and building until it snapped and you surrendered.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you panted towards the canopy. Shivers danced along your spine as you lay limp on the mattress, exposing your hot, wet flesh to the coolness of the night. You were so slick that you felt the air biting at your inner thighs, and Simon's sloppy, lingering kisses at your core had you swiping at his hair.

"Simon, it's too much," there was something whiny, breathy in your voice.

"No such thing as too much of a good thing," he shed the remainders of his clothes, crawling up the bed until the firm lines of his body pressed into the soft lines of yours. He hovered above you, face-flushed and eyes dark. "I'm going t'take as much as I want, and I still won't be satisfied."

"What-?"

"Y'r my wife," he leaned down, let you taste yourself against his lips. "Mine. Never had much that was all f'r me."

You smiled into the kiss, shaking off the shyness that urged you to cover up, hide, look away- "Me neither."

You nipped at his lips, let him feel the indent of your blunt little teeth until the press of his fingers against your entrance left you open-mouthed and slack. His thick, calloused fingers circled your hole, testing how you fluttered and dripped for him. Stretched you out on the width of two fingers until you cried into his mouth. You felt the nudge of his cock, heavy and throbbing, as he made a space for himself inside your body. He was so thick, rocking in slowly so that you felt the exquisite sting of every inch. Your whines caught in your throat, head spinning as you danced the line of pleasure-pain spread open under your husband.

He carried you to the bathtub afterwards, your cunt aching and dripping with his spend. (He had run his fingertips along your swollen folds, scooping up his cum and pressing it back into your stretched hole. Kissed you sweetly as he whispered filth, knuckle-deep in your cunt).

Now, in the lambency of candlelight, he rasped promises and secrets against your goosebumped flesh. His fingers trailed over perfumed water as he knelt by side, content and warm; aeipathy subdued for now, but enduring.

"When I first saw ya, I -" he cut himself off, strained as he searched for the words. You lay silent, patient as his words ripened behind his lips; laconism blooming into ephemeral fruits. "Y'reminded me of the girls back home. Th'ones by the river or in the taverns, too smart or too busy to bother with the likes of me. Familiar, real. Beautiful."

Your breath hitched, heart swelling under your breast as your watched him struggle for the words you were so wont to hear.

"When I first saw you, you scared me," your lips twisted a little, wry, as you confessed to him. "Only, you scared me less than him."

You scoffed, water splashing as you drew your knees to your chest and tucked your head low. You looked at him, needing him to read the truth in your face as you bared yourself just as he had. "I'm sorry, that's not particularly romantic, is it? Being desperate? But it's true. And I'm so thankful for it, since otherwise I might not have- we might never have-"

The words caught like wire in your throat. Painful.

Unthinkable.

But wasn't it beautiful, that brutal honesty? Wasn't it a relief to purge the poison; to dig in and drain the bad humours like rivers swirling into estuaries.

If you expected censure, you wouldn't find it. Not from him, no. You felt his finger chuck under your chin and let him raise your head.

"I know, dormouse. I know" --------------------------------

Well, it is done. Several months later and finally posted. I'm not 100% happy with this, but I can't justify sitting on it any longer. Also, it's December and seems fitting to wrap this up before the end of the year (part i wasy my first ever COD fic).

#i may have made simon too soft in this but meh #even a grizzled old war dog dreams of a soft bed #also tumblr has eaten this FOUR times when i tried to insert a 'read more' so idk what that says #knight simon riley #simon riley/reader #simon riley cod #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod fanfic #historical au

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gloomwitchwrites · 3 months ago

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Devil in a Dark Wood

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader Historical AU

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Witch AU, Historical AU, early colonial America, Puritanism, biblical themes & scripture, suggestive themes, brief descriptions of injury, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, brief descriptions of sex, horror/suspense

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Witch AU) A/N (2): Enjoy my religious trauma!

Arriving to new shores a married woman, you find happiness with the man you're betrothed to without ever first meeting him. But beyond the place you call home is a dark wood. And in that dark wood, something waits for the perfect opportunity.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Pendle, Massachusetts, Late April, 1662

The earth speaks to you.

Back home, the ground is alive with the song of faeries, elves dwell within the trees, and kelpies call from the waters. Nature is alive there. A buzzing that wraps around all living things.

But it is different here in the New World.

Here—there is an echo. There are no nymphs. No sweet songs to lull the wayward wanderer into dancing.

There are teeth here. Teeth in the dirt. Teeth in the bark of the trees.

And a thrumming.

A thrumming that sounds like a thunderous heartbeat.

You hear your name. It is called like a command by a stern, male voice. Eyes opening, you disconnect from the unyielding noise of the ground, and focus on the man in front of you.

A man of the cloth. Reverend Shepherd—if the letter in your haversack is correct.

There is no smile on his face but a sternness etched into every crease and wrinkle. His mouth is a thin line turned downwards, with a balding head, and a slight swell to his belly that reminds you of the one your father grew when he began favoring drink.

Your father.

The reason you’re here.

The reason you stand on the very edge of the New World a newly married woman.

"Reverend Shepherd?" you ask, inclining your head in submission.

The motion is painful. You are not like him. You are not like the people who have settled here. You were raised to be wild and barefoot. Raised by a woman who taught you to listen. To put your ear to the ground. To sense the world sitting just on the other side.

“Child,” he says, gaze narrowing. “Your hair.”

Frowning, you reach up. Some of your hair pokes out from beneath your white cap. “Pray pardon me,” you murmur, discreetly tucking it back.

“I am Reverend Shepherd,” he confirms with a brief nod. “I bid you welcome to Pendle.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“And the journey?”

“Pleasant,” you reply, keeping your gaze downcast. “Calm seas.”

“A blessed crossing then. God’s favor came with you. Pray that it stays.”

Your stomach twists at the jab. It is clear what Reverend Shepherd means. You are an outsider. An unknown factor. A disciple that he believes may not fall in line. God’s chosen are already here, and you do not belong.

“Are you to be my escort?”

“Indeed,” he sighs as if the notion bothers him. “And we have much yet to walk. God favors a quick step. We best be off.”

Clutching the haversack to your chest, you nod. “Of course, Reverend.”

This is just an exchange, a way for your father to rid himself of you and to pay off his drinking debts. Your father is no man of God. Wives are needed in the New World. The crown paid handsomely to bring you and other women to these shores.

Grief is a sour thing.

It is a weight upon the living.

Your mother, a woman so wonderful that the world couldn’t contain her, sent herself up to the stars, leaving you with only your father for company.

He is just a man.

Simple. Kind.

And then a poison.

Grief wove its way between bone and blood until he no longer wanted to see your face. The remembrance pained him. And that pain led to long nights away, only for him to return with liquor on the breath and empty pockets.

It is why you were sent away, why you were sent far across the sea. Sold off to a husband you’ve never met. All because of a man who cannot control his grief.

How will your memory be written?

Are you simply your father’s daughter in the King’s ledger? Not even a name. Just…daughter.

Perhaps. That is how it is after all. A history of a woman is rarely written.

Reverend Shepherd turns away and starts walking. You almost slip in the mud as you follow. He passes the docks, moving further away from the center of Pendle.

“Are we not to stay in town?”

“In town?” Reverend Shepherd’s frown deepens. “No, child. Your husband lives beyond the township.”

“How far, pray tell? Are we not to take horses?” you ask, a little breathless.

Reverend Shepherd scoffs. "Why should you require such a convenience? Walking allows for reflection and penance. Do you know your prayers?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Child?” prompts Reverend Shepherd.

“I do,” you nearly bite out.

“Let me hear them. A good wife can recite the Lord’s prayers when prompted. Scripture will help us pass the time.”

As the two of you walk, your voice becomes monotone, reciting but not listening. Every word is like an empty scallop shell. Mud sucks at your boots, threatening to relieve you of your shoes. Reverend Shepherd remains ahead. Never slowing down. Always keeping a few paces forward.

“Good,” says Reverend Shepherd. “Now, I shall begin and you shall continue. I have no master but You. Now law but Your—”

“You’ve yet to speak of my husband,” you interrupt, frustration growing by the lack of information.

It’s not in you to be obedient, especially around bothersome men.

Reverend Shepherd turns abruptly, the middle of his brow creased in severe displeasure. “Prayer, child. I have no master—”

“His name, Reverend. At least allow me that.”

“Disobedience of woman is an act against God. Your father assured me of your obedience. Of your purity and piety. Is he mistaken?”

Yes. I do not belong here.

“He is not,” you mutter.

Reverend Shepherd holds your gaze until you turn yours downward. When he sets out again, you scowl at the back of his head, reciting perfectly all that you were taught before departing for different shores.

Outside Pendle, the road twists between clumps of trees. Farms stand between, but Reverend Shepherd stops at none of them. He rattles off scripture, keeping his back to you as he does so. It only dampens your mood.

"The Lord is my—"

At the bend in the road, you pause your recitations. A peaceful buzzing surfaces up from the ground, slithering into the soles of your feet, traveling upward into the crown of your head. A sturdy wooden fence lines the road, sectioning off the homestead from travelers. The main gate sits open, a dirt path leading inward toward the cottage. Corn lines the path, and you hear the gentle bleat of a goat in the distance.

Reverend Shepherd turns, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Pray pardon, Reverend," you say before the chastisement can leave his lips. "Is this..."

The irritation retreats slightly, his gaze turning passive. "Is it home? Indeed." Reverend Shepherd glances across the farmstead. "The Riley family owns this land. The eldest son, Simon, tends to it."

Simon.

Your husband's name.

Only a name. Nothing else.

The entire journey across the sea was rife with your swirling imagination. What kind of man did your father sell you off to? What might he look like?

Reverend Shepherd presses on. "The younger son lives in town."

You don't reply. It's best not to. Women are expected to be seen and not heard, and you have already overstepped your limits.

Following at the proper distance, you keep silent. Reverend Shepherd walks quickly, eager to be rid of you.

The thwack of an axe piercing wood echoes in the air, drowning out the bleating goats. You clutch the haversack against your chest, the weight of it finally catching up, arms heavy with the load. Reverend Shepherd moves with purpose, following the sound of the thwack and the subsequent clatter of splitting wood.

Beyond the cottage, divided by another wooden fence, is the forest. The trees are tall, towering over everything, pointing toward the grey sky like arrow points. From them, you hear whispers, faint and unclear. A soft chill cools your skin, and you shiver, the whispers disappearing as you and Reverend Shepherd walk around the side of the cottage.

The two of you come to a stop next to a large pile of wood.

Before you is a man with no shirt or doublet to be seen. His back is to the both of you, and your breath catches at seeing so much bare skin. Old scars mark his flesh, yet you're unsure if they're from some accident or from grislier means. The man's shoulders are broad, giving way to muscled arms and a tall frame. Of what you can observe, his figure is thick, honed from hard labor.

Lifting the axe above his head, he brings it down on the log in front of him. The wood splits cleanly.

"Simon." Reverend Shepherd's voice is smooth with authority.

At the sound of his voice, Simon straightens as if struck. Just his head turns, glancing over his shoulder, gaze sweeping over Reverend Shepherd and then landing on you. His eyes widen slightly, and then he fully pivots in your direction, giving you a clear view of his face.

Simon has scars here but they only add to his features. He is handsome with a strong jaw and prominent nose, and his eyes are a golden brown that remind you of sun rays through amber. The hair on his head is slightly askew from the gentle wind.

"Reverend," greets Simon.

While your husband addresses Shepherd, his gaze is entirely fixed on you. There is no smile, but there isn't a frown. You're unsure of Simon's first impression or what he might be thinking.

"Your wife arrived."

Reverend Shepherd makes you out to be little more than an object. A thing delivered.

"Thank you for escorting her here," replies Simon. "Had I known, I would have fetched her myself."

Reverend Shepherd holds up a hand. "Think nothing of it. The Lord values hard work, and her delivery is but His reward for all you do."

The corner of Simon's mouth twitches. He's still holding on to the axe. "Allow me to see you off, Reverend."

"I can see myself. A blessed day to you, Simon. And to an... easy marriage."

Easy. Obedient. Subservient.

You are to bow your head and grovel at your husband's feet for the rest of your days.

"God go with you, Reverend," replies Simon, taking a step forward in your direction.

The two of you silently watch Reverend Shepherd disappear beyond the cottage and down the path. Neither of you speaks, the air heavy with an unresolved tension. The wind kicks up, and you smell pine. A goat bleats, and you shift on your feet.

"Good morrow, Simon," you murmur, arms tightening around the haversack.

Simon blinks, shoulders relaxing, a warm smiling spreading across his face. It's genuine—full of kindness. Even the edges of his cheeks darken with color.

"Good morrow," he replies. "I—" He glances down at himself. "Forgive me. My appearance is unbecoming. Not how a husband greets his wife upon their first meeting."

You take in all the exposed skin and an itch forms in the tips of your fingers. A carnal desire floods upward, seizing your heart and mind. The urge you feel begs you to touch, to step forward and run your hands over that slick flesh. This man is your husband now. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

The Reverend would beat these thoughts out of you if he could read your mind.

But he cannot. The Good Reverend isn't here.

And your husband is half-undressed and blushing before you.

"Unexpected," you say slowly. "But nice."

His blush deepens.

Perhaps God has sent you someone you can be yourself with. Not completely,as any mention of the voices from the trees or the teeth in the ground would send you straight to a pyre, but someone who might listen. Truly, kindness and patience are all you want. If Simon is that, then you'll be happy.

Flustered further, Simon glances around like he can't quite look at you. Running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, he finally settles, resting the axe against the stump.

"I should bathe," he says, but not in response to you, more like he's simply speaking to the air.

You take a step forward, moving toward him, taking in more of his muscles. It is clear he has not been without. His largeness isn't from hard labor alone. Simon is eating well and often.

"Allow me." In seconds, Simon is before you, hands grasping the haversack.

"Thank you," you murmur softly as he tucks your belongings under his arm like it weighs nothing at all.

"Would you like to stay here? I won't be long."

"Where are you off to?"

Simon heads for the cottage and you follow. "Just on the other side of the fence is a stream."

You glance beyond the fence line. "May I join you?"

Somehow, Simon's face grows brighter. "I—join me?"

"The ship—"

"Of course," he says quickly. "I imagine there are few opportunities to bathe aboard a vessel. Fewer even for privacy."

You follow Simon to the door of the cottage. He enters but you linger a moment, hesitation halting your momentum.

Like a thunderous stampede, reality comes crashing down around you. There is no ship take you back. No mornings spent in the mist. This place is your home now, this man responsible for you until your death or his.

Simon emerges, shirt on but doublet unbuttoned. In his arms is a small basket. "This way," he says with a grin.

At the back of the property, Simon opens up a small gate and leads you to the stream. The forest is just beyond. Now that you're closer to the towering trees, that thrumming from earlier returns, and a sense of gnashing as if a wolf nips at your heels comes with it. Your gaze narrows as a dark shape moves between the trees. It is tall, and at first, you mistake it for another tree. Whispers rise up again, and is that—horns?

"I do not know your name."

You inhale sharply, hand pressed to your chest as Simon holds the small basket in front of him. You tell him, and then glance back at the forest.

"Something amiss?" he asks, matching your stare.

"No—I." You lick your lips. "The forest feels strange."

Simon nods. "It is. Most avoid it."

"Do you?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. Rosie always wanders off. Wish she'd just go down the road to John's but she favors the forest."

"Rosie?"

Simon laughs. "Apologies. Rosie is one of the goats."

"I see," you giggle.

