#I’m just thinking about this with a medieval times au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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a dance of ice and fire | zayne | chapter two

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it. content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue quote : “Loving him is a sin; of that I’m fully aware. But a sinner I am.” — Bella Jewel

parts | one | two | three

“If you think I’ll stand by while you’re bound to another man, a man who wants to use you as a bargaining chip, then you never knew me at all.”

The scent of nightshade drifted through the air, mingling with the crisp bite of the evening breeze. The sky had deepened to violet, the last streaks of sunlight fading beyond the treetops.

The world was quiet here, hidden away from the grand halls and watchful eyes of the court.

You sat at the edge of the fountain, fingers tracing the water’s surface, watching as ripples distorted the reflection of the sky.

Beside you, Zayne leaned back on his elbows, one leg stretched out, the other bent, sword resting lazily against his shoulder.

He was quiet tonight. More than usual.

You glanced at him. “You’ll be king one day.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk, but he didn’t look at you. “Will I?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not a question.”

Zayne exhaled slowly, shifting his gaze to the water. “No, it isn’t.”

His tone was unreadable, but something about it made you pause.

The air between you felt heavier now, the silence stretching.

You watched the way his fingers tapped absently against the hilt of his sword, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was thinking of something else entirely.

You frowned. “You don’t want it.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

You tilted your head. “Then what do you want?”

Zayne let out a slow breath, tilting his head back to the sky.

His eyes followed the stars, his expression unreadable, unreadable but knowing.

And then, without looking at you,

“Something else.”

The words were quiet. Unshaken. Final.

You watched him carefully, waiting for him to say more.

He didn’t.

Because Zayne never needed many words to tell the truth.

And at the time, you had believed him.

Because Zayne never wanted the throne.

Until now.

—•

The grand hall was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of goblets, the low murmur of politics veiled beneath laughter.

Golden chandeliers bathed the room in a soft glow, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor.

Nobles swirled in their silks, indulging in excess, oblivious to the shift in the air.

A shift that came from them.

The brothers.

At the center of the banquet, near the head of the long dining table, the air had grown cold.

The torches lining the walls flickered, their flames shrinking as frost began to creep along the silver goblets, delicate but unmistakable.

It had started small.

A remark.

A glance.

A slight too veiled for the courtiers to notice, masked beneath the smooth cadence of conversation and the clink of goblets.

The calculated tilt of the crown prince’s head, the smirk hidden behind his goblet, the way his words curled just a little too deliberately, aimed not at the room but directly at him.

At Zayne.

And he noticed it instantly.

Of course he had.

The crown prince had spoken too carelessly, too smugly. He had leaned back in his chair, lips curled in amusement, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet.

A performance. A taunt.

“Strange, isn’t it?” His voice was smooth, barely audible over the chatter of the hall, but the words were aimed at one man alone.

“For all your careful planning, brother, you still seem so�� powerless.”

The ice cracked.

It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

A small fracture along the prince’s goblet, a thin web of frost spreading outward.

The nobles nearest to them barely noticed, but Zayne did.

His fingers tapped against the table once, twice. His smirk was slow, practiced, but his eyes were cold.

Sharp. Calculating.

“Powerless?” His voice was light, but there was something beneath it. Something smug. “That’s an interesting word choice.”

The crown prince chuckled, tilting his head. “Is it?”

Zayne leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the table.

“Coming from a man who needs alliances to keep his kingdom together, I would say, yes.”

The prince’s expression flickered.

Just for a second. Just long enough.

Zayne saw it. And pushed.

“Strange, isn’t it? Wearing a crown, holding a kingdom, and yet the one thing that truly matters still slips through your fingers.”

The crack was louder this time. The goblet in the prince’s hand shattered.

The conversation around them stopped. The nearest nobles turned, expressions shifting between curiosity and unease.

A thin veil of frost stretched across the table, creeping toward the prince’s untouched plate.

His jaw tightened. “Mind your tongue, Zayne.”

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop.

“And if I don’t?”

The tension snapped.

The crown prince stood so fast his chair scraped against the marble, the sound slicing through the silence.

His hand shot forward, fingers curling in the fabric of Zayne’s tunic, a warning, a mistake.

In an instant, Zayne was on his feet, the air dropping around them.

His fingers wrapped around his brother’s wrist, prying him off with a grip too firm to be casual.

Frost spread along their skin, two forces colliding, neither willing to yield.

The nobles stared, some whispering, others watching in stunned silence.

And then.

You walked in.

The room shifted.

The torches swelled back to life, warmth rushing in, but the tension remained thick.

Your gaze swept the scene, the shattered goblet, the frost-laced table, the brothers locked in a silent battle of strength and will.

And you knew.

You knew exactly what was happening.

Not a dispute over politics.

Not a clash of pride.

This was about you.

The grand hall was frozen.

Not in the way of silence or stillness, but in the way frost had spread across the table, curling around the shattered goblet at the crown prince’s feet, creeping toward the legs of the nobles seated nearest to them.

It had reached the silver plates, frosting over untouched wine, dulling the candle flames until they barely flickered.

And yet, in all that cold, Zayne’s grip remained firm and steady, his fingers curled around his brother’s wrist, prying him away as if he had all the time in the world.

The crown prince’s jaw was tight, fury barely restrained beneath his controlled expression, but his ice cracked first.

The doors had barely closed behind you when the words left your lips.

“What are you both doing?”

Your voice echoed through the thick, heavy silence, a thread of warmth against the chill that filled the space.

Both men turned.

Zayne was the first to release his grip, fingers uncoiling from his brother’s wrist, though his expression remained unapologetic and unreadable.

The crown prince inhaled sharply, regaining his composure as he flexed his fingers, as if shaking off the remnants of a fight.

Neither spoke.

The nobles sat in rigid silence, some glancing between the two men, others staring at you, waiting.

You let out a slow breath, exhaling warmth into the frozen air.

The torches lining the walls flickered back to life, the frost receded from the silverware, the thin layer of ice along the table melting beneath your presence.

The temperature in the room shifted.

A quiet, deliberate reminder of who you were.

Of what you were.

The nobles felt it.

The flicker of heat pressed against their skin, the lingering cold dissolving like mist beneath your quiet fury.

The crown prince’s ice was strong. Zayne’s restraint was stronger.

But none of it mattered here, not when you chose to break it.

Your gaze swept between them expectantly. “Well?”

The crown prince was the first to speak, his voice clipped but steady. “A misunderstanding.”

You arched a brow. “A misunderstanding?” You turned slightly, eyes landing on Zayne. “That’s all?”

Zayne, to his credit, didn’t even try to feign innocence.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if he hadn’t just nearly shattered the balance of the room.

“We were just talking.”

A muscle ticked in the crown prince’s jaw. “Is that what you call it?”

Zayne’s smirk was slow, taunting. “You’re the one who reached for me first, brother.”

The prince’s fists clenched at his sides, his patience already hanging by a thread.

You lifted a hand before he could respond, fingers splayed, heat radiating from your palm just enough that they both felt it.

Not enough to burn, but enough to warn.

The torches flared again and the last remnants of frost evaporated.

The nobles exhaled.

Some shifted in their seats, a few murmuring among themselves as the tension in the air cracked and dissolved, as if the moment had never happened.

But you knew better.

You dropped your hand. “Whatever this is, it stops now.”

The crown prince exhaled sharply, stepping back, his control snapping back into place like a mask fitted perfectly over his face.

His voice was smooth, practiced. “Of course, Princess.”

Zayne, however, held your gaze a second longer. He wasn’t smiling anymore, wasn’t taunting.

He was watching you.

And you knew exactly what he was thinking.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

The door slammed shut behind you.

Zayne barely had time to turn before you were on him, words sharp and furious.

“What the hell was that?”

His smirk was immediate, lazy, like he had expected this.

Like he was waiting for it. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You exhaled sharply, stepping closer.

“Don’t play with me, Zayne. That wasn’t just a fight.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t argue.

He simply watched you, waiting for you to burn yourself out.

But you weren’t done burning.

“I told you to stop. This isn’t a game.” Your chest rose and fell quickly, heat radiating off your skin, pressing against the cold he carried like opposing forces colliding.

“You don’t get to throw ice at your brother across a table like children. You don’t get to start a war in a banquet hall just because you—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly you were close.

Too close.

Zayne’s fingers brushed against your wrist—not to restrain you, not to challenge you, just enough.

Enough to make you realize how hot your skin had become.

Enough to make you realize how much he had noticed.

His eyes softened, flicking over you, quiet and knowing.

“You’re burning up.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t move away.

“That tends to happen when I’m angry.”

Zayne hummed, head tilting slightly.

“Or when you care too much.”

The words landed like a challenge, but not a cruel one.

Not a taunt. Just the truth.

His fingers, cool and steady, skimmed over your wrist, trailing up just enough to make you shiver.

The heat beneath your skin simmered, just barely tempered by the way he touched you—calm, careful, like he knew exactly how to quiet the storm inside you.

And maybe he did.

You swallowed, voice quieter. “You can’t do this, Zayne.”

His smirk faded. “I can.”

His hand lingered, just for a second longer, before he finally pulled away, the absence of his touch sending a sharp contrast through your skin.

He exhaled, trying to calm himself.

“You think I want to be at that table? Playing politics with men who don’t deserve to rule?” His usual sarcasm was gone, replaced by a seriousness you weren’t used to.

“I never wanted the throne. You know that.”

You held his gaze, waiting. “But?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Zayne let out a slow breath, his fingers curling into fists at his sides before releasing.

“But I can’t watch him take everything and do nothing. Not when it involves you.”

Your heart stumbled.

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

This wasn’t about ambition. It wasn’t about power.

It wasn’t about proving himself.

It was about you.

Zayne had never wanted the throne.

Until you became the price of losing it.

The air between you felt thinner, stretched tight with something unspoken.

The heat that had flared beneath your skin had cooled, but not completely. Not when he was still watching you like that.

Like he was daring you to understand him.

You exhaled, body shaking in frustration.

“So what is it you suggest? Going to war?”

Zayne huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You nearly froze over a banquet hall.” You retort, crossing your arms.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, his voice lowering just enough to make you listen. “That wasn’t war. That was a warning.”

You held his gaze. “And if they don’t listen?”

His lips curled slightly. “Then they’ll wish they had.”

The weight of his words settled.

He wasn’t speaking in riddles or games this time, he meant it.

Every word.

You studied him carefully.

“And where do I fit into this plan of yours?”

Zayne didn’t blink. “You already know.”

The response came too quickly. Too easily. And it sent a shiver through you—not of fear, but of something dangerously close to understanding.

You inhaled sharply. “You want me to choose you.”

He smirked as he tilted his head slightly. “You say that like you haven’t already.”

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale before you could stop it. His confidence was infuriating.

But worse, it was accurate.

Zayne has never asked for power, had never fought for it.

Until now.

Until you.

Your fingers curled, your nails pressing into your palms. “You think this ends with just the two of us?”

Zayne exhaled, hands sliding into his pockets. “No. I think this ends with him losing.”

You weren’t sure which truth hit you harder—the fact that he meant it, or the fact that you didn’t hate the idea as much as you should have.

Because you knew what kind of ruler the crown prince would be.

And for the first time, you weren’t so sure that Zayne stepping out of the shadows was a mistake.

You just weren’t sure if you could handle what it would cost.

The torches lining the walls flickered, the heat of them barely cutting through the cold still clinging to the space between you.

Zayne was waiting.

Not for your answer, but for your realization.

That you already knew what he was asking.

That you had known for a long time.

Your jaw tightened. “You want him to lose.”

Zayne’s head tilted slightly, his smirk slow, almost lazy.

“I do.”

Your pulse stumbled. Not at the words—at how easily he said them, more at how sure he was about it.

Zayne has always been meticulous in his planning.

Always watched from the sidelines, always played the long game while letting others take center stage.

But that wasn’t the man standing before you now.

He already made a plan, a solid, fool-proof one.

And he was done waiting.

You exhaled. “If you do this, there’s no undoing it.”

“I know.” His voice, confident.

Your stomach twisted. “And if I say no?”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression.

A moment of hesitation, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Then he sighed, voice quieter now.

“Then I’ll stop.”

A pause.

“I won’t force you into this.”

Your breath caught, something too heavy, too real pressing into your ribs.

Because you knew him.

You knew he meant it.

And you could not decide if that was worse.

Because if you told him to stop, he would.

But the war wouldn’t.

The crown prince would still rule and the court would still whisper about you as if you were a tool to be tamed, something to be bartered, something to be controlled.

And Zayne would step back, let the game unfold without him, let fate take its course.

Even if it meant losing you.

Your throat tightened. “You’re asking me to betray him.”

Zayne let out a soft breath, a low chuckle. “And what makes you think he hasn’t?”

The words landed.

Because you knew.

The crown prince had never seen you as an equal, never seen you as anything more than an asset, a weapon to be sharpened and wielded.

He would never fear losing you because he never thought you had the choice to leave.

But Zayne did.

Zayne only ever saw you.

And now, he was offering you something the others never had.

A choice.

You inhaled sharply, fingers curling at your sides. “And if I say yes?”

Zayne stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

The air between you cooled, the heat beneath your skin tempered by the quiet intensity in his gaze.

“Then we win.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t an if, it was a when.

Because this is Zayne who does not fight his battles unless he was sure he would win.

Especially now that you were his battlefield.

The realisation settled on you like a veil over your head.

Zayne’s gaze held steady, his confidence unshaken, but you felt the weight of what he was asking.

This wasn’t just about power. It wasn’t just about politics.

It was about choosing him.

And that was something you weren’t sure you could do.

Your fingers curled, breath unsteady as you forced yourself to speak.

“This isn’t right.”

Zayne faltered. Just barely.

But you saw it.

The flicker of something raw, something he didn’t bother to hide around you.

“It feels right.” His voice was quieter now, lower, but still unwavering. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You felt your heart drop.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And that terrified you.

You shook your head, willing yourself to push past the way he was looking at you, past the way his presence cooled the fire raging inside you when nothing else could.

“I can’t just betray everything I’ve been raised to uphold. I can’t—”

He moved.

Not away. Toward you.

Fast. Reckless.

Before you could say another word, his hands were on your waist, his mouth crashing against yours, stealing every last thought from your mind.

You should have pulled away.

You should have stopped this.

But when his lips parted against yours, when his fingers tangled in your hair, when your own hands betrayed you and gripped onto him like he was the only solid thing left in your world, you let him.

His mouth slanted over yours, firm, demanding, unchained.

Heat and cold clashed where your bodies met, his touch sending shivers down your spine while your own magic curled beneath your skin, fighting the pull of him, yet craving more.

Zayne’s grip tightened at your waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your gown as if he could brand himself into you.

You gasped against his lips, and he seized the sound, swallowed it, claimed it like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than either of you would ever admit.

The cool stone wall bit into your back, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through your body as his hands touched you slow, deliberate, starving.

His lips left yours only to trail down your throat, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing at the sensitive spot beneath your jaw.

A sharp inhale left you, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling, needing.

This was wrong.

This was reckless.

This was everything you had fought to avoid.

But when his hands slid lower, when his lips moved over your collarbone, when his teeth nipped at your skin before soothing it with his tongue, all you could do was arch into him, your body betraying you as it pressed closer, seeking more.

“Zayne—” Your voice was a whisper, barely more than a breath, but it made him freeze.

Just for a second.

His breathing was uneven, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his fingers still gripping your waist.

His lips hovered over your skin, his chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths.

His voice came low, gravelly, as he forced himself to still.

“Tell me to stop.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted him to stop.

And that terrified you.

Your hands were still in his hair, your body still burning beneath his touch.

But you said nothing.

Zayne lifted his head, his gaze locking onto yours—intense, dark, filled with something dangerously close to possession.

His fingers trailed along your thigh, slow, teasing, testing. Your breath hitched, a shudder rolling through you at the cold of his touch against your overheated skin.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”

You parted your lips, but nothing came.

Because you couldn’t.

Because this was the moment you had been avoiding, the truth you had buried beneath duty, beneath reason, beneath everything except what you really felt.

And that was all the answer he needed.

His smirk returned, slow and dangerous, his fingers tightening at your waist. “That’s what I thought.”

His lips crashed into yours again, this time deeper, hungrier.

You didn’t fight it anymore.

Because god, you wanted him.

The room was quiet, save for the unsteady breaths between you.

The air still carried the lingering heat of your magic, but it was nothing compared to the fire curling beneath your skin—the fire he had ignited.

Zayne’s gaze burned into yours, dark, intense, his body still pressing you against the cold stone wall.

His lips were kiss-swollen, his breathing ragged, but his hands? His hands hadn’t stopped moving.

“You can still tell me to stop.”

His voice was low, rough, his fingers just beneath your skirts, tracing slow, lazy circles against your thigh. The threat of restraint still lingered in his touch, but barely.

You swallowed, your pulse thrumming against his fingertips, every part of you caught between hesitation and pure, desperate desire.

He wasn’t just waiting for your answer—he was waiting for permission.

But you had already made your choice.

Your hands slid into his hair, pulling him down as your lips met his again, a kiss that held no more restraint, no more second-guessing.

A deep, satisfied groan rumbled in his chest as he grabbed your thighs, spreading them apart, lifting you effortlessly until you were wrapped around him.

His hands gripped your curves, kneading, pulling you flush against the hard press of him, molding you to him like he had every right to take, every right to claim.

The cool of his skin was a stark contrast to the heat rolling off you in waves.

You burned for him and he knew it. He had always known it.

His mouth moved to your throat, teeth scraping, lips soothing, tongue teasing, working his way lower as his hands pushed fabric aside, found more skin, more of you.

Your body arched into him, seeking, needing, powerless against the way he unraveled you.

His fingers teased at your core, a slow, maddening stroke that had your breath catching in your throat. You could feel smirk against your collarbone.

“So eager.”

You had never felt like this.

Like you were coming undone and being put back together all at once.

Like he had all the control while making you feel like you held it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, back against the stone, thighs tightening around his hips. He groaned at the feeling, his grip bruising, his restraint breaking.

His lips found your ear, breathless, full of promise.

“Let me ruin you, Princess.”

And when his fingers finally slipped inside you, claiming, knowing, teasing you open for more

You did not hold back.

—•

The air was thick with the scent of heated skin and fading restraint.

Your breaths were uneven, your body still trembling against his as you came back down from the high he had torn from you.

Zayne’s forehead pressed against yours, his grip still firm on your hips, like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Like if he did, reality would come crashing back in.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Not uncomfortable. Not uncertain.

Just the stillness of two people who had crossed a line that could never be redrawn.

Your fingers traced the damp strands of his hair, your heartbeat still wild, still trying to catch up.

He exhaled sharply, his hands sliding down your thighs, squeezing once before setting you back on your feet.

Your legs nearly gave out, and he smirked, steadying you, his touch lingering longer than it should have.

His voice came low, husky, tinged with amusement.

“Careful, Princess. You look like you might fall.”

You swallowed, forcing your body to remember how to move, how to think. “You’re insufferable.”

His smirk deepened. “And yet, here we are.”

Here.

In the dimly lit chamber, with your dress askew, his tunic undone, and the taste of his lips still lingering on yours.

The weight of what had just happened settled between you like a dangerous secret.

Zayne’s expression flickered, something serious, something darker, before he reached up, brushing his thumb over the mark he had left on your skin.

“No regrets?”

You knew what he was really asking.

You held his gaze, your chest rising and falling as you forced the words out. “This changes nothing.”

Zayne let out a slow exhale, but he didn’t look disappointed, as if he expected that answer.

Like he knew better.

His lips curled, slow and knowing. “If you say so.”

And when he stepped back, when the cold air rushed between you, you realized something that made your stomach twist.

It did change everything.

And you both knew it.

—•

The royal court had always been a place of veiled threats and measured words, where influence was played like a finely tuned instrument.

Today was no different, maybe except for the fact that Zayne was no longer playing from the sidelines.

You felt the change the moment he entered the chamber.

It wasn’t loud, not a grand display of force or some reckless grab for power.

No, Zayne was smarter than that.

It was in the way the nobles subtly straightened, in the way conversation faltered for just a breath before resuming, as if pretending they hadn’t noticed the shift.

But they did.

You did.

His steps were unhurried, controlled, the soft click of his boots against the marble floor carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before.

He didn’t linger at the edges of the room today, didn’t settle into his usual place of quiet observation.

Today, he moved with purpose.

Like he belonged there.

You sat beside the crown prince, poised, unreadable, but your attention was fixed on Zayne as he approached the war table, his fingers brushing idly over the map sprawled across it.

Not studying it. Not learning it. Just… familiar.

Lord Callas cleared his throat. “The eastern border remains volatile, Your Highness. Reinforcements are needed before the rebellion grows.” He glanced toward the crown prince, awaiting the usual nod of approval.

But before the prince could speak, Zayne’s voice cut through the room.

“And what do you suggest? More soldiers? More bodies to feed a conflict that should have never started?”

The nobles stilled.

Zayne didn’t look at them.

He remained focused on the map, tracing slow circles over the disputed territory.

Callas shifted in his seat. “Without proper forces, the region will fall further into chaos.”

Zayne hummed, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Funny, considering the coin sent to reinforce those garrisons never actually reached them.”

Callas stiffened. “That is an unfounded accusation—”

“Is it?” Zayne finally lifted his gaze, slow, calculated. His smirk was faint, but his eyes? Cold. Unyielding. “You seem awfully defensive for a man who has nothing to hide.”

The murmurs started, hushed but undeniable.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening in your lap.

He wasn’t just making a statement. He was setting the stage.

The crown prince’s tone was clipped. “Enough, Zayne.”

Zayne leaned back slightly, as if considering. “Of course.”

A beat.

Then, with an easy shrug, “After all, I suppose it isn’t my responsibility to keep the kingdom from crumbling, is it?”

“I believe that is your job, brother.”

The court went silent.

The shift was subtle, effortless, but devastating.

Zayne wasn’t just calling out a failing strategy.

He was questioning the throne itself.

The crown prince’s jaw tightened. “Watch yourself.”

Zayne’s smirk was slow, deliberate. “Have I said something untrue?”

The room held its breath.

The weight of Zayne’s words settled over the court like a storm waiting to break.

He didn’t need to say it outright.

He didn’t need to declare that he had been cleaning up his brother’s messes for years.

Didn’t need to point out that he has been the one managing the generals, soothing the nobles, securing the stability that the crown prince took credit for.

He made his point.

And everyone in this room had understood it.

You inhaled, the flicker of heat beneath your skin warning you of what was coming next.

Because for the first time, Zayne wasn’t just standing in his brother’s shadow.

He was stepping into his light.

Soon, the court dispersed, leaving the battle that had only just begun.

Whispers trailed behind you as you walked, the echo of hushed voices filling the grand halls.

The tension from the war table still clung to the air, an invisible weight pressing down on the walls, on the floors, on the very foundation of this palace.

And at the center of it stood the two brothers.

The crown prince, the future Emperor.

And Zayne, the man who had never wanted the throne.

Until now.

You weren’t meant to be here.

But you stayed.

Because this wasn’t something that could be ignored.

Their steps were slow, calculated, the silence between them stretched tight. This wasn’t a simple disagreement.

This wasn’t even a rivalry.

This was war.

You could feel it.

The slow, brewing storm. The tension threading through the air like a knife against silk, waiting to cut.

Finally, the crown prince exhaled, breaking the silence first. “That was bold of you, Zayne.”

Zayne barely spared him a glance, his smirk lazy, unbothered. “You’ll have to be more specific, brother. I do many bold things.”

A flicker of irritation crossed the prince’s features, there and gone in an instant. “You’ve never overstepped like this before.”

Zayne hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“No, I suppose I haven’t.” He smirked. “That should tell you something.”

You saw it then.

The brief flicker of unease in the crown prince’s eyes.

The tension in his stance, the way his fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to react.

Because for the first time, Zayne wasn’t standing in his shadow.

He was challenging it.

The crown prince came to a stop, turning to face his brother fully. His voice was low, controlled, but beneath the surface, you heard the threat.

“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but let me make something clear.” He took a step forward. “I am the future Emperor. Not you.”

Zayne finally looked at him then.

Not lazily. Not with amusement. But with something colder. Heavier. Unshaken.

And then, he spoke.

“And yet, I do all the work.”

The words cut through the air like a blade, precise, deliberate.

The crown prince inhaled sharply through his nose, his composure slipping, just slightly.

Zayne’s smirk turned sharper. “Strange, isn’t it?”

The air shifted.

Not visibly. Not enough for the nobles still lingering nearby to notice.

But you felt it, the drop in temperature.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a challenge.

Zayne felt it too.

But he didn’t tense. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Instead, he took a step forward.

A fraction of movement. Subtle, barely noticeable.

But the crown prince stepped back.

Not by much. Not enough for anyone else to see.

But you saw it.

And Zayne knew it.

His smirk deepened, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “Be careful, brother.”

The prince’s fingers curled at his sides, his breath slow, measured.

But he said nothing.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Because Zayne had already won this round.

And you had just witnessed it.

You inhaled slowly, aware of what this meant.

Zayne was no longer just a prince on the sidelines.

He was claiming the space he had been denied for too long.

And he was doing it for you.

—•

The quiet of your chambers was deceiving.

Outside these walls, the palace still buzzed with the aftermath of the court session. The nobles had seen it.

Zayne’s words, his challenge, the moment he had made them think.

And that was dangerous.

Because once a ruler’s strength was questioned, the throne beneath them began to crack.

And you weren’t sure if you should stop him.

Or help him break it entirely.

Zayne stood by the fireplace, one hand resting against the mantle, his expression unreadable as he watched the flames flicker.

You sat across from him, perched at the edge of your chair, fingers curled against the armrest.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said.

Finally, you spoke, “You’re going to push him.”

Zayne exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly. “I already have.”

You narrowed your eyes. “How far?”

His gaze flickered to yours, sharp, calculating. “Far enough to make him doubt himself.”

Your pulse stumbled. “That’s dangerous.”

Zayne hummed in agreement. “It is.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your gown.

“So what’s next? You make him paranoid? Isolate him? Turn the court against him?”

Zayne’s smirk was slow, deliberate. “I don’t have to.” He stepped closer, his presence sinking into the room, pressing into the space between you.

“He’ll do it himself.”

You inhaled, the weight of his words settling into your chest. “And what about me?”

Something flickered in his gaze. Something dangerous.

“You will be by my side.”

The certainty in his voice sent a shiver through you—not of fear, but of something else.

Something inevitable.

You swallowed. “The nobles won’t just fall in line. They need something to believe in.”

Zayne nodded, tapping his fingers against the chair beside him. “Then we give them something.”

“Meetings.” You thought aloud.

“Strategic alliances. We need to control the conversations before my betrothal to your brother becomes the chain he tries to bind me with.”

Zayne’s smirk faded, replaced with something colder. “He won’t control you.”

The way he said it sent heat curling under your skin.

You exhaled slowly. “Then make them believe in something bigger.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly. “You mean us.”

The words settled between you.

You weren’t sure if he meant the political alliance.

