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noirscript · 23 days ago

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in the lion's keep

WARNING/S: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere. Noncon. Dubcon. Power Imbalance. Forced Pregnancy. Captivity. Manipulation. Psychological and Physical Control. Violence. Emotional Distress. Character/s: King Callixto x Servant!Reader Note/s: A commission for @violetvase. I hope you enjoy this one!

From this series: Silent Servitude [pt. 1] | The Lion's Shadow [pt. 3]

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Your mother has always been your biggest supporter.

She never once stifled your dreams, no matter how small or ambitious they were. When you insisted on selling flowers in the town square on behalf of the old florist to earn your own keep, she worried, but she did not stop you. Your parents feared for your safety, but your older siblings watched over you, making sure no harm would come your way.

It lasted for months—until children your age began disappearing, vanishing one after another without a trace.

Your siblings stopped letting you leave the house after that. The warm sun, the scent of fresh bread in the marketplace, the laughter of the townsfolk—it all became distant, mere memories behind locked doors. You were forced to watch the world from behind wooden shutters, longing for the life you had barely begun to taste.

Years passed before they finally deemed it safe enough for you to step outside again. And when you did, you threw yourself into rebuilding.

With what little savings you had, you opened a food stall in the marketplace, selling treats that made both children and adults smile. Your business thrived. Customers returned with praises, telling you how much they enjoyed your cooking. It gave you a sense of purpose, a taste of the independence you had long craved.

Then, one night, your stall was stolen

Not just stolen—destroyed. Burned to ashes near the town's tavern.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one even smelled the smoke.

The loss devastated you, snuffing out the fragile hope you had so desperately clung to. When you fell deeper into despair, your mother was the one who lifted you back up. She taught you the skills she had learned from years of working in the palace—how to clean, how to serve, how to navigate the world of nobility without drawing attention to yourself. You listened. You learned. And when she deemed you ready, you followed in her footsteps.

You had thought you were stepping toward a new beginning.

Instead, you walked straight into a gilded cage.

A warm calloused hand rubs slow circles over your bare stomach. Your body is sore, ruined, yet the touch is deceptively gentle—reverent even.

Callixto.

The King.

The man who had stolen you, body and soul, and refused to let go.

His breath is hot against your neck as he presses his lips there, inhaling you like a man intoxicated. He traces his fingers up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast with possessive ease. You squeeze your eyes shut, bile rising in your throat as last night's memories resurface—the way he held you down, the way he filled you over and over until you were too weak to fight him.

“You're perfect,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against your back. “You'll be a wonderful mother to our children. The mother of my heirs… My queen.”

No.

Your breath shudders as you push weakly at his arm, but you might as well be trying to move stone. Your body betrays you—limp exhausted, drained of all strength.

How long has it been?

Days? Weeks?

You can't tell. The chamber windows are tinted, making it impossible to see the sun or the moon. And Callixto… Callixto never leaves your side for long. He lingers, watching you, touching you, whispering sweet, poisonous words into your ear.

The chambermaid is no help, either.

She either glares at you with thinly veiled disdain or ignores you completely, doing only what is required of her. You don't know why she hates you, but it doesn't matter. She's your warden all the same.

There's no one here for you. No mother, no siblings. No bustling marketplace or warm, flickering hearth waiting for you at home.

There's only this prison.

And him.

“Your Majesty,” the chambermaid's voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Lord Soleil awaits you at the gates.”

Callixto tenses, as if irritated by the reminder that the outside world still exists beyond these walls. His fingers dig into your hip as he thrusts forward once more, a sharp, punishing movement that sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

He finishes deep inside you, groaning against your skin. For a moment, he stays there, reveling in the feeling. Then, with agonizing care, he pulls out—only to press his fingers back inside, pushing his seed deeper.

A shiver wracks your body.

“I suppose I've stolen enough time for myself,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair away from your face.

You force yourself not to flinch.

Callixto cups your chin, tilting your face towards his. His golden eyes burn with something twisted, something sickeningly sweet. Then, he kisses you. A deep, lingering kiss that suffocates you more than any chain ever could.

“Stay here and be good,” he orders, his lips still brushing yours. “Let the chambermaid take care of you until I return.”

As if you have a choice.

As if you ever had a choice.

And when the doors finally close behind him, your body sags into the mattress, silent tears slipping down your cheeks.