"She’s a sweet thing. Sanderson favors her."

"Is that another goat?" you ask with a smile, reaching back to untie your apron.

"It is. John gave him to me as a kid. Raised him myself. He's a strong buck now. Hates everyone but me." He shrugs, and then leans forward as if to tell you a juicy secret. "Once bit Reverend Shepherd in the arse."

You burst out laughing, and then quickly cover your mouth. "I should not. God will punish me."

Simon's grin is wide and sweet. "In death, maybe. But as your husband, it's my responsibility to punish you."

"And pray tell, what would befit such a punishment?" you tease, undoing the buttons of your waistcoat.

Simon's smile falters, his gaze lingering on your chest. Your waistcoat hangs open, and the ties at the top of your shift are loose, revealing bare skin. Simon swallows, clearly enraptured by this small reveal of flesh.

A nervousness slips in, but it's not fear. A desire swirls low in your belly, a feeling you haven't felt since you were a young woman and a village boy you favored gifted you flowers.

This is your husband. He will know all of you eventually. You will share the same bed and give him as many children as your body is capable of. There is no need to be nervous.

"Simon?" you prompt, removing your waistcoat.

He coughs, clears his throat. "You're correct. The forest is strange. You are not to go in unless I'm with you." His change in demeanor briefly startles you.

"Is it dangerous?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. But folks in town are…fearful of what they don't understand. I don't want—I don't want anyone believing things about you that aren't true."

Witch.

"Why would they?" you whisper.

Witch.

"There's a tree,” continues Simon. “Large. Dark bark. Not like any other tree in the forest. At least none that we've seen. Reverend Shepherd and his wife wanted it cut down. Said it was a sign of the Devil. But Pendle's blacksmith took axe to tree. The blade broke upon impact. Not a scratch on the bark." Simon sighs and offers you soap from the basket. "Rosie tends to wander near it."

"Woods always hold strange things. Might be a nearby plant she likes chewing on."

"Perhaps. But I'll go after her if she does. It's not a place for you."

The water in the stream is incredibly clear, flowing steadily. Simon produces two washing cloths, offering you one before taking his, dipping it into the stream. It is not truly bathing, but it is refreshing, the cool water a calming entity against the slight burning beneath your skin.

There is silence afterward, and once clean, the two of you return to the cottage. Simon shows you your new home, already built to accommodate a family. There is a small barn for the animals, and coop for the chickens. You meet Rosie, an all-white beauty that constantly chews on your apron. Sanderson is big, black beast of a buck with grey horns curled backward and away from his head with eyes so pale they’re almost white.

Sanderson does not bite you, but he follows Simon around the homestead, lightly tapping Simon’s outer thigh with his horn like he wants attention.

The first night—that very night—Simon does not touch you. At least, not at first. He allows you your space, keeping his distance. But he observers silently, his gaze lingering on those flashes of bare skin. There is nothing harmful in his gaze, only a deep appreciation, and a longing you can’t quite place.

From what you were told to prepare you for this moment, you expect Simon to flop on top of you. For you to remain silent and still. To thank him afterward whether or not you enjoyed yourself.

Simon is patient. He is gentle. And above all, kind.

“May I touch you?”

You slip into bed in nothing but your shift. Simon is without, only wearing loose breeches that have seen better years.

You curl up next to Simon, facing him. Reaching out, Simon’s fingers lightly brush the curve of your bottom lip and then your jaw. Descending, his fingers find your throat. Then collarbone. He traces the neckline of your shift, and then his fingers tangle in the ties at the front, pulling them loose until your shift opens further.

“Do I tread too far?” he asks, softly.

His touch is awakening something. You sense a tingling, coiling outward.

“No,” you reply. “Continue.”

Simon’s hand slips between shift and your body. His palm is warm, and then he’s guiding it over one shoulder, exposing it to the cool air. Leaning in, Simon’s lips press to the curve of the joint. It is a small thing, but this one bit of contact causes you to shiver, for the tingling to further travel outward.

As he draws back, you tilt your head. Then it is Simon kissing you, and you accepting him. He is not forceful here. There is no claiming. It is exploration, and you find yourself reaching out, hands gliding over his chest.

He is all hardness, and yet nothing about him terrifies. Strength resides within him, but he is ever so gentle. Taking his time. Savoring.

The shift lowers as Simon pulls it downward. He palms one breast, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

With a soft groan, Simon’s head dips, trailing kisses along your neck, moving over collarbone, descending down until his mouth explores the valley between your breasts, and then further still.

The tingling explodes outward into the tips of your fingers and toes. You are buzzing—the restlessness of the world coming with you.

The shift is over your hips. Down your thighs.

Gone.

Utterly gone.

Your legs part as Simon continues to trail kisses downward. His hands squeeze your thighs, and then he’s kissing you between your legs, lingering there as the buzzing ascends into a crackling that sucks all air from your lungs.

“Simon,” you gasp, fisting his hair.

He abruptly lifts his head, lips shiny in the light of the hearth. “Have I harmed you?”

Harmed you? No. Hardly.

“No,” you gasp. “I—this is unexpected.”

Simon places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning on an elbow. “My understanding came from observing the farm animals.” A small smile spreads across his face. “But after service one Sunday, Reverend Shepherd rounded up all the unwed men. Told us the King was sending us wives.”

“Were you happy when he told you?”

“No,” chuckles Simon, absently stroking your thigh. “I was scared.”

“And now?”

“Still scared.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Simon gives a small shake of his head. “No. I am scared of how my heart feels.” You gently place your hand against his cheek. Simon turns into the touch. “Reverend Shepherd explained. Made this sound like a duty. A chore.” He sighs. “But I do not see how.”

Shifting, Simon drapes himself over you, gaze intense. “My heart is full but my mind is confused. God demands duty but I see no duty here.” He closes the distance, lips brushing over yours. “A wife is not a chore.”

Your fingers find the band of his breeches. They surrender easily under your touch. Legs widening, Simon settles between. There is a small tangle—a clumsy back and forth as the two of you adjust. It stings at first, but quickly fades, leaving you boneless as your bodies meet repeatedly.

You whisper his name, and Simon groans yours.

He shudders, burying his face against your next. Warmth and wetness blooms in your womb. You tangle yourself around him, holding Simon close.

Inside your chest, something cracks. Splits. Fractures.

Part of you believes it is just this moment between husband and wife, but a whisper runs beneath, and a slithering like that of a serpent. The forest is creeping in—pushing in. Making room where there is none.

But it is quick, and it is fleeting.

It is after the first night that the two of you truly begin to explore. Simon starts with simple touches, and you accept them all, wanting to understand to be close to someone. He is happy you’re here with him, and you’re happy to be his.

Unlike the rest of the men in town, Simon listens, and values your opinion. His jokes are terrible, and his willingness to subvert and ignore Reverend Shepherd’s doctrine makes him the pariah. The only time the two of you make it into town is for Sunday service, and while townsfolk are friendly, they don’t interact with him unless they have to.

Between it all, you help out on the farm, tending to the animals, and whispering sweet encouragement to the crops when Simon isn’t looking. They all flourish under your care, the land bountiful and beautiful. When others suffer, you and Simon’s land remains strong and steadfast. He is quick to share in the wealth—to take care of others.

A home is built.

Love flourishes.

And for three years, life is peaceful.

The forest hardly whispers. The teeth do not gnash. There is quiet in the wood, and you see no glance of horns.

Simon's hand rests upon your stomach. He turns on his side, pressing a kiss to a spot just above your navel. As he descends, you playfully shove his head away.

"I cannot," you laugh. "I am sore everywhere."

Simon grins and then pushes up, stealing a kiss before rolling over you and heading to the mantel above the hearth. Retrieving his bible, Simon returns, settling back in beside you. The leather cover is worn in places.

His gaze takes in your nakedness. “Stay like that for me.”

You are uncovered and bare before him. Simon’s seed rests heavy between your thighs.

Opening the bible does not result in reading scripture. Simon picks up a charcoal stick. Turning the bible vertically, Simon starts to sketch.

Neither of you read from it. There is nothing to be read. The pages are covered with Simon’s sketches. Most of them are of you—of pieces of you—even the place that is well-loved even now. There are less lewd images etches across the parchment. All of the animals are there. So is the cottage.

If someone—anyone—were to discover these drawings, they’d blame you.

A hex. A curse. A spell.

You have turned him from God.

But Simon doesn’t think so, and you care not. God has given you nothing but this man. Everything the two of you are is only because of the effort and love the two of you have brought. God did nothing but drop you at Simon’s feet.

You thank Him for it, but nothing else. And if that will send you into hellfire, then that is where you will reside.

In silence, you observe your husband. Simon’s gaze darts from the page to you and back again. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and the middle of his brow is creased with concentration. You remain as you are until he turns the bible around to show you.

There you are, sketched over a page of Leviticus.

“Your talents are lost on farming.”

Simon chuckles and then he closes the bible, placing it upon the small bedside table before returning to you. His hands explore, reaching. Then you're opening again, allowing him in.

Sleep is peaceful, and Simon does not wake you in the morning when he leaves to check on the animals.

It is his firm hand shaking you awake.

“Simon?” You rub at your eyes, yawning.

“Rosie is gone.”

“Again,” you groan, digging around in the bedding to find your discarded shift. “That’s the third time this week, Simon.” Finding it, you slip it over your head, retrieving your stockings.

“Keep finding her near the tree.”

A whisper of a voice brushes against your ear and you swat at it like a pesky fly.

You frown. “All three times?”

Simon sighs, and nods. “I’ll go for a look.” Kissing the top of your head, Simon retrieves his musket. “Be back before supper.”

Simon does not come back before supper.

The food grows cold.

And when it’s entirely dark, and the whispers from the wood become overwhelming, you take a lantern, and rush up to road to John Price’s homestead.

John takes a horse to town. Returns with a small party of men.

“It’s best you not go with us. Won’t know what we’ll find.”

“He’s my husband, John. I’m going.”

With lanterns lit, and hunting dogs are your heels, you enter the woods.

The moon is swallowed up as if eaten by a beast, plunging everything around you into utter darkness. The only light you have is that of your lantern and of the other lanterns carried by the menfolk.

And yet, it does not seem like enough.

The darkness here is eternal, and all around you is a dreadful silence.

“Simon!”

“Can you hear us, Simon!”

The only response is the echoing of your collective voices. No insect buzzing. No owls hoot. Nothing scurries underfoot. Even the leaves and twigs you step on are absent of sound.

The forest is consuming, eating away all noise until the only thing you hear are the thoughts in your head.

At the back of the pack, you do not see the tree. Don’t hear the cries for help.

It isn’t until John is approaching you, urging you away that you know something is wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong.

There are teeth in the New World. Teeth in the ground.

Jaws. A maw.

It has eaten your heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Licked the tips of its fingers.

The forest has devoured. Consumed your husband for a meal.

Reverend Sheperd prays for three days over Simon's body. When he leaves, the women gather around you. Each day, one or two depart, and by the end of the second week, there is no one but you holding vigil.

Simon does not stir though his breathing remains steady. The town likely whispers of the Devil's work, that Simon's long sleep is a curse.

Do they blame you?

Perhaps.

Maybe.

You cannot form enough resolve to care what the townspeople think. If they do blame you, they'd have to drag you from your home by the hair. You’ll draw blood and break bone if anyone attempts to remove you from Simon’s side.

Tucking the blanket in, you curl up next to your husband, cheek resting against his shoulder. He smells of the forest—damp leaves, crushed berries, and sharp pine. Breathing deep, you commit your husband's scent to memory.

Life is a fragile, fickle thing. The thought of growing old here, of giving Simon children, of watching them grow and have families of their own filled you with such purpose again after your father’s betrayal. It is not the future you expected for yourself, but it is the one you’ve found happiness with.

"Come back to me," you murmur, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. They fall, dampening Simon's skin. "Come back, my love. Come back."

Simon remains silent and still.

Night arrives and then departs, bringing the morning with it. No one comes to visit. No one comes to check on either of you. Responsibility is on your shoulders now. Without your guiding hand, the farm will fall into decay, the fencing will rot, weeds will overtake the crops, and animals will starve. A part of you wants to hand it over to God, to allow him to lead.

But God did not protect your husband. He looked away, leaving Simon to his fate.

A deep sigh escapes you, gracing the air with your accepted reluctance. Slowly, you lift your head from Simon's shoulder. He has not changed in these two weeks. Without food or water, Simon should show signs of wasting. But there is no hint there is anything amiss.

"I will fix this," you say, addressing Simon as if he'll answer.

You rest your palm against the side of his face. Warmth radiates from him, but your touch does not rouse him from his sleep.

A sharp howl pierces the air.

It is not a wolf or dog. This sounds like agony. Like despair. Like a dark creature pulling itself from the earth.

Turning abruptly toward the door, every limb solidifies, turning your blood to stone.

Something is out there. Something that does not belong.

Slipping on your shoes, you creep toward Simon's hunting musket. Grasping it, you reach for the blackpower and musket balls, preparing it like Simon showed you. The howl ceases, but your blood remains chilled like morning frost. The hunting musket is heavy, and the sweat in your palms makes holding it difficult. You can hardly keep it upright.

Grasping it, you hold it in the way he showed you, heading for the door. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. Not a sound.

Reaching out, you unlatch the door, guiding it open just enough to point the barrel outward and to glimpse the morning.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves but the tall grass and the corn stalks.

Opening the door wider, you cautiously step outside. Your gaze scans the dirt. No footprints of animal or man.

The air vibrates, and beneath your feet, you sense a creeping static. Tilting your head, you listen—not with your ears but with all your senses, tapping into the ground like your mother taught you.

A tug comes. A gentle pull that lulls your attention leftward.

You take a step in the direction of the feeling, the creeping static intensifying until it suddenly disappears, as if pulled from existence.

"Child." The voice—no, voices—speak with two tongues. "How fares thy husband?"

Turning slowly, you glimpse not man or animal but a combination of the two. The creature stands at nearly twice your height on two cloven hooves. Its head is that of a black goat with red eyes and horns so dark they resemble the night sky. Draped in black robes, and hands clasped in front, you notice they aren't hands at all.

Not human hands, but claws. Talons. Long and spindly like thin twigs.

"Devil," you whisper, because what else could this creature be but a servant of Satan.

The creature only blinks. "To the Good Reverend Shepherd and his flock, I am devil and demon," it says, imitating the voice of the stern religious leader. Switching back to its natural voice, the creature continues. "To others, a guardian. A friend. A god."

You aim the firing end toward the creature. "How do you know of my husband?”

"He came to my tree looking for his goat." The creature’s head cocks to the side as if listening for something. “Rosie. That is the name he called before all went silent.”

The tree.

The one made of dark bark.

The one that breaks the axe on first strike.

"Was it you that harmed him?" you accuse, voice shaking. Sweat pools in your palms, the metal of the musket slippery in your hand.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" it purrs.

“Answer me! Was it you that put hands upon my husband?”

"It is not Godly to accuse thy neighbor of treachery when proof is lacking.”

"But you don't deny it?" you snap.

The creature is silent for a long moment as if frozen in ice. “No,” it finally says. "I did not cull your husband.”

"Who?" When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Who?"

“A man of flesh.”

“Which man?”

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" the creature repeats, the dual voices reverberating in your chest.

“Answer me, demon. Or be gone.”

“Does my appearance offend?” it asks slowly. “You…puritans seem bent on burning.” It unclasps its spindle-fingers. “Would you prefer a change?”