Or the one that had already crossed far too many lines.

Before you could answer, a sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet.

You exchanged a glance before the door suddenly barged open.

A guard stepped inside, his face unreadable. “Your Highness.”

His gaze flickered to Zayne before settling on you. “The crown prince requests your presence.”

You inhaled, already knowing what this was.

Already knowing he wasn’t going to sit idly by.

Zayne’s jaw ticked. “And if she refuses?”

The guard hesitated, shifting slightly. “Then he will come here himself.”

You pushed to your feet before Zayne could say anything else. “I’ll handle him.”

Zayne stepped closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “He’s already desperate.”

You held his gaze, fingers brushing briefly against his wrist before you pulled away. “Then let’s see how desperate he’s willing to get.”

And then, you left.

Because the real fight was just beginning.

—•

The halls felt colder as you walked.

Not because of the evening air, nor the marble floors that never retained warmth. It was him.

The crown prince.

He stood near the large windows of his chambers, dressed in royal black and deep crimson, the embroidered crest of the empire stitched into his sleeves.

He looked composed, regal, every inch the future Emperor he was supposed to be.

But you could see it.

The tightness in his jaw.

The way his fingers curled against the window ledge.

The way the frost that had begun creeping along the glass betrayed his control slipping.

You stopped a few paces from him, your own posture unyielding. “You summoned me.”

He turned, slowly, eyes sharp as steel, glinting with something dangerous. “It seems I have to.”

The tension in the room coiled tight.

He gestured toward the cushioned chair near the hearth. “Sit.”

You didn’t move.

His gaze flickered over you, unreadable, but his tone remained smooth. “You are my future Empress. This game with my brother ends now.”

Your breath steadied.

“Game?”

The crown prince let out a slow exhale, his head tilting slightly, his expression measured. “I don’t believe I’ve been unclear. You will marry me.”

You didn’t flinch. “Because you command it?”

His smirk was cold. “Because it has already been decided.”

The words landed like a lock clicking into place.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest.

“Funny.” Your voice was smooth, measured. “Because from where I stand, it seems you’re the one who feels the need to secure it.”

His jaw tensed, just barely, but you saw it.

He was pushing now.

Because for the first time, he felt the need to.

He took a step forward, slow, deliberate. “Do not mistake patience for weakness, Princess.”

The temperature in the room dropped. The torches flickered, the frost spreading further along the glass behind him.

Still, you didn’t step back.

Your voice remained steady. “And do not mistake obligation for devotion.”

Silence.

The flicker of something dark in his gaze.

“You overestimate your choices.” His voice lowered, smooth as glass, but it did nothing to hide the warning beneath it.

“This marriage is not an option. You and I will rule, and you will uphold the duty you were born for.”

Your throat tightened, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what he refused to see.

“And if I don’t?”

A slow inhale.

His expression remained calm, but his power pressed into the room, into your lungs, into the very air you breathed.

And then, he smiled.

“Then I will remind you why you must.”

Ice spread beneath your feet.

A cold so precise, so controlled, that you knew this was no warning.

This was a promise.

Your fingers curled at your sides, heat humming beneath your skin, ready to melt every ounce of frost he dared to place at your feet.

But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you met his gaze, unyielding, unwavering. “We shall see.”

The smirk that crossed his lips was slow, confident, but there was something else beneath it.

Something uncertain.

Because he didn’t expect you to fight this.

And that would be his first mistake.

The frost beneath your feet crept forward, thin veins of ice threading through the marble, a slow, deliberate claim.

The crown prince watched you, his smirk carefully measured, but you knew him.

You saw what he was trying to hide.

Frustration.

Not because of your defiance—he had always expected you to fight.

But because he couldn’t control you the way he did the others.

And he knew that.

He took another step forward, close enough now that the chilled air clung to your skin.

“We shall see?” His voice was smooth, the tone of a man used to winning before the battle even began. “There is nothing to see, Princess. This union is sealed. You are mine.”

Your jaw tightened. “I am not yours.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something in his gaze hardened. “Not yet.”

Your breath steadied, heat simmering beneath your skin, pressing against the cold, but you kept it contained.

Controlled.

“Do you think this will work?” You tilted your head, keeping your voice calm, even. “That you can… freeze me into submission?”

His smirk faded slightly. “I think you are playing a dangerous game.”

You stepped forward, the warmth of your presence pushing against his cold, countering, challenging.

“And you think you aren’t?”

A flicker of something dark in his gaze. He exhaled sharply, his control tightening, restraining whatever impulse was itching beneath his skin. “I am offering you power. I am offering you a throne.”

“You are offering me a cage.”

His fingers twitched at his sides. “Careful, Princess.”

The crown prince stood before you, his posture stiff with controlled rage, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

“You think you can fight this?” His voice was smooth, but beneath it, you heard the strain.

The frustration.

The fear.

You exhaled slowly, keeping your voice steady. “I don’t have to fight.” You tilted your head, gaze burning into his. “Because you’re already losing.”

His jaw clenched. The cold around you thickened, the air becoming thin, biting. “You forget your place.”

You took a step forward, the ice melting beneath your feet. “You forget that I am fire.”

The torches flared higher, shadows stretching along the walls, warmth flooding the space between you.

“You think your power makes you untouchable? That your ice will cage me?”

Your gaze hardened, your voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “It will never be enough.”

The crown prince inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, his control barely holding. “You overestimate yourself.”

You let out a quiet laugh, slow, deliberate. “No. I think you’re finally realizing that you’ve underestimated me.”

For the first time, his silence was not power.

It was defeat.

Suddenly, the door opened.

A guard entered swiftly, bowing low. “Your Highness, the nobles are gathering. They request your presence.”

The prince inhaled slowly, his expression smoothing over in a practiced motion, his power retreating like an ocean wave pulling back before the next storm.

You knew this wasn’t over.

Neither did he.

He turned to you, his smirk returning, but colder now. “We will finish this later.”

You smiled back, slow and deliberate. “I look forward to it.”

He left without another word.

But as the door closed behind him, as the frost faded, your heart was still beating too fast.

Not from fear.

From the certainty that the real war had just begun.

The moment the door closed behind him, you let out a slow breath, releasing the fire you had held so tightly within you.

The heat hummed beneath your skin, the tension still coiled in your chest, but you had won this round.

You had stood your ground.

But you also knew he wasn’t done.

The crown prince had been pushed before, but never like this. Never in a way that made him feel as if his power was slipping through his fingers. He would not take this lightly.

You turned away from the lingering chill in the room and made your way back toward your chambers. Zayne would be waiting.

And you had much to discuss.

—•

Zayne was already there when you arrived.

Leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, head tilted slightly in that way that told you he had been expecting this.

Waiting for you to come to him.

His gaze swept over you the moment you stepped inside, sharp, already knowing what happened.

“He tried to secure the marriage.”

You exhaled, closing the door behind you. “He’s grasping at what’s already lost.”

Zayne’s smirk was slow, pleased. “Good.”

You took a measured step forward, arms folding neatly at your waist. “Don’t look so smug. He’s going to lash out.”

Zayne chuckled, tilting his head. “Of course he will. It’s the only thing he knows how to do.” His gaze flickered toward the window, thoughtful. “But he’s not thinking ahead. He never does.”

You met his eyes. “And you are.”

He lifted a brow. “Always.”

Your lips curved slightly, mirroring his amusement, but your voice remained steady. “Then tell me.”

Something flickered behind his expression, something that wasn’t just amusement, something that had been there for longer than either of you had admitted.

He stepped closer, his presence calm, certain, inevitable.

“The nobles are already watching. I gave them a reason to doubt him today.” His voice was smooth, unwavering. “Now, I give them a reason to follow someone else.”

You didn’t hesitate. “You mean you.”

Zayne held your gaze. “I mean us.”

Your breath didn’t catch. Your pulse didn’t stutter. You had already made this decision.

His eyes flickered down, searching for hesitation, for doubt. He found none.

He exhaled slowly, something dark, something hungry curling behind his smirk. “He is desperate to keep you. And when a man is desperate, he makes mistakes.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And what mistake will he make?”

Zayne’s smirk deepened. “The one where he forces your hand too soon.”

Your fingers traced the carved edge of the chair beside you. “And when that happens?”

He stepped closer, his voice lowering to something intimate, lethal.

“Then we take everything from him.”

The words settled between you, but there was no tension.

No uncertainty.

You had already chosen.

This wasn’t a question, there was no hesitation.

This was a declaration.

Your fingers brushed his, deliberate, a promise more than a touch.

“Then let’s begin.”

masterlist

#lnds zayne #zayne x non mc #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #zayne x reader #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #lnds #lads x reader #lads #fantasy romance #fantasy

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gremlingottoosilly · 2 years ago

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The Horror and The Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] Medieval Fantasy AU

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one. CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| you're here! Word count: 5317 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig This fic on AO3

— You’re really quiet, little princess.

König isn’t ashamed of staring at you the whole horse ride. He isn’t ashamed of touching you, his precious treasure – cupping your breasts through that pathetic excuse of a corset, trying to feel of your legs through the billions of skirts, his touches sprawling across your skin like bruises. He is a soldier in all regards – his touches are far from gentle, far from how he should behave with his bride. You feel like a piece of meat being presented for him to devour. Like an unwilling sacrifice for a benevolent god.

— Should I scream then?

Snarkiness isn't something that the princess should have – but it's the only weapon you have, although you are not sure if you can even use it. Emperor is laughing, and it is supposed to be a good thing – you were trained to receive such reactions, like a little dog standing and doing tricks on command; you were taught to strive for smiles on the faces of others. But König doesn’t allow you to see his smile, but König laughs all the time while describing to his soldiers the things he wants to do to you. It is almost surely, that he doesn’t think you know his language – you wish you didn’t know.

— I can give you a reason to scream. — You shall not threaten a… — I’m not threatening you, kleine Katzen. With a good time, maybe. — What are you referring to? — That I would love nothing more but to rip your skirt off and show your cunt a royal treatment, princess.

Emperor has a foul mouth, wandering eyes, and grabby hands – he behaves like a drunk man in a tavern, even though you have never once been in a tavern, and the only drunk men you barely saw were the castle guards on various celebrations. He doesn’t act like a glorious king from the romance novels – and you don’t think that you ever read a novel about a king or an emperor, not about princes and glorious knights. People with this much power don’t deserve love, they already have everything they have – so why would he kidnap you?

You turn away from him, the obscenity of his mouth makes your whole face burn. You are trying to hide yourself in your hands, you want to grasp something like a little fan or a handkerchief – everything to sustain your dignity. You are wearing the princess’s name and you have to behave like her – even if you don’t think that she would care about how you are behaving yourself. The dread of being exposed lingers in your chest, the only thing that doesn’t allow you to scream and launch on him like a wild cat. Rules and modesty tie you down stronger than any corset could.

Like a rabbit caught in the hunter’s trap – you steal looks at the nature around you, excited and terrified to see it for the first time – not the perfect greenery of the castle garden, but an untamed nature. You saw the city for the first time – your capital, not burned and agonized under the empire’s boot, but eerie quiet. The city doesn’t know your face, the princess was hidden, kept in the tower as a means to escape the burden of marriage proposals and possible wars for the sake of securing her beauty. Nobody here knows you for your face, and for them, it’s just the empire’s knights, a power from a country too foreign to be worried about, and a random kidnapped girl in a dissarranged dress and tears streaming down her face.

A hand on your waist secured you in place. No matter how much you squirm and cry, try to forget all the filthy nonsense he is whispering in your ear, you are forced to listen – and you want to cry every time his face hovers over yours. His hands are touching you, too much for comfort, your are still wrapped in his cape, but it’s a very small mercy for your torn dress and fragile body.

The road is long and short at the same time. Your kingdom was bordering one of Northern Empire territories, but it’s days away – you never once thought that having the Empire right on your border would be such a nuisance, that it would allow them to simply take whatever they want from your tiny country – the rules of politics are never applying to those in power and, unfortunately, you found out the worst way possible. The road is treacherous, with people surrounding you, with soldiers going through the beheaded country like it’s nothing. You were biting your lips the entire first day of the ride, trying not to cry – you do not want to give him the pleasure of seeing your distress, but you can’t help but sob every time he exits the cabin to yell at his soldiers or laugh at something.

You are not tied up, they trust you too much – they all know you would not be able to run, seeing just a helpless princess, a little war trophy of their emperor. The war trophy without the war, just a doll for him to enjoy. You steal a few glances at him – his spread legs that make you wonder how the poor horse even can handle him riding it, his mighty body, and his muscular arms. He could wrestle a dragon, you think – he could lift up the whole carriage and bring you back to the capital like this. He is a cocky bastard, not even having his sword in his hand whenever you move too much – too confident that this weak princess would not be able to resist him. You don’t want to fall from the horse and so you freeze in your tracks, even when they hit a small pause on the journey.

You can’t, of course – your hands are trained to hold clothes, to braid hair and, sometimes, fetch the water buckets – but you are mostly proficient in holding books, turning pages and embroidering. You can make tea, you can support the conversation, you can faint dramatically whenever the right opportunity occurs, but the ride has been happening for a few hours already, and you fainted three times – for specific reasons, of course, but fainting now would surely be a bit too much.

— Is little princess too tired to hold herself straight?

König chuckles in your ear, hands pushing you against his body. You don’t want to say anything, you’d rather continue your ride until you’re completely exhausted – books were never talking about how hard it is to ride a horse, that your rear would feel numb after the first hour, and your head would be bouncing on every little bump on the road. You never thought that the roads of your kingdom were so terribly maintained – and never thought it would be such a problem.

You grit your teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of confirming just how weak you are – but he stops his horse once you are not responding, a hand slides under your hips to help you get out from the damned animal. You swear to god that you will never ride this foul creature again – but the god, as always, stays silent.

— What is it?

— Princess isn’t used to long detours. We’d have to stop before dawn if we want to keep this a secret for now. — Could travel for a few more hours before it’s too bright.

His second-in-command is a weird man, no doubt. Tall, broad, wearing armor with tiger prints all over the metal – although you never saw a tiger in real life, only on various illustrations of the books you were reading for the Princess. He is painfully informal in a way that makes you wonder how he can keep his head on his shoulders – surely, if he’d talk this way to a king, he wouldn’t be such a profound member of the army. König only shakes his head, pointing at you as the reason to stop – as you begged him to get off this bloody thing. — I need my princess with all innards intact. Especially the soft ones.

Emperor laughs, cupping your ass through the skirts. He somehow managed to grope your softness without breaking the corsage, and you’d feel thankful for him, but the dress was ruined anyway – all the hard work of redoing it over and over, every time you had to manage to squish the princess inside of the harsh corset and billion skirts, every little detail you were thinking through together…it feels somehow suitable, to wear a destroyed dress. Fake princess deserves fake luxury, but even the modesty he allows you to have with his coat wrapped around you feels forced.

Stopping right now, when you feel numb and your legs are getting weak and squishy like that weird transparent foreign delicacy, is very considerate of him. So much so you don’t even want to acknowledge it, hoping he’d just continue to go forward until all the traces of your past are gone. You’re too tired to consider anything from escaping to even opening your eyes. Suddenly, being on a horse of this size doesn't sound like something out of a fairytale. Suddenly, you realize that the horses are tall.

— What’s wrong, princess?

— I’m not going down.

You are sitting, frozen on top of his horse. One of your hands is keeping his coat wrapped securely around your body while the other squeezes the reins, hoping not to fall miserably to the ground. You hear soldiers laugh – the embarrassment spreads around your cheeks when you understand that a true princess would have horse riding lessons. You two never did – it would give you too much freedom, and your castle would never accommodate to large grounds of free roaming to keep a princess and her loyal maiden entertained. You can only hope they won’t think that the absence of your riding lessons would be too suspicious – and you also hope that he would just allow you to never jump down to the ground that feels horrifyingly far from you.

— Do you wish to run with my horse?

— Yes, your Highness. — Run, then. I’ll be waiting, little princess.

There is a laugh in his voice – you squeeze the reins and try to holster them, maybe kick the foul creature to the side so it would take the hint and start running in the direction of the nearest forest. Maybe you would get lucky, and the horse would drop you in front of the house of a kind forest witch that would take you as her student – you can cook, and you can read, so, naturally, any witch would be happy to have you as a disciple. Maybe you will get even more lucky, and the horse will kick you in the head after dropping you, finishing your misery in a tragic road accident. Not a honorable death, but a quick and interesting one. The horse remains frozen in place – just like you. König gently caresses its face, giving it something to eat – an apple, perhaps, a nice and tasty fruit, or sugar cubes, the delicacy that the princess would often indulge in but never gave you, or something of a…ah, this is it – you are starting to get jealous of his horse. Mayhaps, death is the only choice for you now.

— I will run.

— Of course you will.

— Sir, should we prepare the archers?

— Don’t know it yet. Maybe the princess escape would be too swift for them.

You feel your whole face burn – they laugh, they all laugh, looking at you like a piece of meat, a funny joke between them. You don’t want to fall from the horse, and you don’t want to stand here either – but every time you look down at the ground that is so, so far away, you can only shake in your seat. You feel like crying once again – and this is what brings you to the edge. With a deep sigh and shaking hands, you jump down swiftly, your eyes closed and your legs getting tangled in the various skirts, dragging you down. ***

The emperor had an understanding of what he was getting into when he kidnapped a princess. Princesses, pretty and young ones especially, are mysterious creatures that should be carefully studied by the imperial scientist in order to determine how in hell they can even exist without killing themselves on something stupid three times per day. This one, however, was a crowned ruler of weird girls – sometimes throughout the journey, he was thinking about returning her to the king and choosing another one. Then he remembered that he beheaded the king – and so, the bloody dot was sealed in the history of relationships between Northern Empire and this tiny shithole in the middle of nowhere.

Besides, the princess was too adorable to really throw her out. She is smart – for someone like her, anyway; her snarkiness combined with the primal fear of him and his men made him feel strong, more significant than before. It’s funny, in a way – König had defeated countless great warriors and spent his life turning the tiny Empire into the most powerful nation on the blonde, and yet, he never once felt this achieved as when he held the princess in his arms. The emperor never thought of marriage as a necessity, his whole magic endeavors securing that he would never have to worry about leaving an heir or having someone else to rule – but the loneliness can hit you like a royal stallion bred for the purpose of battery ramming into castle doors, and you can find yourself yearning for something that you never thought you’d want. Speaking of royal horses…

The princess is cute, the princess is dumb, and the princess is the most weird and perfect creature in the whole wide world. Makes him wonder just what was you doing in your little castle with your little servants, running around like ants under your dainty heel. You are snarky to him when you know that he is too busy to strike you and too tired to care about his opinion – he likes that about you, little yawns and feeble attempts to appear strong in front of him. He doesn’t, however, like the way you are frozen on top of his horse. He needs his wife helpless, yes, dependant on him in everything – and he also needs her to ask for help when needed, not…well, not jumping from the height of a royal horse in that stupid dress of yours.

God, hive him strength.

König, the ruler of the Northern Empire, biggest royal regime on the globe, thought that he overcame his anxiety when he was young, so long ago, he forgot how fast his heart can beat when the situation is going out of his control. He remembers this dreadful feeling now when that stupid brain of yours has decided that jumping from a horse is a good idea. He is fast, swift enough to catch you before you fall to the ground, and he squeezes your hips enough to hear the crack of that stupid dress construction.

He has to stop himself from yelling. From putting you in your place and slapping you across that perfect face of yours – never the one to beat women, König feels like spanking the shit out of you now. His eyes are flashing with anxiety, and he grabs your shoulders, putting you in front of him – you can’t see his face, covered by his mask, and it’s a small grace for someone like you. He is scary when angry, nostrils flashing with rage when he thinks that you’d rather break your neck than ask him for help.

— Made others set the camp for tonight.

Horangi is as perfect as a knight can be – his friend, his partner in crime, one of the only ones who still can survive his temper and not be intimidated by it. He can see the worry in his eyes when König is pushing the little princess down to his hold, draping the various skirts across his hands to rip them away – and he quickly yells at the other soldiers who produced the operation, making them run in various directions to collect wood, stones and set up the tents for tonight. They have to move away from the popular roads, even though nobody in this kingdom would be strong enough to hurt them anyways – but this operation should be a secret, at least relatively, until the princess is secured as his empress, and her body is sprawled across his sheets, withering from pleasure and…

Ah, Scheisse. König cannot stay mad at her when the mere thought of her smile makes his dick twitch in his pants. He survived through horribly throbbing erection against the metal plates of his armor for the whole ride, the small mercy of not having her soft body press against him directly. It didn’t stop him from wanting more, from whispering filthy things, completely undeserving of your virtue. You are bringing him down to his knees – even an emperor is just a man when a pretty girl looks at him, and even at is age, he could feel like a young lover searching for his bride’s hand.

Oh, but König would love something more than just your hand.

He should be thankful to his knights for how quickly they made a tent for him to secure the dignity of the first moment between a man and his sweetheart. He usually does everything himself, not wanting to make a lady in waiting out of his knights, but he enjoys their help now – he surely won’t be able to prepare for sleep with his wild cat of a bride in his hands. You are unusually active for a princess, trying to get out of his hands, kicking him with your adorable legs, still wrapped in a ruined skirt. Perhaps you were so mad at him for destroying your dress – he gets it, knowing how sensitive ladies are about this. He’d buy you a new one right away, but, for your stupidity, you deserve to wear only his coat until they are inside the borders of the Empire.

— Did you hit your head before I got you, princess? What were you thinking? — You told me to run. I did, Your Royal Highness.

He pinches his nose through the mask, not believing just how arrogant you sound – he wants to push you down, to open that dumb skirt of yours and give your precious ass a few spanks before setting you down, making you sit on the ruined muscle until you’d learn your lesson. The king was definitely not punishing you enough if you still think that you can talk to your betters (and elders) like this.

— I dared you to run. Thinking you’d accept the consequences with the dignity of a royal lady.

— Why don’t you kill me then? For belittling your dignity.

You look too snarky for his liking – he can see how terrified you are, little shakes of your hands and tears in your eyes. You are provoking him, picking the dragon with a stick so he’d burn you to a crisp. König knows that the customs of your kingdom value a good death over everything and just how much you’d love to fall into the grasp of a common tragedy. He also knows that he will not bury his bride before they are even married.

It’s only natural that the emperor grasps the front of your dress, the edges of the corset you tried to tie down to save some of your dignity. The fabric rips with ridiculous ease, all the gold spent on making it runs with the speed of a thread being torn. Suddenly, your front is exposed, even the underwear is not enough to conceal your privacy. König indulges in the view of your open skin, glossy from sweat and so, so delicious in dim magical light erupting from an artificial candle. He knows that he is playing a dangerous game, that not touching you now would be his greatest accomplishment and greatest torture at the same time – your body meant to be touched, you look like a doll and like a statue, like the greatest treasure and the most desirable slut he ever laid his eyes on.

The emperor is a man in the end – a war dog, closer to death than to the start of his life, a perfect incarnation of a horrible match to a young princess like you. Too wrathful, too arrogant, with more chips on his shoulders than the hair on your head, and yet, he holds you closely, putting you out of the torture device you are calling a dress.

You breathe for the first time in forever, and your mouth is shaking from unspoken tears and spoken pleas. He holds himself back from cupping your face in his hands and crushing your lips in a kiss, not because he doesn’t think he deserves it, but because you deserve better than to be fucked on the ground of his tent without proper preparation and some relaxing oils for your body. One kiss would never be enough for him, and he hadn’t touched a woman in far too long to handle himself properly now.

You look like you need to be ravaged – the greatest temptation König ever experienced.

— I can do so much to you, little princess. More than you could ever imagine.

— i’m not…n…not little. Your Highness.

— You are, compared to me. Should be scared, not snarky.

— I’m not snarky.

Just for this, he loses control – your voice, shaking with tears but never losing that arrogant edge, that delicious drawl that cannot be described as something that belongs to a princess, makes him lose all of the composure he had. König had prepared himself for a lady who would fall in his arms and cry the whole night long, he prepared himself for a fierce fighter that would try to kill him immediately – but you are soft and vengeful at the same time, too weak to resist him, but not too helpless to not run his mouth. You speak before you think, and it’s an adorable quality for a princess and horrible – for an empress. good thing you would be his regent, a pretty thing like you should never be annoyed with politics and mingling. König pushes you across his lap, his free hand is tearing through various skirts, and what is left from that awful strick construction you tried to pass as a skirt support. He never understood why anyone would live through this torture – you’d look way nicer in his shirt and nothing more. Or, even better, nothing at all, chained to a bed in his bedroom until he’d think that you are tamed enough to be shown in public.

You yelp in surprise, precious dumb thing. Just like a princess, you are not accustomed to the consequences of your own actions – you think that you can just run your mouth or do dumb things without his wrath falling upon you…and, little princess, you’re in for quite a shock. Your emperor doesn’t have enough patience for this, even though he did want you as his wife and knew what chaos it could bring. He just never thought that he’d have so much pleasure in looking at your adorable bottoms, all modest and long. Your underpants are adorably white, not stained from multiple washings, crisp and new – he feels the fabric with his fingers and almost thinks to not rip them away, just to appreciate the fine silks that went into constructing it.

His mercy is cut short by that sweet whimper of yours. You plead with him not to touch you – like you have a saying on this. König defiled the death itself, so why would he even consider such silly things as chastity before marriage? He certainly had enough women in his bed to forbid him from ever going to heaven, and robbing you of your innocence would be a small crime against all the countless sins he already committed.

But, he doesn’t want you to hate him – and you would, certainly, not in the fiery and passionate way he might enjoy, but a quiet, broken anger. He doesn’t want to turn this fragile thing into the broken shell of the betrothed princess, even if you need to be taught a harsh lesson – and you deserve much better than having your cunt destroyed on the harsh floor of his tent.

— You’re lucky, little princess.

He laughs, taking down your underpants – a harsh hand on your bottom, rough fingers that almost burn you without a glove to conceal his touches. You whimper when he lashes on the sensitive skin, stroking sensitive skin. If you knew how hard you make him, you’d run away with his horse already.

— How am I lucky? You…you killed the king, you destroyed my country, you…

— I killed your father, yes, but I left you alive.

— To make a show for your soldiers, I assume..

— If I wanted to leave you to waste, I would allow them to bounce you on their dicks a while ago.

— How d…

— You’re lucky because you’re mine, little princess. Not going to share you with anyone. But…

— But?

Your voice has finally gone down. he can almost taste the dread in your tone. König was burning down villages, destroyed his enemies with nothing more but a rusty sword and hatred in his heart – but he truly feels like a monster when he slaps your ass for the first time and sees your tear-filled eyes staring at him. God, he never was faithful, but hurting you feels like defiling an angel.

And he loves every second of it.

— You need to learn a lesson of respect, little princess.

It’s a small grace that he doesn’t make you count his slaps – he simply pushes you down, makes sure that your face is lying on his cloak, just for something soft to rely on, and gives you enough slapping to make the rest of horseriding as painful as possible. Maybe, it would teach you a lesson that if you need help, you’d have to ask him, to beg him for this – and not try to hurt yourself by doing it on your own. You’re awfully independent and resilient for the princess.