Not just for yourself.

But for the family you may never see again.

For the freedom that may never return.

And for the life that is no longer your own.

The towering walls of the chateau couldn't keep the rumors from reaching you. They were the only thing that kept you sane while you waited for him to return.

You heard whispers about a grand ball the Prime Minister held a few nights ago. It should've been a night of celebration, but instead, it ended in scandal. His wife, a noble woman and the daughter of a count, was caught in bed with a mere footman—nothing more than a commoner.

Lord Soleil, the Prime Minister, himself had walked in on them. The punishment was swift.

The footman was cast out with nothing, and the Prime Minister cut all ties with his wife and her family, erasing them from his life as if they had never existed.

A cruel fate.

And yet you wondered…

Was it any crueler than yours?

“Perhaps this is why Lord Soleil was so determined to keep His Majesty away from the chateau—away from me. Not just to protect the royal bloodline, but to stop him from making the same mistake his wife did.” You sighed, your breath barely disturbing the still air.

“I can't even blame him. If I were in his position, I wouldn't want a common-born woman anywhere near the throne either. And yet, here I am—trapped in these gilded walls, reduced to nothing more than a vessel, waiting for the day my body finally serves its purpose.”

You leaned against the cool stone wall near the tinted windows, listening to the little birds outside as they carried rumors flitting between the flower beds. Their chatter was a fleeting distraction, a fragile moment of stolen peace—until it was shattered by the sound of heavy boots echoing through the halls.

The doors flew open, and there he stood. The King. Furious.

He called out your name—sharp, urgent, unrelenting—his voice slicing through the chateau hollow corridors like a blade. You didn't move. You barely even breathed. Instead, you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, your fingers curling into your dress as his footsteps thundered across the marble floors.

He ran upstairs, frantic, taking the steps two at a time. He hadn't even noticed you standing near the windows, so close yet unseen. But you knew it wouldn't last. He always found you in the end.

Outside, the world had fallen eerily silent. The chattering birds had already fled the vicinity, as if sensing the storm brewing within these walls—taking their half-spun whispers with them. The rumor of the king's impending nuptials to a high-ranking noble still lingered in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

And soon, he would come back down. And this time, he would see you.

Your name tore from his lips again—a furious, desperate plea. Before you could react, his hands found you, his grip ironclad around your arms.

“Where have you been?” His voice was raw, unsteady. His fingers dug in. “Didn't you hear me calling for you?”

“Y-Your Majesty…”

He shook his head. “No—my name.”

Bloodshot, unfocused eyes bore into you. Something was wrong. His gaze sent a slow, creeping dread up your spine.

“Say it.”

“C-Callixto…”

A slow nod. Then, his arms crushed you against him. “You're mine,” he murmured against your hair, his breath searing against your skin. “Forever mine. And I will be forever yours.”

The walls seemed to shrink around you.

“Callixto… Your Majesty… I can't breathe—” you rasped, struggling against his suffocating embrace.

He didn't let go.

“Please…”

A beat of silence. Then, at last, he loosened his grip—but only slightly.

“Apologies, my queen,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had to calm him. You had to survive this.

You recalled your mother's old ways—how she soothed your father's anger, how she tamed your brothers’ tempers. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his cheek, brushing your fingers against his skin.

“Tell me your worries…”

“The royal court has been trying to push this woman onto me for as long as I can remember—something about securing the heir to the throne’s bloodline. The nerve of those fools,” he muttered, absently running his fingers through your hair as you lay atop him.

“If I wanted to, I could trace your family's lineage—alter it if necessary— and keep them out of our way.”

Listening to his monologue as you drift in and out of consciousness feels more exhausting than it should. You know you should try to persuade him to accept the will of his people, to yield to their demands—but deep down, you wonder if it would be easier if someone else had his full attention instead. If only he'd let you go.

“Perhaps we should secure an heir to the throne first… then we can look into your lineage…” he whispered, thrusting into you once more. His seed spilled from you as his movements grew more intense with every passing second.

Since then, it had become his ritual to fill you to the brim, keeping you in place—stuffed, trembling, and utterly his— until he was satisfied. Only then would he leave to rule his kingdom, but never without ensuring you remained exactly as he left you, his claim unmistakable. He controlled everything—the meals you ate, the tonics you drank—all carefully chosen to prepare your body for the sole purpose of carrying his heir.