"Whether devil or guardian or beast, my ears do not wish to hear more. Be gone."

"No."

No.

Startled, you hesitate. And then your resolve bleeds back into bone. Raising the weapon higher, you plant your feet into the ground, squaring your shoulders. "I said—"

The creature raises its hand, palm upward, forming a fist. The barrel of the weapon bends skyward. Fires. Smoke and ash fill the air.

Blinded, you cry out, falling upon the ground, arm over your eyes protectively. The musket falls from your arms.

"Again, child," comes its voice—a whisper in your ear. "Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You swing your arm outward and only meet air. With a touch of hysteria, you swipe your arms out and around you, expecting to meet solid flesh.

There is nothing. Nothing.

"Be calm, child. Calm."

Chest heaving, you blink through the pain, searching for the house.

Simon. You need to go to him. To protect him.

The world is in color but it is fuzzy. Unclear. The dirt beneath your palms is rough as you crawl, digging into your skin, stinging until you know blood blooms in the wounds.

"Go away," you whisper. The creature does not answer. "Leave. Leave my husband and I in peace."

As your vision clears, a dark shape steps in front of you. The creature towers, hands outstretched placatingly. "Listen, child. Listen."

"Simon," you whisper, every limb shaking as you try to push yourself up to a seated position.

"God abandoned Simon. Abandoned you."

Your arms give out, and you collapse. With every remaining morsel of resolve, you start to drag yourself through the dirt.

"Simon."

"A shadow darkens your door. Not that of any devil—but of human suspicion. Townsfolk consume gossip like plague consumes a newborn babe."

Dirt collects under your nails.

“Suspicion. Godly suspicion. Devil-spun no doubt but by human tongue.”

You drag yourself a little further.

“Witch.”

“Leave us,” you murmur, voice weak and cracked.

Your vision clears a bit more—the sting receding. It is enough to push up to your knees.

“I hear all,” the creature says. “No wooden board or stone or packed dirt can hide a whispered word.”

Witch.

“There is nothing the Godly despise more than a woman alone in the world.”

Its words cut deep. They tear into you, ripping out the dreaded truth. The townsfolk will lay blame. And what a perfect perpetrator you are. Why would Simon Riley, one of their own flock, befall such a fate unless someone had done it to him.

Witch.

On shaky legs, you face the creature before you. Its red eyes have softened. Pity rests there, and you do not know what to make of it.

The goat head shifts, gaze moving to somewhere within the house. You glance behind you and only see the open door. When you glance back, the creature is gone.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You spin and find the goat standing inside the doorway. He's too large to fit. He's bent in half, peering out at you.

"Get out of my home, demon."

It only blinks, and steps out of view. You rush toward the door, charging inside, finding no one. The room spins as you head for Simon. All you want is to be beside him. If this is a punishment, then so be it, but you will weather it at his side.

Kneeling beside your bed, you grasp Simon’s hand. You bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I'm seeing things, Simon," you whisper.

Spindle-fingers slide over your shoulder, the creature’s palm coming to rest against the joint. It is no hallucination. There is no iciness, but warmth. Not hot—not an inferno as Reverend Shepherd always preaches—but a comforting one. Like a burning hearth in the middle of winter.

Closing your eyes, you listen.

There is no static. What assails your senses is this creature’s age. There are stars and dust in his aura—of sleeping beneath mountains—of a time before trees when there were only teeth.

“I can heal him,” comes its two-toned voice. “Make him whole.”

In this, you hear the truth. There are no lies. The words weave around you, spinning and encasing you like angel wings.

“Pray tell me, stranger. What price for such an offer?”

“Stranger,” muses the creature. “Thou hast named me.”

“What price?” you prompt.

A beat.

“You.”

“Me?”

Stranger bends until it’s crouched next to you. “I shall heal your husband. Ward him from harm and illness. He will live to an old age. Pass peacefully in his sleep.”

“A nice thought,” you murmur, gazing on Simon’s face.

“But in return, you shall come with me.”

You turn to face Stranger. It gazes at you intently, waiting for a response. As you peer into its red depths, something dark—tentacle-like—slithers in the red and promptly disappears.

“I have nothing to offer.”

Removing its twig-like claws from your shoulder, it presses the point of one to your forehead. At contact, the air comes alive, coursing through vein and bone until your skin glows with a deep radiance of brilliant white light.

“A blessing doth dwell,” its two voices sing. The power surges and then recedes as Stranger removes its claw. “Join me. Be my bride. Walk the forests.”

“Agreements are not freely given. I come from a world where the Fae walk. Bargains favor wing and wit. Not mortal flesh.”

“I am Elder,” purrs Stranger. “Trickery is foul tasting.”

“But after you heal him? After I agree to go with you? What then?”

“You shall see him not. Never know his touch. All memory of you will be erased. He nor the townsfolk will remember you. A hint, maybe. A feeling. But it shall always slip away.”

A life without Simon. A life without his gentle touches and drawings by candlelight. You will bear him no children. Never again enjoy the carnal rite that is your most sacred vow.

Yet, he will live.

Simon will thrive.

You detect no deception. The air is still and calm. No tension.

“What must I do?”

Stranger turns and you follow its gaze.

Upon the table is a large book. Ornate. Shiny. Gold-plated. Open.

You swallow. “I’m…poor with my letters.”

“It needs not names but blood. Just a drop.” Stranger elongates. Still too small for the space, it bends its upper half to accommodate, its back scraping against the ceiling. “Sign the book,” he prompts.

“Forgive me, Simon.”

Pressing your lips to the back of Simon’s hand, you send forth a silent prayer. Pushing up, and leaning over him, you place a second kiss to his forehead. You breathe him in, infusing the memory until it resembles vines, tangling the essence of Simon into your brain.

Retreating, you offer up your palm, splaying your fingers in extension.

Stranger gently takes it, bringing it over the golden book.

Pointed claw meets human flesh.

A sharp sting.

A pause.

A bead of blood wells.

Hovering. Hovering.

Then—

The dark bead lingers on the blank page.

Silence.

And then a sucking sound as the parchment absorbs the blood.

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shixcherie · 2 months ago

Text

Gut Feelings Got Me Here (pt.1) | Song Mingi ☆

◂◂ Part one of Little Miss Strategist series ▸▸

~ ~ call me chérie ☆

Navigation | Kinktober List | Little Miss Strategist series (coming soon...)

☆ Day 28 : Impact Play

↬ [ Synopsis ] : As a princess, you were not accustomed to hearing “NO” from anyone in the kingdom. That changed when you had your first encounter with Mingi, the royal sculptor, whose silent, mysterious, and dark personality drew you in like a curious kitten. Will curiosity kill this kitten, or will a love so powerful emerge from all the painfully pleasurable and torturous intimacy that even death itself would step aside?

☆Word Count : 11.6k (yup, i went fucking overboard..sry ;P) ☆Genre : Smut with alot of plot, Angst, Royal Au, Historical Au. ☆Pairing : Royal Sculptor! Mingi x Youngest Princess! F.Reader

☆☆☆ WARNINGS : mdni!, Historical setting, Pure Smut(18+), some royal-ish plot, impact play, Reader is masochist while Mingi is sadistic, pain play, angsty atmosphere, knife usage (mild), mentions of blood, Mingi is holding a secret , bondage, use of bondage gear, oral (ffem recieving), Mingi is tough nut to crack, reader is a menace but quite intelligent (when the situation demands), praise, pet names ( darling, little princess, honey) mentions of traumatic past, deadly royal punishments, self submission, pain play, nipple play, something secret plans are being carried out against the royal family.

NOTE : Yes… I’m going to continue and complete Kinktober, even though we’re way past the 31st. I really want to finish this challenge and not leave it incomplete, so I hope ma chéries will enjoy this royal love between a princess and the royal sculptor.

p.s: I was gonna post this on 15th nov but then my brain went "no no no...add more stuff!" so i-uhh well..fucking did that and now its kinda super duper long.

↬ Also, turning this into a mini series cuz I cannot for the sake of my freaking life write a plot heavy one shot..so hope you will become a part of this mini series. Enjoy ma chéries.

The grand hall glowed under the soft light of lanterns wrapped in red and gold silk, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. Ornate wooden screens, carved with intricate dragons and phoenixes lined the walls, while tall pillars adorned with lotus flowers and mythical creatures stretched up toward the ceiling. The faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine lingered in the air, carried by the smoke of incense burning in bronze holders.

Members of the court gathered quietly, their rich robes were a sea of deep greens, dark blues, and royal reds, each shimmering with golden and silver embroidery.

All eyes were fixed on the man in the center of the room, the royal sculptor, Song Mingi. The fifth-generation sculptor of the Song lineage knelt on a woven mat, working carefully on a block of marble. With each tap of his chisel, he carved a likeness of your mother, the Empress. His movements were slow and deliberate, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

Seated near the front, you tried to maintain a composed expression, though your patience was starting to wear thin. Art could be beautiful, yes, but this endless tapping and chiseling ? It felt tedious, even unnecessary. You had far more interest in the kingdom’s politics and the strategies behind running the empire. The court’s art was all well and good, but it wasn’t what you spent your time studying.

You glanced at your father, the Emperor, dressed in indigo royal robe embroidered with golden dragons. His expression was one of complete absorption, as if he had no other thought in the world.

“What an exquisite talent,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying through the hall.

Beside him, your eldest brother, Chan, nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on Mingi. “Indeed, Father. Each stroke reveals more than just an image. It’s as if he’s capturing mother’s essence.”

Your mother, the Empress, wore a faint smile, her hair pinned with golden lotus-shaped pins that shimmered in the warm light. Her expression softened as she gazed upon the developing sculpture. “To see beyond the stone… It takes more than just talent,” she remarked. “It’s rare to find an artist who can capture not just a face, but the spirit within.”

Another tap of the chisel. You fought the urge to sigh. It’s just a statue, you thought. Why does it need all this reverence or this much silence?

The Emperor leaned forward, his voice both commanding and gentle. “Mingi,” he called, drawing the sculptor’s attention. “You capture the likeness with great skill. But tell me, what is it that inspires you ?”

There was a slight pause before Mingi looked up from his work, meeting the Emperor’s gaze. His expression was unreadable, the lines of his face set in a stoic mask. His deep voice was low, but steady. “Your Majesty,” he replied, “the Empress’s strength and loyalty to the kingdom… these are what guide my hand. Only by capturing the heart behind the face can the sculpture come to life.”

Another long pause, and Mingi returned to his chisel, not showing the slightest sign of being affected by the royal presence. You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Strength, loyalty, heart… How dramatic, you thought, tapping your fingers restlessly against the chair.

If I had that much time on my hands, I could come up with something more exciting to focus on, like the political affairs in the council.

Your father’s voice cut through the stillness again, his tone suddenly darker, though you paid little attention to the words. “Mingi,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “you have until the end of the month to finish. I trust you understand the importance of the deadline.”

You didn’t hear the slight tightening of Mingi’s jaw, nor did you notice the brief flicker in his gaze. You were far too absorbed in your own thoughts, eyes glazing over as you glanced around the room, your patience stretching thin.

Another chisel tap. Another pause. You sighed, tapping your fingers lightly against the armrest of your chair.

How much longer could this go on ?

Mingi’s voice, calm and composed, replied in a steady rhythm, “Yes, Your Majesty. I understand.”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier with the exchange, a subtle shift that you couldn't quite place, but you remained too disinterested to care.

Your gaze wandered over the court members, the lavish tapestries, and the flickering lanterns, anything to distract you from the monotony of this sculpting demonstration. Your mother, beside you, seemed content enough, her gaze soft as she watched the work take shape. Your father, too, was absorbed, his eyes locked on the sculptor.

Why can’t they just see it for what it is ? you thought. A statue. A simple statue. What’s all the fuss about ?

You shifted in your seat, supressing a yawn as you leaned back. The tension in the room was palpable, but it had no effect on you. Whatever hidden meaning there was in your father’s words didn’t matter,not when the only thing you could focus on was the mind-numbing repetition of Mingi’s chisel.

The Emperor’s next words were softer, quieter, and you almost didn’t hear them. “Make sure you do not fail,” he said, his gaze lingering on Mingi, the weight of the statement settling into the silence.

Mingi responded with another brief, “I will not fail.”

The room returned to its tense stillness, but you were still lost in your own boredom, oblivious to the gravity of the exchange. It was a moment that would have been heavy with meaning for anyone paying attention, but to you, it was just another moment in an endless sea of dull ones.

Chan noticed, a quiet chuckle slipping from him. Leaning toward you, he whispered, “Finding this all a bit dull, little sister?”

You shot him a wry smile, grateful for the distraction. “Is it that obvious ? I mean, I don’t see how you and Father find all this so thrilling.”

Chan raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Art is more than just entertainment. Discipline, focus… there’s beauty in it.”

You tried to look thoughtful but knew you probably just looked bored. “Maybe. But why does he have to be so serious ? It’s just a statue.”

Your mother’s soft voice caught you off guard. “One day, my dear, you may find that focus and patience are beautiful in their own right. There is a quiet power in restraint.”

You gave her a polite nod, but inside, you couldn’t help but disagree. Your gaze returned to Mingi, who was still working with that infuriatingly stoic expression, seemingly oblivious to the admiration around him. It was as though he existed on another plane, one where he didn’t feel the need to acknowledge anyone watching him. He was as much a part of the stone as he was its sculptor. Hard, unmoved, and silent.

You slumped back in your seat, determined to endure this as best you could. But for all your efforts to ignore him, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity.

Who was this man, this royal sculptor, who could stand so unmoved before the royal family ?

As soon as the sculpting session concluded, you leapt from your seat, eager for a more exciting ways to spend your time. A group of maids hurried after you, struggling to keep up as you moved from room to room, as each maid follow behind you. They whispered gentle protests as you made your rounds, but they knew better than to try stopping you. Even when they did, you always managed to slip past them with a playful grin on your face which was both charming and unstoppable.

Being the youngest of the three royal children, you were treated with an abundance of care, and no request that left your lips was ever refused. As the Emperor’s darling little princess, you were never burdened with any royal duties. You were your mother’s most precious child, especially since you had been born premature and required constant attention from the very beginning. This made your parents cherish you even more.

Though all this love and attention spoiled you, it also motivated to gain knowledge in various fields. Growing up, you observed your eldest brothers, Chan and Minho, as they became powerful figures. Chan, the Crown Prince, was groomed to rule, while Minho served as the Kingdom’s general, leading the army at the northern borders of your vast kingdom.

As their baby sister, you were showered with love and affection, and they never hesitated to help you with your studies.

Breezing from one room to room, nothing seemed to peak your interest until you reached the royal kitchen, where two of your favorite chefs , Wooyoung and Yunho were engrossed in preparing the dessert for the royal banquet.

The smell of sweet pastries and savory stews filled the air while Yunho and Wooyoung were absorbed in their work, carefully arranging fruit tarts and custard buns on silver trays. As you tiptoed up behind them, your maids tried to hold you back, whispering, “Princess, please, the chefs are busy preparing for the banquet…”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” you said brightly, startling Wooyoung so much that he almost sent the whipped cream flying.

“Princess!” he gasped, clutching his chest. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

“Oh, Wooyoung, you’re too jumpy,” you laughed, sneaking a finger into a bowl of honeyed custard. “And who could resist all these treats ?”

Yunho gave you a playful glare. “And there goes the custard,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You’ll spoil your appetite before dinner, princess.”

“Not if I keep it a secret from everyone,” you replied slyly, reaching for a spoonful of candied fruit.