It took him at least five strong, harsh lashes of his hand on your rear to make you cry as loud as he wanted you to. He cups your face in his palm, forcing you up his lap – and smothered your lips with a kiss. König knows he is overstepping; he wouldn’t be able to let go of you after devouring your lips like that, but he doesn’t care, at least for now. He wants to be your everything, to push every thought out of your head and fill it with himself.

He adores the thought of being your first kiss, your first everything – you’re so inexperienced, so fragile in his hold. Never once thinking of himself as an appreciator of all the thighs dainty and artsy, he wants to worship that pout, your closed eyes, and little prayers of mercy you whisper between each kiss. Your body feels too enticing in his hands, a treasure he needs to keep all to himself. It’s a miracle he didn’t push your underwear down and took you all the way – as much as he wanted to touch you.

König smiled when you cried into the kiss, trembling in his hold like a caged animal. Never once he thought he’d have this much fun without taking some plumpy woman on his dick, but you are full of surprises. Another five smacks on your ass left you with a bruised bottom and tear-strained, wet face. The look of misery in your eyes made him cackle – god, you were adorable. Continue like this, and he’d spend the rest of his life with you on his lap.

— We will sleep now. The Empire borders are still days away, and you don’t look like you could handle the road right now.

You pout, pushing yourself off his lap. Even the hard floor of the tent was better, the cold fabric made your butt sting a bit less. You still couldn’t sit straight, still miserable, with a burning feeling in the depths of your tummy – hate, perhaps, that made your hands shake and your thighs feel a bit too wet and warm for your liking. There is a knot in your lower stomach that makes you feel weird, anxious, that makes you squeeze your legs shut as you push through the pain and get your underpants on again. The soft silks of the princess’s undergarments made you feel a bit better.

— I’d love nothing more but to run away while we’re still at my home, Butcher.

He smiles under his hood, pushing his hand on your backside. You freeze as he rolls you over, making you fit perfectly against his broad chest. He is a horrible, disgusting human being, clingy and warm around you – his bear-like hold is too strong on your limbs, making you freeze completely.

— I’m sure you are, Liebling. And I would love to catch you and spank your rear again.

— I will…you won’t catch me.

— Someone will. I’ll pay handsomely to any knight or wandering hunter to bring my wife back to me.

— I’m not y…your wife.

— Yet.

You turn away from him – try to, at least. He squeezes you against his chest makes you calm down in his hold like a wild cat he picked up on the side of the road. You don’t want to admit it, but he is warm, cozy, and even the harsh fabric he threw on the ground to make you a bed feels nice compared to the castle floors where you spend so much time. You still squirm, trying to find a good position to lay next to him without feeling like a toy in the hands of a grabby kid. König feels your wounded, perfect ass grinding against him – out of most of his armor, he can’t contain his erection now. Oh, how the strong emperor wished he’d have

— Stop moving, princess. Unless you want to consummate our marriage early.

— I’m not…I’m not moving.

— You are squirming. Is the ground not to your liking?

— I must prefer sleeping in a grave with my papa. — Can’t promise you this…but isn’t sleeping with the Death himself would be enough? — You’re not death, your highness. A blight, maybe. Or a plague. — You’re making me blush, little princess. There is a smile in his voice. You feel your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t say anything. Too many nights sleeping by the princess’s bedspot, always being the first one to greet her at sunrise and the last one to tell her stories before going to sleep. Like a loyal dog on the wooden floor, with a pillow under your cheek for comfort – all of her other handmaidens, precious ladies from good families, had their own quarters and rooms.

You had a cot by her bed and her endless affection.

Compared to this, sleeping on the floor of a rich tent with an emperor by your side isn’t as bad. You have to remind yourself that you are sleeping with a murdered, pillager, kidnapper and colonialist – you shouldn’t feel warm by his side. But, he hugs you like a lover. But, he buries his masked face in your hair and inhales your scent – sweet fragrances mixed with the blood and sweat of a long journey.

You fall asleep in his arms before you can think of something smart to say.

König doesn’t fall asleep until hour later – too busy looking at your precious form, wrapped so perfectly in his arms.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #call of duty #cod x you #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere cod #male yandere #konig x you #konig x y/n #cod x y/n

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xesnox · 3 months ago

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(Post fall) Ancient builder x Illager toxic old man yaoi when

WIP, was planning on doing a ref for every human race but a mutual of mine practically begged me to post these two on their own so you’re probably gonna see this image again. Colors are not yet where I want them to be so I’ll definitely go over it a few more times.

I’d like to take this moment to point out that the way you summon allays in legends, where you play as an ancient builder, is pretty similar to the way evokers summon vexes.

Design / AU rant below cut, as always.

This one’s a little worse written than usual, I’m just rambling.

I practically have an infinite amount of Ancient builder designs because I draw them differently with every piece depending on how I’m feeling, but for this design I got more genuinely speculative and turned on my pattern recognition.

Steve and Alex are canonically 6’2, both of them, and all undead mobs seem to be the same height, if not taller than they are, so I made them average around 6’5. To add to that, all undead builder mobs either don’t have eyes or have solid coloured glowing ones, so I went with the latter.

Minecraft isn’t a stranger to making lifeforms appearances change drastically depending on circumstance, this render is of an Ancient builder post wither attack, around ancient city time, which meant I could adopt the idea the devs mentioned about villagers/illagers, of human skin turning desaturated if they stay out of the sun for long enough, which, if the single generation of Illagers already show signs of I bet the god knows how many decade long underground escapades of the builders probably hit ‘em hard with that trait.

I also for the longest time for some reason forgot cosmetics were very likely a thing, so they’ve got some protection spells and luck enchantments tattooed, both of them do. Doesn’t work very well, as one can probably guess. But they’re superstitious so it felt in character enough.

For the post wither attack Ancient builders I also tend to think of them as more frail, not only because they had no access to their former overworld food supplies and had to rely on the little stuff that did grow in complete lack of sunlight underground, which definitely wasn’t a lot, but also because beyond the military force that did seem to remain from the nether war (ancient city structure name: Barracks, disk 5 marching.) they definitely were no longer strong enough to properly defend themselves against the wither or the warden/mourner on their own accord.

And because they were cowards and skedaddled when the overworld was in danger AND got beat up by the piglin despite being the main kingdom in power which I just find really funny. So think tall and boney but hiding it under a lot of clothing layers to still appear strong. Definitely can’t put on armor anymore though, that back would snap like a twig.

When it comes to the robes I used some of my older armor template designs for reference, made them black and blue to fit the most well known ancient builder sprite as well as vaguely match the one of the evoker. Because, oh well, you caught me, I do believe the cargo cult theory. Got my own interpretation but I’ll leave it at that till the next bestiary entry.

I generally want the villagers to look more varied, and human, while the builders, both neo and ancient, look more unsettling, as if they’re clearly a person, but something just looks, or moves wrong. They’re too symmetrical. Too far removed from what once was flawed but sincerely their own.

A lot of villager beauty standards are inspired by medieval-renaissance era Europe, like for an example having a larger visible forehead and appearing more boxy in shape being seen as more visually appealing, I think despite the illagers trying to subvert that they do still live in a society, so having grown accustomed to it as children they probably still at-least somehow adhere to the beauty standards they know, whether consciously or not.

They perform similar experiments on themselves as the builders, they’re just ever so slightly worse at it, as they haven’t been doing it for as long, so it leaves marks like scarring or visible stitching, though I believe they wear these with pride.

There’s gonna be a dedicated post about them at some point, as I said so I don’t know how much of my design I want to pick apart for now, but I’ll just leave it at that for now.

Here’s some alternative versions.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Winter's King 14

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Another work week :(

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Not long after the king’s departure, Lord Jaskier excuses himself to see to his horse. Queen Jazlene sends him off with a similar quip about serious matters. You don’t quite understand her. She should be concerned with the weeks of travel ahead of her, not only of the time, but of the climate.

She finishes the bottle on her own. Much of it went to her cup. You think of warning her but it isn’t your place. You can only watch her head wobble as that hazy look softens her features. On her last gulp, a droplet trickles down her chin. You suspect she might be as unhappy as her husband claimed of himself the previous night. They make a rather sad pairing.

It’s early still. Perhaps once they are settled, it won’t be so tense. They will have a chance to know each other better without the stresses of a war or the road ahead.

Your thoughts stray and your vision fogs as you stare at a blue tapestry. Jazlene continues to babble and suddenly, the clink of her cup jolts you from your trance. You look at her as she slumps against the table. Her shoulders are slack, her arms bent around her head as it droops onto the wood. You can see her breath as she hunches weakly in her chair.

“Your highness?” You call to her. You sway on your feet as you watch her. Come on, move. “Your highness?” You take a step toward her, “Lady Jazlene?”

She groans and slips to the side. You rush around without a thought to catch her. She garbles drunkenly as you hold her in her arms, one leg still on the seat as her other hangs limply. She’s heavier than you would expect.

“Your highness?” You squeak as you struggle to keep her off the ground. You can’t drop the queen.

Her head lolls as her lashes flutter. She is certainly not conscious. The acrid scent of wine rises from her lips. You try to hike her higher, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you grunt. She’s not that big, you’re just weak. You can carry a cask or a chest, but a person is a much different matter.

You wrap your arms around her and haul her around the table. Her slippers drag and you clatter into the chairs and nearly trip on the edge of the rug. Your leg muscles thrum with the effort and your back racks. You look around. The bedchamber is too far.

You turn and little by little, step by step, drag her to the couch. Her feet loudly scrape across the floor. You angle her around with another laboured grunt and as you do, the hinges whine and the left door opens. You look up as the king enters and your lips part in surprise. You’ve been caught. Rather, the queen has.

He stares at you and eases shut the door. He comes around as your arms quake. He wordlessly takes his wife from your grasp and lays her across the sofa. You put a pillow under her head and back up, rubbing your upper arms.

“Your highness, she was not feeling well,” you say.

“She has drunk herself into a stupor,” he snarls as he backs up, crossing his arms as he glares down at her. “Do not lie, especially on her behalf. It does not become you.”

“Your highness, I apologise. I only worry for her--”

“You shouldn’t,” he intones, “she doesn’t worry for you. Or me. Or anyone but herself.” He turns and goes to the table. He rights the overturned cup and you reproach yourself for not doing so first. “But I do appreciate you attending to her. I’d rather not have found her upon the floor.”

“Your highness,” you bow your head.

He’s quiet. You’re unsure what to do next. Should you leave him with Jazlene or stay to tend to her? He will need sleep for the ride.

“Little maid, you will send to have a bath drawn. There will be little chance to wash upon the road,” he commands.

“As you wish, your highness.”

“Mm, if only,” he murmurs as she sits and grabs the empty bottle, sneering at its hollowness.

You set off to have water brought to his chamber. You assist the other servants in carrying the vessels of steaming water. All the while, the king ruminates at the table. He picks at his index finger and his cheek ticks. When at last the tub is full, you go to trail out after the castle servants.

“Little maid, I require assistance,” he says.

You remain and the doors close in the tension. You watch the king, your fingers twined together as you cautiously approach. He glowers at his fingers and huffs.

“You have small hands,” he rests his palm open on the table, “please, I would have use of them.”

Curious, you move towards him. He turns to you and holds out his large hand. He pokes his index fingers up and hisses.

“I got it on the door. A splinter,” he explains.

You see the dark spot, just the minuscule tip of it poking above his rough skin. The skin around it is inflamed, both from the sliver and his fussing. You bring your hands to cradle his single one and lean to have a closer look. You keep one hand under his and slip the other down the side of his palm.

You brush your fingertips over the lines of his knuckles. He’s quiet as he lets you gently squeeze. You glance up beneath your lashes.

“It might hurt, your highness. Apologies.”

His cheek twitches, “I’ve had worse than a maid’s touch.”

You squeeze until his flesh his taut. You pinch the tip of the splinter with your other fingers, using your nails to get a grip of it. You pull slowly. Very slowly, terrified of losing hold and having it go deeper. The wooden sliver slides out and before you can examine it, it falls to the floor, disappearing into the fabric of the rug.

The king sighs, “better.” He brings his other hand over yours and covers your small ones with his, “many thanks, little maid.”

He lets you go, his calloused skin brushing your sleeves, and he hums grimly. He bends his head forward and his white waves shift on his shoulders. He pushes his hair back and raises his head again. His eyes almost glow as he looks at you.

“I should fetch some water for the queen in case she stirs--”

“Later,” he dismisses, “might I ask another favour of such delicate hands?”

You dip your chin down, “I serve you and the queen, your highness.”

“Mm, yes, you recall, the knot in my shoulder, where I carry my sword,” he points along his shoulder, “if it isn’t trouble, I might have you loosen it before I must ride anon.”

“Your highness,” you acquiesce, curling your fingers into your palms. You remember that first night you met him, as he sat in the steaming tub and had you touch him. You sweat at the memory.

“It would be best before I soak,” he reaches to untie the laces of his tunic.

You watch him, helpless. As with the queen, you can only heed his whims. At least he is gentler in his mastery. He pulls his tunic above his head and strips it away completely. He lets it hang over one leg and squares his shoulders as he sits back in the chair.

You go around him and he moves his hair to his other shoulder. Your hands tremble slightly before you touch him. His muscles are thick and his skin taught across everyone. His arms are rounded with bulk and his neck is bullish in girth. He carries so much strength and power as if it is nothing.

You squeeze the muscles gently with one hand, pressing the other behind it. You knead carefully, gradually putting more behind it, responding to the soft breaths and low grunts rising from the king. You hit a spot with some resistance and he growls.

“There,” he grits as he drops his head forward. “Harder.”

You push your thumb against the little pearl of tension you feel along his shoulder. He exhales deeply and lets out a wolfish snarl. He grips his thigh as you work his flesh. Your hands move without much thought. Lady Rezlyn often requested to have her feet done, a much less ideal task.

“Mm, treasure...” he breathes though his words aren’t entirely clear.

Another noise rises from him, sharper than before. You stop, frightened.

“Your highness, have I hurt you?” You utter.

Before you can retract your hand, he has a hold of you. He lifts his head and hangs it back, his hair spilling down. He looks up at you with his bright eyes as he clings to your hand. He presses it flat and moves it over his shoulder. He drags it down against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat.

You’re caught in his gaze and his grasp. You just stand there, entranced by his golden irises. Each time you see them, they are more brilliant than the last. Your own chest tightens and binds up your breath.

“You can never hurt me,” he rasps. You gulp as he lightens his hold and pets your hand. He closes his eyes and winces. “Little maid...” he sits forward and gently moves your hand away from his chest, “you must go now. You must face the road with us and you will require rest.” He lets you go completely and stands. “I trust my wife will have many a demand to keep you busy.”

“Yes, your highness,” you murmur.

“Now,” he insists. “You must go now.”

He crosses the chamber and stops in the door to his bedchamber. You quickly flit over to the doors that lead out to the corridor. You pause and glance over as you sense him move. He stares at you, his eyes licking with flames. His chest rises and falls, trimmed in thick hair that trails down his hard stomach.

“Go...”

You obey and heave open the door. The soldiers on the other side snort. It is late, they must’ve dozed. You don’t think much of that as you harry down the corridor, not looking back. The king’s timber nips at your ears. The way he spoke; ‘go’. It was more than just a word; it was a warning.

⚔️

You rise with the castle, quickly falling into the tumult of the impending departure. When you arrive at the king’s chambers that morning, you are sent away. You find Jazlene in her own. He must have taken her back before the sun.

She is groggy and sombre as you help her dress. The pain in her skull leaks out in pathetic moans. You offer her lemons water and a cool cloth for her head. You see the difference as she accepts but she remains weak. It will be difficult for her to ride.

Horses fill the courtyard and the luggage carts crowd around the stables and rear of the castle. The scene reminds you of Debray. You only hope Queen Jazlene does not cause a similar scene. You don’t believe she can.

You accompany her to the front of the train. The king is not there. The queen clutches her throat as if she might be sick as the smell of the horses is stirred by their whipping tails. She grumbles and calls for a water skin. You find one and she shooes you away.

“Enough of you,” she snips.

You stay close, keeping watch should she signal for anything else. She can barely lift her head to do more than drink thirstily. Lords and ladies as good as ignore the queen as she mutters to her horse.

“Eh, mouse, there y’are,” Bryce’s voice undercuts your pity. “I’ve been looking for ya.”

You face him and the weight slips from your shoulders, “you have?”

“What are you insinuating?” He challenges, “Daisy’s missing ya.”

“Oh,” your brows raise, “well, it just so happens I miss her too.”

“We’ll be off soon. You should come claim your place with the luggage.”

“Should,” you agree.

You follow him through the press of bodies. You get further down, away from the pages and soldiers, see Daisy lazily hoofing at the ground. She chews on a sparse bit of grass in the dust. As you near, you notice that her holster is thicker than it was. She is attached to a small cart.

“What is this?” You ask as you stop short.

“It’s yours, mouse,” Bryce says staunchly, “isn’t right you riding with the chests. Not for so far as we need to go.”

“You... you did this for me?” You ask. "But... what about--”

“Found a spare horse. He’s a bit less friendly than our beloved but he’ll do fine enough,” he explains, “’sides, Daisy needs a respite. She don’t needa be carrying around my hefty behind much longer.”

“Oh, my,” you put your hand to your cheek and go to the cart, “Sir Bryce, you are a true knight.”

“Don’t you get sappy with me,” he tuts as he follows. “Look inside, will ya?”

You look inside the cart. There’s a long cushion and a pack. It’s a lot compared to what you came with; nothing. Bryce reaches in and tugs something from beneath the cushion. You watch the fur ripple out as he reveals the cloak. It’s thick and long and hooded. He holds it up.

“When we get to the Hinterlands, you’ll be needing this,” he says.

You touch the fur, it’s soft. You blink and feel it between your fingers. Your eyes sting.

“Sir,” you bat your lashes, “it is too much for me.”

“It isn’t very much, you are just too humble, mouse,” he folds and holds it out to you. “Now, don’t you be telling anyone this was my doin’. I got a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh,” you clamp your lips shut as you try to hold back your emotion.

A smile breaks through and you bare your teeth. Your cheeks hurt from the joy bursting forth. You hug the cloak and rock, looking around. As you do, you falter at a familiar face.

The king leads a dark horse along the edge of the yard. He is looking at you, or so it seems. You let your expression slip and tamp down your glee. You bow your head in King Geralt’s direction.

When you look up again, he is gone.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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Run Away To Me (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.1k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, blood, angst, protective Johnny, violence, hurt/comfort, speedy relationship, talks of sex/intimacy (nothing in depth) & virginity pertaining to marriage, religious symbolism & mentions, etc.

A/N: That's it for this AU - onto Werewolf!Ghost next.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You’re kept behind Johnny’s back as you both exit the treeline, and you feel yourself quivering with unease.

What would Lord Wilkin do to you? Drag you back? As the shelter of the trees leaves you, you tighten your grip on the blacksmith’s tunic, breathing out a shaky puff of air. Cobalt eyes look back at you, trying to reassure you as the first calls start up from the guards.

Johnny whispers out, his accent deep. “It’s gonna be just fine.”

“She’s here!”

Hounds dash forward but with a sharp bark of, “Get back!” They skid along the dewy grass and halt with rabid barks instead, fur bristled and spittle flying. The men surge forward, and you gasp as they grapple at Johnny’s arms.

One tries to snatch at the neck of your cloak, but a strong arm traps the armored wrist and twists it sideways, snapping the bone as you stare wide-eyed as the guard screams; jerking back and stumbling to his knees. With a fluid motion, Johnny grasps the handle of the downed guard’s sword as he writhes with agony, unsheathing the blade and laying it upon the breast of the other with a dim call.

He glowers and glares, eyes like burning coals.

“I suggest you step back,” you watch, holding your breath from over his shoulder as the blacksmith leans closer to the man, one arm kept behind him and resting on your hip. “‘Fore this gets bloody.” The guard raises his hands and backs up quickly, fear splashing his eyes.

All of the others watch nervously from the sidelines, either reigning in steeds or holding their hands to the pommels of their weapons. Waiting.

You swallow the saliva in your throat and ask, quietly, “Are you alright?”

“Don’t twist your head about me,” Johnny reassures, eyes traveling around the homestead as the guards shuffle and share glances. The Scot grits his teeth and tries to think of a way out of this.

If you had run, just as the man had anticipated, they would have caught up in no time.

The clop of hooves from your left draws both of yours’ attention in a quick succession of perked heads and pounding hearts. You feel your blood drop to pool in your feet at the face that meets you. Johnny growls and shoves you farther into his shadow as Lord Wilkin comes closer with a horse of bay coat, decorated with all the finery of his station. Gold, great coat with an embroidered tunic, and riding boots. Strapped at his waist was a dagger encrusted with gems made of blood and diamonds.

Never mind all that wealth, he looked ugly and cruel to you—a glint of arrogance in his eye. You glare and grit your teeth, rage coming off in waves from Johnny as well as yourself.

Wilkin’s old face is the same you remember smirking down at you as he drove the ceremonial blade into your palm, and your entire hand flinches in memory, digging your nails into the Scot’s waist.

He puffs a sound of reassurance but otherwise doesn’t move an inch from in front of you.

“And who might this be holding my bride hostage?” The Lord’s voice is sly. Black eyes dart up and down Johnny’s form and the man you latch to has to restrain a rabid grunt of anger. Stay his molten tongue. “A blacksmith?”

“It’s MacTavish, to you,” Johnny calls, tone dead and laced with danger. Your body restrains a shiver as his warm skin sinks into you; the memory of his lips on yours is addictive, even now. “Be best for you to remember it, eh? Considerin’ I’m the one who supplies your fucking guards with arms.”

Lord Wilkin utterly ignores him, his gaze sliding to you halfway through his sentence. You stay silent, lungs tight inside of your ribs. The unfortunate truth was that Johnny still had more standing here than you did, anything that you said would come up as null and void; in fact, it would be better to be completely mute.

But with how the Lord was looking at you, your teeth had to bite into your lip to silence yourself. You had to come up with a way out of this. Soon.

“Take my bride away from this brute. Chain him.” Wilkin hides a smirk, pulling at his steed’s reigns to shift the beast away with a snort and a flick of a dark tail. “I want his head on the block in the town square by tomorrow. I have a wedding to finalize.”

“Let the fires of hell go cold if I go anywhere with you,” you say, stepping out slightly from behind Johnny, much to his hesitation, but still, he watches over you and lets you do as you please. The blacksmith would rather not have this Lord’s eyes anywhere near you if he’s being honest with himself.

This Scot had made you bold—his words gave finality. If he said nothing would happen to you, you believed him. Perhaps that made you foolish, but his word meant far more than anyone else. Johnny kept his promises.

Lord Wilkin’s horse is jerked to a stop, its head snapping back and forth with a frothing mouth. His eyes travel back and a slow sneer pulls at his lips, sitting under a mustache of white hair. You restrain a cringe, and Johnny barks an order to the advancing guards to stay back as his large feet set themselves.

“If they grab me,” he mutters, speaking over his shoulder, “run, Little Lady. I’ll be sure to give you an opening.”

Your eyes widen in shock and horror, but before you can answer, your husband-to-be calls to you. The Blacksmith’s expression is the picture of defense as he angles the sword in his grip at the far-off Lord when even the barest hint of his tone indicates you.

A low grunt was ringing in his throat like that of an animal—as if the bear fur inside of the house had come to life and was a shield of muscle and iron shavings.

Your eyes blink, and something begins forming in your head, but it’s gone before you can really grasp it.

“My Lady,” Lord Wilkin states, his guards taking up places beside him, glaring. The hounds have still not gone silent, and Johnny eyes them nervously. “I believe you’ve been overcome by some…” He grumbles and gnashes his teeth in rage. “Spell of disobedience. I’ll have a physician examine you and keep you in my home for a stay of recovery—”

“The lady said she’s not goin’ with you,” Johnny seethes, pupils slits. Your hand rests on his back, spread over the swell of his broadness as you feel his pulse. Hot and racing. “So pack the fuck up and scatter! And take the bloody mutts with you!”

You spare a worried glance at the back of his head. The blacksmith can’t possibly believe that threatening them will make Wilkin pull back, and when he meets your eyes, you know he doesn’t just by the wrinkles by the sides of his lids.

He’s nervous, shifting his feet in small increments to try and push you nearer to the tree line. Your body hardens.

You’ve already made your mad dash—there was no more running. Certainly not if your new center of affection and protective build wasn’t coming with you.

Wilkin raises a brow. “Quite demanding for the man surrounded…Woman!” You flinch at the sudden shout, the quick rage of his snapping head, and the quick switch. Johnny glares and his hands are strangling the hilt of the sword, white and held still. The Lord barks, “Your parents gained valuable gifts for your well-bred hand—would you enjoy them being taken away? I can do so.” Dark eyes sweep over you. A smirk. “Forget this spark of madness and consummate what you know to be done.”

Johnny lunges with a snarl, eyes burning with horrible anger and the intent to cut the head off the snake. The guards meet him as he yells to you, “Run, Dearie!”

But your feet are stone.

When the man realizes you’re going nowhere without him, his eyes gain a sheen of panic as his blade clashes with sparks of steel with another. A dance of feet and wit that speaks to years of careful study; practice from both parties. Wilkin looks smug as Johnny lets off a loud curse and has to turn his attention back to the fight.

“Seems the woman’s come to her senses. Praise God, perhaps there’s hope for her yet.” You breathe heavily, hands clenched under your cloak. Your mind wished for a dagger—one to show this pathetic excuse of a man how much it hurt to try and have someone mark you for the pleasure of ownership. Like some common branded cow.

Wilkin nods to you as Johnny gazes on in horror, narrowly dodging a swipe at his side before he elbows a guard in the face, splaying him out along the ground in a heap of leather and fabric.

“What are you doing?” He yells, voice booming out over the forest. You don’t look at him before you suck down a breath and steady your nerves; standing taller and setting back your shoulders.

The trained grace that had been shoved down your throat on a silver platter came back easily. Forks and spoons sliding under your teeth, all engraved with images depicting holy scenes of sanctity while the blood of your flesh spills at the poke of thorns sitting on your head. A halo of bloody martyrdom.

A tool.

You can be a tool, you decide, flinching when Johnny’s body is tackled to the ground; form ricochetting as he growls and writhes. His sword clatters to the ground. They have him in binds, cheek shoved into the dirt, and great shackles that skirt the line between animal and human restraint. A guard’s hand forces his face deeper into the earth and Johnny bellows, ordering with wild eyes, “Run, dammit! Get out of here!”

Sending a stiff glance, you stare blankly into cobalt eyes and blink away just as quickly, standing and staring down Lord Wilkin as he watches in contentment at the scene of the raging blacksmith and his seemingly placated bride. At the twitch of his lips, you raise your voice high.

“Release him.” Dark eyes turn to slits before they slowly slither back to you.

“Pardon?” You grit your teeth and feel Johnny glaring, a snarl ripping out of his mouth as he coughs through the grass.