You were his, and soon, you would bear proof of it.

It didn't take long for the signs to show.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The unbearable weight in your lower belly that told you something had taken root inside you.

And yet, luck has not abandoned you entirely.

Your chambermaid—a woman whose disdain for you was only rivaled by her loyalty to the royal court—had noticed. She must have. But instead of betraying your condition, she pressed a cold cloth to your forehead and muttered, “A commoner’s flu. Nothing more.”

A lie. A calculated one.

The King believed her.

But belief was fragile in a mind like his. It splintered easily.

His golden eyes flicked between the chambermaid and the royal physician, narrowed and gleaming, hungry for an answer that neither of them dared to give.

“Her color is pale,” Callixto murmured, pacing your chambers. His fingers twitched—fidgeting, trembling, curling into claws before stretching straight again. “She barely eats, barely moves. And yet you say it is nothing?”

The physician bowed his head. “It is a seasonal illness, Your Majesty. A touch of fever, some exhaustion—nothing that cannot be cured with rest.”

Callixto laughed—a dry, humorless sound. His nails dug into his palms, leaving little crescent moons of pain.

“Rest,” he echoed. His voice was a whisper of rage, of something darker crawling beneath his skin. “You think I have not noticed? She wilts before my very eyes, and you tell me to wait?”

The chambermaid stepped forward then, expression schooled into reluctant sympathy. “Your Majesty, she is weak. He kind does not fare well in the colder months. It is not surprising.”

Callixto stilled. His breathing slowed, deliberate, controlled—but his eyes never left her face.

“Weak?” The word came soft, almost thoughtful. “Is that what you believed?”

The chambermaid hesitated.

Something in the air shifted.

A warning.

Callixto's lips twitched—not in a smile, no. In something sharper. Something that showed his teeth.

“Fine,” he murmured. “If she must rest, then she will do so under your watchful eye. I want no one else near her.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

But as the King turned away, the chambermaid gaze flicked down—her fingers twitching at the pouch hidden beneath her apron. The weight of the promised coin.

The chateau felt emptier than ever one evening. The halls echoed with the distant clatter of preparations from the palace—the banquet, the foreign dignitaries, the noble guests.

A distraction.

And when the chambermaid entered your chambers, her usual sneer was absent. Instead, she carried a bundle of clothing.

“You need to leave tonight.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because I tire of wiping your sweat.” She threw the bundle onto your bed. “Because I want you gone.”

You swallowed hard. “And that's all?”

The chambermaid exhaled sharply. Something in her posture—something tired and worn—hinted at an answer she would never give.

“The palace gates will be open for the banquet. No one will be watching the chateau. Take the back corridors, follow the outer gardens. You are not important enough to be noticed.”

“What do you gain from this?”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “What I was promised.”

You should've asked by whom. But you didn't.

The scream shattered the night.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The chambermaid barely had time to compose herself before the doors to your chambers slammed open, cracking wood against stone.

Callixto stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. His pupils had swallowed the gold of his irises, leaving only thin rings of amber around black pits. His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his own skin, but he did not seem to notice the blood welling beneath them.

His gaze snapped to the bed. Empty.

Something inside him snapped with it.

“Where is she?” he repeated, stepping forward, his voice no longer a demand but a plea.

The chambermaid bowed, but her voice was steady. “Resting, Your Majesty. The fever worsened—”

“Liar.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. The chambermaid flinched.

Callixto's hands trembled. “She would not leave her bed unless someone forced her to,” he whispered. His tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips. “Unless someone… took her from me.”

He turned, suddenly—too suddenly—and grabbed the chambermaid’s wrist.

“You would not betray me, would you?”

The chambermaid swallowed.

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

His grip tightened. Bones creaked.

“No, of course not,” he echoed, smiling now—serpentine, sharp. His head tilted. “Because if you had…” he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I would tear this palace apart. Brick by brick. And when I found her—oh, when I found her—”

He released her.

“Find her,” he murmured. “Or I will find you instead.”

The chambermaid bowed, stepping backward toward the door. “As you command.”

But she didn't turn fast enough to see his lips curl into something… inhuman.