With mock horror, Wooyoung moved to block the tray of ingredients. “No, no, no! You’ve already sabotaged half our desserts!”

You leaned in close, smirking. “Not my fault, its just that my favorite chefs make the best deserts in the world that I can’t contain myself.”

Yunho chuckled and shook his head. “Remind me never to let you in here while we’re working.” He tried to shoo you out, but you swiped one last piece of fruit, grinning triumphantly as you left the kitchen, their playful grumbles reaching your ears as you walked to the banquet with your maids trailing behind as they sighed at your antics.

The royal banquet in evening was a grand success, with the chefs’ culinary creations earning well-deserved praise. You swarmed through the crowd, exchanging warm greetings with friends and royal guests from neighboring kingdoms. All the while, you felt Chan’s watchful gaze on you, ensuring you wouldn't try any mischief in the midst of the gathering.

As you savored the delicious food, your eyes landed on Mingi, the royal sculptor who was standing a corner, but he was not alone. He was deep in conversation with an elderly man who looked to be a high-ranking official. The discomfort on Mingi’s face was unmistakable, and there was a hint of fear in his eyes as he listened to the older man. His hands fidgeted nervously, confirming your suspicions.

What is wrong with him ? Who is that official ? Why does he look so scared ?

Your thoughts were interrupted and your feet lifted off the ground, when your second brother, Minho, swooped you up into his arms. You gasped, playfully swatting at his shoulder.

“Brother!” you gasped, squirming in his grip. “When did you get back ? And put me down, would you ? What kind of behavior is this ?”

Minho only laughed, ignoring your protests as he carried you effortlessly through the crowd. “What, no warm welcome for your favorite brother ?”

“You’re the general, for heaven’s sake!” you huffed, still trying to wriggle free.

But your attempts were futile as Minho simply laughed and carried you through the crowd, drawing amused glances from nearby guests who were well-accustomed to his playful antics. He winked at you before delivering you directly to your mother, where the two of you were swept into the flow of conversation with family and friends.

The concerning thoughts about Mingi faded to the back of your mind as night settled around you.

—

The next day you embarked on another one of your side quest. On your way you passed Mingi’s sculpting chamber, he was carefully chipping and giving a shape to yet another statue. His face as usual was stoic, giving away no emotion as he engrossed in his work.

As you were about to leave for the training grounds, a small scar on his hand caught your eye, it was definitely from working on the sculptor. Suddenly his scared face from the yesterday’s banquet flashed infront of your face as you slip into deep thoughts.

Why be soo serious and engrossed in a work of this sort where you don’t even have time to take care of yourself ? You thought before making your way to the training grounds.

Carefully skipping the Apothecary in the way, where the royal doctor Yeosang, who also happens to be your master who taught you medicine was busy working with some herbs. Quietly, you slipped out to the training grounds, where San and Jongho, your brother Minho’s right-hand men, were practicing their sword skills.

Their movements sharp and focused, their wooden practice swords clacking as they clashed. As you approached,your maids came running to you, whispering, “Princess, it’s dangerous…” You thought you had sneakily escaped their watchful eyes.

“Go easy on him, Jongho! He’s not used to winning!” you cheered from the sidelines.

San’s face twisted in a mixture of shock and slight annoyance as he looked over his shoulder. “Princess! Are you here to distract us or give encouragement?”

“Oh, I’m here to keep things interesting,” you replied, grinning.

Jongho chuckled and gestured for you to join. “How about you, Princess ? Want to show us your swordsmanship ?”

You raised your hands, laughing. “I wouldn’t want to kingdom in your safe hands”

You clapped your hands, watching as the two resumed their practice, but you couldn’t help tossing out little comments to keep them on their toes. “Jongho, don’t let San get the better of you! And San, maybe try not falling for the same move twice?”

San sighed in mock defeat. “I’d be doing so much better if I didn’t have a certain royal running commentary,” he muttered, though the glint in his eyes said he didn’t mind one bit.

As they resumed their sparring, the faint smile did not leave their lips despite their best efforts to focus. The maids behind you exchanged worried looks, but they knew better than to interrupt. They could only sigh as you moved on to go back to your chambers in order to do your daily studies.

On the way to your chambers, you noticed the royal apothecary doors were open, and with Yeosang nowhere in sight, you welcomed yourself inside despite your maids’ protests urging you to go back to your room.

After about thirty minutes, you emerged from the apothecary, casually wiping your hands clean. Just then, you heard a familiar voice behind you.

“Princess,” Yeosang’s calm yet stern tone stopped you in your tracks. You turned, attempting an innocent smile as he raised an eyebrow at you. “And where were you today instead of attending our teaching session ?”

“Oh… umm… I was just studying in the library,” you replied, attempting to sound convincing. “Librarian Seonghwa gave me a few books about political alliances and strategies… so…” You tried to keep a straight face, concealing the fact that you had actually been at the training grounds with San and Jongho.

Your maid sighed behind you, which caught Yeosang’s attention, but he let it go this time.

Yeosang’s gaze narrowed as he looked at the apothecary, then back at you. “And what exactly were you doing inside the apothecary?”

“Oh… well, I was just… um… looking for some rare herbs…umm.. for tea! Yes, I wanted to surprise my mother with a new blend,” you replied, hoping it sounded convincing.

Yeosang’s expression softened slightly. “Alright. That’s good. But try not to skip the class again,” he said, his tone both kind and unwavering.

With a sheepish nod, you promised to be there next time before making a quick escape.

Meanwhile, far from the apothecary, Mingi sat in his sculpting chamber. A small jar of ointment had arrived, sealed with the royal doctor’s distinctive stamp. Attached was a short note, instructing him on how to apply it to reduce scarring.

Mingi turned the jar in his hands, his brow furrowing as he wondered who could have sent it, especially with such precise instructions. Deciding not to question the gesture, he applied the ointment to his scarred hand, feeling a faint relief as the cool medicine soothed his skin. Setting the jar aside, he resumed his work, his usual stoic focus slowly returning.

—

Next morning, the palace courtyard bustled with the lively early morning activity, sunlight filtering through the trees and casting long shadows on the stone path. You were just moments away from the library for your morning session with Seonghwa, the royal librarian and your master who taught you royal etiquettes, when a familiar voice cut through the air.

You stopped in your tracks and turned to see a frowning Minister Hongjoong and your brother Minho who was lounging in a chair with a smug grin on his face. A finished chess game board rested between them.

“Well, if it isn’t our little strategist,” Hongjoong greeted, his tone light but laced with frustration. His brow was furrowed in a mix of annoyance and amusement, clearly because Minho had bested him again.

You greeted them both, and Hongjoong glanced at the chessboard between them, shaking his head. “That’s eight matches, and eight losses. I’m beginning to think your brother is impossible to beat.”

Minho smirked, leaning back in his chair with a confident grin. “Impossible ? Not at all, Minister. Maybe you just need someone who won’t make it so difficult for you.” He glanced at you with a teasing gleam in his eye. “My sister, perhaps ?”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Your sister ? Do you really think she'd be an easier challenge?"

Minho laughed softly, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’m pretty sure she’ll be just as much of a handful as me, but who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky."

Hongjoong’s eyes sparkled with challenge as he turned to you. “Oooooh ? Is that so ? Well then, Princess, how about a match?”

“I’m so sorry, Minister Hongjoong, but I have to be in the library. Master Seonghwa will be very angry if I skip the lesson,” you tried to excuse yourself.

But Hongjoong pressed, “I’ll speak with Seonghwa, don’t worry, Princess Y/n. Defeat me, and I’ll grant you three wishes of your choosing.”

“Three wishes ?” you repeated, lifting an eyebrow as you exchanged a glance with Minho, whose smirk widened at the challenge.

Minho chuckled softly, thoroughly entertained. “Oh, don’t worry, Minister. It’ll be over in minutes. Today your luck seems extra bad with chess.”

Hongjoong’s pride flared at Minho’s words, and his smile sharpened. “Perhaps you are too confident in your sister’s abilities. I won’t make it easy.”

Minho leaned in, his voice thick with playful mockery. “Don’t go easy on her, Hongjoong. It’ll make it all the more fun when she beats you.”

The gauntlet was thrown, and there was no turning back now. You took a steady breath and nodded, accepting the challenge.

“Alright, three wishes if I win,” you agreed as your pulse quickened. The game began with the pieces set on the board.

As the game unfolded, Hongjoong’s moves were calculated, each one sharp and deliberate, his gaze never wavering. You matched his intensity, your mind working at its full speed, weighing every possibility.

But as you considered your next move, something caught your attention.

Across the courtyard, Mingi stood in quiet conversation with the same high-ranking official you had seen at the banquet. His posture was tense, his usually stoic expression strained, and the exchange between them seemed uneasy like something was off. Mingi’s hands fidgeted, and the official leaned in close, his words low and firm. Mingi’s eyes flicked away, his jaw clenched before he nodded reluctantly.

Your heart skipped a beat. Why does he look so unsettled ? The uneasy feeling you’d dismissed at the banquet two nights ago resurfaced, gnawing at you as you watched him, unaware of Minho’s watchful gaze on you, as your eyes lingered on the royal sculptor.

“Princess ?” Hongjoong’s voice cut through, drawing you back to the game. His brow was furrowed, waiting for your move.

You focused back on the board, shaking off the unease that had distracted you, and locked into the game again. The moves began to fall into place, and soon Hongjoong’s defenses started to crack. His confidence wavered as the pieces shifted in your favor.

It was clear that Hongjoong had no chance of winning now. His gaze hardened while Minho chuckled beside you. With swift precision, you moved your bishop into place, trapping his king in the corner, making it impossible for him to escape.

“Checkmate,” you said softly, meeting the Minister’s gaze, victory twinkling in your eyes.

Hongjoong stared at the board, disbelief flashing across his face. Minho burst into laughter, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, completely unfazed.

“See, Minister ? I told you it’d be over in minutes,” he teased, his grin wide. “Looks like my little sister knows a thing or two after all.” He reached over to gently ruffle your hair as he admired your game.

Hongjoong managed a faint chuckle, though the blow to his pride was clear. “Well played, Princess. I seem to have underestimated you,” he said.

Minho didn’t miss a beat. “Better luck next time, Hongjoong,” he teased. “Perhaps you should find a gentler opponent next time.”

Hongjoong gave a rueful smile. “I’ll remember that, General.” he muttered. “And as promised, Princess, three wishes are yours to command. Use them wisely.”

As Hongjoong walked away, Minho leaned in with a grin, his voice low but amused. “Impressive work,” he murmured. “Just don’t ask for anything too easy. Okay?”

You smiled slyly in return. “I’ll make of that.”

But as Hongjoong disappeared into the distance, your gaze drifted back to where Mingi had stood. The unease that had been creeping up on you during the game returned, stronger now. There was something more to his conversation with the official, something you didn’t fully understand.

What was going on? And why did Mingi seem so unsettled? More importantly, why am I so concerned about him anyways ?

In the evening, after finishing your studies and wrapping up the day's tasks, you decided to take a stroll through the garden. The evening sky had begun to change, painted with soft oranges and purples as you savored the peacefulness that came with the beautiful sunset, with no maids trailing behind you. It was just you and the cool evening breeze, uninterrupted.

As you wandered, your gaze fell upon Mingi’s sculpting chamber, tucked away in a quiet corner of the palace. You had often wondered what went on behind its stone walls, curious about the man who worked in such isolation. Mingi rarely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, and seemed detached from the world around him.

You’d seen him pass by occasionally, his usually calm expression betraying nothing of the thoughts that lay beneath.

What was it that made him so distant ?

You had heard nothing concrete, but sometimes, when you caught him in a rare moment of vulnerability, there was an almost visible tension around him. It was as if there was a weight on his shoulders, as if something inevitable that he couldn’t escape was waiting for him. He was always buried in his work, meticulously carving away at his sculptures for the royal family and higher-ups.

But tonight, something felt different. A strange impulse stirred within you to check up on him, to see how he was doing. You knew he had been working tirelessly for days, never leaving the chamber except to eat or sleep, and you couldn’t help but wonder if the toll was starting to show.

Was his hand okay ? Has he eaten yet ? Why am I even concerned about him ? He never interested me in the first place, nor is sculpting any of my passions, so… why am I concerning myself with such trivial matters ? You brushed the thoughts off, thinking it was your doctor instincts kicking in.

With a steady breath, you approached the chamber door and pushed it open.

The air in Mingi’s workshop was thick with the scent of freshly carved stone and the faint scent of sweat from hours of labor. The light was dim, casting long shadows that stretched across the cold floor, making the room feel both alive and suffocating at the same time.

He stood at his workbench, eyes focused on the figure he was sculpting, the chisel in his hand moving with the kind of precision that only comes from years of practice.

But as always, he was alone.

You watched him for a moment, standing quietly in the doorway. There was something about him. Something so mysterious, withdrawn, that made you wonder why he kept so much to himself. The rumors swirled, of course, but none gave you a concrete reason for his strange demeanor.

You couldn’t stand it anymore.

And your curiosity got the better of you.

“Are you always this quiet ?” you asked, your voice breaking the silence as you stepped into the room. You didn’t wait for an invitation as there was something about him that made you want to push, to question, even if it irritated him.

Mingi didn’t flinch. His chisel paused mid-stroke, but his eyes didn’t shift toward you. The only acknowledgment was the briefest tightening of his jaw, a hint of irritation that quickly disappeared.

“I don’t need company nor do I like talking.” he said flatly, not looking up. His voice was deep and rough, the words blunt, as though he had said them a thousand times before. There was a coldness in them that sent a chill through you, but it only piqued your curiosity more.

“But why ? You’re always alone. Always working.” You moved closer, your voice soft but insistent. “Why do you keep to yourself like this ?”

There was a flicker in his eyes before he turned to face you fully. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and intense. The room seemed to shrink, the weight of his stare pressing down on you, almost suffocating.

“Because it’s none of your business,” he said, his voice sharp, as though he’d spoken those words many times to keep others at bay.

You weren’t satisfied. Something in you itched to know more, to unravel the mystery behind his detached behavior. “I don’t buy that,” you said, your voice rising ever so slightly. “Everyone has a reason. What’s yours ? Why do you act like this ?”

“I just hate people.” Another one of his dry and sassy replies.

“How’s your hand ?” you asked, a slight concern in your tone as as your eyes flickered to his hand.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he replied slightly taken about by how you know about it but soon his voice went flat again. He rubbed the scared spot which seemed fine now but nervousness was evident in his body language as you mentioned his hands.

You caught it, the way his hand had trembled ever so slightly. His composure slipped, just for a moment, and that was enough to make you press harder.

“You don’t look fine,” you said, stepping closer, eyes narrowing at the sight of the cloth wrapped around his hand, a different spot from the scar though. “What’s going on with your hands, Mingi ?”

His jaw clenched tightly at your question, and for a split second, the room seemed to hold its breath. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words, and then he stepped closer, blocking your view of his hand entirely.

“Please leave, Princess.” he warned, his voice low, dangerous.

But you didn’t listen. You stepped forward, your curiosity ignoring the obvious warning. “You’ve been hiding it, haven’t you? Your hands, what’s wrong with them ? I am studying medicine, maybe I can help.”

His eyes darkened, the usual calm of his demeanor replaced with a cold, calculating glare as his tone went a notch up. “I told you to leave. No one can help. So let me do my work.”

Hmm…what does he mean by “No one can help” ?