“Dearie, no!” A punch hits his stomach as he’s jerked up to his feet and attacked; chains rattling as hounds bay for blood. You sense your gut roll with bile as Johnny fights back—tree-like legs laying a kick square into one's abdomen.

The two guards hang onto his arms, shouting at each other to try and restrain him further.

“I ask my husband-to-be to release the man that graciously gave me shelter during the storm,” staring hard, you’re trying to stop yourself from running to Johnny. You know you have nothing to help him with—it would be pointless and utterly stupid.

Your brow raises, but a nervous twinge is still in your voice. “Does My Lord not take pride in the fact that the men of his fiefdom are so open to taking in those less fortunate than themselves?”

Wilkin’s cheeks go tight, skin pulling as the eyes of the free guards travel to him. The struggle gradually dies down across the way; cobalt eyes darting back and forth with panic.

“Don’t bloody do what I think you’re doin’!”

A trade would happen, but only for a moment. In your head, you were whipping past possibilities and scenarios. There was something on the cusp of discovery—so close to giving you the upper hand, but what was it? Like a thorn in your foot, you continue to walk over it; ready and willing.

Johnny had your back last night, it was time you had his.

“Let the honorable blacksmith go,” you level. “And name your price.”

The response is immediate. A flashing smirk. “Deal. I’ll take my bride back, just as was intended.”

“No!” Johnny’s tunic is all ripped up, tears from gripping hands only making the damage larger—nail scrapes along his hardened flesh from the guard’s ruthless hold. Skin white from the force.

If you look at him, you’ll lose your mind.

Under your cloak, your hands shake as Wilkin descends his horse, coming closer.

“Keep your fuckin’ bastard hands off of ‘er!”

Think. His footsteps march closer—thin and sly-looking like a sharp-eyed Egret. Think!

Before his hand can snap at your wrist your mind sparks in a panicked moment, and you’re exclaiming with a loud voice before you can stop yourself or think the sentence through. You stutter at first but quickly gain your footing.

“I-In good faith, I cannot accept—I am unfaithful to you, Lord!”

The entire homestead goes still, and those struggling with Johnny’s binds freeze. Lord Wilkin goes confused, his wrinkled visage peeling in like a rotted corpse. But no faces are quite as good as the blacksmith’s, who goes so pale and wide-eyed before he can school himself in secrecy; his jaw loose. His heart pounds in his breast, shreds of tunic waving in the wind. You continue with utter conviction, so much so that you even start to believe the lie you’ve crafted with a swift mind. “See the evidence upon the blacksmith’s sheets—where we lay last night in the throes of lust; I am no longer a pure bride.” Breaths get caught in throats; eyes bugging to a nonsensical degree. You swear someone choke. Your face burns as you continue, faking a shameful falling of your chin.

“I cannot marry you!” It’s almost enough to break you, the realization on Johnny’s expression as he darts his vision to your hand—which you hide inside your cloak; wrapped around your waist with false fear. Blood on your hand.

Blood on the sheets.

“It would be shameful to do so, do you not understand? I am not but a used good.” Fake or not, the last comment still makes Johnny’s hands clench his jaw working itself with a restrained growl.

But pride furrows his brow. A smirk was forced back from his lips.

You just took away what Wilkin loves more than anything else—control.

The older man halts, his mouth going agape and a vile sheen coming to his cheeks. He stutters, “I...what?” It’s a violent snarl, but the man balks back from you as if you’re infected. “You dare lie to me, Girl? Play off this fallacy?”

“It’s no lie,” you say, gaining confidence with how Johnny watches you closely, only once rumbling at the guards that hold him when they tighten their grip. “The evidence is plain as day in the Blacksmith’s bed.”

Wilkin’s eyes flash, and he barks an order to one of his men to enter the main house. Only when his dark eyes are off of you do you spare a look at Johnny.

You sag softly, shoulders losing some tension.

Blue eyes lock with yours, firm. Sending an apologetic squint of your eyes, the man only slightly shakes his head, mouthing out, “Don’t worry your little head about it.” A quick, barely-there smile flashes his lips—but then you have to look away before you let the shaking of your body be known. No matter how hard you plead with your muscles to stop vibrating, they do so instinctually.

You know what lying about this will cost you, successfully or not. You’d be labeled for the rest of your life; separate. But Johnny’s eyes on you ease the pain. Lets you breathe. If the worst thing that could happen to you was living out your life in his homestead and being at his side, then perhaps social execution was the only thing that pleased you at the moment.

You just hoped that it didn’t lead to an actual execution.

“Lord!” The guard returns as Johnny continues to watch you, panting, with sweat dripping down his chin. His ribs hurt something awful, but he only glowered at the men holding him and stayed his violent tongue to let you work your strengths like fine iron wrought in the fire of his hearth.

Wilkin’s lackey was hurriedly carting the length of the Blacksmith’s sheets behind him—clutching in his fist the vibrant red stain of your blood and displaying it to the light. Thinking about what they saw it as, instead of your wound opening, you cringe and restrain a sound of disgust.

Even being around Johnny for as little time as you had, despite the kiss and infatuation, you had forgotten how crude the rest of these men could be. It’s like this sanctuary of trees and dew-soaked ground was in an entirely different world, and these intruders were wrecking it. By Johnny’s face, he felt the exact same.

Half of the Scot wanted to save your honor and tell them you were lying, but the desperation of the situation was far more serious than that. He couldn’t let you go back to Wilkin—he’d promised. So Johnny took down a tight breath and stayed silent; face burning and glaring at the ground with clenched fists shaking for blood.

The guards holding his arms slightly release their grip, listening intently themselves.

Blanking, the Lord’s eyes lock onto the stain as the man brings him the fabric. Not a moment later his hand snaps out to drag it to his face, looking daggers into the redness as his eyes snap from place to place.

“...You did this on purpose,” the slow dead tone takes you aback, hands around your abdomen digging further into your flesh as a dread spills into your stomach with blossoming unease.

“M-my Lord?” Johnny tenses, eyes sharp like a wolf.

“You did this so you could spite me, you little,” the encrusted dagger is unsheathed from its scabbard. “Whore!”

“Shut the fuck up!” The blacksmith bursts with wrath, jerking forward so violently that he drags the guards holding him along the ground, their calls of alarms making the hounds go ballistic.

You take a small step back as Wilkin gets nearer to you—the point of the blade setting itself right under your chin; tilting your head up. Breath going tight, you stare with wide eyes and a pounding heart.

He wouldn’t kill you…would he?

The Lord’s eyes are brimstone and deeper than Hell, holding sinners in the bars of his pupils while devils of brown specks prod the pool of obsidian. If a man could be on fire and still be living, Wilkin was an inferno incarnate.

“You belong to me,” he grits his teeth as Johnny’s voice blurs in the background, having to be forced to his knees by three men yet still nearly throttling one with the force of his arms. “I paid for you.”

“Then you should find it a lost investment,” you shakily reply, not knowing how you have the strength to stare into Wilkin’s eyes. But you do. You stare and you hold your hands tight into your flesh until the skin under your gifted fabric aches. A small prick of the blade makes you suck in a tight inhalation, a tiny droplet of crimson sneaking down your throat.

It’s a battle of wills, and before you say what you’re thinking, you’re nearly sure that in less than three seconds you’ll be grasping a slit throat.

You clear your throat softly and speak in a dim whisper. “How will your guards react to you killing a woman in anger?” Expressions freeze. “What does God say about that?” You swallow, throat bobbing. Hit him where it hurts. “...What would the townspeople say? Mercy is not above our great Lord, that is an earthly prospect. I believed that was your greatest quality, is that not what everyone believes?”

Wilkin stares, his mustache twitching. Dead face. Dead eyes.

It’s a long, long moment before anything else happens, and when it does, you flinch.

The dagger disappears from your chin and you instantly back up several steps, breathing unevenly. Pointedly, you place your uninjured hand on your slowly dripping skin.

Johnny’s taken down three of the guards, their faces bloody and your blacksmith’s nose broken. He yells and screams curses. You feel your heart constrict at the sight, pain zooming down your veins in bursts of adrenaline, but it’s seconds later that Wilkin speaks, loudly so that everyone can hear.

“I would never harm a woman,” you hold back a violent scoff as your hands shake, wanting to be taken into Johnny’s arms now more than ever—feel his heat and inhale his scent. Wrapped in a blanket of steel and ash. “In my good graces, I will pray for your salvation, Miss. But being soiled—”

“Bloody piss off!” You send Johnny a quick glance at the outburst. He’s forced back face-first into the ground with a grunt and sputtering of grass in his mouth.

“I no longer wish to be joined with you in holy matrimony. It would be dishonorable to my station.” Dark eyes swim with hatred, but the tone of his voice is easy and pliable. The Lord was a good fake—he plasters on an appeasing smile for his men and waves a quick hand in the air as he turns to his horse. “Release the brute. Let the pair roll in their sin of carnal desire. God will be their judge.”

Johnny struggles as they unlock his chains, but the second he’s out he’s springing full-force towards you; his skin sliding across your cloak as you’re guarded far better than any loyal hound or King might be.

“Johnny,” you grapple at his biceps, sighing raggedly in relief. He doesn’t brush you off, only curling his side around you and angling his head to the mounted horses; pupils slits and lungs heaving. His nose looks awful. “Don’t, don’t,” you plead, “It’s over.”

The man doesn't respond, looking feral as his hair goes this way and that; coiled around your body about to strike at anything that comes close.

“I’ll kill him,” Johnny grunts. “I’ll rip his damn throat out for speakin’ to you like that—for puttin’ a knife to your throat. I’ll rip him into bloody bits and pieces, you just say the word, Little Lady.”

Your arms encase the one of his you’re holding, dragging the limb to your chest. Cobalt eyes dart back to your face. It’s a long moment, but his expression softens slightly—the wrinkles beside his eyes easing while his lips twitch down. Blood drips off his lower face, spread around his under eyes, and stains his stubble with crimson gore.

“Please,” you mutter.

He looks down and nods stiffly, even if he doesn’t like it.

The horses are rallied, the hounds called, and with a throw of dirt from their hooves the convoy is off. Silence returns in slow increments of nothingness.

Wind, the call of a bird, and the babble of a far-off stream echo through the pines. Only when they’re entirely out of sight and the dust has cleared that Johnny swiftly moves, picking you up into his arm. You squeak as he carries you speedily into the main house, rushing to place your backside on the table.

His large hands immediately tilt your head up to spy the tiny mark from Wilkin’s blade, and you feel his shuttered breath against your throat as you go heated.

“J-Johnny, what are you…” But you don’t get an answer, the man disappearing before coming back with a wetted rag. Once more, the man cleans your wounds with delicate presses of the cloth—ridding you of all blood.

His jaw is clenched, and as you watch, your hand in your lap twitches.

In a broken act of pain, you lightly run your fingertips over the swelling of his nose. The man stops, but serious eyes stick to your throat—unable to meet your gaze; there’s a red sheen to his neck and ears. Anger or embarrassment, you know not.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, guilty, and his widened gaze rips itself to lock with yours. Your vision blurs, afraid to touch him fully as if it might burn him.

“No,” he’s shaking his head. “No, you never tell me that. What you did, Dearie…I,” Johnny stutters, closing his mouth before opening it again. “I should be apologizing to you. It wasn’t fair to make you do that. Any of it.”

A wobbly smile flicks your lips.

“Are you saying I should have left you?” Johnny moves his face farther into your hand, blood contaminating your skin but you don’t pull away. You let him sag into your palm instead, reveling in the scrape of his stubble against your soft hands.

“I’d not see you harmed,” is all he answers.

You sigh and blink away your tears, stealing the man’s rag so you can dab at the bloody nostrils. Johnny’s pulse is still fast under you—like the pound of his hammer.

“Well,” his eyes dig into yours and you smile. “I believe my priorities are the same. I may have only met you yesterday, but I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

“Aye, well, everyone will know how fond soon enough.” He’s more worried about this than you are, a stubborn and almost grumbly tone to his words.

“Is my purity that much of a sore point for you?” You can’t help but tease him, even in the circumstances. “I had no idea.”

His face goes more crimson than his own blood, and he blinks at you rapidly.

“I…That isn’t what I…” You chuckle gently and press your forehead to his, whispering.

“I was just joking.” He sags with relief, his hands coming up to rest on your hips with the care of a man unbefitting to his station. Again, you have to ask yourself how an individual so intimidating can be, at the same instance, kind and generous.

His lips mutter, brows tight. “Are ya sure you’re alright, Hen?”

You think, wondering about the run through the forest when this all began, the plea for shelter. Such a deep coincidence that you’d end up here—perhaps the most safe place in the entire fiefdom. Everything had lined up perfectly, barring a few bumps in the road. You doubted Wilkin will mess with this place after the spreading of your ‘promiscuous’ behavior.

He was too sly for outright violence if given the option.

“Yes,” you know, and thin your lips. “What about your nose? A-and everything else?”

“Don’t think about it,” the Scot smiles, eyes still glinting with worry. So many hours and you’d barely gotten any sort of break. “I just want you to rest, then, eh?”

Maybe it was outwardly obvious, but the entire ordeal had left you drained; shaky, and still coming off of panic. What if they had killed Johnny…?

You’d go back to Wilkin and live as his wife, producing heirs and locked away in his estate for the remainder of your life. What kind of existence was that? No, you knew, you’d never live like that.

You’d never live like that here.

With a shaky breath, you watch Johnny’s eyes flash with concern for a moment by your silence, but before he can speak you’re pressing your lips to his in a firm and honest kiss—sinking in every emotion you could.

The man grunts in surprise, but doesn’t move back; if anything, his grip on your hips increases, sliding up to your waist.

After a moment of tasting flesh, you pull back and whisper, “Thank you.”

Johnny breathes heavily, a glimmer in his blues, “Well,” he grumbles, “I’d say you did most of the work.”

You both share a chuckle before you’re lifted again, carried gently over to the bed without sheets. You’re placed atop the bear fur and wrapped in that instead after your cloak is unclipped and folded neatly, set on the floor. Outside, the call of a far-off storm hits your ears and you blink to the window.

“Stay with me?” You ask before you can stop yourself or can even think.

The blacksmith’s breath catches, his fingers flinching as they were pulling the fur tighter around your neck.

It’s a moment before he asks in a quiet tone.

“You sure you want this, Dearie?” His lips go tight, eyes narrowing in inner conflict. You stare and already know the answer just by how he speaks to you. “I’m no King. I…I can’t give you fine jewelry or fancy clothes. There’ll be no grand suppers beyond the game I catch or what I can afford to buy. Long winters.”

The air goes quiet with worship, and your eyes go wide with care. His broken nose is crooked, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. You wonder if that was for your sake or his.

“I’m not someone worthy of your beauty,” he rubs at the back of his head, bending down by the edge of the bed. “Certainly not your smarts. I’m only a blacksmith, Little Lady.”

“Only?” You huff a chuckle. Johnny looks at you in confusion as the black clouds outside roll in, seen through the window of this quaint and lovely home. The hearth is warm, the scent of food still in the air, and the memory of a dash through the forest behind you.

“If you’re only a blacksmith, Mr. MacTavish,” you’re sent a fake stern look as the back of a hand goes to brush your cheek. You shiver. “Then I’m only a runaway bride.”

“Aye,” Johnny admits with a growing smile of adoration, “but still a bonnie one, at that.”

“...Stay with me?” You ask again.

The man breathes out, “Tell me why.”

“The trees do not deny what they need to make them whole, Blacksmith,” you whisper. “Why should I?”

He’s clambering under the fur, wrecked clothes, and blood on his face but never feeling more whole. Is so little a time enough to fall in love with someone? What deity had tied your souls together so soon with ribbon soaked in rainwater—tinged with blood?

His lips meet yours as you sigh into him, hands gripping his arms as they circle your waist tightly. Johnny breathes you in and lets his hands span your back, fingertips digging into your clothes. Into his mouth, you whine a plea for him to keep you close and hold you tight. It’s all your need from him. It’s all you want.

For the wise know best: there is nothing better than a simple life.

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dreamwritesimagines · 8 months ago

Text

The Eye of the Hurricane [34] - Cage

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback, you made my day! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: Lack of honesty can cause resentment.

Word Count: 2700

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Warnings: Violence, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, dysfunctional relationship, mentions of sex. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

If anything, your day started out pretty calm.

You were petting Alpine with one hand while scribbling on the paper with the other, and you stole a look at Bucky when he entered the kitchen. He ran a hand through his damp hair and you inhaled the scent of his aftershave as subtly as you could, pretending to be busy with the file in front of you while he made his way to the coffee machine to fill himself a cup of coffee.

You could feel his glances on you as he leaned back on the counter, sipping his coffee but you ignored him until he cleared his throat.

“So when is that asshole leaving?”

You stopped petting Alpine and lifted your head to look at him better.

“Who, Rhett?” you asked. “He just got here.”

“Doesn’t he have a city to rule?”

“He left his right hand in his place, apparently,” you told him. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

You hummed, spinning your pen between your fingers.

“You should be nicer to him, you know.”

He scoffed into his coffee mug. “Yeah sorry, I’m not capable of being nice to dickheads who gaze at my wife longingly.”

“What?”

“I’m already being civil by not shooting him, and that’s only because you told me not to.”

“You’re not going to shoot—he doesn’t gaze at me longingly, Bucky.”

“Oh he does,” he shot back. “In fact, I bet he has a plan.”

Your frown deepened. “What plan?”

“He wants to—he wants to take you to Chicago,” he said, motioning vaguely and you tilted your head, your mouth slightly open. “Yeah, he’ll feed you some bullshit about never being over you—”

“He is very much over me.”

“And he will ask you to go rule Chicago with him, and then I’ll shoot him and feed his fucking body to the dogs—”

“Can I just interrupt that very creative theory with some truth?” you asked him as Alpine jumped from the counter to the floor. “Number one, even if he weren’t over me, it wouldn’t fucking matter because I am over him.”

His eyes searched yours as if he was trying to see if you were telling the truth. “…Are you?”

“Absolutely,” you said. “Number two, whoever he is with -which is not going to be me, by the way- will not be ruling Chicago with him. Chicago’s rules are different, the crown moves through blood there. Spouses are irrelevant, they’re treated worse than heirs, or right arms. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the bitch who he’s going to marry because she’s a terrible person, but I kind of feel bad for her too because no one will ever take her seriously. King consort or queen consort, doesn’t matter because they have zero power, except for providing heirs and strengthening the loyalty of families.”

Bucky blinked a couple of times. “Jesus, and we say we have medieval rules.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And number three, I know we both keep forgetting it but we are in fact married. Even if I weren’t over him, me going to Chicago would be grounds for war and only an idiot—”

“Trojan War started the same way, didn’t stop anyone.”

“I appreciate the compliment but I’m not the underworld edition of Helen of Troy,” you pointed out. “That’s not what’s going to happen here. Unless Eric Bana shows up, that is.”

“Which one was he in that movie, Paris?”

“Hector,” you said with a sigh. “The things I’d do to him…”

“I’m glad we had this conversation because now I will have to add him to my hitlist as well.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“The point is,” you said. “I’m not starting a war between Chicago and New York for an ex. Because that’s what Rhett is. An ex.”

“He doesn’t see you as just an ex,” Bucky told you. “You said it yourself. He trusts you.”

The sight of Rhett’s car by the campus outside your building made you stop dead in your tracks only for a moment. You could feel the smile pulling your lips as you approached him, and he took off his sunglasses to grin at you.

“Hey stranger.”

“Hey,” you said. “Look at that, you survived.”

“Mm hm.”

“I take it the same can’t be said for Lucas?”

“For him or any of his men,” he stated, leaning back to his car. “He was waiting exactly where you said he was.”

You nodded your head. “How pissed off was your father?”

“Very pissed off,” he said. “But I think it worked out pretty well, you know? Now we have sent a message.”

“The ultimate golden heir is not to be crossed or challenged,” you teased him with a small smirk. “That’s a good message.”

He heaved a sigh, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you warn me?” he asked. “I mean, aside from the orgasms I gave you—”

“That was a mutual transaction,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle and hold up his hands.

“It really was,” he said. “But seriously, we were broken up. And I know what promise he dangled in front of you. What, you didn’t even consider it?”

You made a face, shaking your head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“New York values loyalty over power,” you said. “That’s what I grew up with. I don’t do business with greedy backstabbers, neither would my father or anyone else in New York. Once a traitor, always a traitor.”

Rhett’s gaze was fixed on you, a light crossing his eyes as he let out a breath.

“Jesus…” he muttered. “One last transaction, cupcake?”

“Nope,” you said with a laugh. “Then we will get attached and we can’t have that. You have a city to take over, and I’m too smart to be put in the background in someone else’s empire.”

Rhett smiled softly.

“My father won’t do business with anyone in New York,” he said, and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I know. Everyone knows.”

“Neither will I,” Rhett said. “Until you need my help.”

Your eyes shot up to his, your stomach doing a happy flip.

“You’d do that for me?” you asked and he nodded.

“You saved my life, and proved that I can in fact trust you,” he said. “Chicago values loyalty above everything else. The least I can do is pay back the favor.”

A smile warmed your face. “I’ll come to collect, Rhett.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said and extended his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, cupcake.”

You let out a giggle, and shook his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “Likewise.”

“Because I earned his trust,” you told him as his phone vibrated and he checked the screen, then typed something. Even if you wanted to ask who it was, you managed to control yourself, biting inside your cheek.

“Dr. Raynor rescheduled the therapy session for the evening,” you told him. “Your assistant told you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I have a meeting with Anna before that so I might be a bit late but I’ll be there.”

Your brows shot up, that familiar bitterness burning your mouth. “With Anna?”

“Mm hm,” he said. “Gotta go, I’ll see you there,”

With that, he walked out of the apartment and closed the door behind him, and Alpine jumped back on the counter, meowing at you in a very demanding manner. You heaved a sigh, stroking over her soft fur.

“We’re not going to threaten Anna,” you told her, “Because that’s a fucking insane thing to do, and we’re very logical, rational individuals, right Alpine?”

Alpine meowed again and you nodded your head.

“Mm hm,” you muttered. “Exactly.”

“I mean it’s not that I’m jealous,” you assured Becca who only watched you with her brows raised. “Obviously that’s not what’s happening here.”

She hummed, sipping her coffee.

“It’s just that she’s a bit too friendly with him I feel like.”

“Like Rhett is a bit too friendly with you?”

“That’s very different!” you protested. “Rhett and I are going to make a deal!”

“Anna already has a deal with Bucky.”

“Whose side are you on?” you asked, sulking and she let out a laugh.

“Yours, obviously,” she said. “But I’m just saying, maybe before pointing fingers, acknowledge the fact that Rhett liked you. A lot.”

“Liked,” you repeated. “Back then. Besides, I have no feelings for him and as I told Bucky, he will get married.”

“And he will have mistresses.”

“Probably,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “Alice will kill them I’m guessing. She was quite obsessed with him even while we were dating and now that Rhett says he will marry her, I do not want to think about the lengths she’d go to.”

Your phone buzzed on the table and you checked the screen, then tilted your head. “Huh.”

“Who is it?”

“Ethan,” you said. “We haven’t talked in forever, apparently he was too busy and so was I. He wants to grab coffee sometime.”

“What is it with all your exes wanting to fuck you?” Becca asked, making your jaw drop.

“That’s not true!”

“No seriously, what are you doing to those guys?”

“I don’t do anything to them—you know what, we’re changing the subject,” you said as you put your phone back on the table. “Do you think I’ll be able to pull it off?”

“The deal?” Becca asked, “I’d say you already have.”

“Nothing is on paper yet.”

“It doesn’t matter, he flew here for that deal. He will make it.”

You drummed your fingernails on the table. “My father will have so many things to say about it I’m sure.”

“He can say whatever he wants—oh!” she sat up straighter. “Guess what I heard.”

“What?”

“Apparently, Ian is learning how to fight.”

You pulled your brows together. “I’m sorry?”

“Mm hm. His right hand is teaching him, the hot Hercules guy—”

“Ryan.”

“Yeah, him.”

You scoffed a laugh. “How did you hear about that?”

“Your father told my father and my father told my mom at breakfast,” she said. “Never too late to start I guess?”

“I mean he’s the heir,” you said with a sigh. “If the cage fight is happening…”

“You know how I feel about the cage fight tradition but for Ian’s case only, I will enjoy it,” she said. “I hate the son of a bitch.”

You squeezed her hand. “How Leila?”

“That’s actually why I wanted to meet up with you,” she said, huffing out a breath. “My mom kind of forced my hand.”

“How?”

“She and me and Leila are having brunch tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“So I need you to tell me Leila won’t decide to dump me tomorrow.”

A small laugh escaped from your lips and you shook your head.

“She won’t,” you assured her. “Do you want me to be there? I will invite myself to that brunch, I don’t care what Winnifred thinks.”

She looked like she was genuinely considering the idea before she made a face, then shook her head.

“Nah, I need to deal with this myself,” she muttered and you pressed a hand over your chest.

“Aw,” you said with a grin. “They grow up so fast.”

“Shut it,” she said, kicking at your shoe with hers, making you gasp. “But I’m going to need all the moral support I can get, so you will be by the phone the whole time, alright?”

You let out a laugh. “Deal.”

Bucky was late to the therapy session as he said he would be by fifteen minutes, and when he got there, he was rather tense. Even if you wanted to ask what had happened, you knew you couldn’t in front of the therapist so you raised your brows at him but he shook his head.

“So,” Dr. Raynor said, “Let’s pick up from where we left off the last time. How have things progressed in terms of your communication with your ex-boyfriend in the picture?”

“Him being my ex-boyfriend doesn’t play a part in our communication or lack thereof,” you said quickly and Bucky clicked his tongue.

“It definitely does.”

“I think what plays an important part in our communication is the fact that Bucky doesn’t exactly trust me.”

Bucky blinked a couple of times and turned to look at you better.

“I don’t think you should be pointing fingers here, Charm.”

“I do trust you!” you protested, making him scoff.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You know what, if you’re being like this because I didn’t give you one tiny little detail about my plan—”

“One tiny little detail?” Bucky repeated with a laugh. “Try the whole plan.”

“You wouldn’t even spare me a glance if I pulled the shit you did back in that back alley,” you finished your sentence as if he didn’t cut you off and that seemed to take him by surprise. He gawked at you, then licked his lips, shaking his head.

“Are you serious right now?”

“What happened in the back alley?” Dr. Raynor asked, her voice almost too calm and Bucky gritted his teeth, leaning back in the couch as if he was uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“It was ages ago,” he said curtly and you hummed.

“And you never apologized.”

“I did apologize—”

“Asking me if I’m still mad via text does not count as an apology, Bucky.”

“What happened?” Dr. Raynor asked and you took a deep breath, then crossed your arms.

“I had a silly little crush on Bucky years and years ago,” you said. “Before I left for college, I made the mistake of telling him about it.”

“Charm.”

“And it’d be fine if he only turned me down but nope,” you spat, that bitter taste burning your throat again. “He had to humiliate me.”