He turned back to the empty bed, trailing a hand over the sheets as if he could still feel you there. His fingers ghosted over where your head had once rested, then curled into the pillow, dragging it close. He inhaled—deeply, desperately—like a starving man before a feast.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered to no one. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

The night air was crip—freezing against your cheeks, but blissfully free.

You ran. Through the outer gardens, past the dim lanterns, past the drunken guards too enamored with wine and revelry to notice a shadow slipping past them.

You ran until the scent of the palace faded into the trees.

Home. You had to go home.

But when you reached the village outskirts, you stopped.

Guards. Stationed outside your family's home.

You shrank into the shadows, heart hammering against your ribs. From where you hid, you could see the single candle in the window—dim, unmoving.

Not flickering.

Not alive.

A silent warning: Do not return.

Tears burned your eyes, but you forced yourself to turn away.

Not toward another village. Not toward a stranger's mercy.

But deeper into the forest.

Through the twisting paths only you knew, past the moss-covered stones and the brook where you once dipped your toes in summer. Past the memories. Past the ghosts.

And there, hidden beneath the tangle of overgrown branches, the shack still stood.

You and your siblings built it once—when you were small, when the world was gentler. A childish hideaway, pieced together from stolen nails and planks too weathered to be missed. A place of whispered secrets and stolen sweets, of giggling beneath a roof that bare kept the rain out.

It was nothing.

But it was enough.

You pushed the warped door open and stepped inside, the scent of damp wood wrapping around you like an old embrace. The cold bit at your skin, but you knew how to survive here. You always had.

With shaking hands, you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Outside, the trees whispered.

Somewhere beyond them, the King was hunting.

But you would not be an easy prey.

Not here. Not yet.

—

tbc.

—

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bones-of-a-rabbit · 4 months ago

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how to fix ur grumpy king bf:

step one. kiss. step two. repeat step one. step three. there is no step three

#bones of a rabbit #doodles #fnaf au #fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf eclipse x reader #fnaf eclipse x y/n #royalty au #royals x servant au #servant y/n #royal eclipse #sorry my art is ugly as hell btw lol #sketches #silly fluff #fluff n stuff #bones of a rabbit au

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tapakah0 · 1 year ago

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Okay! I don't know where you got the idea from and my best guess is that your brain is connected to mine via bluetooth but.

Me and Hoddie have a royal au and your animation made me think of it again.

Nothing crazy special, but...ah...I should probably give a little context yeah...hmm.

Uh, okay. There's a kingdom. whose king and queen have died, leaving behind several possible heirs who are not their direct children. Right now, the king's first general is sitting on the throne, because the power of the army is, you know, a pretty powerful argument in a fight for the throne, right? This creepy regent is Cass. And Cass came to power thanks to Hoddie, who's basically the king's heir too, but she's pretty distant and her chances of the throne are quite slim. This has made her a professional rat and back stabber. The whole palace is busy weaving intrigue and destroying each other in a competition for power. Contests in cunning and sneakiness. A maximally intellectually uncomfortable environment in general.

Until Hoddie finds the true heiress. The king's blood daughter, to whom the throne should rightfully belong.

Problem? The problem is that the heiress needs to be two years older to be old enough to rule. And Hoddie and Cass' goal is to make sure she lives to that age in an environment where every other person wants to frame or kill her.

That heiress is you, Tap. But we couldn't think of what you'd look like in this au ahaha.

MHHMMM I SEE ONCE IN A WHILE BRAIN BLUETOOTH IS A GOOD THING you left me a window for my part and I grabbed this opportunity with sharp teeth Since there was no mention of my part, I have the audacity to add my own version. Did I understand correctly that my existence as an heiress was not known? It would be strange if the king was not looking for me, if I was the only heir (by blood), which means they were hoping for a new child, or already had plans for an indirect heir, or wanted to hide me. What other power is there, besides the king and the army, that holds the common people? Church. The king could have sent me to be trained as a priestess in order to gain support from them (either I was not considered worthy of receiving the throne in the future, which is why they preferred to hide me, or the king so badly needed their support that he was ready to sacrifice his only blood daughter) . Thus, from a young age, the beauty of a non-existent world somewhere beyond the heavens was drummed into my head and, in general, “God speaks all our actions.” I have an inconspicuous appearance, a position above a simple servant, but such priests are usually considered to be the daughters of high nobles, but not the king himself, which is why not everyone could know who I really was. Thus, they forgot about my existence ~ After the death of the king and all the heirs, the church quickly realized what to do next, and crushed me to itself, hiding me from the world until I reached the age of succession to the throne. (But children could take the throne under a regent. Could Hoodi become my regent as one of the older contenders for the throne?) So, back to the turmoil. Hoodie found me at church. Since childhood, my worldview could have changed greatly under the influence of the church, so, well, you will have to hammer a lot into my head, in addition to the throne’s education (You know... it's bit complicated to make a human sona not as a stupid little ball XDD... it literally can't get a shape at this point... maybe you will place a real bunny as the new king? It will be eating cabbage 24/7 and everyone will be happy)