His words hit like a slap, but you didn’t back down. Instead, you watched as the muscles in his neck tightened, his posture stiffening. You couldn’t quite place it, but something was eating at him, something far deeper than just the isolation he had wrapped around himself.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on ? Maybe I can help, you know I can talk to my father if someone is bothering you.” you said, your voice steady now, defying the uneasy feeling that crept through you as you refered to the higher up you had seen him with in the mroning.

The tension in the room grew unbearable, and with a sudden, violent motion, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into him. His grip was so tight it nearly crushed you as you both stood chest to chest, pressing as your heart skipped a beat. His eyes were wild now, filled with a fury you hadn’t expected.

“You should’ve left when I told you,” he growled, his voice low, deep, and raspy. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Your breath caught in your throat at the heat of his anger, but you weren’t afraid. No, something darker stirred within you, something drawn to the rawness in his eyes, the power in his grip. It was a strange, almost magnetic force, something you hadn’t felt before.

You barely had time to register the position you both were in when something cold touched your skin, a knife against your throat, the cold steel barely grazing your skin.

“Don’t test me, Princess,” Mingi said, his voice almost a whisper, but it sent a shiver down your spine. “I won’t hesitate.”

The shock of the moment hit you harder than you expected as you stood there frozen, eyes locked onto his, the world around you fading, and it wasn’t just fear that kept you in place,it was something else.

Something thrilling. A craving, maybe. To be handled like this, with power, with rawness….with anger which was a stark contrast to how you were oh so gently taken care of by everyone around you.

“You’re playing with fire,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you stared at the knife. “Do it. I’m not afraid.”You challenged him wanting to see how far he is going to go.

But for a long, tense moment, Mingi didn’t move. His gaze never left yours, the silence in the room suffocating.

Giving him a smirk, you moved your neck slightly as the knife gave a small slit on your neck and blood spurted out, nothing dangerous enough to kill you but enough to make Mingi pull the knife away as his eyes widened at the crazy act you just pulled, his grip loosening on your wrist though the soft and concerning flicker of emotion that was in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by you but he soon composed himself into the stoic and cold god he is.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold again as he recovered from slight shock you just gave him.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t argue. You turned and walked out of the workshop, your heart racing in your chest, your mind swirling with the intensity of the moment. You had pushed him too far, and yet, you hadn’t felt more alive than you did right now. You fingers ran on your neck smearing the blood off. If your maids or anyone else see it, chaos would unfold which you not hoping to cause.

Walking towards your chambers, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Mingi’s silence than you had realized, a secret you were fully sure he was hiding the after witnessing the softness in his eyes, even for a brief moment, it was enough to pull you into his dark world.

What was he hiding ? Is anyone bothering him ? And why did the knife on my throat make my heart race… with thrill ? Did I like it, his anger, his rawness…why am I suddenly admiring such negative traits ?

—

After that night in Mingi’s chamber, you found yourself avoiding him. It wasn’t intentional, but your feelings were too tangled to face him. His dark aura, intense and commanding, had a magnetic pull. The way he handled you, in such raw and unflinching way was a stark contrast to the gentleness you were used to, leaving an impression you couldn’t shake.

Yeosang and Seonghwa tightened your schedule, leaving no room for wandering thoughts. Still, you noticed Mingi’s absence.

When you asked, Minister Hongjoong mentioned he’d gone home for urgent family matters. The news left an unexpected ache in your chest, but you pushed it aside, telling yourself it didn’t matter.

Yet, no matter how busy you kept yourself, thoughts of Mingi lingered. His raw presence had stirred something deep within you, something real but unsettling. It made you question everything you knew about your desires, even though you didn’t fully understand why.

So, you buried your feelings and focused on your studies, too afraid to confront them.

After a long day full of tasks, you found yourself in the library, hoping to find some peace among the books. Going near Mingi’s sculpting chamber would only make you think about him, and you weren’t ready for that yet. As you wandered through the shelves, trying to distract yourself, Hongjoong appeared, his footsteps soft but noticeable. He greeted you warmly, but his sharp eyes quickly caught the sadness in your expression.

"Is something troubling you Princess ?" he asked, his voice was gentle.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to share. Your thoughts were tangled, and you weren’t sure if it was wise to speak about what had been bothering you. You hadn’t fully understood it yourself, let alone said it aloud. Finally, you spoke carefully, leaving out the incident with the knife, unsure how to explain the confusion inside your head.

"It’s... Mingi," you said softly. "There’s something about him, the way he keeps his distance, his coldness... It’s not just how he acts. It feels like there’s more to it. I can’t shake the feeling that something happened to him, and I’m curious. What’s his story ?"

Hongjoong paused, thinking before speaking. "Mingi’s... been through a lot," he said carefully. "His family’s past is not something people talk about. But it’s shaped him. It’s a heavy burden he doesn’t show."

You nodded, trying to take it in. Hongjoong’s gaze softened, but he didn’t say more. You understood—he wasn’t going to share everything, at least not yet. Some things were better left unsaid until the right time.

Then, Seonghwa entered quietly, sensing the mood. He smiled softly, his eyes full of understanding as he spoke. "I see you’ve been thinking about Mingi a lot," he said. "What’s got you so curious ? You’ve never seemed interested before."

You faltered, not sure how to explain. Why had you suddenly been so affected by him ? You didn’t even understand it yourself. The more you thought about Mingi, the more unsettled you felt.

"I... don’t know," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just feel like there’s something beneath all that coldness. Something that makes sense, but I can’t figure it out. I... I just want to understand him better. Just out of curiosity. You know how I am with that, Master Seonghwa.”

As you spoke, you felt a strange warmth in your chest, something you couldn’t quite place. You didn’t want to admit it, but a part of you was becoming more drawn to him, even though you weren’t sure why.

Was it pity ? Curiosity ? Or something deeper you weren’t ready to face ?

Seonghwa simply nodded as he was fully aware of how engrossed you become when you get curious about something but his gaze stayed on you, full of quiet understanding, and Hongjoong didn’t press further.

For now, they accepted your answer.

But as the conversation ended, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mingi wasn’t just a distant figure anymore. He had somehow crept under your skin, leaving you more curious and maybe more invested than you wanted to admit.

—

Next morning, after breakfast, you went to find your brother, Minho, who was busy sorting through a stack of papers in the royal study. He glanced up when you entered, his brow furrowing slightly. Even before you spoke, you could tell he wasn’t going to like what you were about to ask.

“Minho,” you started, trying to sound casual, “I was hoping I could get your permission to visit Mingi’s sculpting chamber today.”

He looked up fully, his expression wary. “Mingi?” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “What for?”

You hesitated briefly, then gave your prepared excuse. “There’s a figurine Mother received from Mingi’s father. It’s cracked, and it’s very delicate. I was hoping he could repair it. His skills are unmatched—I don’t think anyone else could do it properly.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’re asking to go alone, to Mingi, of all people?” His tone was light, but there was something sharp underneath it.

You smiled, trying to appear unfazed. “Yes, it’s nothing to worry about. I just need to handle this. I’ll be careful.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his eyes scanning your face. “Fine. But if anything happens—”

“I’ll be fine,” you said quickly. “Besides, you’re in charge of the kingdom right now with Chan and Father away. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Minho paused, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he nodded reluctantly. “Alright, I’ll allow it. But be careful. Mingi is... unpredictable.” His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push the issue.

With his reluctant permission, you left the room, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach.

The royal carriage rolled to a stop in front of Mingi's home, its wheels grinding against the gravel with a soft crunch. You stepped out, feeling the weight of your decision pressing down on you. The air around you was still, and the quiet seemed too loud, almost deafening in its silence.

"Wait here for me at the corner of the road," you told the carriage driver, your voice was more serious than usual. "It might take a while."

The driver nodded, his face unreadable, and the carriage slowly rolled away, leaving you standing infront of of Mingi's property. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts, and made your way towards the door.

The door creaked open, revealing Mingi, his tall, broad frame filling the doorway. His dark eyes locked on you, their gaze sharp and assessing, but he said nothing at first. Behind him, the room was a befitting image of organisational chaos with sculpting tools scattered across a workbench, shards of marble dusted over the floor, and half-finished sculptures looming in various stages of creation.

“You came about the figurine,” Mingi said at last, his deep voice steady and calm.

Before visiting, you had sent him a letter, letting him know of your arrival. You waited for a few hours, expecting a refusal, but no reply ever came. That silence was all the answer you needed, and so you set out for his home.

“Yes,” you replied, holding out the small sculpture. It was a fragile piece, an intricate bird with its wings outstretched. “It’s my mother’s favorite. She would be heartbroken if it couldn’t be restored.”

Mingi stepped aside to let you in, his expression softening just slightly as he took the figurine from your hands. He turned it over carefully, his long fingers brushing along the cracked base and the damaged wing.

“It can be fixed,” he murmured, setting it down on the workbench. “The damage isn’t beyond repair, but it’ll take precision.”

You watched as he began gathering tools, his movements were methodical while his focus was intense. For the first time, he wasn’t keeping you at arm’s length. His quiet acknowledgment of your presence, of your request felt like a crack in the wall he had carefully built around himself.

“You’re truly gifted,” you said, your voice was barely above a whisper.

Mingi paused for a second, his fingers hovering over the delicate tools. “It’s not a gift,” he replied, his tone was thoughtful and gentle. “Just years of practice. Anyone could do it.”

“I doubt that,” you countered softly, catching a flicker of something in his expression — pride, perhaps, or even gratitude.

The moment was short-lived though.

Mingi’s shoulders tensed as his gaze snapped to the window. Following his line of sight, you spotted a figure striding toward the house with purpose. The official.The same one you had seen Mingi with in the banquet and during your chess match with Minister Hongjoong.

Mingi cursed under his breath, turning back to you with urgency in his eyes. “Hide. Now.”

“What ? Why ?”

“No time for questions.” His tone left no room for argument as he grabbed your arm and pulled you toward a door at the far end of the room. He opened it quickly, shoving you inside before shutting it firmly behind you.

You stumbled slightly, steadying yourself on the wall, and froze as you looked around.

The room was dimly lit, shadows flickering over walls lined with tools. Whips hung neatly alongside polished canes, their leather and wood gleaming faintly. Paddles of various shapes rested in perfect order, while chains with cuffs dangled from iron hooks. A dark wooden cross stood against one wall, its straps and buckles leaving no doubt about its use. Nearby, a leather bench with worn restraints sat waiting. The air was thick with the scent of leather, and the space exuded power and intimacy, every detail carefully curated for impact. A shiver ran down your spine as you took it all in.

Is this what he is really into ? Your cheeks flustered at the thought of those stuff used upon you by him. You shook your head as the sound of raised voices outside the door pulled you back.

“Mingi,” the official’s sharp tone cut through the air, “you’ve had more than enough time to reconsider.”

“I’ve already told you,” Mingi growled, his voice low and hard, “I won’t do it.”

“You’re being reckless,” the official shot back, his words cold and deliberate. “This isn’t just about you. Do you really think you can defy the royal court without consequences?”

“I won’t harm them!” Mingi’s voice rose, frustration and anger breaking through. “Whatever you’re planning, leave me out of it.”

“You don’t get it,” the official said, his tone dark. “Your creations aren’t just art—they’re tools. Tools that can change the balance of power. Think carefully, Mingi. The clock is ticking, and this choice is yours.”

A loud crash broke the tense silence as something heavy hit the floor.

“Get out,” Mingi snarled. “Now.”

“Very well,” the official said, his tone icy. “But don’t think your refusal absolves you. You’ll regret this defiance.”

The door slammed, and the sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the path.

Inside the room, your heart raced as you tried to make sense of what you had overheard. The tension outside had disappeared, replaced by an eerie silence. Slowly, you reached for the door, ready to face whatever awaited on the other side.

You didn’t have to open it. The door swung open abruptly, and Mingi stood there, his tall frame blocking the light behind him. He slammed the door shut after stepping in, the sound reverberating through the room. His chest rose and fell as if he’d just run a great distance, and his hand gripped the door handle tightly, knuckles white.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes swept across the room, and then it hit him as he realized where he’d pushed you in his rush to hide you.

His face twisted, half-apology, half-irritation. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, the sharp edge of anger not fully gone from his voice.

Your eyes wandered over the assortment of tools neatly arranged on the walls, your cheeks flushing with heat.

“This… this is where you work?” you stammered, though it was clear the room held more than just the tools of his craft.

Mingi didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he brushed past you, grabbing a whip from the wall. The action was quick, and a slash went across his body, startling you. He maintained a safe distance from you as another lash traveled across his skin, pushing the delicate figurines in the room as the whip met them.

Was he punishing himself with the whip...why ?

“I’ll send the figurine back so you can leave now, Princess Y/n,” he muttered, his tone cold. He turned to face you, his eyes blazing with frustration. “I’ve had enough people meddling in my life today.”

His words stung, but you stood your ground. “I couldn’t just leave… not after hearing what he said,” you replied, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “What’s really going on, Mingi? What does he want from you?”

Mingi let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and mirthless. He lashed the whip against a nearby wooden block, the crack echoing through the room. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said bitterly, his back still turned to you. “None of you royal types ever do. You think I’m just your sculptor, a tool for your games.”

His words hit harder than the whip’s crack, but you refused to let them shake you. “That’s not true,” you said firmly. “I’m here because I care, Mingi. I overheard enough to know that whatever that official is plotting is dangerous. You don’t have to face this alone.”

Mingi turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as if searching for something in your expression. “Care ?” he scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. Care doesn’t mean anything when you’re part of the system that’s made me this way.”

Your throat tightened, but you refused to look away. “You’re right. I don’t understand everything,” you admitted, taking a cautious step closer. “But I want to. If there’s even the slightest chance I can help, I’ll take it. Let me prove I’m not like him.”

Mingi stayed silent for a while, trying to say something but holding back. Only his grip on the whip tightened, and you took that as a chance to press on further.

“Instead of breaking those delicate figures and hurting yourself…” you paused, gently placing his hand, which held the whip, onto your shoulder. “Use it on me. Let my unbreaking resolve be the proof to you that I am here to help and not take advantage of you.” You took a deep breath, trying to make sense of the words that had just left your mouth. You were literally asking him to use you.

Why had you offered yourself? You had no idea.

One thing was clear in your mind: you wanted to help him, and maybe… a small part of your heart wanted to experience the rush again—the same feeling you’d had that night when Mingi had a knife at your throat.

But this scavenger hunt was going to be more painful. A hell of a lot more painful.

Mingi’s hand tensed, his grip on the whip faltering as his eyes locked onto yours. His anger, once fiery, flickered with confusion. "You don’t know what you’re saying," he muttered, his voice rough and shaky. "This isn’t something you can just offer. It’s not a game."

"I know it’s not," you replied firmly, heart pounding as you met his gaze. "I heard what that man said. Whatever this is, I can see it’s tearing you apart. If I can help—"

"Help?" he interrupted, a dry, bitter laugh escaping him. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "You think letting me take it out on you will help? It won’t fix anything. You don’t understand the weight of this, Y/N."

"Then help me understand," you said, stepping closer, refusing to back down. "You’re not just hurting yourself—you’re drowning. If you can’t trust me yet, fine. But don’t shut me out."

His fingers tightened around the whip, his jaw clenched as he fought the turmoil inside. The battle in his eyes was clear—anger, pride, and something softer, more vulnerable, that he was trying to bury.

He studied you for a long moment, searching your face. "You don’t know what you’re asking," he said, voice strained, the whip falling limp in his hand.

"Then show me," you whispered, voice trembling but determined. "Let me carry some of this with you."