“I didn’t humiliate—”

“Yes you did,” you cut him off and he ran a hand over his face, then motioned at Dr. Raynor.

“Are we seriously going to do this in front of her?”

“Why not?” you said. “That’s what the therapy is for.”

“And you resent him for it, Y/N?” Dr. Raynor asked and Bucky scoffed a laugh.

“Oh she hates me for it,” he corrected her and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I’m not saying I don’t trust you, I’m just saying that if I didn’t trust you, it would be with a reason.”

“Right.”

“Was there a reason behind it, Bucky?”

“No there wasn’t, other than the fact that he wanted to humiliate me.”

“Charm.”

“Y/N, open communication is very important and a huge part of it is listening,” Dr. Raynor said, making you shake your head.

“No, he really didn’t have a reason other than the fact that he was the city’s golden prince who thought—”

“My father wanted us to end up together,” Bucky cut you off, making you pull your brows together in confusion and you turned your head to gawk at him.

“What?” you asked after a beat and Bucky clicked his tongue.

“Yeah,” he said. “He kept talking about how it would be good for the business, how I should visit you in Chicago when you’d leave for college and…all that bullshit.”

You blinked a couple of times in complete silence and Bucky bit inside his cheek.

“I mean obviously I didn’t see you that way back then, but I wouldn’t have been that much of an asshole to you if that was the only reason,” he told you, his voice almost inaudible. “I thought…I thought you were yet another cage he would drag me into, that’s it.”

You could barely hear anything from the way your heart was pounding in your ears and Bucky swallowed thickly, then stole a look at Dr. Raynor and took a deep breath.

“Yeah no, I’m not doing this shit in front of a stranger,” he muttered and got up from the couch as if he was too restless, then walked out of the office and slammed the door behind him. The sound snapped you out of your haze and you jumped on your feet, grabbing your purse.

“Thanks Dr. Raynor,” you said in a haste and walked out of the office as well but by the time you stepped outside, Bucky’s car had already driven off. You let out a breath, then leaned back to the wall on the building and rubbed at your eyes.

“Oh…” you murmured more to yourself. “Fuck.”

Chapter 35

322 notes · View notes

lyn31 · 2 months ago

Text

Oblivious

Summary:

A chaotic picnic spirals into you exposing your sister’s and Caleb's past romantic misinterpretations—until the tables turn on you.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes:

Pairing: Caleb x f!OC and Zayne x MC/Reader College AU, fluff, silly, banter, other lads NPC, let them lived in peace in this universe, very dramatic MC but that's to be expected

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The late afternoon sun casts golden light over the grass. Tara and Jenna are fighting over the last slice of pizza, Nero’s leaning against a tree with his earbuds in.

Greyson and Yvonne are setting up a makeshift badminton net, and Caleb and your sister are sharing a blanket—until inspiration strikes.

You sit up fast, eyes gleaming.

"Oh my God—remember when you thought Caleb liked me?"

Your sister groans immediately, burying her face in her hands.

"No. We are not doing this. Let it die."

Caleb, the traitor, grins and leans back on his elbows. "Oh yes, we are. Take it away."

Tara perks up. "Ooh, story time!" She nudges Jenna, who is already interested.

Zayne shifts, quiet amusement in his gaze. He knows exactly where this is going but doesn’t stop you.

You clear your throat, placing a hand dramatically over your heart. "Alright, so—high school. A simpler time. I'm just minding my business, being an amazing little sister, when this one—" you gesture at your sister "—walks up to me, dead serious, and goes—"

You grab Zayne’s arm, tugging him into your reenactment. He allows it, one brow raised, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"I think Caleb likes you."

Nero pulls out an earbud, frowning. "Wait, what?"

Greyson abandons the badminton setup entirely, intrigued. "This already sounds good."

Yvonne smirks, arms crossed. "Oh, this is gonna be great."

You continue, eyes wide. "At first, I think she’s joking, so I just keep doing whatever I was doing. But then she doubles down—'No, I really think he likes you.'" You pause for effect, then clutch Zayne’s wrist dramatically. "And that’s when I actually look up at her and go—"

You shake Zayne’s arm lightly, voice filled with exasperation. "'What the hell are you talking about?!'"

Caleb barks out a laugh. "This is painfully accurate."

Your sister groans louder. "I hate this. Why do I have to relive this?"

Jenna waves a hand. "No, no—let her cook. This is quality content."

You nod appreciatively before launching into the next part.

"So then she starts listing all these signs that Caleb supposedly liked me. First, she says, 'He always offers to carry your stuff!' And I go—" You throw your hands in the air. "'Because he knows I stuff my bag like a medieval scribe preparing for exile!'"

Caleb shrugs. "It was ridiculously heavy."

Tara clutches Jenna’s arm. "The romance!"

Jenna pats her hand. "Stay strong, Tara."

You roll your eyes before pointing an accusatory finger at your sister. "Meanwhile, he’s literally carrying your books and slinging his arm around you like we’re in a coming-of-age romance movie."

Nero lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Caleb, I didn’t know you had that in you."

Caleb smirks. "I contain multitudes."

Your sister lets out a suffering noise, but you continue mercilessly.

"Then she goes, 'He buys you food all the time!' And I’m like—" You throw a hand to your chest. "'Because I forget to eat, and he’s scared I’ll drop dead!'"

Caleb, entirely unbothered, nods. "Still a valid concern."

Yvonne tilts her head, intrigued. "Wait, so he was buying both of you food?"

You point at her. "Exactly! But for her, it was her favorite food, without her even asking, and he remembered her coffee order perfectly."

Greyson whistles. "That’s some next-level thoughtfulness."

You snap your fingers. "That’s what I said! But no, she kept going. Next, she’s like, ‘He touches you all the time! Look, he ruffles your hair!’ And I go—" You gesture dramatically. "'Like a dog, sis. Not a lover.'"

Caleb bursts out laughing, while Zayne—who has been letting you use him as a prop this whole time—finally speaks, his voice calm but amused.

"You do have very ruffle-able hair."

You whirl on him. "Not you too!"

Everyone laughs, and your sister groans for the millionth time.

"Can we please change the subject?"

Caleb slings an arm around her shoulder, grinning. "Oh, I dunno. I think we should go over every detail again."

She shoves him, but there’s no real force behind it.

You beam, absolutely thriving in the chaos you’ve created.

“Oh, we’re far from done.” You clasp your hands together, locking eyes with your sister, who looks like she’s contemplating her life choices. “Shall I continue?”

Jenna and Tara immediately nod. Greyson abandons all pretense of badminton.

Even Nero, usually indifferent, is hooked.

Your sister looks one second away from strangling you. "I will actually murder you in your sleep."

You ignore the threat.

"So anyway! After the hair-ruffling scandal of the century, she says—"

"He always texts you first!" You shake your head dramatically. "And I'm like, 'With ‘Hey, dumbass, did you submit your essay?’'"

Caleb doesn’t even look guilty. "Hey, those reminders saved your ass more than once."

Yvonne laughs. "But what was he texting her?" She gestures to your sister.

You grin. "Did you get home safe? Or something like You seemed tired today, you okay?"

There’s a collective groan of realization.

Tara clutches her heart. "That is so sweet, what the hell?"

Jenna side-eyes your sister. "And you thought he liked your sister?"

Your sister, fully mortified, waves her hands. "Okay, but in my defense, I was blinded by stupid crush feelings! I wasn’t thinking clearly!"

Caleb smirks. "You were definitely not thinking clearly."

She glares at him, and you know that if she weren’t so flustered, she’d have a comeback. But she doesn’t. And Caleb looks far too satisfied about that.

Which means you have to keep going.

"And then! The ultimate proof! She goes, 'He gave you his jacket when it was cold!' And I go—" You gesture at Zayne, expecting him to already know his line.

Without missing a beat, Zayne deadpans, "Because I was shivering and he was wearing two."

You point at him, grinning. "Exactly! A perfectly logical explanation! And if that’s a sign of love, then I guess Zayne was already setting the standard, because he did all that for me too."

Zayne, mid-sip, pauses—just for a fraction of a second—before continuing like nothing happened.

Yvonne raises an eyebrow. "Wait, so Caleb was out here making romantic gestures, and Zayne was just… doing the same thing?"

You shrug. "Yeah, but Zayne wasn’t in love with me back then. He was just being Zayne."

Zayne makes a small, almost amused sound—something between a scoff and a chuckle. You turn to him, suspicious, but he only takes another slow sip of water, deliberately not meeting your gaze.

Jenna catches it immediately, her eyes narrowing. "Ohhh. Interesting."

"Not interesting," Zayne corrects smoothly, finally looking at her. "Just factual."

Jenna smirks. "Uh-huh. Sure."

Zayne doesn’t argue, but the way his fingers tap lightly against his water bottle betrays him.

Meanwhile, Yvonne whistles lowly. "That’s some romance drama novel behavior."

Nero, usually unbothered by everything, nods. "Textbook obliviousness."

Jenna leans in, eyes sparkling. "Okay, but what finally convinced you she was wrong?"

You dramatically point to Caleb. "Because then this idiot walked in!"

Right on cue, Caleb leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. "And what did I say?"

You roll your eyes but mimic his voice perfectly. "Hey, I got you that book you were talking about." You turn to the group. "And then he pulls out a first edition of her favorite childhood book that she has been hunting down like it’s nothing."

Tara smacks Jenna’s arm. "Are you hearing this?! That’s final boss-level love confession nonsense!"

Jenna, meanwhile, is pointing an accusing finger at your sister. "And you still thought he liked your sister instead of you even after that?"

Your sister groans. "Not after that, okay?!"

Caleb smirks at her. "Oh? What changed?"

She shoots him a warning look, but that only makes his smirk grow. You swear she’s turning pink.

And just because you love chaos, you sigh wistfully. "Honestly, it was so obvious. The way you looked at him? The way he looked at you?" You place a hand over your chest. "True love."

Your sister kicks your leg. "Shut up."

Caleb, looking entirely too pleased, leans back and stretches. "Well, we got there eventually."

Tara clasps her hands together. "And now you’re disgustingly cute and gross in a whole new way!"

Greyson nods sagely. "A beautiful evolution."

Yvonne sighs dramatically. "And here I thought I was coming to the park to relax."

"Anyway!" You clap your hands together. "That’s the tragic and hilarious tale of how my sister thought Caleb was into me."

Jenna sighs happily. "A masterpiece of romantic miscommunication."

Tara raises a pretend glass. "To love, and to being blind to it."

Everyone cheers, even Zayne, who taps his water bottle against Tara’s raised hand.

And your sister, burying her face in Caleb’s shoulder to hide her embarrassment, groans one last time.

"I hate all of you."

You barely have time to bask before Caleb smirks and leans in. "Okay, but you two were even worse."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

Zayne raises an eyebrow, amused but making no effort to intervene.

Your sister, finally recovering from her embarrassment, pounces on the opportunity. "Oh, come on. You guys practically functioned as a couple for years without admitting it."

Jenna grins. "You were just two dumbasses waiting for the other to make a move."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "That’s not—!"

Caleb interrupts smoothly. "Really? Because I distinctly remember Zayne threatening a guy for standing too close to you, and you acting like that was normal."

You wave a hand. "It was normal!"

The group, in perfect, terrifying synchronization, shouts: "SEE?!?!"

Zayne, as always, just takes a sip of water. Meanwhile, you groan into your hands as your so-called friends revel in dragging you through the mud.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:

I forgooooooot! I meant to post this two days ago...... I thought I did.... welp.... here it is a silly one!

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: My Masterlist ✨

79 notes · View notes

yeowangies · 11 months ago

Text

mutual understanding

Chapter I | Chapter II | CHAPTER III: As curious as a dead cat | IV | V

PAIRING: Kenpachi/AFAB!Reader CONTENTS: AU - Fantasy, Medieval, Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Pining, Explicit Sexual Content, Virginity Loss. WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Explicit sexual content, Cunnilingus, First time (I think, kinda). WORDCOUNT: 3221

Summary:

You had assumed you would have been intimate with him on your wedding night, and you were hoping that it would happen anytime soon after that first kiss.

Notes:

FINALLY what probably everyone had been waiting for!

Let me know if you wanna be tagged!

header by me, divider by @/saradika

taglist: @actuallysaiyan @lol-ktr @vrgelivvvv @pennameyoruichiii

@hikariandptakchleb @thebestgirlever2

Kenpachi didn’t make any indication of wanting to touch more than you had allowed him to, only sliding his hands up and down your sides, and that was a relief that night you kissed for the first time.

You started to reconsider it as the days went by.

Spending more time with Kenpachi had actually opened your eyes about a lot of things about him that you had misjudged. He spoked crudely, but he simply did so because it was a part of him (and you figured it had a lot to do with his past; since he wasn’t royalty, he probably never had an education). His hardened expression was just natural as well, it did not mean that he was angry all the time. Better yet, it was actually attractive how stoic he was sometimes. You had been a fool for a long time; he wasn’t as cold, distant or violent as you initially assumed. At least not violent towards you, or anyone who couldn’t defend themselves, and that was all you cared about.

You had assumed you would have been intimate with him on your wedding night. Even if that didn’t end up happening at that moment, you were hoping that it would happen anytime soon after that first kiss. You weren’t ignorant about what it was supposed to happen, you weren’t even ignorant about your own body. He had awoken certain sensations that you had never felt, and you were more than curious about what it’d be like to actually lay with someone. And nothing as exciting as doing it with your husband when you had newfound affection for him.

Which made you conclude that you liked Kenpachi more than you would like to admit. Albeit you had jumped to conclusions about him from the beginning; once a little light came through, you saw him differently, and you couldn’t deny it anymore. Especially after you started kissing more regularly, something in your stomach bubbled (besides sexual excitement) every time. And you just wanted, needed, more.

You eyed him as discreetly as possible whenever he got to the bedroom at night, taking off his clothes as he readied himself to sleep. Callous skin for sure, but with curves and dips and defined muscles, with broad shoulders and ample chest. You couldn’t even help yourself but stare at him; you were as curious as a dead cat, but you wouldn’t mind being dead at all if it meant laying with such a man. He was your spouse, after all.

Kenpachi walked in later than usual one night. The colder days had crept in, and snow was inevitable to happen soon. You had insisted he take a bath in the bedroom several times, it was warmer than any other room (you wouldn’t admit to any ulterior motives), but he kept denying it for no apparent reason; he usually was ready to sleep as soon as he walked in.

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, watching him from the bed as he sat down in the chair by the fireplace, taking off his eyepatch and running his hand through his hair before cracking his neck to the side.

“Did you think I had kids of my own?” Kenpachi suddenly asked without even turning his eyes to you, but you couldn’t help but look at him in surprise.

He was talking about Yachiru and the moment you found out about her. You felt your face heat up just remembering it.

“I had no idea what… what to think, if I’m being honest.” You answered vaguely.

“You were shocked when you thought I had children.” He said, looking at you with an amused grin.

“Yes.” You finally admitted, blushing deeper. “I knew nothing about you, so I was surprised!”

“You could’ve just asked.” Kenpachi said with a chuckle. “But it was a funny way to introduce yourself to my men.”

“Please, I could barely look them in the eye afterwards.” You replied, covering your face. The sound of his laugh took you by surprise, and it only made you smile. “What’s the purpose of bringing this up now?”

“Didn’t think my wife who didn’t want to marry me would care about that shit.”

“Any wife would care if her husband was sleeping around!” You complained, rolling your eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

“What do you think?”

When Kenpachi walked over to you, you tensed up in anticipation. He sat beside you on the bed before promptly kissing you, slamming his lips against yours. He never failed to take you by surprise; he was rarely soft or gentle, usually slowing down after a while, but his kisses were always urgent. You hadn’t kissed anyone before him so you could mold yourself to his pace, but you were positive this was just his own personality seeping through in the way he kissed you. If anything, he was always authentic.

You were breathless when he pulled away, and you watched him, dizzy-eyed as he stood up to remove his tunic before slipping beside you on the bed. You stared at him expectantly, and sighed when it was obvious when he just wanted to sleep.

You knew nothing about seduction, so you didn’t exactly know how to proceed; you didn’t want to explicitly ask for Kenpachi to touch you, you had your pride as well. Sighing loudly again, you wished him good night before blowing out the candle in your bedside table, to which he only responded with a grunt.

It took you a while to fall asleep that night, and you were too tempted to get up and take a walk around the castle but quickly gave up on the idea, too nervous to wake Kenpachi up if you were to get out. Though in the few days you had been sharing a bed, it was almost an obvious fact that he slept like a log; you could play the drums and he would not even notice.

When you woke up early in the morning, the first thing you noticed was the snow outside the window, covering the sill. You watched, between sleepiness and wonderment, as small drops of snow slowly fell from the sky, stretching your legs along the warmth of the bed.

“Have you never seen snow?” Kenpachi’s hoarse voice startled you, making you turn to him in surprise.

“It rarely snows in the palace.” You replied, clearing your voice to avoid sounding too sleepy, and pulling the covers over your shoulders when you noticed he was only covering his lower half with the sheets, bare chest completely exposed. “I’ve only seen snow a couple of times.”

He only grunted in response, and you took a minute to watch his face; you almost never got to see him wake up at the same time as you. His hair was just as wild as it was during the day, you’ve seen him comb it yet stay the same, so it must naturally look that messy. You were fond of that look, it just added to his overall aggressive appearance.

The scar down the side of his face always caught your attention. Kenpachi was regarded as the strongest man in the kingdom, but who had been strong enough to harm him?

“You’re staring too much.” He said, fixing his eyes on yours. You immediately felt your temperature raise, and swallowed quietly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Your scar-”

“Well, I can’t do anything about that.”

“No.” You chuckled as he grinned, equally amused. “How did you get it?”

“A woman gave it to me.”

“A woman?!” You raised your voice in surprise. “She must have been remarkable to have inflicted such harm to you.”

“Yeah…”

When Kenpachi didn’t add anything else, you became nervous, fidgeting under the covers. He was the one who wouldn’t stop staring at you then.

You gasped when he suddenly rolled on top of you, bracing his arms on each side of your head, looking down at you with eyes that turned darker with each passing moment. The heat emanating from his body invaded you, even through the sheets and covers in between your bodies.

“Are you still unwilling?” Kenpachi asked in a surprisingly cautious tone.

There wasn’t any need to clarify what he meant when he asked, and you didn’t need to consider your answer.

“No, I have been… willing for a while now.” You answered, embarrassed yet enthusiastic.

You could have kept talking if it wasn’t for Kenpachi’s insistent mouth covering yours in the blink of an eye. His kisses had always been hungry, as if he was trying to devour you, but you could tell the difference between his usual ones and the kiss he was giving you at that moment. He was excited for you, fervently gliding his lips over yours as his tongue explored the inside of your mouth, swallowing down the little noises you made as he pressed his body to yours.

That was when you felt his erection pressing against your thigh. If you could feel it through all the fabrics, you couldn’t even imagine what his size would be like.

Kenpachi only pulled back to remove the covers, attaching his lips to yours soon afterward. He groaned lowly when one of his hands found your chest, groping your breast roughly through your nightgown and making you gasp as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Your heart pounded fast inside your chest, too nervous, excited and scared at the same time when he pulled your nightgown over your head, discarding it haphazardly, leaving you completely exposed. The cool air created goosebumps on your skin, and you shivered from trepidation. He stared at you, eyes traveling down your chest and lower, and you felt the need to cover yourself the longer he kept his gaze on you.

A few seconds seemed like an eternity, and you were about to pull the sheets over yourself when he spoke.

“You must be a siren sent to tempt me,” Kenpachi grunted, and you looked at him with eyes wide open. “Look what you fucking do to me.”

The air was knocked out of you when he crashed his lips to yours, pinning you to the mattress with the weight of his body, forcing you to part your legs. His erection was much more obvious as he ground his hips against yours, the fabric of his pants creating friction that you’ve never felt before, making you whimper.

Kenpachi dragged his tongue down your jaw and neck, pressing open mouth kisses every now and then as his hands wandered up your sides to cup your breasts. You didn’t know how a simple touch could ignite a fire within you, but when he swiped his thumbs over your nipples, jolts of pleasure traveled through your body, causing your back to arch.

“You like that?” He chuckled darkly before kissing you, rolling one of your nipples between his fingers.

Your answer was the whine that slipped past your lips as you tried to kiss him back, a difficult task when you felt his other hand wander down your hips to roughly grab your butt. Kenpachi dragged his lips down your chin and neck until he reached your chest, nibbling at the curve of your tit before taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

The sounds that came from your lips were strange. You had made noises when you touched yourself in the past but it was different; you felt more vulnerable when such a man was causing them as he sucked and grazed his teeth on your supple skin, surely leaving marks for days. Closing your eyes, you covered your mouth for a second before Kenpach firmly grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your face.

“I wanna hear you.” He smirked salaciously, sending shivers up your spine. “I’ve been thinking about this for too long for you to be quiet. Be as loud as you want.”

Biting on the curve of your breast hard, you squeaked loudly. You blushed, ashamed of the sound you made, and tugged at his hair, knowing fully well he had done that on purpose. Kenpachi only looked at you with dark eyes and a wicked smile, running his tongue over your nipple and making you gasp.

His lips trailed down your abdomen, making you giggle when his tongue traced your belly button before he got to your hips. He pulled away to part your legs, strong hands holding your thighs, and your entire body burned up underneath his gaze.

“Why do you keep staring at me so much?!” You yelled in a hushed tone.

“Because you drive me fucking crazy.”

The frenzied look in his eyes and the wide grin on his lips made your heart skip a beat.

Maybe you were going just as crazy for him as he was for you.

“This part right here,” He went on, licking his lips as one of his hands glided over your entrance, making you yelp. “It’s calling for me. Do you know how fucking gorgeous you are down here?”

“That-That’s not-! I don’t-!” You stammered, embarrassed and in shock the more he kept talking. Did people talk so much when they had sex?

He laughed boisterously at your reaction, and you gasped when his fingers dipped into your folds.

“It’s your bad luck that you have a lecherous man for a husband.”

When Kenpachi leaned down, burying his face between your thighs, you gaped at him in shock, too stunned to react until his tongue slid over your slit. You whimpered, one hand threading through his hair, unsure of what to do.

Wet warmth glided over your entrance, and it was strange but not unpleasant. It was as if he was somehow worshipping you, especially with the look he had in his eyes, completely clouded by dark lust as he gazed at you. He dragged his tongue over every inch of skin he could reach, even delving between your folds until you felt pleasure pulsing through your veins when he prod your clit.

You moaned, long and loud, as your legs shuddered when Kenpachi pressed the tip of his tongue to your clit again. He chuckled smugly, focusing his attention on that spot, and soon turning your brain into mush. He was persistent and enthusiastic, licking and slurping like a starving man, with no shame about the mess he was making. You were completely drenched in your own arousal and his saliva, slowly dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

The sounds that left your mouth were uncontrollable. Even if he hadn’t commanded you to be loud, you still wouldn’t have been able to help yourself. The sparkles that traveled through your body every time his tongue dragged over your clit made you see stars, thighs jolting and attempting to squeeze his head between them if it wasn’t for one of his hands keeping you in place. The heat in your abdomen that had been steadily growing was close to bursting, muscles tightening with every move he made.

When two of his fingers effortlessly slipped inside you, you wailed, tugging harshly at his hair, as if simultaneously asking him to keep going and stop. Kenpachi only laughed quietly against your skin as he started to pump his digits, slow and hard, while attentively licking your clit.

You couldn’t have warned him about your orgasm even if you wanted to, your mind going blank before you felt your release washing over you. You let out a shaky moan when you came, toes curling and body trembling, nothing but pleasure and his name resonating in your head. Your hips stammered against his face as he kept gliding his fingers until you stopped moving, panting once he slid out his digits.

Kenpachi pulled away and you watched him lick his fingers, his leer not subduing even when he had your slick adorning his face. Wrapping one arm around your waist, he leaned down, resting his forehead over yours as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Your taste is so fucking addictive.”

He looked just as feral as he did before, or even more so. You wondered how it was possible that he had the same look on his face as he did when he was enjoying a fight; and how it was possible that it pulled at your heartstrings to see him be like that for you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him hard, humming against his lips when you tasted yourself in them. You felt him smirk into the kiss, returning it hungrily as he rubbed his clothed erection over the damp, sensitive skin between your legs.

Kenpachi hooked his fingers under the waistband of his pants before the booming knock at the door startled you.

“Captain!” Ikkaku yelled while insistently knocking on the door.

“Fuck off!” Kenpachi hollered, making you jump in his arms.

“I can’t, Captain! Official soldiers are here!”

“Tell them to get lost!”

“Ken!” You called for him, cupping his face as he looked at you with unfocused eyes. “This is probably urgent!”

“For fuck’s sake, is the kingdom under attack?!” Kenpachi screamed at the door, making you jolt again.

“No, Captain…” Ikkaku’s unsure voice replied from the other side of the door.

“Then tell them to fucking leave!”

You laughed, pushing at his shoulders to get him off you, though he didn’t budge an inch, only looking at you with the deepest frown you’ve ever seen.

“You should go, it must be important.”

“You can’t be serious!”

When you pressed your hands against his shoulders again, Kenpachi pulled away, sitting up as you pulled the blankets over your body to cover yourself.

“I’ll still be here when you come back.” You reassured him, wrapping your hand around his arm.

You kissed him sweetly, just pressing your lips against his briefly, after all it was a small comfort, you didn’t want to tempt him.

“You better be, I can’t hold back any longer.”

You blinked, surprised.

Funny. Was he ever holding back?

“Captain!” Ikkaku yelled again urgently.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m going!”

You watched, amused, as Kenpachi sat on the edge of the bed, grumbling under his breath before getting up and putting his clothes on. He only spared you one quick glance before walking out the room, slamming the door on his way out.

You sighed, covering yourself with the blankets and furs, staring at the ceiling in awe. You were sticky, sweaty and fully drenched in between your legs, and you had an amazing orgasm yet still wanted more. It had been a difficult decision to convince him to leave when you didn’t even want him to in the first place. You wanted to see him fully bare in front of you as he climbed over your body before taking you. Just picturing a scene like that made your insides tingle.

Was what you just did, sex? You only knew so much, and you couldn’t even believe where Kenpachi’s mouth had been (but you hoped he’d do it again in the future). The main event had been postponed, and while nervousness was still in your mind, a fluttering feeling in your stomach made you excited about seeing him for the next time, the last words he said hanging in the air.

#kenpachi zaraki x reader #kenpachi smut #zaraki kenpachi x reader #kenpachi x reader #kenpachi x you #bleach smut #bleach fics #bleach imagines #my writing

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mikibwrites · 2 months ago

Text

In the garden of evil, honey

Hello all, please have this as a token of my apology for taking almost two years to post it lol. I'm still working on Trueblood Tarlos, don't you worry, but this has been sitting in my wips for FAR too long :) Tags at the bottom are folks who showed interest, please let me know if you don't want to be tagged! <3

7.4k | Rated: M | Supernatural AU | Read on Ao3

The first time Carlos ever saw TK Strand, he was playing honeypot for a vampire.