#You know~ I'm sure you know that church isn't a very good place~#commoner servants or lowly noble servants do not dare to say a word against the nobles. (The laws are no better than in the kingdom itself)#Tapa saw some horrors in here~#I tried to make a look closer to the rabbit #but I guess it will be mostly about the way I behave #And sometimes the most beloved kind of hairstyle - rabbit looking one #But it's a bit complicated to get used to all these after strict rules of the church #Tapa #Cass #Hoddi #royal au #my little happiness

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flawlessflesh · 1 month ago

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I've been fixated on medieval beds for a while - massive, beautifully carved beds passed down through generations. The king's bed, only reachable through a series of increasingly private rooms - if you saw that bed, you were favored. And outside of sexual relationships, nobility in the past would share beds with others for warmth, company, or as a show of friendship/political closeness.

Delgal and Thistle shared a bed since childhood, but that habit was disrupted on the nightmare day when King Freinag died AND Delgal got married. Their living arrangements changed - Delgal moved into his father's rooms and Thistle was given his own room as a 'gift' to the new court sorcerer, but after a few weeks of unsettled sleeping apart, they went back to how things had always been.

The queen secretly believed that Delgal might have grown to love her if they hadn't gotten married on the day his father died. But they did get married on that day, and Delgal was never any more than Polite to her. She spent most nights in her own bed, her own rooms, instead of his. Separation was her normal, but it was a shock for Thistle. The rare times that Delgal invited his wife (or the various affair partners he had over the years) into his bed, he'd tell Thistle beforehand to sleep in his own room. Thistle understood that a husband has a duty to his wife and that Delgal had needs besides, so he tried not to feel hurt for being 'kicked out'. He usually failed and would stay up reading - Thistle had trouble sleeping alone, and he'd get nightmares most nights he tried.

It's a twisted mess! Thistle's emotional well-being was tied up in a single person once King Freinag died. He tried and failed to connect with people outside of Delgal. I have this conception of Thistle wanting to be the most important and only person in Delgal's life. In the past, he had enough self-awareness to know this wasn't reasonable, but he still felt it and didn't know how to live with it other than pushing it down. His controlling rage as the dungeon lord feels like all of this bursting out.

#thistle #delgal #my words #some references to a longer post i have in the works about the different beds thistle has slept in throughout his life #obsessed w/the historical practice of how even kings didn't sleep alone. there was often a servant or friend there in the same room or bed #but often the queen had her own rooms! it's an arrangement that feels totally opposite to how we imagine couples these days #royal marriages are such a bizarre performance

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zmorak · 27 days ago

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I'm trying to get myself to write more often without putting pressure on myself. I made the mistake of spinning the prompt wheel, and should not be held accountable for the following (under the cut)

Prompt: Royal/Nobility AU

"You shouldn't be here," is what greets him when he comes to a measured halt in front of the iron bars. The sentiment remains incorporeal in the darkness of the cell, the moonless, cloudy night providing not a glimpse of light by sheer luck, or maybe divine intervention.

"Neither should you," he replies to the void, pulling the lockpicks from his pocket. Drugging the guards was easy enough, the old useless drunkards would down anything that smelled of alcohol, but stealing the keys felt a little too much like tempting fate; and he didn't need them anyway.

A scoff acompanies him as he touches at the bars, trying to feel for the lock. "It'll cost me my head if you get caught, you know," the voice sing-songs playfully, and is so achingly familiar that for a mere moment, he feels like he might break down and cry.

"Your head is at risk either way if this doesn't work, so kindly shut up," he admonishes, but he cannot control how choked he sounds, the ball of dread in his throat swelling and suffocating him more and more with every passing second. He finally finds the lock.