Mingi exhaled sharply, his hand running through his hair. "You’ll regret this," he muttered, but his grip on the whip tightened, as if he’d already made his decision. "This isn’t something you can just endure."

"I’m not here to prove a point," you said, steady despite the storm inside you. "I’m here because I believe you’re worth helping, no matter what."

He opened his mouth to argue but stopped. Instead, he walked to the wall, setting down the whip and picking up a leather strap. He turned it over in his hands, his shoulders stiff with hesitation. "This is different," he warned. "You’ll stop if it’s too much. Tell me if you can’t take it."

"I will," you nodded, meeting his gaze.

He motioned for you to step forward. "Place your hands on the table. And remember... you can always say no."

The first strike hit your back, sharp and stinging. A gasp escaped your lips as the pain jolted through you, but it wasn’t unbearable. It was different, almost… inviting. Your grip tightened on the table, but you didn’t move. The sting was real, but there was something else, a rush that followed it, spreading heat through your body.

Mingi stopped, watching you with eyes that seemed to search for something. “Still willing?” he asked, his voice softer now, like the anger inside him was starting to fade.

You met his gaze and nodded. “I’m still here.”

He swallowed, conflicted. He raised the strap again, this time hitting harder. The pain cut deeper, but with it came a strange warmth that spread across your skin. The sting lingered, but instead of pulling away, you leaned into it. You could feel your body reacting, the mix of pain and heat building something inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

With each strike, Mingi’s face softened. The anger was slowly replaced with something else—something that made the pain feel like a release, both for him and for you. Every blow became more than just pain; it became a way to let go, to release tension in a way that felt almost necessary.

The strikes kept coming, steady and rhythmic. The sharp sting gave way to a deeper warmth that filled your back, spreading through your body. Each blow was a wave, washing over you, making the pain and pleasure mix in a way that left you breathless.

Your breaths became uneven, not from pain but from the pull of the pleasure that followed it. You were no longer just feeling the sting; you were feeling something deeper, something that made you crave the next strike. Mingi was no longer just focused on releasing his own anger; he was reading you, feeling you, paying attention to how your body responded.

After one particularly intense blow, his hand brushed your shoulder, lingering for a moment. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his voice soft.

“Not from fear,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the trembling inside. The pain was still there, but it didn’t matter. It was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through your body.

Finally, the strikes slowed, then stopped. The flogger slipped from his hands as he stepped closer. His touch hovered over your back for a moment before settling there, gentle and warm, a stark contrast to the heat still flooding your skin.

You closed your eyes and let yourself feel that softness, letting the pleasure linger in your body even as the pain began to fade.

"Why would you do this?" he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper. His fingers traced over the marks he’d left on your skin, his touch soft, almost apologetic. "Why let me hurt you ?"

"Because you needed it," you answered, standing up to face him. "And maybe... maybe I needed it too. To show you that you’re not alone, even if you think you are."

For a moment, his jaw tightened, and you saw the struggle in his eyes, like he was ready to pull away again. But instead, he stepped closer, gently cupping your face. His thumb brushed your cheek as he looked at you, as if searching for something he wasn’t sure he could find.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, like he didn’t want to let go. The kiss that followed was slow, soft, a very short kiss but full of emotions. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was quiet as he said, "You’re maddening. You make me want to trust again, even when I don’t feel like I deserve it."

You smiled softly, your hands over his. "Then trust me. One step at a time."

In that moment, you could feel his walls starting to break down, just a little.

The air between you was heavy with tension, each heartbeat feeling like time slowed. Something inside him was changing. Maybe he was starting to trust again after all these years of being alone. Maybe it was care or....love.

His fingers shook slightly as they touched your bruises, slow and careful, like he wasn’t sure you’d pull away. But you didn’t. When his fingers grazed the welts on your skin, you didn’t flinch. It wasn’t the pain you felt—it was something deeper, something real. His touch was gentle, and it made you feel like maybe everything was going to be okay.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, like the words were difficult to say but necessary all the same.

You swallowed, your body humming from the aftermath of what had just happened. It wasn’t pain anymore, it was something else. You couldn’t find the words, but your body knew what it was, a quiet yearning, a need to be close, to lean into the warmth of his touch. His hands moved slowly, tracing the scars along your back, each movement light but filled with purpose.

"Does it hurt ?" he asked quietly, his voice full of concern. There was no judgment in his words, only care.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head. "It’s... it’s different. It’s not just pain. It’s…” You couldn’t quite explain, but somehow, in that moment, you didn’t need to.

His hands lowered, skimming over your sides, exploring with a kind of passion that made every nerve in your body come alive. Slowly, he began to undress you, his touch deliberate and slow, as if he was savoring each moment. He wasn’t in a hurry, wasn’t rushing to get to the end. His hands were soft, his movements careful, like he was afraid of breaking you.

When your gown finally slipped from your shoulders, his gaze dropped immediately to your back, to the marks still visible. The look in his eyes softened, and for a second, you wanted to hide, to cover the scars. But you didn’t. You let him see every part of you raw, vulnerable, but still here.

His hands moved to your arms, slowly trailing up, each touch deliberate, each movement meaningful. When his thumbs brushed over your collarbone, you gasped, feeling the tender sensation of his touch against your skin.

“Are you sure, darling?” he whispered, his voice low and filled with care. It wasn’t doubt, but a need to be sure, to make sure you were okay with what was happening.

You answered by, reaching for him and pulling him closer.

Words weren’t needed anymore as a silent permission to go ahead was exchanged between the both of you.

His lips met yours again, kiss started slow as he now with your approval was ready to savour every bit, every taste of your slowly. It wasn’t just passion, it was something deeper. A connection that couldn’t be put into words. His hands moved back to your back, feeling the rise of each scar, each mark. He touched you like you were something fragile, but also something he couldn’t help but want to hold.

As his lips trailed down your neck, you couldn’t help but gasp at the feel of his teeth grazing your skin. His breath was warm against you, his body pressing closer, the tension in the room thickening with every movement. His hands slid lower, gently caressing your body, every touch reminding you of his carefulness, his tenderness.

His hands slid under your waistband, pulling the fabric of your royal attire down with slow, deliberate movements, each tug filled with a quiet anticipation and care. It was a slow burn, building gradually, with no rush, no force.

When your clothes were finally gone, he stood before you, his eyes soft but heavy with a quiet hunger. His gaze moved over every inch of you, tracing the lines of your body with an intensity that left you breathless. There was no judgment, no shame in his eyes. Only reverence. Your naked form ignited a deep, smoldering passion within him, and he pulled you impossibly closer, until your bodies were tangled together, hearts racing in sync.

His lips found yours again, deeper this time, urgent, like he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hands roamed over your chest, fingers brushing against the soft curve of your breasts. He touched you with a mixture of gentleness and need, his palms warm against your skin as he cupped the fullness of your chest. His thumbs grazed over your nipples, a soft pressure that made you gasp, your body responding instinctively to his touch. His hands moved in slow circles, caressing, exploring, as if he was memorizing every part of you.

The sensation was overwhelming, a tender yet electrifying connection that made you feel both grounded and entirely lost in the moment.The warmth between you grew, but it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, tender, an intimacy that seeped into your very bones.

His lips trailed down to the marks on your torso, each kiss placed with reverence, each one like a silent promise. You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation, your body responding to him in ways that left you breathless.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. It wasn’t possessive, but something deeper, more intimate. A declaration that felt like both a claim and an offering.

You replied, your voice steady but filled with warmth, “Mhmm...I’ll protect you, in every way possible. Always.”

The air felt alive between you, charged with something deep and unspoken. His hands slid down your sides, steadying you as he lifted you onto the edge of the workbench. The cool wood beneath you was a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between your bodies, and your breath hitched as his dark eyes locked with yours. They held something raw, something that made your pulse quicken with a mix of longing and love, as if you were the only thing that mattered.

Slowly, Mingi knelt before you, his hands firm on your thighs. The way you looked at him made his heart ache, as though you saw every part of him, the good and the broken, and still wanted more. His lips pressed soft, lingering kisses to your inner thighs, each touch sending a shiver through your body. He took his time, savoring the moment, letting the tension build until it was nearly unbearable.

His hands firmly gripped your thighs, pulling you open with the kind of deliberate care that sent a shiver up your spine. His eyes were locked on yours for a moment, dark and intense, before trailing down, his breath teasing your sensitive clit. It was almost unbearable, his warm exhale brushing against your slick heat, the tension coiling tightly inside you as he took his time, savoring every second of your vulnerability.

When his tongue finally flicked against your clit, your breath hitched sharply, a gasp spilling from your lips. The sensation was electric, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through you. He didn’t rush, he began with slow, teasing strokes, dragging his tongue over your most sensitive spot in lazy, deliberate circles. Each movement built on the last, the steady rhythm making your hips buck forward instinctively, craving more of his touch.

A low hum rumbled from his chest as he tightened his grip on your thighs, holding you firmly in place. The vibration of his voice against your clit made you moan, your head falling back as the tension in your core tightened further. He alternated between swirling his tongue around your clit and sucking it gently into his mouth, his pace maddeningly slow yet so precise it left you trembling. You tried to pull away for a moment, the sensation almost too much, but he wouldn’t let you.

Your thighs trembling as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. And just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, his mouth shifted, his tongue dipping lower, plunging deep into your core with a deliberate stroke that made your whole body jolt.

A broken cry tore from your throat as he fucked you with his tongue, slow and deep, each thrust of it drawing you closer to the breaking point. His nose brushed against your clit with every movement, adding another layer of stimulation that sent your nerves into overdrive.

Your body twisted under his touch, every nerve on fire, every gasp and moan spilling from your lips raw and unrestrained. He worked you with relentless precision, dragging you to the edge of release again and again, only to pull back just enough to let the tension simmer, teasing you mercilessly.

Each time you begged for more, your voice shaky and desperate, he only smirked against you, his tongue plunging back into your core, twisting and curling as if he were determined to make you fall apart completely.

Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard as your thighs clamped around his head. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core and sending you spiraling. Your breath came in ragged gasps as the intensity built beyond what you thought you could handle, your body trembling violently as he pushed you closer to the brink.

But he didn’t stop there. His tongue moved faster now, his lips latching onto your clit once more, sucking harder in a way that made your vision blur. The overstimulation was dizzying, every touch too much and not enough all at once. You were utterly at his mercy, your body completely his to command.

When your release finally came, it was devastating. A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop, his tongue and lips coaxing every last drop from you until tears pricked at your eyes from the sheer intensity.This was the first time someone has touched and handled your body this way.

“Breathe,little princess.” he murmured against you, his voice rough, and it took you a moment to realize you were still trembling, your body barely able to handle the aftershocks. He slowed his movements, soothing you with soft kisses against your clit and inner thighs, grounding you as you came back down from the high.

Weakly, you reached for him, pulling his hands to yours. You kissed his knuckles softly, your lips brushing over the roughness of his skin as your chest heaved. It was a quiet, desperate act, a thank-you and a plea all at once.

Mingi sat up slowly, his eyes locking with yours as he gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. The look in his eyes was intense, filled with a quiet sadness that made your chest tighten. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but heavy with emotion.

“I need to tell you something.”

His words, raw and hesitant, pulled you out of the lingering haze of warmth, dragging you into a harsh reality.

You met his gaze, worry flickering in your eyes. “What is it?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening like the words hurt too much to say. But he forced them out anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “When this is done... the royal family—they’re going to take my hands.”

It felt like the air was knocked out of you. His confession hit you like a blow, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest. You stared at him, trying to process what he had just said, your heart racing in disbelief.

“Your... hands?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He nodded, his gaze falling to where your hands rested on his, your fingers entwined as if trying to hold onto something that was slipping away. “They said it’s the price I have to pay. Once I finish the sculpture of the empress and meet the emperor’s deadline... my hands will be cut off.”

Your heart ached for him, for the burden he carried. The weight of the looming deadline, knowing that the very thing he was creating—the sculpture of your mother—would lead to his punishment. His reward? The loss of his hands. Why did your kingdom have such a rule? And on top of that, there were officials within your own kingdom using his art to harm the royal family. Mingi, caught in the middle of a storm he couldn’t escape, made you pull him into your arms.

Tears welled in your eyes as the full weight of his words sank in. He was so calm, so resigned, yet beneath his stoic exterior, you could feel the raging storm. The man who had just held you with such care, worshipped you with tenderness, was willing to give up the very hands that had brought you to life only moments ago.

With everything you knew now, there was no going back. You were about to plunge into the heart of your kingdom’s darkest secrets, fully aware of the cost. But one thing was certain — you would either save him, or burn everything to the ground in the process.

And that is how our princess Y/n fell of the royal sculptor Song Mingi.

~ ~ Chérie ☆ signin’ off

DISCLAIMER: This is totally fictional and not a real depiction of the ATEEZ members. It's all just for fun only so please don’t take anything seriously and keep the mood light around here.

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kinzhae · 1 month ago

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✦•┈๑⋅⋯Marriage Of Steel ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

In a world where power and family ties define one's worth, [Y/N], a strong-willed woman from a neglected jujutsu clan, is married off to the aloof and powerful Satoru Gojo. Alone in a lavish yet cold estate, she struggles to find her footing as she faces both the isolation of her marriage and the whispers of disrespect from those around her. Determined not to be overshadowed, [Y/N] fights to assert herself in a world that expects her to be docile, all while grappling with her growing feelings for a husband who remains distant and emotionally unreachable. -Historical Au!

This is a Gojo x Fem!Reader series, I have posted this on wattpad already if you guys want to read it here is the link. This is a historical au! This series will be written by reader's POV. Hope you all enjoy :)

Chapter 1

Morning sunlight filtered through the thin silk curtains, casting a soft glow over the spacious room. I lay still in bed, staring up at the intricately carved ceiling, my thoughts an unrelenting spiral.

How did I end up here?

The events of the past two weeks felt surreal, like I’d been swept into a current I couldn’t escape. An arranged marriage to the renowned Satoru Gojo of all people—the prodigy of the Gojo clan, with more influence and power than most could ever dream of. I was no stranger to responsibility or duty; my own clan had drilled it into me since birth. But nothing had prepared me for this.

For being a wife.

For being alone.

The estate was grand, more luxurious than anything I’d known, yet it felt hollow. Its vast halls and pristine gardens were unfamiliar, filled with people who barely acknowledged me—or worse, whispered behind my back. And then there was Satoru, my husband in name only. He was rarely here, always consumed by his duties or disappearing for reasons he never cared to explain.

I exhaled sharply and sat up, pushing the blankets aside. If I stayed in this bed any longer, I’d suffocate on my own frustration.

Dressed and ready for the day, I stepped into the halls, my footsteps echoing against the polished floors. I had no destination in mind, only a need to move, to shake off the weight pressing on my chest.

As I passed the sitting room, the sound of hushed voices caught my attention. I paused, listening.

“She doesn’t belong here,” a voice said, sharp and derisive.

My jaw clenched.

“She’s not fit to be the lady of this house,” the maid continued. “Walking around like she owns the place. I could do her job better than she ever could.”

“Be quiet,” another maid urged, her tone nervous. “If anyone hears you—”

“So what? It’s the truth.”

My hand tightened around the edge of the doorframe. I stepped inside deliberately, my presence cutting the conversation short. The maids froze, their faces draining of color.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, my voice cold. “Please, continue.”

The bold one opened her mouth, likely to deny everything, but I raised a hand to silence her.