Carlos didn’t know this, of course, at the time. He’d simply caught sight of the most devastating green eyes he’d ever seen in his life, blinking innocently up at a tall, thin man with greed in his smile. What gave away the vamp himself was the smooth, lascivious way he’d run a finger delicately down this pretty man’s arm, full of possessive intent. Vampires just had a way of asserting their aura in a room: look at me, you can’t touch me, but I can own you.

The thought, coupled with the sight of the pretty man’s sweet, naive smile as he threw back the last of his drink and got up to follow the vampire out of the bar, made Carlos shiver in disgust before he had the wherewithal to jump up and follow them. He was not about to let some innocent person become dinner on his watch.

Carlos stealthily made his way out of the bar and around to the alley in back, gleaming 10-inch Bowie knife already in his hand. It wasn’t the most efficient way to behead a vamp–the only way you could kill them–but he wasn’t in the practice of bringing his machete on nights out to drown his loneliness. He’d make do, he’d have to.

Turns out, he didn’t have to use it at all.

The scene that greeted him in the alley stopped him short. The tall, thin vampire laid on the ground in two pieces, his head still rolling before catching up against the dirty brick wall on the side of the building. The pretty man was there, looking bored. There was another man in the alley with him, older but still ridiculously handsome, holding a…sword? The blade was bloody and dripping, and the man holding it looked absolutely delighted.

“See? I told you it would work! Best purchase I’ve ever made with someone else’s money!” the older man said, gleeful and bright. On further inspection, the resemblance between the object of Carlos’ attention and this other man was uncanny. Unless the younger one was an accident of extremely late in life birth, this was a father and son.

And, obviously, they knew what they were doing. So, hunters, Carlos surmised.

At the moment of his realization, as he started putting away his knife in relief, the younger man turned on him with a confused and slightly irritated expression.

“What the hell are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

“Well, I thought you might be in danger, and–”

“Do I look like a damsel in distress to you? What the fuck were you thinking? You were just gonna stare at me all night, then as soon as I left with another guy you’d come after us and, I don’t know, lay claim for my hand or something? And you could have been killed for it–”

“I wouldn’t have, I know what I’m doing,” Carlos said, a little indignantly because really, did he look like an incompetent idiot?

“Son, calm down. Look, he’s one of us.” The older man, still holding his ridiculously large sword–and really, did he carry that around everywhere? Just out in the open?--began walking toward his son and Carlos, who had unconsciously moved closer to each other amid their snarking.

Carlos saw the son take in his whole appearance, including the knife still dangling in his hand, and scoffed.

“You expected to kill a vamp with a pig sticker?” This was accompanied by a derisive laugh that really should not have been as ridiculously attractive as it was, considering Carlos was the object of said derision. But the heart and the dick want what they want.

Still, Carlos wasn’t going to not defend himself. “Trust me, I can slice off a bloodsucker’s head with a butter knife if I have to. Not all of us carry medieval weapons with us to the goddamn bar.”

The father looked offended for a moment, admiring his sword once again before directing his attention back at Carlos. “Please excuse him, he doesn’t work well with others. I’m sure you understand, being a hunter yourself. We’re not exactly a sociable bunch.”

Carlos conceded the point. He was used to other hunters being tight knit with their own, and distrustful of almost anyone else. It came with seeing the things you saw in this life.

“I’m Owen, and Mr. Grumpy here is my son, TK.” Owen put his hand out, and Carlos shook it.

“Carlos, pleased to meet you both,” he said politely. His own hand came away a little bloody, and Owen looked chagrined for a moment.

TK, for his part, was finally relaxing in Carlos’ presence, accepting the fact that Carlos hadn’t been barreling headlong into a suicide mission as TK had obviously first thought. His irritation was turning, wildly, into admiration by the minute, judging by the not exactly covert once–and then twice–over look he gave Carlos while his dad’s back was turned. He said nothing, though.

“Well, I think we best be on our way,” Owen said as he bent down to begin picking up the body. “A hand here, son?”

TK gave Carlos one more look, then shuffled over to help Owen pick up the dead weight and toss it into a nearby dumpster. Carlos took it upon himself to palm the head, lifting it up and casually tossing it in the open container before Owen let the lid slam down over their gruesome quarry.

“Was nice to meet you, Carlos. See you on the flip!” Owen called, already making his way out of the alley.

“Likewise, sir,” he answered with a small smile. TK made to follow his father, having to walk close by Carlos in the small width of the alley. Carlos just couldn’t resist the words that came next, the magnetism from TK pulling at him to not let this man get away, even knowing it was fruitless. “So, that your type?” he asked, gesturing vaguely back to the dumpster. “Tall, possessive men with evil intent?”

TK didn’t miss a beat, and what he said next sealed Carlos’ fate even though he didn’t know it at the time.

“Nah, I like my men tall, dark, chivalrous, and good with butter knives.” He smirked devilishly, looking up through his eyelashes, and pushed past Carlos out of the alley.

Carlos had never swooned in his life, and he did his best not to start now, but he couldn’t have said if he was successful.

–

They met again, as fate or luck or destiny would have it, three weeks and four states later at a bar called Ryder’s. It was run by a hunter couple who, for all intents and purposes, were retired, but no one ever left this life completely. It was a nice place to be amongst like-minded people, people who had seen and heard and survived the same horrendous things, and you could unwind knowing no one was going to judge you. Hunters, as a general rule, had very specific neuroses that didn’t sit well with normal people most of the time.

Carlos entered the bar at 3pm on a Tuesday, and walked right into Owen as he was stepping out.

“Carlos! Nice to see you again. Been staying out of trouble?” he smiled.

“Not at all, sir,” Carlos joked.

Owen chuckled.“I know all about that. I heard about that djinn den you broke up last week. Hell of a job, son.” Hearing the approval of a father, even if it wasn’t his own, was sobering and it took Carlos a moment to respond.

“Oh, that was all Iris, sir. My partner. She’s the mastermind.” It was true. Iris was the best hunter Carlos had ever met, and he’d met plenty over the last three years. She had her struggles, but the way her mind worked in twisty bends and blunt reality at turns was truly an advantage in their line of work. Carlos was just the muscle most days, but he kept up.

“I’d love to meet her,” Owen said, “pick her brain sometime.”

“You can, sir, if you’d like. She’s meeting me here.”

“I look forward to it. Just gotta grab something from the truck.”

Carlos bid Owen a temporary farewell and made his way to the bar, eyes unconsciously searching. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping the son wasn’t far from the father. He was right, it turned out, and he found TK at the end of the bar, chatting with Grace as she wiped out a pint glass.

“Hey, Carlos! Long time no see,” Grace greeted him with a smile. It caused TK to whip his head around to stare before his face cracked into a grin.

“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here and not in a dark alley.” Carlos got lost in his beautiful green eyes for a moment before he could respond, and TK was still speaking. “To be fair, though, I wouldn’t be opposed to meeting you anywhere.”

Carlos coughed a bit, his eyes cutting to Grace as she laughed and moved over to a pair of women flagging her down.

“That so?” Carlos finally said as he slid onto the stool next to TK.

“Mmm.”

Carlos roughly turned the conversation into something resembling small talk, and they chatted for a long while before a familiar song lit up the jukebox, the down and dirty guitar riffs sinking into Carlos’ veins. He steeled his resolve, and took a chance.

He cut his eyes over to the dancefloor and back to TK. “Hey. You wanna dance?”

TK contemplated for a moment, the music suffusing into the room and filling their ears with a sultry energy. Finally, he answered, “No.”

“No?” Carlos was taken aback, but TK’s expression had shifted from good-natured into something else entirely. It sent shivers down Carlos’ spine in the best way.

“No, I don’t wanna dance. I wanna meet you in a dark alley.” TK raised an eyebrow at him before getting up and sauntering across the room, pausing at the back door and looking back at Carlos, frozen on his stool. TK jerked his head, and that finally got Carlos moving.

When Carlos found him, TK was leaned up against the battered wood siding, one foot propped up against the wall, smirking. Carlos strode up to him and immediately placed his hands on TK’s waist.

“So. You lured me out here. What now?”

“Well, we don’t exactly have much time before someone finds us out here, and I share a motel room with my dad so that’s out.” He quirked an eyebrow, silently asking if Carlos had any ideas.

“I’m afraid Iris and I didn’t mean to stay long, so I haven’t got a motel room of my own at the moment.” To be fair, Carlos also wouldn’t leave Iris here at Ryder’s to satisfy his lust anyway, he wasn’t that kind of guy. However, TK was making him seriously question a good number of his morals.

“Back alley blowjob it is, then,” TK said simply, before dropping to his knees.

–

After that, Carlos and Iris ran into TK and Owen more frequently than he could’ve predicted, which he’d later learn was all TK’s doing. His husband would admit this much, much later as in the early days, TK did his best to seem aloof and hard to get–despite their second meeting resulting in mutual orgasms. He’d rock Carlos’ entire world and leave without a trace, only to turn up a couple of months later to nag Carlos about his knife collection, the way he staked out a mark, or–on one memorable occasion–the type of beer he was buying in a roadside gas station in Pennsylvania.

“You’re really gonna drink a Keystone Light after that?” TK asked from behind him, startling Carlos more than he’d care to admit. ‘That’ referred the days-long job in which Carlos and Iris had weeded out a particularly adept shapeshifter and finally brought her down. Carlos didn’t ask how TK had heard of a job he’d completed less than six hours ago, because he’d learned over the course of the past year that TK just knew these things. Especially about Carlos. “I thought you were a Texan. Not gonna go for the Shiner?”

Carlos, too smitten at this point to do any kind of arguing, made the switch just to see the way TK’s eyes danced knowingly under the dim strip lighting.

“What are you drinking, then? You drove all this way from Ohio just to berate my beer choices, I might as well buy you one for your trouble.” Carlos himself was also unusually abreast of where and what TK was doing at any given moment.

TK raised his eyebrows at Carlos’ knowledge of his whereabouts, but simply said, “I don’t.”

And Carlos…had noticed that over these past few months. It was strange for a hunter not to self-medicate, with the things they saw and did, but he’d never begrudge anyone their coping mechanisms, whatever they were. Clearly either TK was into harder things, or he had some other secret way to unwind.

Carlos learned later that it used to be the first option, that TK would do his best to numb his body and mind with whatever he could get his hands on in the years after his mother was killed, but that over time his father had brought him back from the brink and he’d turned a new leaf right around the time they’d met for the first time. To this day he still struggled, but Carlos was there for him every step of the way.

They met and fell into bed together nearly every chance they got over the next two years. When it came time that Owen decided he could better serve the community by teaming up with Judd to increase the knowledge base hunters worked with, and when Iris’ sister Michelle came back from England and convinced Iris she wanted in, well. It made sense for Carlos to bid Iris a tearful–not permanent, they promised–goodbye and he and TK packed their combined arsenals into Carlos’ flashy Camaro–

“So fucking impractical, oh my god! It’s tiny, it doesn’t hold nearly enough in the trunk, and it’s distinctive as hell! How in the fuck do you manage to keep a low profile with this thing? The cops are bound to know you!”

“It’s fast,” was Carlos’ smug answer.

–and headed out on their own. They made a name for themselves quite quickly, taking out whole vampire dens and weeding out shifters and werewolves and djinns up and down the highways of every US state. They had ins with local groups based on Owen’s name, but soon they were holding their own among the hunter community as a formidable team. TK was a skilled marksman, one of the best snipers Carlos had ever met, and a talented con man, smiling and charming his way into anyone’s good graces, especially their marks–not unlike he was doing when Carlos first met him all that time ago–and Carlos had taken everything Iris had ever taught him about research and planning and waiting for the precise moment to heart, able to suss out patterns and motives TK was continuously impressed by.

Also, he was still ‘disgustingly talented’ with a knife. TK’s words, as he’d kissed him deeply and wholly inappropriately three feet from a dissolving corpse in the middle of an abandoned schoolhouse.

They’d encountered more than their fair share of demons, with the mounting numbers of them clawing their way up from hell, but Carlos had a sigil carved into the back of his watch and TK had a medallion around his neck that his father had given him when he was 17 that he never took off. They were safe, they were skilled, and they were efficient.

Six months into hunting together and nearly four years into their dance of knowing each other, TK proposed with a piece of wire he’d nicked from a hardware store, folded into a ring shape and presented on one knee in the alley behind Ryder’s. Carlos would swear to his grave, in every retelling they recounted for their friends, that he hadn’t cried, but they both knew better.

Their romance was like hunting itself: wild but precise, loud but stealthy, adrenaline followed by the calm after the storm. Guaranteed to keep going long into the unknown.

–

It happened on an innocuous Tuesday, no job in town but they’d stopped because they heard the ice cream shop on main street in this tiny town had a boysenberry flavor and TK couldn’t be reasoned with when he wanted something, and Carlos couldn’t be arsed to tell him no.

They enjoyed their ice cream while walking up the nearly deserted street, when something crawled across the back of Carlos’ neck. A warning. A sixth sense. He didn’t need to turn to TK to know he’d felt it too, in his own way.

“The general store over there,” TK said lowly, his hand creeping into place at the small of Carlos’ back, a silent reassurance that they were in this together.

Carlos glanced across the street, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but still getting that persistent feeling in his gut that something was wrong. ��Let’s go.”

The bell rang cheerily as they entered, and there was an older man with a thick beard standing behind the counter. His voice shook when he greeted them, and Carlos’ hackles raised higher.

“Hi, fellas. W-What can I do you for?”

TK immediately slid into charm mode. “Just looking for some twine, sir. Our trunk won’t seem to shut, the latch is broken, gotta get that looked at,” he rubbed the back of his head self-deprecatingly, smiling bashfully, “you got any strong stuff we could use?”

The man didn’t relax, but smiled as best he could. Carlos, meanwhile, was casing the store looking for anything out of place. When he circled toward the back, near the door marked Staff Only, he found a few seed packets that had fallen from their display on the wall adjacent. It wasn’t until he heard the pained gasp from behind the door, faint but audible, that his instincts fully kicked in. He glanced at TK and the older man, nearer to the middle of the store where the man was showing TK a few rolls of twine. They locked eyes, and Carlos tilted his head toward the door.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything stronger, would you? Maybe in the back?” TK asked innocently, gesturing toward where Carlos was standing.

The man’s face paled. “I-I don’t know, I-”

Carlos strode over to him as calmly as possible. He wasn’t as good at the con game as TK was, so he led with the straightforward truth. “Sir, are you in danger?” The man paled further, but didn’t seem inclined to talk. “If you’re not, then is someone else?” He again tilted his head toward the door at the back.

TK had dropped his act as well. “We can help you, trust us.” His eyes bore nothing but truth, and they seemed to soften the man a bit.

“M-my…my wife. She’s–my son and daughter are–oh god…” the man said in a pained whisper.

“Sir?”

“When we all came in today–we own the place, we all pitch in–my kids were…not themselves. They told me to stay out here and they took her back there and…and sometimes I hear screams.” His voice cracked on the last bit. “This isn’t them, I swear they aren’t like this! It isn’t them!” He was whisper shouting, clearly still afraid of what was behind the door. “They said they’ll kill her if I go back there.”

Carlos placed a hand on his shoulder. “What are their names? Your kids.”

“Lindy and Zach. My wife’s name is Melissa.” When TK and Carlos immediately started towards the front door, he grabbed both their arms. “Wait! Where are you going? I thought you said you’d help us!”

“Just gotta get a few things from the car, we’ll be right back,” TK assured him.

When they returned, carrying a book and a bottle of holy water, the man eyed them wearily. “You got any salt?” Carlos asked. The man just pointed at a far shelf, and Carlos helped himself to three pint containers. “Wait here, no matter what you hear, do not come back there, okay?”

He looked at them incredulously. “What are you going to do?”

“We’re gonna save your wife and kids, sir, but we need to be quick about it, otherwise they’ll get away.”

The man was still looking at them like they were crazy–which they were used to from the general public–but he apparently wanted any kind of help at this point so he let them go.

When TK opened the door to the back room, Lindy and Zach were standing over their mother, tied to a chair, looking like they’d used her for knifework practice. Slices and cuts littered her arms, legs, and neck, and her head was hanging limply as blood flowed out of every wound in a steady trickle. Considering they didn’t know how long this had been going on, Carlos erred on the side of caution and assessed she’d need medical attention pretty quickly.

Upon their arrival, the two teenagers turned to look at them, their eyes gleaming black, and Carlos’ heart lurched.

Demons.

“Come to join the party, hunters?” the girl said.

“Come to give you an express ride back downstairs,” TK said with a grin as Carlos dropped down to line the exit with salt.

TK ripped the cork out of his bottle of holy water and splashed them both with it, hitting the mother but clearly not causing any harm. They both screamed, and the girl hit the ground but the boy made for the back wall.

“Shit,” Carlos muttered, watching as the possessed Zach kicked open a back door leading out into an alley between buildings before he kicked into gear and followed. He paused at the door to look back at TK, who already had the book out, flipped open to the quickest exorcism text they had.

“Go! I got it here.”

Carlos spared one more moment to take in his husband, then bolted. Demons were strong, sure, but they had limitations based on the body they possessed, and Zach was a stringy, short kid who couldn’t be more than 14, so Carlos was on him in under a minute. They grappled to the ground, and Zach spit some choice words in his face before Carlos took the container of salt still in his hand and emptied it down his throat.

The black smoke hurled out of the boy, shaking his body and causing his eyes to water before he finally went still, the occasional ragged cough racking his frame until he calmed fully. That lasted for about five seconds.

“Oh my god, where’s my mom? Where’s my sister? I remember–oh god.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Carlos cooed as he took the boy in his arms. Even though he was a stranger, Carlos had just saved the kid’s life, so Zach folded into his arms readily. “My husband is with them, and he probably dealt with it a lot more elegantly than I just did. Sorry about that, by the way,” he murmured, gesturing to the kid’s mouth still spitting salt.

“Whatever you did just now–was fucking brilliant. No notes. Thank you,” Zach said in a hoarse voice.

“Come on, let’s go see your mom and sister. I bet TK has it all wrapped up by now.”

“He that good? You sound pretty confident.” Zach got up off the ground and brushed his pants of gravel.

“Oh yeah. He’s good,” Carlos smiled to himself.

When they arrived back at the back room of the general store, it was apparent that TK had, in fact, not dealt with things elegantly at all. The chair the mother had been tied to was in pieces, the mother thankfully still whole, but tossed to the far side of the room where she lay still, but breathing. The daughter was also unconscious, but breathing deeply in TK’s arms. TK himself had two cuts on his cheek, and there was blood steadily seeping into his shirt from a wound in his shoulder.

Carlos’ eyes went directly to it, but TK shook his head. “I’m fine, just a scratch. She wouldn’t give up the knife,” he shrugged. He turned to Zach, “She’s okay though, the thing that was in her is gone.”

The father ran to them just then, nearly sliding across the floor and scattering the salt barrier they’d laid down earlier, putting his hands on his daughter’s face before crawling over to his wife.

“You should get them all to the hospital, and soon,” Carlos said. “What was there is gone, but they’ve still got wounds.”

“Yeah, I had to clock her over the head a little so she’d stop coming at me. Couldn’t read the book. I should memorize it like Iris,” TK said with a roll of his eyes, supremely confident in a job well done. Carlos just smiled. “We’ll lock up the store, you go,” he said to the father as he gathered his wife in his arms. Zach took his sister’s body and the four of them were out the door and into a waiting pickup truck.

“This is kind of embarrassing. I sang your praises, told Zach you’d deal with it elegantly.”

“How is this not elegant?” TK asked, gesturing to the carnage of the room–supplies pushed off shelves, the splintered remnants of the chair, what was probably–hopefully–cleaning chemicals spilled onto the floor. His smug smirk melted Carlos’ bones, though.

“Come on, we gotta get that looked at, too,” he said, gesturing to TK’s shoulder.

“This? Nah. Just a scratch, I promise.” He moved his arm up and down leisurely, not a hint of pain on his face. “See?”

“Mmm. Still gonna want to bandage it back at the motel. You’re just gonna have to bear my miserable sewing skills.”

“The tragedy,” TK rolled his eyes but smiled up at Carlos. Carlos, used to how these things usually went, sauntered over and placed his hands on TK’s waist, pulling him closer.

TK simply pecked him on the lips, smiling indulgently before muttering, “Let’s go. I’m beat.” Carlos watched him walk out of the room, tiptoeing over the scattered salt line before flicking his head that Carlos should follow. “You coming?”

Carlos stood for a confused moment before following him out, his eyes catching on something glinting in a corner of the room. He stopped and bent over, unearthing TK’s medallion from a pile of individually packaged toilet paper. He slipped it into his pocket and followed TK out to the car.

Back at the motel, TK went straight to the shower and came back out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, a bandage clearly wrapped around his upper left shoulder under the sleeve. Carlos watched as he went about his nightly routine, moisturizing his face and combing his hair. He watched as TK folded up his jacket into a trash bag and put it into his luggage, presumably to be cleaned of the blood later when they had proper facilities. He then slid into bed next to Carlos, pecked him on the cheek, and bid him goodnight.

Carlos never saw his wound.

Over the next few days, they made their way towards Tennessee where they were supposed to meet up with the Blake sisters for some much needed time off to relax. TK was his usual chatty self in the car, and Carlos laughed at his stupid puns just like he always did. Carlos texted Iris as soon as they hit town, and she suggested they meet at her motel, and she and Michelle would be waiting. Perfect.

When Carlos knocked on the door of room 318, he could hear the excited shuffling through the thick wood before it was flung open and he had an armful of Iris. He enveloped her in his arms and breathed in her comforting scent; he hadn’t seen his best friend in nearly a year as their jobs had taken them to different ends of the continent–and then to different continents–but coming back together was like breathing.

“We’re all set,” she whispered in his ear and he tensed slightly before nodding imperceptibly and letting her drop back down to the carpet.

TK was hugging Michelle and chatting amiably, and Michelle was slowly ambling their conversation across the room toward the small dining table. “Come sit and have some coffee, TK. I got that stupid oat creamer you like, with the honey that doesn’t actually taste like honey,” Iris chirped as she and Carlos followed the other two across the room.

Michelle poured a generous cup for all of them, and she and TK sat down at the table with theirs. Carlos watched her emit the smallest sigh of relief as TK took the seat across from her. As intended.

“How have you guys been?” she asked him, tone cordial.

“Chelle, come on. Let’s just get to it,” Iris interrupted, looking bewildered that Michelle would attempt small talk now that their mark had taken his seat. Carlos put a hand around her shoulders and squeezed.

“She’s right. I want this over with,” he said.

TK darted his eyes in between all of them, looking increasingly confused. “Get what over with?” His voice was small. Innocent.

Michelle sighed and got up from her chair, coming to stand next to her sister. “Fine. But make it fast. I don’t want to give him a chance to–”

“What’s going on?” TK asked, his gaze still flitting between everyone else in the room. “Carlos?” The bewilderment in his expression couldn’t be faked.

Except it was.

“You’re not my husband,” Carlos said flatly, staring into eyes he’d dreamt about for months before he’d even gotten up the nerve to ask TK on a proper date.

“Carlos?” TK’s voice was incredulous. “What are you saying?” Carlos thought to himself that he was playing it rather well. However, there was a simple enough test to prove Carlos was right.

“If you’re really my husband, the love of my life, then come over here and kiss me.”

Carlos had seen it once or twice over the last few days: he’d go in for a kiss and TK’s face would screw up just slightly, only for a split second, before he’d allow the affection. It turned Carlos’ stomach every time, especially after he’d made his ultimate conclusion.

TK–not TK–being none the wiser, seemed to steel himself before taking a step toward Carlos.

Except he was stopped by an invisible force, unable to walk even a foot away from the table. His face was confused for half a second, holding onto the act, before it dropped and a truly enraged scowl took over his beautiful features.

He turned to Iris and Michelle. “You fucking cunts,” he spat, looking up to the ceiling where the Blake sisters had painted a demon trap in black chalk.

“Shut up,” Carlos spat right back. “You’ve got one chance here before I start in on the reading and the holy water. Get out of my husband and go back where you came from.”

The demon just laughed. Hearing the evil edge to his own husband’s voice turned his stomach. “You know what? I don’t think I will.” He sauntered back and plopped down into one of the chairs again, leaning back with his legs stretched out in front of him like he didn’t have a care in the world, like Carlos wasn’t about to unleash holy fire on him for daring to defile his husband. When he looked back up, his eyes were fully black, and Carlos had to fight the nausea that instantly threatened to take him. It was abhorrent, seeing TK’s gorgeous green eyes give way to hell’s dark pits.

“Fine, have it your way,” Carlos said with disgust, walking over to where he’d dropped his duffle by the door. He grabbed the old, beaten leather book and a plastic water bottle, taking a moment to level out his breathing. TK was still in there, and no matter how much Carlos wanted to wreak havoc on the hellspawn for daring to possess him, he couldn’t hurt TK in any physical way. The holy water would have to do, along with the salt Michelle was now brandishing in her left hand.

“Just,” the demon started, a sinister look of curiosity on his face, “for shits and giggles…what gave it away? I thought I was doing pretty well there. Especially with the stupid puns, my god this guy has so many stupid puns saved up in here.” He tapped his temple. “Between the screaming and the pleading it was hard to get to some of them, but I did it. You even laughed. It was cute.”

“I’m not going to indulge you no matter how much you want me to. You’re going back to hell, so sit tight and shut up, asshole.”

“Was it because I wouldn’t kiss you? Because I gotta say, I think I did pretty well playing at being a f–”

Screams erupted from the demon’s throat as his skin started smoking and burning, the uncapped bottle of holy water clutched in Carlos’ hand. The demon tried to rush at him, rage on his face and in his black eyes, but he was brought up short by the invisible brick wall of the trap. He looked like he was fighting against it with everything he had, to no avail.

“I said, sit tight and shut up,” Carlos growled. He set down the bottle and opened his book, flipping to the right page. “Don’t worry TK,” he whispered under his breath. “I’m gonna get you back. Don’t worry, baby.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started chanting.

It was hard to watch TK’s body writhe and scream and cover his ears in agony, but Carlos kept on. Occasionally he’d have to stop for a breath, and the demon would taunt him some more, but he did his best not to listen to it. He got through two-thirds of the ritual before he paused just long enough for the demon to spit: “He hates you, you know. Can’t stand you. You’re too controlling and you nag every damn day about the way he washes clothes and the way he stocks the weapons. The sex has just been good enough that he’s stuck around. He wishes he could leave you. He’s tried to, sometimes, just trying to pack up in the middle of the night, but you always wake up when he moves. Throw your arm over him and cage him in. He hates it.”

Carlos stopped cold for a solid thirty seconds. He was shocked enough that he forgot himself until Iris punched his arm, hard. “Hey, don’t listen. He’s just trying to get you to stop, TK doesn’t think those things at all, and you know it. Don’t be stupid, Carlos.”

“Really? I’m the one in his head. Continuous line to all his thoughts. Who you gonna trust?” the demon snarls with a smile. In that moment, it had never been harder to remind himself that it was TK’s face, TK’s voice saying these things, but it was not TK.