A hand catches his before he can insert the lockpicks into the keyhole, moulding around his palm perfectly, as if the two of them were a matching set. "Edwin," the voice pleas, and that's more than enough to shatter the makeshift dam which was holding his tears at bay up to this point. He conteplates not looking up, but then again, this already feels too much like talking to a ghost -- and he doesn't want to think how close to the reality it is. So he looks up.

He cannot make out more than the silhouette in the darkness, a thin, razor-cut shape in the curtain of night, but he doesn't need light to be able to place all the missions features in right places - the almond-shaped eyes, the slope of the nose, the slight indent of the Cupid's bow which's taste he knows better than that of his favourite wine. No, he doesn't need anything, not when he's able to map out Charles's face with his eyes closed.

"My father won't harm me with Henry still missing in battle, he wouldn't risk losing a possible substitute when the crown prince is absent." The salt running down his face tries to glue his lips shut, but he soldiers on in spite of it, knowing that Charles needs to hear him even when the words escape him like startled songbirds. "I can't watch you die," he finally breathes out, and just like magic, the hold on his palm gives, and he can work the lock open.

It clicks softly when the latches fall in place, and jumps open easily, as if made of butter. He doesn't waste time, pulling at cell door, making sure it doesn't make a sound as Charles slips out. He closes it back, and then purposely drops the lockpicks right by it. He can feel Charles's confused look on him, so he just shrugs, hoping the movement registers in the dark. "For plausible deniability," he explains, entwining their hands together as Charles's knuckles brush his, "One can always blame the guards for not inspecting you thoroughly enough."

Charles snorts softly at that, letting himself be dragged along through the winding staircases and corridors. "You know I would've found the way myself, right? I've been a servant in this castle all my life, I probably still know more secret passages than you," he says at some point, light-hearted, and the tone of his voice makes some of the weight fall off his shoulders. "I know," he confirms, "But I need to make sure you're out safe. For myself."

Instead of taking another step forward, he stumbles back when Charles stops abruptly, pulling him into himself, their lips crashing together before a single thought can cross his mind. He doesn't hesitate to reciprocate, revelling in the way he now has to climb slightly to his tiptoes to better angle himself against Charles. His free hand needs no command as it buries itself in Charles's hair, pressing them impossibly closer together.

He wishes for then and there, just for a moment, that the two of them didn't have to breathe anymore, forever inseparable, living off of each other; but alive lungs burn and demand attention, and he lets go, breathless and flustered, hot breathes mingling in the sudden space between them. "Let's go," he whispers, taking a step back before he can make one more stupid decision under the cover of the night.

The treck under the castle is easy enough, twisting and turning, but quick if you know the way. They climb through the broken sewage crate, something he knows he should let the king know about in case of danger; unfortunately, the crack in the castle's defense keeps proving itself useful.

Marigold neighs softly when she sees them, and he shushes her and pats her flank before untying the reins from the rickety shrub by the passage -- more of a statement than an actual way of holding her down. He passes them to Charles, and in the now dim-light he sees his eyes widen in surprise. "She always liked you better anyway, he says by means of explanation, and kisses his cheek - for good measure, and because he can't help himself.

Charles doesn't protest when he mounts Edwin's horse, throwing his long leg over the saddle with ease, and whispering a greeting into the mare's ear, in a language Edwin knows he knows from his mother. The horse shakes her mane in delight, clacking her teeth and pawing at the ground, ready to go as if she knows she's about to experience freedom the likes of which she never felt before. It seems ridiculous, but Edwin can't help but feel jealous.

He takes the reins by her head, leading them away towards the less-known path through the forest, all the while battling his thoughts on whether he should speak up.

"What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours," Charles asks before he can make up his mind, once again proving that he knows him better than Edwin knows himself. He stops the walk, bracing himself for what he's about to do. When he turns to Charles, his gaze feels both searching and strangely understanding, as if he already knows what's about to happen.

"I know this is a lot to ask of you," he begins hesitantly, forcing himself to maintain the eye contact, "But if you were to find Henry, send him home... If my father gets his Crown Prince back-" his breath hitches again, the teacherous tears silencing him. He's about to turn away in shame, but a hand on his shoulder stops him, and although he can barely see Charles's eyes, the love he feels in them burns brighter than a thousand suns.