“You think you can disrespect me in my own house?” I demanded, my tone sharp enough to make her flinch. “Do you think your position here gives you that right?”

The other maids glanced at one another, panic clear in their eyes, but the offending maid stood rooted to the spot, her face pale but defiant.

“I’ll teach you to know your place,” I said, my anger boiling over. “You—fetch me a stick. A small, sturdy one.”

The maid hesitated, but my glare sent her scurrying.

I held the stick tightly, glaring down at the maid who’d insulted me. “Hold out your hand,” I ordered.

She hesitated, trembling slightly, but didn’t move. My grip on the stick tightened. “Do it. Now.”

“Enough.”

The single word sliced through the air like a blade, its quiet authority freezing me in place. I turned sharply to see Satoru standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. His butler stood just behind him, silent and composed.

“What’s going on here?” Satoru asked, his eyes flicking from me to the maid and back again.

“She insulted me,” I said firmly, lifting my chin. “I’m teaching her a lesson.”

His gaze dropped to the stick in my hand. Slowly, he approached, his footsteps measured. Without a word, he plucked the stick from my grasp, his fingers brushing against mine for the briefest moment.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly, turning his attention to the maid. “You’re dismissed. Permanently.”

The maid paled further, tears welling in her eyes as she stammered apologies. Satoru’s butler stepped forward, escorting her from the room.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded once the room was empty, my anger rekindling.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Satoru replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. “You don’t need to resort to... this.”

“She disrespected me,” I shot back. “I won’t let anyone treat me like I’m beneath them.”

“Respect is earned, not forced,” he said.

“Spare me the lecture,” I snapped. “You’re barely here, and when you are, you act like I don’t exist. Don’t pretend you care how I’m treated.”

His expression didn’t change, but I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, perhaps. Or guilt.

“Do what you want,” he said after a moment, turning to leave. “Just don’t cause a scandal.”

The confrontation left a bitter taste in my mouth. I stormed back to my quarters, my anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Emiko,” I called, summoning my new maid. She appeared quickly, her kind face a small comfort.

“Yes, milady?”

“We’re going out,” I announced, not bothering to mask my irritation. “Prepare the carriage.”

Emiko hesitated but nodded. As she adjusted my hair and straightened my clothes, her quiet presence calmed me slightly.

“Are you alright, milady?” she asked softly.

I glanced at her, startled by the question. “I’m fine,” I said curtly, then softened. “Thank you, Emiko.”

As the carriage pulled up to the estate gates, Satoru appeared on horseback, his arrival as inconvenient as it was imposing.

“And where are you going?” he asked, dismounting with practiced ease.

“Shopping,” I replied shortly, climbing into the carriage.

“With no escort?”

I bristled. “I don’t need an escort. I can protect myself.”

“You’re strong, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual. “But strength doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not a child, Satoru.”

“No, but you’re my wife,” he said simply. “And I won’t have anything happen to you.”

I glared at him, but his calm resolve didn’t waver. Finally, I sighed, relenting just enough to allow one of the guards to accompany me.

I grumbled as Emiko handed a note to the driver, and moments later, a young guard appeared, bowing stiffly before climbing up to sit with the driver.

“You gave in?” Emiko asked softly, settling beside me.

“Barely,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “Let him think he won this time. It’s not worth the argument.”

Emiko’s lips twitched, but she wisely said nothing.

As the carriage rolled forward, I glanced out the window, catching a fleeting glimpse of Satoru riding ahead, his figure disappearing into the crowded streets.

The ride was quite bumpy, Emiko kept talking about romance novels, everytime she mentions her favorite characters her eyes lit up and her speech got more faster. I also liked to read romance book's, at my own estate before I got married I used spent a lot of times reading books or cooking secretly.

My father and my mother were not in love, so growing up I didn't get any attention from both of them. My nanny was the one who always took care of me since I was a kid, she tought me to be polite, helpful and put people in their place if they deserved it. She also used to talk about "marriage, love, bounds." which is not a familiar words for me.

Nanny Miyako and her husband who worked as a chef in our estate was madly in love with each other, whenever she was taking care of me she would tell me about her sweet marriage and how she wanted a kid of their own but that was not possible yet she never complained about it and saw me as her own kid and raised me well.

My marriage with Gojo Clan's son, Gojo Satoru was not anything special. After the wedding he just simply disappeared for his 'mission' and ever since we barely saw eachother. The breakfasts and dinners were quiet since I eat by myself, when the maid's are busy I just walk around the big estate. I wasn't really fond of the maids, gojo and I were distant so they took a chance to gossip things about me behind my back like I didn't exist there.

"Milady, we arrived." Emiko got up and hopped off the carriage easily, I glanced outside before taking her hand and getting off the carriage.

The bustling streets enveloped us as Emiko and I wandered deeper into the marketplace. The vibrant energy of the crowd, combined with the enticing displays of goods, began to chip away at the irritation I’d carried all morning. The occasional clink of coins in my pouch reminded me that this outing was mine to control. Unlike at the estate, where every move felt scrutinized or dictated, here, I had a say.

We passed by a vendor selling bolts of exquisite fabric, their rich colors catching the sunlight. Emiko gasped, tugging gently at my sleeve.

“Milady, look at this!” She pointed to a deep crimson silk embroidered with gold threads. “This would make a stunning evening gown.”

I stepped closer, running my fingers over the smooth fabric. “How much for this one?” I asked the vendor.

“For you, my lady,” he said with a practiced smile, “five ryo.”

I raised a brow at the steep price. “Four, and I’ll take two yards,” I countered.

He hesitated, clearly torn between sealing the deal and holding out for more. Finally, he nodded. “Four ryo it is.”

Reaching into my pouch, I retrieved the coins and handed them over. The transaction felt satisfying, a small but significant reminder of my independence.

Emiko watched the exchange with wide eyes. “Milady, you’re so confident. I’ve never seen someone bargain so effortlessly.”

I smiled faintly. “If you don’t know the value of something, someone else will decide it for you. That’s a lesson I learned young.”

As the vendor wrapped the fabric, I felt the familiar prickling sensation of being watched again. Turning my head slightly, I caught sight of the guard still trailing us at a discreet distance. My fingers tightened around the pouch at my waist, irritation bubbling anew.

“Let’s keep moving,” I said, my tone clipped. Emiko followed without question, her cheerful demeanor softening the edges of my frustration.

The next shop we entered was filled with sparkling jewelry, the pieces displayed under soft candlelight to enhance their brilliance. My gaze fell on a delicate necklace adorned with a single emerald, its simplicity drawing me in.

“How much for this one?” I asked.

The jeweler hesitated, sizing me up before naming a price. I didn’t bother haggling this time, simply pulling the appropriate amount from my pouch. Emiko watched with admiration as I paid, her enthusiasm almost childlike as she admired the necklace.

“It’s beautiful, milady,” she said. “It suits you perfectly.”

I held it up, watching the light catch on the emerald. “Perhaps,” I murmured, slipping it into a small velvet pouch before tucking it away.

By the time we returned to the carriage, my pouch was significantly lighter, but my mood was brighter. Emiko chattered happily as we climbed inside, her hands carefully holding the wrapped fabric.

“Do you always carry your own money, milady?” she asked as the carriage started to move.

I glanced at her, amused by the question. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “most ladies rely on their husbands to—”

I cut her off with a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Not me. My father may have treated me like a pawn, and my husband may not care enough to notice, but I’ll never rely on anyone to take care of me. If I want something, I’ll earn it—or pay for it myself.”

Emiko smiled, her admiration clear. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever served, milady. It’s... inspiring.”

Her words were a small comfort, a reassurance that even in a world where I often felt unseen.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯Chapter 2⋯⋅๑┈•✦

#jjk angst #jjk satoru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo x reader #angst #jjk #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo satoru #jjk smau #historical au #arranged marriage

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edenesth · 11 months ago

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The Way to His Heart [Spinoff Masterlist]

Pairing: general!Seonghwa x wife!reader ↪ The Way to His Heart [Main Story]

⌈You're advised to read the spinoffs according to the sequence below, the stories have already been arranged in chronological order.⌋

Pairing: private investigator!Wooyoung x courtesan!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

Pairing: dressmaker!Hongjoong x noblewoman!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

Pairing: physician!Yunho x herbalist!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

Pairing: royal secretary!San x female scholar!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

Pairing: military strategist!Mingi x royal physician!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

Pairing: assistant!Jongho x new maid!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

Pairing: prince!Yeosang x princess!reader ↪ Teaser | Part 1 | Part 2 [Completed]

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR OTHERWISE REPURPOSE ANY OF THE WORK HERE.

#edenesth #the way to his heart #twthh spinoff #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #ateez seonghwa #ateez wooyoung #ateez san #ateez yunho #ateez mingi #ateez hongjoong #ateez jongho #ateez yeosang #joseon era #historical au #ateez fic

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 2/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 here. Word count: 5.1 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Part two! I don't usually rec music for my fics but if this fic was a song, it would be Dead can Dance’s In Power we Entrust the Love Advocated.

You wake up with a giant plastered on your back.

His bed is far more comfortable than your own, soft and cushy, and there must be flowers somewhere in the hay because there is a surprisingly pleasant odour lingering in the air as you come to. The mattress overall doesn’t reek of too much sweat: some poor slave must change the fillings often enough for König’s stench not to settle on the bed. Actually, you’ve slept quite nicely, despite being embraced by an ogre the whole night.

König has slept like a stone, too, but stirs when you start to shift. You turn on your back and find his drowsy stare on you: it’s generous and warm as he pulls you closer to him. You could roll your eyes when you notice he’s hard down there again – he’s probably hard all the time, whether in bed with a woman or raging on the battlefield, sticking his swords into some poor man’s gut.

“Gut geschlafen?” He asks, and you reckon he’s trying to ask if you’ve slept well – in his domain, in his embrace, after he just slaughtered half of your village.

You give him another pout, which is starting to become your signature expression now. He replies to your grumpiness with a smile, his own trademark move, the one that threatens to strip you from all your arms. He squeezes you fondly against his chest, and then his hand starts to wander: he plays with your tits again, then slinks further down to brush your navel. When he crosses the border and heads straight toward your womanhood, you seize his arm.

He whines softly at your refusal, but to your surprise, he actually stops. You let him go as he moves back up and stay immobile under his touch, amidst the flowery scent and the faint stench of dirt and man sweat, sighing as he cups your breast again. He doesn’t seem to get enough of them, and they’re beginning to feel sore: he gave them so much attention last night already and is now at them again.

You pull his hand away, but this time, he doesn’t respect your wishes but resists you. Trying to hinder a man who’s as strong as a bull is futile, but you have an attempt at it anyway. It turns into a play fight: you wrench his hand down, he drags it back up. Up and down and up and down, as if your breast is a hill he needs to conquer at all costs. But he’s the only one who finds any amusement in your silly game: eyes narrowing again with a smile, a few soft chuckles under that hood telling you he enjoys it when you fight him a little.

It all ends when you finally slap him.

It’s neither a good nor a hard slap, and his mask muffles whatever sound was supposed to give you at least some measure of satisfaction.

But he stops... And laughs.

“Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige.”

His language is harsh and throaty, abrupt, and you tell him that, safe with the knowledge that he can’t understand a word you say either.

“You talk ugly,” you complain and watch him up and down, searching for a clue that would tell you that he somehow understands your insult. König simply thunders with another mirthful laugh at your morning crank.

“Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg.”

He looks down at you like he’s the Sun God now, thoroughly life-giving and kind. Then he dares to bend forward and press a kiss on your forehead.

“Go away,” you try to push him back with your hands - the hood prevents you from feeling his skin and breath and lips, but the… intimacy is still too much.

“Brute,” you want to spit the word out but end up sounding like a child attempting to quarrel instead. And he’s laughing at you again, both with his eyes and his mouth, covered by that darned hood. You don’t know why on earth you would think that such a charming laugh must come from an equally charming mouth.

He finally retreats and rises from the bed, stretching out his arms. The broad muscles on his back are exposed to the frigid air and his cock is jutting out, long and veined, completely unaffected by the cold. This beast is ripe and ready for another day, and you swallow when you see him in his full glory again, tall and wide and strong, looking like he’s about to eat an entire boar and fuck ten women in the process.

“Schön,” he comments as he turns to look down at you, lying naked and sweet there in his bed. He looks at you like you are the most lovely, adorable, difficult little thing. He even gives his horse cock a few good strokes while taking your sleepy little pouts in.

“Ugly,” you slur back, and he winks at you.

Gods… You’re too hot and riled to even speak.

You choose to vehemently stay in bed as König starts his day: eats some fruit from the table - still naked - pours himself some wine and washes his mouth with it, tears a handful of bread from a loaf and starts to eat with his mouth open, munching loudly under that hood, walking around without bothering to cover himself and that ungodly erection that is bouncing in the air without a care in the world.

You, on the other hand, escape back under the warm covers of the furs, but your eyes never leave König. He draws the draping flap of his tent aside - still naked - giving his soldiers a good view of his morning wood, a lovely chance to get a look at their champion. Perhaps it’s his way of saying good morning, you think bitterly. Then he leaves, probably to take a piss, and you’re more and more convinced that this man is the worst beast that has ever walked this earth.

You’re still under the furs when he returns and finally gives you the grace of clothing himself. It’s stupid that you mourn losing the sight of those shoulders and feel a bit disappointed when his cock disappears under the red tunic. His manhood doesn’t look any less intimidating even when growing soft; it’s still long and veiny and thick, and you find yourself… curious. Just curious.

He doesn’t put his armour on this time, chooses to wear only his tunic and sandals and a pair of hard-boiled leather cuffs to protect the vital veins on the wrists. He does take one Gladius with him, though - a sign of distrust in his own men or a Roman custom, you can’t tell.

He’s already at the mouth of the tent when he turns and points at you, now with a good amount of sternness in his voice.

“Du. Bleibst.”

…

He’s away the whole day. Probably drawing plans at some field war council, eating and drinking and bouncing some poor girl on his knee.

Even the thought makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach churn. Of course there are other trophies, and of course men want to show them off, pass them around, give their commanders a chance to give each woman a good squeeze. König has probably stuck that cock into a few women by now. Moaning, screaming women.

Or then he just settles for annoying their poor senses out of them…

You can’t deny that you’re relieved he hasn’t thrown you to the wolves yet, not even after you denied him. Wondering why on earth he would even want to listen to your wishes gives you an awful headache, and the image of him laughing at - or with - some other shy captive girl is making you uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you throw the skins away after noon, and decide you’re not going to just succumb to your fate, least of all give in to sadness and apathy.

You eat this and that from his table like you’re not a slave girl but an honoured guest, a queen. You eat his figs and his bread and some smoked meat; you even drink some of his wine, as sour as it is. You’re a bit tipsy when you go through all his belongings, which are not as abundant or exciting as you thought they would be.

You thought you’d find tiny chests filled with gold coins and rings. You thought you’d come by dried body parts taken as trophies, perhaps the crown of some long-forgotten Hibernian king. But there are only a few trinkets under his bed, a huge bow and some arrows, his armour and the second Gladius, perfectly stored above the ground so that rust and mould wouldn’t bite them. There are jugs of wine and some firewood and oil for the braziers, there’s water and benches and the table and lots and lots of candles in different shapes and sizes… But that’s it. There’s no hoard, no treasure, nothing to prove to you that this brute is just another Roman soldier trying to gather a fortune by raping and pillaging so that he can go and retire early from all the bloodshed.