Carlos shook himself, glared at the demon who was now cackling with glee despite the burns on his arms and face, and deliberately continued his chant.

“Okay! Okay, fine! Damnit, you son of a bitch! You motherfucker! Stop! Stop! Please, it hurts!”

“Good,” Michelle snapped.

“It hurts him, too, you know. He’s screaming for mercy in here,” the demon said to Carlos, trying for a smile and failing through his pain.

“He can take it. I’ve seen TK take two stabs to the back and keep going. You don’t scare him and you don’t scare me.” Two passages left and this demon would be gone. Carlos raised his book again.

The screams and cries grew louder, louder, until they were cut off completely. TK’s body seized up, his fingers going crooked and mangled, as black smoke poured from him and rippled to the floor, disappearing out of sight. They all held their breath for the smallest sliver of a moment before Carlos rushed forward to catch TK before he fell to the floor like a ragdoll.

He was unconscious, so Carlos started rubbing his sternum and calling out to him. “TK, come on, baby, come back to me. I know you’re in there, you have to be, please come back.” As Carlos continued trying to revive his husband, Michelle rushed over to her duffle for medical supplies in case they’d injured TK somehow during the exorcism. Iris stood by Carlos for moral support.

“He’ll be okay, just give him a minute,” she said softly, rubbing her hand through Carlos’ curls.

Just when Carlos was starting to panic, TK’s eyes fluttered open slowly. Carlos felt like his own strings had been cut as he collapsed down on top of his husband in relief. The only thing that pulled his attention away from holding TK tight and never letting go was the small, pained gasp. He sat back up and looked TK over frantically, trying to decipher where he was injured. He didn’t think they did anything damaging to an actual human, but... “Baby? What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

TK was barely conscious, now that the demon animating his body was gone. This wasn’t normal, once a demon was exorcised, the person went right back to normal. Usually.

“A-arm,” came TK’s strained, quiet reply. He tilted his chin to indicate his left arm, which was lying limply at his side.

Carlos rushed to rip his jacket off, trying not to cause further pain but finding it difficult to go slowly. When he could see the shoulder, he nearly choked. The sleeve of the shirt was distorted by the makeshift bandage underneath it, but the material was discolored with old blood and something else Carlos didn’t want to contemplate.

“Michelle!” he cried as she came rushing over. “Oh god, he got this days ago. He said it was a scratch, he…” Carlos knew now that it was the demon talking. The demon himself didn’t feel any pain from the host's body besides holy water and salt, but TK had been trapped in his own mind with a hellspawn and this pain for days. Carlos felt sick.

Michelle was right next to him, cutting away the ragged strips of old t-shirt the demon had covered up the wound with. It’s no wonder he hadn’t ever come to bed shirtless. “Looks like he just covered it enough to hide the bleeding, he didn’t clean it at all” Michelle observed. The wound itself was ugly. Festering, swollen, and leaking as Michelle prodded at it. “It’s definitely infected.”

“Come on, we gotta get him to a hospital!” Carlos begged her.

“Yes, we do, but hang on. I’ve got some antibiotics in my bag, I’ll give him a dose to hold him over before we go.” She worked quickly and efficiently, though not quickly enough for Carlos. He kept his eyes on TK’s face as Michelle cleaned the wound with the items Iris brought her on command, the sisters working like a well-oiled machine. TK was in and out of consciousness, wincing in pain and clamping his mouth shut when it got too intense before passing out again.

It felt like ages but Michelle finally finished up and Carlos carried him out to the car and held him all the way to the emergency room doors. As they placed him on a stretcher, about to wheel him away, his hand reached for Carlos one more time. Carlos grabbed his hand, placing kisses on his knuckles, stroking his hair softly. “I’m here baby, I’ll be with you again soon, I promise.”

TK’s eyes fluttered but he was clearly working hard to stay conscious. He looked up into Carlos’ eyes, his expression pleading. His voice was cracked and withered, barely able to make a sound. “Don’t hate you, don’t hate you,” he repeated, shaking his head minutely and still looking at Carlos with a plea in his bright green eyes. Carlos squeezed his hand as tightly as he dared, and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

“I know that, I know. I promise I know that. I know you love me. Even if I nag you about the clothes,” he said, smiling and trying to lighten the mood.

“Love you,” TK sighed before being whisked away by the nurses.

“He’ll be fine, Carlos,” Michelle said, putting an arm around his shoulder. “It’s infected but they’ll fix it. He’ll be good as new, I promise.”

Carlos could only nod as the adrenaline finally hit him and he sagged into a chair, flanked by both sisters as they sat vigil until they could see TK again.

He was still furiously twirling his wedding ring around his finger hours later when a doctor came out to tell them TK would make a full recovery. The sigh of relief that left him settled his bones in a way he hadn’t felt in over a week, and he was suddenly exhausted beyond measure.

“Come on,” Iris prodded, tugging on his wrist as she rose from her chair. “Lets go ream him for getting himself possessed.” Even though Carlos knew she was at least half-joking, he couldn’t help himself from wanting to yell a little at TK losing his medallion in the first place and causing all this mess.

However, the moment he walked into TK’s hospital room, he was bombarded with a barely coherent TK spouting apologies and pleas at him anyway. God, Carlos and I’m so stupid, and I’m sorry, baby, can you forgive me? Before Carlos could get a word in edgewise, TK had worked himself up to near panic now that he was more conscious than he had been all day.

“Baby, baby, shh. I’m not mad.” TK’s eyebrows raised up into his hairline. “Okay, maybe a little mad, but not at you. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He pushed a hand through TK’s greasy hair, humming a little and thinking of when they could get out of here and share a shower back at the hotel.

“The chain broke. I felt it break, but I was kind of busy, and then all of a sudden I was—” He choked up a little, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“I know you didn’t. Not your fault, okay? We made it through, like we always do.”

“Yeah,” TK said with a soft smile before his eyes went curious. “By the way, what did give it away? I know the demon asked and you didn’t answer, but…”

Carlos was silent for a moment, weighing whether or not he should tell him because the answer was…well. But ultimately he decided, fuck it.

“I knew before we left the general store that day. Well, maybe I didn’t know, but I was suspicious. The rest of the night confirmed it.”

“What made you suspicious?”

“When the fight was over, you only pecked me on the lips and left the scene immediately. Even though the family had left, and we were alone, you wanted to leave straight away.” Carlos left it there, hoping TK would get it. His face said that he didn’t, like his husband wasn’t self aware enough to see the issue.

Carlos sighed. “TK. When have you ever, in our entire acquaintance, dating, and marriage, not been extremely horny after a successful hunt? I usually have to pry you off of me until we’re somewhere decent.” He tried to ignore the disgusted groans from the sisters who were still in the room with them. “The fact that you didn’t try to jump me right there in the store room was pretty much a dead giveaway.”

TK blushed but didn’t deny it. “Mmm, yeah. Okay, I see your point,” he grinned. “You’re just so hot when you kill things,” he whined.

Tagging some folks who showed interest as I was teasing, and some who tagged me in wip games over the years lol: @heartstringsduet @welcometololaland @altsunthinkable @basilsunrise @jesuisici33 @reyesstrand @louis-ii-reyes-strand @tailoredshirt @carlos-in-glasses @lemonlyman-dotcom @bonheur-cafe @strandnreyes @carlos-tk @herefortarlos

#my fics #tarlos #911ls fic #911 lone star #tarlos fic

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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a dance of ice and fire | zayne | finale

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue

The fire crackled low, painting flickering gold along the stone walls of the chamber. Outside, the night pressed in—thick with uncertainty, heavy with what was to come.

But here, inside the quiet, Zayne was watching you.

Not as a strategist. Not as a prince.

Just as you.

The silver threading of his tunic had caught on the edge of your cloak when he stepped too close, but neither of you moved to fix it.

His black hair was slightly tousled, damp at the ends from the late storm rolling through the mountains.

Moonlight bled through the window behind him, carving out the edge of his jaw, the shadow of his cheekbone, the steady dark of his eyes.

Your palm brushed against his chest. Not with purpose. Just to feel the shape of him beneath your hand.

“You’ve been quiet,” you said softly.

Zayne’s gaze flicked down to your mouth. Then returned to your eyes. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“How you still smell like smoke after all these years.”

You arched a brow, and he smiled, faint and crooked. “It’s not a complaint.”

The air between you shifted—too fragile for words, too loaded for silence. You reached up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone, just beneath the edge of fabric.

Zayne inhaled, slow and steady.

“You’ve always burned too brightly,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “Even before you knew what to do with it.”

“And you’ve always stood too close.”

“I never minded the heat.”

The space between you closed without fanfare.

No declarations. No hesitation.

Just the natural gravity of two people who had carried each other through fire and frost and every word left unsaid.

Your lips met his.

Soft at first. Then sure. Anchored.

Zayne’s hands rose to your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t trust the world to keep you near unless he did it himself.

When he kissed you again, it was slower. Deeper.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like this moment was the only one he wanted to remember, should everything fall apart.

Your hands slid into his hair—dark and damp and familiar—and he made a sound in the back of his throat, low and quiet, like the sound of something unraveling.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His breathing was uneven. His eyes, dark and gleaming in the firelight, were full of something unspoken.

“What is it?” you asked.

Zayne reached up, brushing a thumb across your cheek. His voice was rough. “I don’t know how to lose you.”

You swallowed. “You won’t.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“If the world burns tomorrow,” he whispered, “I want to remember this.”

You let your fingers slide down the line of his spine, memorizing the shape of him. “Then let it burn.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t desperation. It was defiance.

You were fire. He was ice.

But in this moment, there was no war.

Only warmth.

And the kind of stillness that comes before the storm breaks wide open.

The fire had burned low by the time either of you moved again.

Zayne lay beside you, the curve of his arm draped loosely around your waist, his breath steady against your temple. The quiet wasn’t cold—it was full.

Heavy in a way that comforted rather than pressed. Your head rested on his chest, the beat of his heart anchoring you to the present like a thread that refused to break.

Your fingers traced slow, aimless patterns over the soft fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t stop you. Just breathed.

“Will you miss this?” you asked quietly.

Zayne was silent for a moment. Then, “I’ll remember it. That’s better.”

You turned your head, resting your chin lightly against him so you could look up.

His eyes were already on you.

Dark, unreadable, but softer than usual—like the sharpness had dulled just enough to let the truth through.

“I would’ve chosen you,” he said, his voice low. “Even if none of this had happened. Even if the court never turned. Even if the empire didn’t need saving.”

You blinked. Slowly. “You already did.”

Zayne reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, just once, and held it there.

The heat between you wasn’t urgent now. It had settled into something steadier. Deeper. The kind of warmth that didn’t blaze—it stayed.

You shifted closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“I wish it didn’t have to end like this,” you murmured.

“It hasn’t ended yet.”

“But it will.”

Zayne’s fingers trailed lightly through your hair. “Then let’s not waste what’s left.”

You nodded, barely. “Just… stay here. For a little while longer.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His arms tightened around you.

You could feel the slow inhale beneath your cheek, the rise and fall of him, the steady rhythm that had always calmed you—even when the world was shaking.

Outside, the wind stirred the banners along the outer walls.

The empire was turning.

But inside this room, for a little longer, you were only two people.

Not heirs. Not symbols.

Just a girl who burned too bright.

And a boy who never backed away from the flame.

—•

The morning came quietly.

Not with fanfare or flames, but with a hush that blanketed the palace like snowfall. Pale light spilled across the marbled floors, casting long, blurred shadows through the high arched windows.

Somewhere far below, the bells of the outer towers rang once—low and slow.

A warning.

A beginning.

You rose before the sun finished climbing the horizon. The room was still dim, the embers in the hearth no longer glowing.

You dressed in silence—layer by layer, breath by breath. The ceremonial cloak was heavier than usual, its crimson folds lined with gold, stitched with the sigils of fire and frost, rebellion and loyalty.

Behind you, Zayne sat at the edge of the bed, running a hand through his black hair, eyes fixed on the floor like the weight of the day was already pressing between his shoulders.

Neither of you spoke at first.

But then, softly, “You always wear red before the storm.”

You looked at him in the mirror, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Because I want them to remember.”

He rose, moved toward you. His fingers fastened the last clasp at your shoulder, slow and steady. When he was done, he didn’t let go. His hand lingered there—firm, grounding.

“They will,” he said.

You turned to face him fully. His expression was unreadable in the half-light, but you knew him too well to be fooled.

He was preparing.

Not for battle. For consequence.

For the final weight of everything he had risked in silence.

Your hand found his, threading your fingers through his. “Do you regret it?”

Zayne didn’t look away. “Not even for a moment.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, and for a breath—just one—you allowed yourself to close your eyes.

To remember the garden. The willow. The boy who once waited by the pool and told you to stop hiding.

And who had never left since.

When you pulled away, his hand slid from yours, but the warmth remained.

“Ready?” he asked.

You exhaled. “No.”

“But you will be.”

A quiet knock came at the chamber doors.

Varyn’s voice, muffled through the wood. “It’s time.”

You stepped back, shoulders squaring. The weight of the cloak felt right now. Heavy with meaning, not burden.

Zayne opened the door.

The corridor beyond was full of silence and steel.

The empire waited.

And you would meet it, flame in your veins and frost at your side.

—•

The palace felt different that morning.

Not quieter—no, silence had long since become a companion to strategy—but held. Like the walls themselves were bracing for what came next.

The kind of hush that came not from peace, but from anticipation.

The nobles had begun to arrive before dawn, their steps measured, cloaks drawn tight, voices held behind clenched teeth.

No heralds announced them. No pages escorted them.

They didn’t need pomp today.

Today was about power.

And survival.

The eastern strategy chamber had been stripped of formality.

Maps were rolled away. The long war table stood clear.

At its head, you and Zayne stood shoulder to shoulder, each glance exchanged between you a confirmation.

Of trust. Of timing. Of the edge they now walked.

Lord Varyn entered first, dressed not in his usual crimson regalia, but in a plain black doublet marked only with a sigil at the collar—his house crest, etched in iron.

He didn’t speak when he arrived. He only nodded once and stood near the hearth, arms folded, gaze sharp.

Darien Vellor followed soon after, silver-banded cuffs catching the weak morning light.

He carried himself like a man who’d already counted the losses. His voice was low when he spoke.

“My informants say Kael has doubled the guard at the inner corridors. And they’ve begun searching the servants’ quarters. Quietly.”

Zayne’s mouth tightened. “He’s scared.”

Darien met his gaze. “He should be.”

Then Lord Thalos arrived, his violet robes exchanged for deep navy, lined with silver thread. His movements were crisp.

Controlled.

The quiet calm of someone who’d played this game too many times and learned not to show when the blade pressed against his neck.

“The loyalists are watching the western gates,” he said, eyes sweeping the room. “But not the council wing.”

“Then that’s our entry point,” you said, voice measured.

The doors creaked again.

Aelric Draven sauntered in last, of course—wearing half his armor like a statement. The steel bracers on his forearms caught the firelight. His grin, as always, was too wide to be harmless.

“Lovely morning for a coup,” he drawled.

“Not a coup,” Zayne said evenly.

“Then what would you call it?” Aelric asked, resting one foot on the edge of a bench.

You stepped forward. “A reckoning.”

That, finally, wiped the smirk from his face.

The air in the chamber settled. Not with calm—but readiness.

Varyn moved to the center of the table, unrolling a fresh scroll.

“All couriers are in place. House Velithar has stationed scouts along the northern road. If Kael tries to send for outside aid, we’ll know.”

Darien nodded. “Our message will reach the northern lords by sundown. If Kael counters, he’ll have to do it in the open.”

Aelric lifted an eyebrow. “And the ones who haven’t chosen?”

“They’ll be forced to,” Zayne said. “Today.”

You moved to the table, laying your hand flat against the surface. The wood was old. Scored from decades of meetings, wars, compromises. It had held empires together—and watched them fracture.

“Let him try to hold the empire by threat and decree,” you said. “We’ll hold it by truth.”

Thalos stepped closer. “Then we take our places.”

One by one, the lords turned.

Darien moved toward the high council chamber to intercept the scribes.

Varyn strode toward the east wing, where the royal guards could be rerouted without alarm.

Thalos would wait in the antechamber where the undecided nobles gathered—his words like a scalpel, carving through doubt.

And Aelric—Aelric simply nodded, the smirk returning faintly. “Call when you need the storm.”

Soon, only you and Zayne remained.

He glanced sideways at you. “No turning back.”

You reached for his hand, let your fingers slide against his palm before pulling away.

“There never was.”

He offered a quiet breath of laughter. “Let’s go break a throne.”

And together, you stepped out into the corridors—

Where the court would rise.

And where Kael would finally fall.

—•

The throne room had never been this full.

Not even during coronations or imperial feasts. Not even in the golden years, when Kael had still been the boy crowned with hope instead of the man cloaked in fear.

Now, the air was tighter. Denser.

Nobles packed the marble hall shoulder to shoulder, draped in house colors, speaking only in glances and guarded tones. The stained glass above cast fractured light across the floor, painting even the cracks in color.

But there was no warmth in it. No grace.

Only the hush of expectation.

The throne sat empty.

But not for long.

You stood at the far end of the chamber, just beyond the entrance archway. Cloaked in court-black with your house sigil at your shoulder, you scanned the room.

Every noble, every vassal, every whisper seemed to tremble on a single question.

What comes next?

Zayne was beside you, his black hair neatly tied back, silver pin gleaming at his collar. He hadn’t spoken in minutes—not since you left the strategy chamber.

But the steadiness in him was like iron forged cold. Measured. Patient.

Waiting.

“They’re watching for the first move,” you murmured.

“They won’t have to wait long.”

Across the hall, Lord Thalos stood at the eastern arch, conversing in low tones with two undecided barons.

Darien had already vanished into the alcoves, making sure the scribes recorded everything accurately—and nothing Kael’s men could spin.

Aelric leaned against a pillar like he was bored out of his mind, one hand resting on the hilt of his ceremonial blade. He winked when he caught your eye.

And Varyn stood close to the dais, just beyond the sightline of the throne, arms crossed, ready to draw if needed.

Each of them had their part.

Now it was yours.

A hush rippled through the room as the chamber doors at the far end creaked open.

Kael entered alone.

His robes were heavier than usual, black edged in gold, the crown already settled on his brow. No guards flanked him. No advisors whispered at his side.

It should have made him look powerful.

Instead, he looked… isolated.

He walked the central aisle with slow, even steps, his expression carved from stone. A prince trying to look like a god.

But the court saw the cracks now.

They knew.

And when he reached the foot of the dais, Kael turned.

“My lords,” he began, “my ladies. You are here today not because I summoned you, but because you know what is at stake. You know the price of disloyalty. And you know the burden of rule.”

He scanned the room, gaze landing on yours for just a breath too long.

“We will not fracture. We will not bend to subterfuge or shadow alliances. There will be order.”

Zayne’s voice cut through the chamber, crisp and steady. “You mistake strategy for sedition.”

Kael didn’t turn. “And you mistake silence for loyalty.”

“I mistake nothing,” Zayne said, stepping forward now, his presence drawing a ripple of attention. “But I remember. I remember the vows we swore to protect this empire—not just the throne.”

A murmur stirred. Thalos turned, nodding once.

You stepped into the light beside Zayne, letting the room see you fully. The princess of fire. The voice they hadn’t yet heard speak in the chamber. Until now.

“You speak of loyalty, Kael,” you said. “But loyalty built on fear isn’t loyalty. It’s desperation. And the court has seen enough desperation to last a generation.”

He looked at you then.

Truly looked.

You saw the moment it landed.

Not your words.

Your stance.

The realization that the court was not behind him.

They were watching you.

The weight of it shifted.

And the war, though not yet declared aloud, began to truly breathe in that moment.

You turned to the nobles, your voice rising—not loud, but clear.

“Today, we choose not sides. But futures.”

And behind you, the first step forward echoed.

Darien.

Then Varyn.

Then Thalos.

The court began to move.

Not chaos.

Not rebellion.

Just the slow, inevitable tide of power.

Kael hadn’t lost yet.

But the tide had turned.

The court chamber was ready to burn.

Tension crackled in the air like a storm about to break, each noble caught between breath and silence.

Kael stood before the dais, his crown gripped tightly in one hand. His expression was carved from stone—cold, unflinching.

Zayne faced him from the other end of the room, still but resolute. The lines of his black tunic were sharp against the pale light filtering in from the high windows.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“I don’t want your throne, Kael,” Zayne said. “I want to keep this empire from collapsing under your pride.”

Kael laughed, dry and bitter. “Then you’re too late. The court has already begun to turn. You think they’ll follow you because you speak softly and wear frost like armor?”

“I think they’re tired,” Zayne said, voice low. “Tired of being ruled by fear.”

Kael stepped closer, crown still clenched like a blade. “And you’d rule by what, then? Fire and idealism? The promises of a girl who knows nothing of sacrifice?”

Your body tensed, but you didn’t move. The room was listening.

Waiting.

You could see Lord Aelric at the edge of the court, his stance languid but his eyes glinting with barely-contained anticipation.

One hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, not from fear—but from hope.

Hope that someone would finally throw the first blow.

And then—

The great doors of the throne chamber burst open.

The sound echoed like thunder against the vaulted ceiling.

Every head turned.

The Emperor stepped through.

He wore no crown.

No cloak.

Only the black of mourning, lined with deep imperial crimson, and the steady weight of a legacy unraveling in front of him.

He did not speak at first.

He only walked—slowly, deliberately—his boots striking the marble like judgment incarnate.

Guards flanked the doors, frozen in place, as if stunned by his appearance.

He moved past the nobles who parted instinctively, past the steward, past Aelric who straightened slightly, as though the storm he’d hoped for had just arrived in a different form.

Kael took a step back. “Father—”

The Emperor raised a hand.

Silence fell like a blade.

He came to a stop between his sons, gaze sweeping first to Kael. Then to Zayne. Then to you.

And for a moment, it felt as if the whole court leaned forward, breath held in collective suspension.

“You disgrace this chamber,” the Emperor said at last, his voice like distant thunder—slow and deep, and too steady to be anything but dangerous. “Turning power into spectacle. Turning this court into a battlefield.”

Kael’s jaw tensed. “They forced my hand.”

“No,” the Emperor replied coldly. “You lost your grip on it.”

The words landed with weight. The nobles stirred. A few lowered their eyes.

The Emperor turned now to Zayne.

“And you—always watching, always calculating. You stood in the shadows too long. Perhaps if you had stepped forward sooner, your brother would not have mistaken silence for consent.”

Zayne didn’t look away. “I stepped forward when the empire needed me.”

The Emperor’s gaze lingered. Then slowly, he turned to the assembled court.

“You came today expecting blood,” he said, voice rising just enough to reach the furthest wall. “Expecting a spectacle. You will have neither. There will be no coup. No rebellion. Only choice.”

He paused.

“The throne is no longer a birthright. It is a burden that must be earned.”

The Emperor moved past Kael without a second glance. “And Kael, my son, you have mistaken strength for entitlement.”

Then, turning to you and Zayne.

“You have my silence. You will not have my crown. If the empire will rise from this fracture, let it be because those who lead it deserve to.”

He stepped aside.

No blessing.

No name.

Only absence.

The nobles were stunned. Not by volume—but by finality.

The Emperor did not stay to see what followed. He walked back toward the doors, and they opened again without a word.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

He had ended an age—and left the next one to you.

A long silence followed.

Aelric exhaled, slow and disappointed. “No steel. No blood. Just speeches.” His eyes flicked to Kael. “You’d think after all that buildup, someone would at least throw a punch.”

No one moved.

Kael stood there, the weight of everything crashing in, heavier than his crown.

He looked at you.

And for a moment, his expression flickered—shame, fury, grief.

But no redemption.

He turned and walked away, jaw tight, spine rigid.

This time, the court didn’t bow.

They watched.

Measured.

Waited.

You turned to Zayne.

He met your eyes with quiet strength.

And when you reached for his hand, the court saw something the throne never taught—

Not dominion.

But devotion.

The kind that could burn.

The kind that could rebuild.

And somewhere deep within the echo of the Emperor’s final words—

A new age began.

—•

It wasn’t the crown that made it real.

Not the robes. Not the ceremony.

It was the silence.

Not emptiness—but attention. Not fear—but reverence.

The throne room looked different now. No longer cold marble and weaponized grandeur, but something warmer.

The banners of the major houses remained, but they hung looser. Softer.

The emblems of the past, rethreaded with the color of tomorrow.

You stood in the center, alone beneath the arching light of the sun-drenched ceiling.

No one spoke.

Not even the nobles, who had spent years playing a game that was now crumbling under its own weight.

Not even Kael, who had not returned since the court’s fracture.

His absence hung like smoke—but no longer a shadow.

Only history.

Zayne stood by the steps of the dais, black coat tailored sharp, hands behind his back. He hadn’t moved in minutes.

But his eyes never left you.

The crown sat on the velvet cushion before you, untouched.

A circle of gold, lined in firesteel—red-gold veins running through it like molten lightning. It had once weighed down every ruler who wore it. A relic of control. A symbol of fear.

But you didn’t bow before it.

You stepped forward.

And lifted it.

It didn’t shake in your hands.

You didn’t flinch beneath its weight.

When you turned, the room held its breath.

Not for what you would say.

But for what you meant.

Zayne watched, expression unreadable but eyes burning with something you knew too well now.

Faith. Respect. Love.

And when you met his gaze, you saw more than a memory of gardens and firelight.

You saw the future standing with you.

You ascended the steps.

No fanfare followed. No drumbeat. No choir.

Only silence.

Only stillness.

Only the sound of your breath—and the knowledge that every step you took was not toward power, but purpose.

At the top, you turned back to the court.

The crown glinted in your hands.

But you didn’t place it on your head.

Not yet.

Your voice, when it came, was calm. Clear.

“There is no victory here. Only rebuilding. The empire fractured not from outside invasion—but from within. From pride. From tradition twisted into chains.”

The nobles stood straighter.

You let your eyes pass over each of them. Lord Varyn. Lord Thalos. Darien. Even Aelric, who looked—for once—almost solemn.

“We will not rebuild what broke us. We will create something new.”

You lowered your voice, but it only made it stronger.

“This court will no longer answer to a single crown. Power will not sit on one head. It will circle the realm—advised, chosen, shared.”

You turned slightly, eyes on Zayne.

“And I will stand at its center.”

A breath. Then you raised the crown—

—and placed it on your head.

Not with ceremony.

But with intention.

The firesteel caught the light.

And the court bowed.

First Thalos.

Then Varyn.

Then Darien, Aelric, and the rest—like dominos falling, not to power, but to truth.

Zayne did not bow.

He stepped forward.

And offered his hand.

You took it.

Together, you faced the room.

And the empire was no longer a thing you inherited.

It was a thing you chose.

—•

It had been a season since the court fell quiet.

Spring again. But this one felt real.

No pretense. No desperate sweetness. Just newness, carried in the scent of thawing earth and fresh rain.

The halls of the palace no longer echoed with tension. They breathed.