"I'll find him," Charles says, and there's confidence in his voice that Edwin doesn't feel himself. "I'll find him, and get him here. And then we'll run."

And oh, isn't this exactly what Edwin wanted to say, what he hoped to hear. He leans against Marigold's side, and Charles bends down to kiss him one last time. It's softer, slower than in the tunnel, as sweet as honey and as bitter as buckwheat, and much to short for the time he knows they'll spend apart. But it cannot last, because the night is coming to an end much too soon. He takes a step away, and Charles takes off without a word, as if any farewells would curse them for the rest of their lives.

Edwin turns around after the horse and the rider disappear in the forest. He can hear the first birds waking up, and he knows he has to hurry if he wants to lay the false trail successfully. So he gets to work, and he tries not to grieve; and all the while, against his best wishes, he can still taste the goodbye on his lips.

#edwin payne #charles rowland #dead boy detectives #dead boy detective agency #payneland #is this what should be considered a ficlet #my writing #random snippet #z yapps #royal au #implied Prince Edwin/Servant Charles #do not perceive me #this is unedited so deal with it or perish

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upat4amwiththemoon · 8 months ago

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As free as an avis | 7

Summary: A princess and a commoner falling in love was a scandal on itself, but them both being women just adds fuel to the fire.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Warnings: this story will deal with homophobia and sexism, this story is mostly historically inaccurate

Word count: 2359

a/n: lets pretend that it hasn’t been ages since I wrote the last chapter (this series is still my baby)

Tags: @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @themagnificentmx @raven-reyes-wife @spongebobtentacles @friskyfisher @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @sayah13 @wandsmxmff @emsmultiverse @natashamaximoff69 @scarsw1fe

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All parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8

Ever since Y/N and Wanda said they loved each other, they have gotten braver and braver to show that love to one another, though it still happens behind closed doors, the people of the castle have started noticing their attachment to each other. At this point, it seems like a pair of two overly attached friends. It is inappropriate in many of the castle servant’s eyes, after all, a princess and the lady’s maid should not be so close, but none of them speak of it, as they know the Princess’s stubborn nature.

As the servants don’t speak of their relationship, they have also given up on stopping the Princess from leaving the castle without permission.

Which is exactly what she is doing right now, with Wanda.

“Would you say this is a good area?” Y/N lowers her hood as she glances at Wanda, who is studying their surroundings.

They are a bit away from the bustling city, near nature. The area is wide and open, full of unused fields and a couple of abandoned wooden sheds.

“I know it’s a walk away from the city, but I would make sure carriages would drive here, and there is a future possibility of building a shop near by.”

“Y/N.” Wanda turns to look at Y/N with a gentle smile. “It’s amazing. The walk isn’t too long, building so many homes will create a lot of jobs, this…” she gestures at the nature, “this is a beautiful place.”

Y/N nods and lets out a relieved sigh. She smiles as she takes hold of Wanda’s hand squeezing it softly. Her approval means everything to her. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Wanda giggles, glancing around before planting a kiss on her cheek.

The two of them are alone—besides the carriage driver waiting where he can’t see them—but they know to be careful wherever they may be, there’s always a chance of someone watching them.

“When will you start building?”

Y/N looks around with a proud smile. “Once I find trustworthy builders, so my involvement won’t go back to my parents.”

“You know all the townspeople would field loyalty to you in a heartbeat, no one has love for the King and Queen like they do to you.”

“You know every single townsperson?”

Rolling her eyes, Wanda links their arms together as they start making their way back to the carriage. “Obviously not.” A small grin adorns her face. “But people talk, and my brother is such a gossip.”

“And you aren’t?” Y/N laughs, pulling Wanda closer. “I’ve heard you speaking with Yelena, you leave no detail behind.”

“That is totally different.” She raises her brows, but can’t hide the small smile growing on her face. “Yelena is brutal with her words, I’m slightly afraid she’ll yell at me if I do not tell her everything I know.”

The skin around Y/N’s eyes wrinkle as she laughs. “She’s merely fun scary.”

“What does that even mean?”

Y/N shrugs, “she’s more fun than scary. She wouldn’t hurt you.”

“But she could hurt me.”

“Oh, without a doubt.”

Wanda lets out a quiet huff, gently pushing Y/N’s side as they untangle their arms, having come near enough of the carriage to see it.