And it makes you shiver. Does he do this just for the sake of it, only because he enjoys killing so much? What is his reason to fight?

The only item that sends an odd sting in your heart is a small wooden statue. You feel like a thief when you rummage through a small satchel you find next to his breastplate, the only place you didn’t feel like peeking into because it looked so… personal.

Proving to yourself that you don’t care about his privacy or feelings, you end up pushing your fingers inside it anyway, meeting this peculiar carved piece of wood. There is nothing else there in the satchel, just the statue, and you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat as you see it depicts a lush, buxom woman. Her breasts are nearly the size of her belly, larger than her head, and you realize that it is clearly the statue of the Great Mother this brute carries with him.

You put it back quickly, feeling a tingling in your fingers and a rapid flutter in your heart, as if you had just poked into something quite sacred. And it is sacred, the Mother. You wonder why, for the love of all the gods, this man would keep such a divine and fertile amulet near him. The statue is supposed to be a vessel for wishes and fortune; it is an idol of worship. König seems like the last man on earth to take up worshipping women.

You just want to get out of this place but can’t. There’s no one to go back to: your chief is dead, the people have fled, the rest of the warriors are scattered across the land. You have no idea where your brother might even be.

You have no wish to escape this tent; you have no desire whatsoever to step a foot outside and show yourself to his hungry men.

König comes back after nightfall and is not surprised at all to find you haven’t escaped. He’s not surprised that you have eaten some of his food either; he doesn’t even scold you. But then the eternal groping starts again as he gets undressed and lays himself down next to you.

You don’t even know why you allow him to touch you. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s better to just let him caress you if he wants; it’s better to suffer the weight of his hands on you if it means he won’t rape you with that cock. If you don’t complain, perhaps he will settle for squeezing and petting and stroking you.

But your body is a traitor: it’s hungry for him, for some ungodly reason, and always craves for more. You say to yourself that you only allow this to happen because it’s a condition, a compromise, a meeting in the middle. You never acknowledge the way your nether lips puff up like a fat flower every time he fondles your breasts. You pay no attention to how wet you get when he caresses your face, your waist, even your thighs, every part of you except the place between your legs, the place you kind of want him to touch... If only he would be gentle and didn’t get too excited, you’d let him touch you there, too, as sick and accursed as it is.

And it’s all good until he starts to hum.

It may be some song from his homeland, the land of ugly brutes, but it’s not a crude giant song… In fact, it’s a rather beautiful, melancholy tune. Your body is relaxed and your pussy is wet; your nipples are tight and pleased as he pets you slowly, lovingly - but that song is too much. You don’t want him to see you cry, not even a single tear, and now there’s an entire flood about to occur.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, trying not to choke on your sorrow. He doesn’t stop - of course he doesn’t. He gets bolder by the day, and he can see that you’re enjoying yourself. In a way.

"Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden?" He asks, soft and tender, so incredibly gentle that the tears are about to burst forth at any given moment now.

“Ich glaube das tust du,” he rumbles when you don’t answer him. His hand is heavy and broad on your hip as he finally stops caressing you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it causes the glimmer in your eyes to fall. Tears roll down your cheeks and into your hair, as you lie there next to a titan, about to shatter into a million pieces.

“Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…?”

You want to shout at him to shut up already, to stop talking so gently, asking you questions you don’t understand, to stop trying to find a way to communicate with you through song and hum and touch. The hand on your hip moves, slowly, with devastating cunning towards your core. He’s about to touch you there, to try and feel if you’re wet... If you’d like it that he pounded you a little. You wonder if he would do that gently too, and almost laugh through your tears. It will be your undoing if he finds out that you’re soaked all the way to your thighs, aching to feel him inside you, even a finger, just something…

“No… Nein,” you rule out sternly, opening a new way of communication. You don’t know if the word is correct, but he catches it immediately and stops.

“Nein?”

He sounds both happy and sad; happy that you try to use his language, sad that you use it to give him such a disappointing command.

“No touching,” you repeat and open your eyes, finding his hazy figure hovering above you. You barely discern the gulf of sadness in his eyes, but it is there: undisguised, trying to reach out and join with yours. Gods… How strangely appropriate it is that you are both so very alive, wanting to be devoured by each other’s hunger and lust, only to find yourselves on the brink of tears and hollow loss.

“No... No touching…”

“Verstanden.”

He takes his hand away from you and turns, not even joining you under the fur tonight.

…

The next morning, you wake up attached to him.

Somehow you’ve managed to wriggle under his furs and, on top of that, crawled to hug his side like this. You blame the spring cold for it, of course. Your heart bangs against your ribs as you notice how tightly you’re squeezing him, breasts pressed flush against his hard middle, belly fluttering against his hip. You’ve even draped your leg across his so that your poor, lonely cunt is resting right there over his thigh.

You swear in your mind with all the words and terms you know and can think of.

How the hell are you supposed to detach from a giant without waking him up? His arm is around you, holding you loosely in a warm, pleasing shackle. He feels so, so good - blazing, big and safe, so incredibly nice. You never knew sleeping next to a man could feel so nice. You’re half asleep still, mainly because his body and scent make you feel like you’ve had too much wine again.

You allow yourself a few more moments before you rip yourself off him. Or at least, try to: the arm snares you the instant you attempt to move. It prevents you from leaving him, and you end up hovering awkwardly there, almost on top of him, tits pointing straight at his face, panicked, doe-eyed stare guided to his unwavering blue eyes, open, and regarding you with warm love.

And the damned man smirks again.

“No touching?” He inquires with silly, completely feigned shyness.

“Shut up,” you breathe and try to get off of him, but his other hand comes to brush your cheek next, and you freeze.

“Schön… Pretty,” he tries, and you nearly whimper at the sound of your native tongue in his mouth.

Pretty… Is that what the word means, the odd ugly word he has repeated ever since he stole you?

His eyes are warm and his hand is gentle as he caresses your cheek, and the snare around your waist tightens. Softly… Invitingly.

“Stop it,” you whisper, on the brink of tears again, because this time, your shields and armour and weapons are gone. You just woke up to a feeling of odd contentment, fulfilment, even joy.

And it’s not right.

He has no right to be this gentle with you.

You sniffle and sigh, and cast your eyes down to the chest that belongs to a giant. But you can’t deny that there must be a heart under there. A human heart under your palm. Your hand is right there over the strong beat because you’ve tried to push yourself away, and he won’t let you go. Another tear falls somewhere in the hair of his chest, and he rumbles with such compassion that you want to slap him again, hit his chest with your tiny little fists and bawl.

What you do instead is break down and let the ocean take you. You cry and sob and wail, right there in front of him, until he turns you on your stomach and comes to rest halfway on top of you. Through your tears, you understand that he’s trying to soothe you with his weight. It’s pure insanity how well it works. It releases a whole well of grief, and you start to shake with the cries; your whole body shudders with the sorrow as you retch it all out while König continues to caress you like a pet. He strokes your hair, pets your back, he even pats your ass as if you’re just a baby.

You cry long and hard, so long that he eventually lets out a long, deep sigh. When you’ve calmed down a bit and remain still, sniffling occasionally while squeezing the furs in your fist, trying to remember what it is to be an animal with feelings other than just sorrow, he leaves you.

He simply rises, and gets dressed, and leaves.

That is very much what you don’t need right now, much to your surprise. He was good at consoling you, as odd as it sounds.

Cold starts to creep in when there is no warm body next to you, and your skin misses the calloused gentleness of his palms. You wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hum that song to you now. But the darned bastard had to leave just when you were about to turn and cup his hooded face in return...

König comes back after a short while, but he’s not alone. You gather the furs against your chest, horrified and angry when you notice he returns to the tent with a short old man, vigorous and busy, but so tiny in stature that you doubt he was ever a warrior. You wonder if this is another foreigner or if you have the dubious pleasure of meeting your first genuine Roman.

They both stare at you, quite nonchalantly, while you sit there on the bed and try to cover your nakedness with animal skins while having red eyes and a pair of uninviting, quivering, puffed-up lips.

The short fellow looks you up and down, then turns to talk to König in what appears to be this giant’s mother tongue. It’s a curt suggestion, muttered under his breath, and you realize König must’ve fetched a translator for you.

Oh, good Mother... Great Mother.

You watch these two men before you in a state of stunned shock, as König looks at you, then back at the old man, and nods. The Roman looks slightly vexed as if he just got up too. Then he starts to speak.

“Excuse our manners... We are men at war. If you wish to get dressed, we will wait outside.”

You blink at your own language being spoken to you, perfectly discernable but accompanied by a thick accent. You nod, and the men leave, returning only after you’ve dressed and cleared your throat in the tent.

“He asks if he killed your husband,” the translator starts immediately while König goes to sit on his favourite Roman bench. You’re wide awake now, and the nauseating feeling of being suddenly in the middle of an interrogation rises to your throat with a clot.

“He… What? No,” your eyes dart to König, who is looking at you with his undying ardour. For a man with so much sadness in his soul, he’s surprisingly carefree when he wants to.

“Do you have a husband?”

You gulp at the questions levelled at you. König keeps watching you intently, and you choose to look at the old translator instead, shaking your head slowly. The men exchange a few words, and the Roman turns to scold you with his stare.

“Master reminds you that it is wrong to lie,” he says, putting a lot more weight on his words this time. Roman or not, he calls this giant master, which means that he is just another slave in this camp. You swallow again and try to think, think, think; all the while König’s stare strips you of all your pretences, garments and words.

He thinks you’re trying to hide some imaginary husband, you understand and consider whether you should say that you have a husband: if there is any benefit you could gain from such a lie. König would only probably try to hunt him down… But what if he found out you were telling him tales? Would he feed you to his horny war dogs then?

“I’m not lying,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.

There is another exchange of words before the translator turns to you again.

“Are you untouched?”

“What…?”

“Master asks if you are a virgin.”

The translator is utterly unfazed, and mainly looks like he has better things to do than get to the bottom of whether there has been a cock inside you yet.

“That’s none of his business,” you hiss. The old man turns and starts to translate your words with a dull look.

“Wait—don’t tell him that,” you take a panicked step forward.

Oh good Father in the Sky… Strike these men down so that I may be freed from them.

They pay you no attention; a few sentences pass from mouth to mouth, and the old man nods.

“Master says you are clearly a maiden,” he declares. You peek a glance at König, who is looking at you with hunger, and not the kind of hunger people look at their breakfasts with. Your breathing is getting out of hand, and when he opens his legs wider, clearly making more room for a rising cock, you decide to throw caution in the wind.

“You know what? Your master can go fuck himself with a stick for all I care…!”

The old man turns. He doesn’t even care to sigh; he merely opens his mouth to give your words to König.

“Don’t you dare translate that!”

Finally, the old man sighs. He looks at the ceiling as if begging his gods to take him away from this tent. König’s stare flashes between you two, and he is evidently curious. Clearly, this is the most exciting conversation he’s ever had.

“Was sagt sie?”

“Tell him that I want to be freed,” you hurry to say before the translator can tell your insults to König. After a brief conversation, König leans forward in his chair to see the effect his words have on you.

“He says he can’t do that,” the Roman informs. “His soldiers will find you and take you.”

You close your mouth and try to even your breaths. No one says, You don’t want that. Everybody in this tent knows you don’t want that.

“He asks if he killed your brother or your father.”

You sniffle, quite involuntarily.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Then why are you angry and sad?”

There is a hint of genuine interest in the man’s voice. Both of these men are confused as to why you would bawl your eyes out after the massacre of your people.

"Because… Because he…"

“He says it is a man’s duty to die in battle. You should be proud of your fallen ones, not cry and feel sorry for them.”

“Tell him that he can go fuck himself,” you shout, not giving a single shit anymore about whether he translates the words or not.

To no one’s surprise, he does.

“He says he’d rather fuck you,” he returns to you with König’s message.

You can’t bear to look your captor’s way, and still, that’s exactly what you do. You look at the giant as he stares at you, keen and hard and patient. But you know his patience has its limits. It’s almost like a promise, the way he leans forward in that chair and looks at you from under the hood, shameless and challenging.

“Never,” you guide your words to König now. It’s a brave little whisper, but you know that it’s a lie. Even the Great Mother knows you’re lying. You almost hear the cackle of the old woman rising from the earthen ground, from the chthonic depths, to mock you and your vows.

You hear the old man’s words from somewhere far away, from underwater, as König’s stare wrestles you down and takes away your little knife. He subdues you even when he’s sitting, and shares a string of words: a harsh promise. You hold your breath as his cock gives a pulse under that tunic, and your eyes fall, fall, fall onto it, because there’s no escape…

“He says he can make you feel good,” the voice says, and you can’t even hear who speaks. Your mouth is full of water, but you swallow it down, then shoot your way up to the surface, up, up, up into the sunlight, until you can breathe again.

You rip your eyes from König and look at the Roman translator with loathing and contempt.

“You can leave now. This conversation is over.”

Then you turn, trying not to pay any attention to the hushed conversation that proceeds behind your back. The man leaves the tent: you can hear it, and you can also hear how König rises from the chair and walks right behind you.

“No… afraid,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, but you don’t even flinch. You knew he was going to touch you again. Perhaps you were even looking forward to it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you start to argue, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“You like trees?”

He speaks your words, not good, but he speaks them. You wonder if he has known parts of your tongue all along and has simply concealed it. Has he understood what you’ve said to him…? All the slurs and stupid things? Mother, grant mercy…

“Why would I like—What kind of question is that?”

“Climbed a tree,” he explains cheerfully behind you. You turn and look up, yet again rendered weak. Giants are supposed to be stupid. They’re not supposed to know the language of faeries…

“Nosy,” he brushes your cheek with a smile in his eyes.

“Nosy?”

You huff - as if you wanted to be there and witness him.

As if you had a choice after the seer pushed you on this insane, cruel path.

“Wanted to see me so bad?” König tilts his head playfully.

Gods… You can only look at him with brows curling with helpless frustration, lip trembling from how he seems to know your every little secret. He nods when you don’t say yes or no. He’s perfectly happy to read all the answers from your eyes.

“Ich wusste, dass es so war,” he changes into his own language, and you don’t need to understand the words he says.

You know he knows. He knows you, he knows you to your core, and it doesn’t really matter in which circumstances you two met. He knows far more than you, something about souls and how they’re supposed to meet, how little squirrels and giants belong together, as crazy as it is. That there is no chance in life: no, it was meant that you two meet. To him, it was no coincidence that you practically dropped into his lap from that tree.

“Did you like what you see?”

He holds your shoulders gently as you quiver and shake inside.

“No,” you peep.

“I like what I see,” he declares; a benevolent god.

…

A/N:. Thank you so much for your love and interest in this fic! As you may have noticed the fic now has 4 parts, which is because the 3rd chapter got too chunky and I had to split it 😇 Next part might take a while because I'm moving soon, but let me tell you... These guys will be put into *situations*. Oh, and a reminder that I don't have a taglist for this so please check any future updates from my pinned masterlist post 🩷

Translations:

Gut geschlafen? - Sleep well?

Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige. - Yes, I know. I killed your people. I deserve a slap.

Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg. - It is lovely to talk to you. But now I have to go.

Du. Bleibst. - You. Stay.

Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden? - Do you like being petted?

Ich glaube das tust du. - I think you do.

Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…? - Have you ever been touched…?

Verstanden. - Understood.

Was sagt sie? - What does she say?

Ich wusste dass es so war - I knew it was so.

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x fem reader #könig x female reader #könig cod #cod x reader #könig fluff #könig smut #historical au #Roman soldier!König

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