The throne room no longer guarded silence like a weapon. It listened.

And your name—once spoken like a question—was now a promise.

The Princess of Fire.

No longer waiting to be chosen.

You sat in the strategy chamber—now restored, refurnished, and no longer secret.

A meeting had just ended, but the air was still warm with conversation, the scent of ink and cooled tea lingering in the corners.

Lord Thalos had been the first to accept his role on the new council. Not ruler, not advisor, but anchor.

His neutrality had once kept him distant. Now, it made him steady.

He chaired the new judicial reforms, and even the most conservative noble houses had learned not to argue once he spoke.

Lord Varyn hadn’t changed much—still brash, still blunt. But he had become the court’s loudest voice when it came to defense and the rights of the provinces.

His ships patrolled the coast now—not as a show of power, but as a shield.

And he never once asked for praise.

Darien had proven the most valuable in diplomacy. No one moved through the cracks of court politics like he did.

It was his networks that rebuilt the fractured roads between inner cities and the border towns. His words soothed where swords had once cut.

He was more quiet than the others.

But he never missed a meeting.

And Aelric—well.

Aelric still strode through the palace like he was seconds from starting a duel.

But his loyalty had proven unwavering. He had taken charge of military reforms, restructuring the officer class to protect merit over lineage.

There were still rumors that he trained with new recruits just to scare them into competence.

Zayne had said he caught him sleeping under a war table once.

You believed it.

Together, they had become something the realm had never seen.

A court that didn’t orbit the throne—but moved with it.

You stood now at the window of your chambers, the same window Zayne had once waited beside in silence.

You’d spent the morning in council. The afternoon in reformation drafts.

Now, at dusk, you let yourself breathe.

Zayne stepped in behind you, just as he always had. Not as a shadow.

But as a constant.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, head resting lightly against your shoulder.

“They’re saying Varyn and Aelric nearly came to blows again,” he murmured. “Over the border tariffs.”

You laughed softly. “And who won?”

“I had to separate them. Again.”

You leaned back into him. “We built this.”

Zayne’s voice was quiet.

“You led them.”

You turned in his arms, looking up into eyes that still held that unreadable stillness—except now, it wasn’t hiding anything.

It just was.

A stillness you had come to rely on.

“Do you ever regret it?” you asked. “Not walking away. Not taking the easier road.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers cool against your temple.

“There was never an easier road.”

You smiled faintly.

The fire flickered in the hearth, casting warm light across his face.

“I keep thinking about that day,” you said. “The one in spring. When I almost touched your hand in the garden.”

“You did,” Zayne said.

“No,” you replied, smile deepening. “Not really.”

Zayne took your hand now, threading your fingers together.

“There is no almost anymore.”

The room fell quiet again.

But it wasn’t heavy.

It was whole.

Outside, the empire stirred—not perfect, not peaceful, but alive.

There would always be conflict. Always be tides to shift, shadows to chase back with light.

But the court was no longer ruled by fear.

It was ruled by the ones who stood at the edge of fire and frost—and chose not to flinch.

Not to burn alone.

And that was enough.

—•

The wind tugged at the banners above the balcony, stirring the heavy gold-threaded fabric into restless motion.

Below, the city was beginning to stir—slowly, uncertainly—as if still unsure whether peace had truly arrived.

You leaned your forearms on the marble balustrade, eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the palace gates.

The sun had risen clean over the rooftops, spilling soft light across the streets that had once whispered with rumors of war.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

Zayne’s presence folded into the space beside you like a shadow finally returned to its shape.

He stood just behind your shoulder, close but not touching, the steady quiet of him grounding in the hush of morning.

You let the silence stretch, then said softly, “I expected bloodshed.”

Zayne’s head tilted slightly. “Hmm?”

“After everything we planned,” you murmured, watching a line of market stalls slowly open across the square, “the strategies, the alliances, the countermeasures. All those long nights with maps and names and contingency after contingency… I expected the empire to bleed for it.”

He was silent for a beat. Then, quietly, “So did I.”

You turned toward him, searching the cool stillness in his dark eyes. “And yet… the only thing that shattered was the illusion.”

Zayne’s expression was unreadable. “You made them see it. You broke the pattern. That was always more dangerous than war.”

You gave a faint smile, weary at the edges.

“I thought the nobles would rise in arms. That Kael would force us into open battle. That the city would turn to ash before it crowned another heir.”

Zayne stepped closer, his voice low. “You wanted a war?”

“No,” you said, gaze lifting to meet his. “I just didn’t believe we could win without one.”

His hand brushed yours, a fleeting, deliberate touch. “Maybe that’s what made you the better ruler.”

You looked away, the warmth of his words settling in your chest like something earned.

Behind you, the city exhaled again—slowly, cautiously. Like a wound not yet healed, but no longer bleeding.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself breathe with it.

Zayne’s hand slid gently along your arm, tracing the edge of your sleeve, until it found your fingers and held them.

When you turned back to him, he was already watching you—not with calculation, not with strategy.

Just with quiet, knowing affection.

“I told you,” he said, his voice barely more than breath, “I never left.”

You reached for him in the same moment he leaned in.

And when your lips met, it wasn’t urgent or desperate.

It was calm. Sure.

A seal pressed softly between everything you’d endured and everything still to come.

The city stretched out below. The banners stirred.

But here, in this quiet between heartbeats, there was only you and Zayne.

And the peace you’d both fought so hard to find.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #magical realism #political intrigue #l&ds zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne x reader #lnds x you #lads x you #lads x y/n #l&ds x reader #l&ds

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gremlingottoosilly · 2 years ago

Text

The horror and the wild (Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader) Medieval Fantasy AU

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one. CHAPTER 1 Word count: 4906 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig

This fic on AO3

— I do not wish to speak about politics before breakfast!

— Your Highness, I’m afraid, politics would not be waiting patiently until you’re finished with your sweet pastries.

— What do you mean?

— The Emperor’s army is on our doorstep.

The look on the face of the Princess – your Princess – was priceless. First, it was a surprise, her adorable features all twisted in a very unladylike gasp. Then, it was terror – the first time you saw her ever express that emotion since the palace was always clear of anything that could scare her royal highness, from mice and snakes, and up to severely ugly people(poor, poor Elvin – he’d a good life if it weren’t for his pointy slabby jaw). Then, and it was the final emotion on her illustrious face – it was anger. To nobody’s surprise, the anger was mostly coming at you.

You see – you’re a Princess's most loyal handmaiden. Raised under her crib, going to the same classes, doing everything in favor of your royal highness, from warming up her jewelry and to trying the food first to see if it’s poisoned – your whole life’s goal is to make sure that the Princess is as comfortable as possible. You’re her shadow, her servant, the closest to a friend she can have – and if you were the bearer of the bad news, it’s only natural that she would be angry at you in the first instance, and not at the imperial army clashing down at your tiny bordering kingdom.

— Where are the guards?!

— Judging by the screams I am not sure if there are any left in the outer levels of the castle. And if the King didn’t come with a usual note after breakfast, it’s safe to assume that he is more busy.

With a trained movement, you quickly duck under the table when the Princess, naturally, throws a plate in your direction. You knew she wasn’t meaning it – your poor, innocent darling Princess, she was just as scared as you were but had not learned of how to hide her emotions under sarcasm and false calmness. Your job is to keep her safe – and calm – even if there is no royal family to serve anymore. You don’t want to think of the possible outcomes – King took you in, a simple peasant girl with no talents whatsoever, and gave you an illustrious education, the most sought job in the whole kingdom, and an allowance that would allow you to study in the real collegium, were they to accept women. You don’t want this place to fall in Northern Empire clutches – and you especially don’t want the Princess to learn the harmful ways of two pretty young women trapped in a castle full of enemy soldiers.

— How could this happen?!

— I’d have an answer for this question, Your Highness, but you ordered to urn any mail from the Northen Empire. Perhaps, they send us quite a bit of war declarations before finally going down.

Your hand goes to the side of your skirt, clutching on the suicide dagger – if something happens, you’d have to kill the Princess first, take the sin of killing oneself from her innocent soul – and then go down after her, hoping that your dog-like loyalty would allow you to serve her in heaven.

The Princess has many things that she’d like to take with her to the afterlife. You better start preparing her package soon – this castle wasn’t built to be protected from the army of beasts, hiding under human skin – your kingdom never provoked any wars, always trying to search for the opportunity of negotiations – and now this comes to bite you right in your soft rear, without a sufficient amount of guards or a suitable army to protect itself.

You’d pray for the god, but your god wants you to die.

— Princess, we need to…

Before you could say anything else, an explosion erupts somewhere in the southern tower – the closest place to enter the Princess chambers. You can hear screaming, you can hear laughing – a foreign language, the one you are proficient with, but it never made it less barbaric, less harsh. These people talk like swords clangs against each other – like a harsh metal against your skull. You’d give up anything to not understand what they are talking about.

There is something to be done before the soldiers arrive, finding only a few guards and two pretty, terrified young things. You might not be afraid of death, but you sure are terrified of what will come before their blades would slit your throat. You do not wish to die with blood between your legs. You do not wish that fate for the Princess either.

“The Princess should be here.”

“Did Lord say anything about trophies?”

“Don’t take anything now. Tiger said we were never here – he would pay us later”

“What about…”

“Don’t kill the Princess either. Emperor want her to himself, remember?”

“Come on, are we here for a whore?”

“A royal whore, dumbass. Now shut up before Emperor hears you.”

They laugh and you can hear the Princess whimpering, crying softly – all of the layers of harshness are washed away with every tear rolling down her perfect cheek. You move to them as fast as you can – these stupid clothes allow you at least some freedom of movement, saved from the excessive decorations and expensive, heavy fabrics – you are only as few levels higher than cleaning rags. you could probably rip away the lower levels of your skirt and run – the Princess wouldn’t even be able to move without your hand steadying herself.

You need strength to not slap her right now – you know that the pain on her perfect puffy cheek would help get her to listen, but nothing in your body moves to ever hurt her, no matter the cause. You push yourself to the door, thinking – your castle isn’t the highest one in the whole world, if anything, the Princess would be able to escape either via the window or the secret tunnels – but they would search for her, they would never accept defeat like that. Even if you’d stall them for long enough, pulling every bit of luck you don’t have – they wouldn’t stop if they had the goal of catching the Princess.

— Your radiance, we have to go!

— Where? The castle is going to crumble any second now, and Mama and Papa are…

You press your ear against the tough wood, listening to the soldier’s speaking – language is even harsher now when the adrenaline runs through your veins instead of blood. You would give up anything to be strong – to have your dancing and embroidering lessons switched to sword fighting, to archery, to read dark arcana books instead of romance novels that you and Her Preciousness liked so much. Your hands are soft and delicate, only a bit harsh from occasional cleaning and serving – you’re a shame to any servant in the castle, a house pet made to entertain and please, not to fight and work.

The Princess is a cherished treasure for your kingdom. Protected and hidden away, the King was smart enough to know that a royal gem like her would make all the old rulers of kingdoms surrounding yours go into a frenzy – so Her Radiancy wasn’t ever allowed to any royal mingling and balls until she’d reach the age of at least 21. Her birthday was next month – a small mercy, knowing that there was a possibility of never getting of that age.

“Is that a Princess?”

You hear a woman – probably one of the higher members of the court, considering her high-pitched accented whimpers with a familiar voice. God bless her soul and dedicate her a quick death – you don’t want to think what would come of her if not for this prayer.

“Princess should be in her quarters. This one definitely doesn’t speak like a royal meat”

“How do we even know which one is the Princess?”

“She should speak like one. Would be easier if her family ordered a fucking portrait.”

But…you were with the Princess your whole life. You know how to act like her, you know how she talks, how all royals talk. You know how manners, you know how to sing, how to dance, you received the education that allowed her to copy your study work and give it to her personal teachers – her own reflection wouldn’t copy her better than you would.

You’re young, like a Princess, you’re pretty, almost like a Princess – and you’re loyal like a dog, itching to pay your debt to the royal family.

— Your Highness! You need to run, please, just take the secret route through the walls and…

It was the most horrible moment for her to put her foot down.

— I…I live to serve the royal family. Dying for you will be the greatest of honors.

— I will not just leave you here!

— They’d defile and kill us both, Your Highness. But if I just pretend to be you, they won’t come looking for you, won’t they? They would have what they wanted and you will be free.

— What about you?

You’d feel hurt for how quickly she ran to the secret tunnel – if such feelings were normal for a servant to have. You’d feel betrayed if it wasn’t the life or death situation – if you weren’t putting on her dress as swiftly as possible before the soldiers would come running for you. It’s funny, how you always wanted to try her dress – how you were jealous of everything she had, even if you were the closest to her – you pride yourself in not caring about such silly mortal possessions, and yet, you always wanted to try something as beautiful as her dress.

You stare at yourself in the mirror – terrified, small, ready to die at any point or to be hauled back to the Northern Empire like a piece of meat. Dress suits you, the bright pink would tell about innocence and radiance – but not it smells of blood and betrayal. If the soldiers thought that the Princess killed herself in her room, they would surely not think about trying to find her.

You push the tiny dagger against your wrist, praying to all of your knowledge of medicine that your death will be quick and as painless as possible. You left out a silent prayer – knowing that the god would only welcome you after your death.

Not a war, Horangi corrects himself – a massacre.

***

Tiger of the North was fucking tired.

This whole mission – declaring war that no one seen and no one wanted, marching through the street without an army behind him, felt more like a bandit’s doing than something that a general of the best army in the world would do. This whole operation is a stunt, an order from the Emperor that no one expected – seriously, sometimes he still felt like a child with new, exciting toys. For all he knew, König never saw a Princess – yet, he sent his best men to take her out, not caring that this would mean a war on the bordering kingdom.

Not his fault this shithole didn’t even bother to reply to any of the Emperor’s letters regarding the marital status of the Princess. Not his fault they don’t even have a proper army – the king died, gutted like a fucking pig, and the queen followed soon after. Their unit can count less than 20 people, with royal hounds and other animals to help – yet, no one was able to foresee them entering the castle and butchering it. It’s a hunt, not a war or even an assassination – a hunt for the Princess, the useless fucking thing.

If they’d only bothered to get at least some portraits – something to tell what she looks like. Perhaps, she is ugly, a mix of a toad that fucked a pile of shit. Perhaps, she is crazy and eats pillows and keeps her handmaidens' heads like a trophy. Perhaps, she don’t fucking exist and the king just didn’t want to say out loud that his dick was never working enough to produce an heir.

— Search the quarters! I don’t want them to have time to know that their precious king is dead.

The low rumble of König beside his almost makes him dart from surprise. He wears a mask, of course, not even trusting his people to see how he looks like – perhaps, he is as ugly as a toad that…ah, shit, he is using the same comparison again.

A faceless ruler and a faceless Princess – a match made in heaven.

— You think other kingdoms would send their condolences?

— I’m sure that Price is already aching to write a congratulatory letter for the expansion of the empire. A nice addition to the title, ja?

The emperor laughs, a sword in his hand, dark from the king’s blood. Horangi still doesn’t understand why he would decide to go on such a dangerous operation – if anything, they could haul the Princess back to the capital, or at least the nearest Empire territories – but no, König decided to go here himself, searching for a Princess that would, surely, not be worthy his attention. If this man didn’t want to marry all the options other kingdoms offered him, he surely wouldn’t be satisfied with a girl from this shithole of a country. Their land is barely enough for a normal castle, let alone all of the riches that the Empire provided.

Yet, König stumbles in every room, searching for something – for someone. Other soldiers don’t dare to take trophies in front of their emperor, knowing that this operation should be as secretive as possible – no other rulers would bat an eye for a mysterious royal passing and the quick marriage of the Princess of this kingdom, but Graves would be quite concerned and bitching about the Northern Empire coming close to his kingdom. God, if König could just bathe every last one of them in blood, he would have.

— Sir, I believe the Princess should be here Unless she killed herself already.

— Those people honor death more than they do life. Better be fast before I’d have to marry a corpse.

— We could bring her back.

— Nothing can wash off the dead smell even after resurrection. You think why Krueger can only have sex with common whores?

They both have to suppress their laugh at the thought of the royal advisor. Poor, dead Krueger, serving a contract that even death would not be able to break – it’s a good thing to have it on their side. Provides a good amount of jokes just from being around him.

König rushes to the door that looks the most guarded – judging only by the amount of dead servants around it. The Princess must be here and, knowing the traditions of your kingdom, he has about a minute before you’d kill yourself, yelling something ridiculous about finding solace in death and that they would never take you alive. The door comes crashing down ridiculously easy – or it’s his strength challenging in the form of barbaric savagery. When he pushed into the room, he didn’t see what he was expecting to see.

He sees something better.

You look divine in the moonlight, your form, draped in an expensive dress that you only managed to take on halfway through, getting stuck in that stupid corset and billions of tiny bows and cutting jewels. You look majestic, godlike, you look like something from a fairytale. He was anxious before this, thinking if it was worth it – overthinking every bit of the operations, evaluating if the enemy kingdoms would be fine with him just taking you. König wasn’t sleeping a good few nights before this – now he looks at you and wants to kneel in front of your perfect form.

— No wonder they didn’t have portraits. They wouldn’t capture your beauty.

He shook the knife – little thing, as dainty as you are – from your trembling hands. Poor thing terrified of him – he’d pick you up and haul you on your shoulder already, but he wants to take a moment and just admire the comparison between his huge, muscular arms and your fragile form. He knows he is big, imposing, threatening – but compared to you, he feels like a war god paying tribute to his newest sacrifice.

You shake in his grasp, not fighting it – Princess wouldn’t fight, you remind yourself. If killing yourself is not possible, if your dignity is tarnished, the death and torture shall be met with silence – you put your lips together, as firmly as you can. Still, you can’t stop yourself from sobbing when his hand goes to cup your face – a faint trace of your makeup staining his dark gloves.

— This is the declaration of war. You were…

— This is no war, meine Liebe. How could we fight the nation with a dead king?

The Princess would cry, learning about the death of her parents. You try to force more tears, making yourself look as miserable as possible – it isn’t hard in this brute’s hands, with his soldiers surrounding you – but, for some reason, he doesn’t look surprised when you are not crying immediately at the mention of the death of your supposed parents.

He laughs, cupping your face in a rough, crude gesture. He shouldn’t treat Princess like this – even you are not used to men being this vile, to speak of such lewd matters with his men. They surround you, laughing, not even bothering to pay the least bit of respect in front of their Emperor.

He wears a hood and it makes him look like an executioner, not a ruler. But, perhaps, you would welcome a butcherer more than you would a husband.

— Let me go! The guards shall rise to my abduction and they will not leave thou to…

You don’t even need to force yourself to speak like her – you’re royal by any means, other than blood and service. You can imitate her your whole life if needed, shadowing her your whole short existence – it only hurts you more when you are praying that the Princess, dressed up in your garments, would be able to escape. You know that someone will save her, and take care of her – it’s just like the plot of your favorite romance book. An abandoned Princess of the burned kingdom rises to be the wife of a mysterious, masked blood knight, saving him from pushing his soul into the darkness. You, in this story, would be just a minor victim for the author to kill.

— The guards would rise if they weren’t dead, Princess. Too late to call for them now.

He sneers at this “Princess” like a snake, ready to sink her teeth into your soft, limp body. You whimper, finally trying to get your knife from his hand – as gracefully as you can, remembering that you are to stall the time for her to escape, not to actually save yourself. He laughs and lets you go suddenly – only to pick you up like you weigh nothing. Pick you up like a bride, not a pig for him to gut.

The tip of your ears is burning – your whole face is burning, you feel ashamed, embarrassed, angry, every emotion swirls in your head as he doesn’t even try to be subtle about his affection. You thank god for the layers of skirt you are wearing – but the upper part of the dress is barely holding together, showing a scandalous amount of shoulder. You are tainted – a scandal in the court, if there was a court alive.

— Put me down this instant. My kingdom will not just accept these levels of disrespect!

You say this weakly than you wanted to. He laughs – thunder and bear roar, ocean waves against the mountains – you whimper when his hand goes to rip the upper part of your dress entirely, leaving you barely covered, with only three layers of clothing and a corset between you and his horrible, dangerous hands. A lady should not be seen by men when she is in less than five layers of clothing – still, you feel much better when the heavy fabric lets go of your skin. Still, you feel mortified, knowing, what would happen when he started to take off your clothes.

Well…you think you know what will happen. You and Her Highness read books with a scandalous amount of intimacy – touches, hugs, kisses even, the last book having record five instants of the main heroes being in close proximity with each other – you also know that whenever a male enemy soldier captures a woman, he is doing…something before killing them. Not quite sure what, but obviously torturous.

— The only kingdom that is left for you, your Highness, is what lies between your legs. I’ll be sure to pay my regards later.

Before you could say something – anything for that matter, he already hauls you away, still stuck in his hands like a trophy. You thank god that he doesn’t see the difference between you and the Princess. You never knew your acting talents would be of this amount, but nonetheless, you feel complete, knowing that the Princess is safe and sound.

— What is the purpose of your actions?

You are weak, voice whimpering and quiet. You don’t want to touch him, but the hungry gazes of his soldiers make you weak and fragile – you cling to him, trying to cover your modesty. The corset is a part of the wardrobe that no fine lady should ever show to men – yet, this is the only thing now that is keeping your tits together, saving at least some of your dignity. The heavy skirt of the torn dress lingers on your legs, covering you as much as barely holding up fabric can. König’s chest rumbles with a laugh when he notices you clinging onto him like a helpless kitten.

— I’m taking my bride as your parents were not kind enough to answer any of the proposals.

— Why didn’t you just visit?

If it were for him, he would just sprawl you on the ground and take what he wants. He would, were he a simple soldier, not the North Emperor – he would if there weren’t any witnesses if there were no intentions of marrying you later. But alas, he needs your hands in marriage – he needs you whole in marriage, from head to toe, from your heart to your soul, from your pussy to that sweet mouth of yours – and he can’t have all that unless he is patient.

— I did. Right now, for that matter.

— As the only heir to the throne, this would mean the death of my country. You can’t just…

— Who is there to stop me, little one? Your parents? Dead. Your army? They would kneel for my men were we at actual war.

You close your mouth. He laughs again, this terrifying hood of his moving when he shakes his head. You sob, tears flowing freely down your cheeks – it’s a wonder you can still talk while crying like this, but you need to keep up the act and you need to stall the time as much as possible. His hand goes to wipe away your tears and, for a second, you almost want to bite him. But, Princesses don’t bite – they lay in the hands of their captors and wait for princes to save them.

— The other kingdoms would protect us, we had war pacts!

— Were you loved enough to start a war with the Empire to protect you from getting married?

— I shall…

— You’re too young to speak like a queen, Liebe. Leave that to me, ja?

You open your mouth.

You close your mouth.

You open your mouth again.

— Please, let me go.

This is a quiet, soft sob – König stops for a second, looking at your fragile, vulnerable expression. You’re as weak as a kitten, as adorable as a bunny – and precious, his little treasure, tucked away nicely in the deepest corners of this kingdom. He almost feels bad for breaking you, for taking you away. He killed many men, the king included, and he captured more land than his father ever could dream of – the biggest empire lies at his hands and yet, he feels weak when you cry in his hands.

It still suits you more – a pained expression, pure terror, all the emotions that a young woman like you should experience when she is captured by someone like him – he believes in terror through submission and the tears streaming down your face makes his cock twitch in his pants.

— I have all the right for you, little one. It’s your father’s fault that you were not protected more.

He laughs, his large, imposing hand goes to cup your ass – you don’t even understand how his touch manages to get through this many layers of clothing. Your skirt is in complete disarray when he touches your legs, squishing and destroying the crinoline parts and whale bones. So much went into creating this skirt, a horrifying construct that never allowed the Princess to move freely, stuck in one place like a glorified little dolly – now it becomes your grave, mortifying and freezing you in one place.

— You can’t…no, please, don’t…

He grabs your hips with the ferocity of a warrior, not an emperor. Rulers shouldn’t kidnap Princesses from neighboring countries, and they shouldn’t lead their troops on an operation that would destroy any diplomatic relationships with them – but he stands here, no more than a normal soldier, and you were never this terrified in your life before. He is a monster, a beast, an anomaly that shouldn’t exist in this world – even your desire to protect the Princess isn’t stopping you from crying and shaking. You bite your lips and sob softly, quietly, hoping he won’t just throw you to his men.

— This is what politics leads to, no? Your father decided to stop being diplomatic…and I did too.

He isn’t my father, you want to scream. He did nothing but take you from the streets, and slums you were scrambling aimlessly like nothing more but a tiny critter under his boots – he gave you everything, any book you wanted, the best company in the whole kingdom. He isn’t your father, still, but you pay for his mistakes – mistakes that you had no idea of. Princess ordered you to ignore any mail that would come from “This Northern brute” and you didn’t know that it could come to this.

If only you were to steal those letters and read them instead of throwing them away…but what would it come to? Princess wouldn’t marry someone like König, she had no like for the emperor twice her age, for the human who defiled the very laws of nature, sitting in his high castle, ordering the undead soldiers around. Monster with, probably, three heads and two faces, with four hands hiding under his magnificent armor. A beast who is…

A best who is cradling you in his arms like you were his lover, not his victim.

— Put me down. Please.

— I’m getting tired of listening to little Princesses wailing. Tell me, Liebling, do you wish to continue this journey quietly or unconsciously?

His hand goes to your neck – no doubt, he would be able to squish the life out of you if he so wished. No doubt, you are fucked – utterly and completely, with his ability to do whatever he wants your inability to stop him in any way. Sobbing softly, not wanting for him to continue this humiliation, you simply nod – to whatever option he deems appropriate. Princess would be screaming, yelling for help, and she would stomp her adorable feet on the ground until she’d get what she wanted – but you are no Princess, and playing pretend already makes you miserable enough.

— I do not wish to see the destruction of my kingdom.

— It’s not destroyed, little Princess. Merely defiled, captured and burned down.

— You didn’t…

— Of course not, kleine Hase. I wouldn’t dare to burn the newest addition to my empire…unless you would make me to.

It’s not a threat – it’s a promise, poorly concealed by the obvious smile in his voice. You cling to his chest and hear the rumble of his laugh when he pushes his cape over your shivering form. It’s a small form of comfort, but an unwelcome one – you’d rather be shivering, naked, and exposed in front of his troops than find comfort in the way he treats you. His cloak is heavy, more suited for the harsh weather of the central parts of the Empire – not your kingdom, mostly warm and wet, with bountiful rains and plentiful soil. You understand why he would want this land – you don’t understand why he would want you.

— Don’t hurt my people.

— Be nice then. You can be nice to your husband, ja?

If you weren’t a Princess, you’d claw his fucking eyes out – get your dainty hands under his hood and scrap the pulsating flesh, turn his face into a mush of blood and gore. If you were real Princess, you would declare war on the Empire and die the protector of your kingdom – not a terrified girl.

But you’re neither a Princess nor a commoner.

You push your lips together, allowing König to take you away. Accepting your fate not with dignity, but with quiet, fearful acceptance.

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