The driver opens the carriage door, bowing his head as Y/N climbs in with Wanda right behind her. The door closes and the carriage starts moving soon after.

The woman sit opposite of each other, smiling and talking silently so the driver wouldn’t accidentally overhear them. Their feet bump against one another’s, giggles fill the carriage every once in a while.

“There’s a quiet corner in the garden where no one else goes to, we could go there after we get back?” One of Y/N’s feet move under the hem of Wanda’s dress, gently tapping against her ankle.

Wanda smiles, “I still need to do my duties, you know, cleaning up and such?”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. Of course she had her own duties to attend to as well, but she’d much rather bail on them and spend all her time with Wanda. “After those duties then?”

“Yes, after we both are done with our duties.”

The Princess’ duties are a bore, at least in her eyes. Besides reading books about being a good wife and baby making, it involves meeting potential suitors. Men, who are supposed to be the next King if they marry. Men, who will take over ruling, because the woman cannot be the one making the decisions, even if she is the rightful heir—to her parents’ dismay.

Y/N sits around a table, one parent on each side and Lord Scott Lang opposite of her, a man over twice her age, which seemed to surprise Scott himself. A nice man over all, but not one she would like to marry.

Most of the discussion has gone through Y/N’s ears, though it doesn’t necessarily affect anything, as her parents will are the one doing the ‘interviewing’ and choosing, it’s only her future after all.

“Darling,” the Queen pinches Y/N’s thigh under the table, causing her to bring her attention back to the conversation, “do you have anything to say to Lord Lang?”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lang.” Y/N gives him a polite smile, clearly wanting to get out of the room and back into Wanda’s warm embrace.

Scott nods with a smile, slightly put off by the Princess. “The pleasure was all mine.”

One of the servant guide him out of the room. The Queen lets out a sigh, rubbing the spot between her brows. “She will not be marrying, Lord Lang, he was too…aloof. Maybe we will have her meet Lord Barnes next.”

“I agree.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, leaning back on her chair as her parents talk about her inevitable marriage over her.

“And having a daughter out of wedlock,” the King scoffs, “unacceptable for a king to be.”

“At least he seems to genuinely love her.” Y/N mumbles, mostly speaking to herself, but not really caring anymore if her parents hear her.

Her mother’s cold glare turns to her. “What was that?”

“I said,” she turns to look at her, “that he seems to genuinely care about her, at least judging by the way he spoke so highly of her.”

“What is your problem?”

“I thought I’ve made my problems very clear.” Y/N states, narrowing her eyes. She might as well start a fight. She lifts a finger, “number one is you two,” she lifts another, “number two is becoming queen. Number three-“

“Oh, you need to grow up.” The Queen interrupts, her voice raising in pitch. “You have known what your job in this castle is ever since you were born. You have had all these years to deal with the fact you will be the new queen, but you still haven’t. You know why? Because you’re childish and refuse to make best of your situation. This is a problem you have created and if you don’t get over it, we will be forced to do something drastic.”

Y/N stares at her mother, a frown on her face. She never liked losing arguments. “Whatever.”

The King lets out a sigh and stands up, causing the Queen to follow along. “Listen to your mother, Y/N. It’s time to start acting like the future queen.” The two walk out of the room, leaving Y/N to sit alone, wallowing in her feelings.

“Are you sure no one will see us here?” Wanda looks around the garden as she gets dragged through it by Y/N. She is holding a picnic basket and a blanket in her free hand.

“I’m sure, Wanda.” She slows down her pace as they arrive to a more hidden corner of the garden.

The spot is shaded by an old oak tree and surrounded by tall flower bushes, giving it a private feel. The wind rustles the oak leaves, some falling down as a stronger gush pushes them. Though it’s already evening, the bees and butterflies still fly around the flowers, at times stopping on top of them, and birds communicate to each other, their words coming out as a delightful song.

Y/N and Wanda set the blanket under the oak tree’s branches, small slivers of the lowering sun hitting their face as they sit down. “Well?” The Princess turns to look at Wanda with a smile.

“It’s lovely, very peaceful.” Wanda sets the basket in front of them. It’s filled with different berries and pastries.

“It’s the perfect place for us.”

They set the snacks and drinks onto the blanket in front of them, enjoying them while they speak of everything and nothing in particular.

“You seemed upset.” Wanda mumbles, glancing at Y/N as she bites into a strawberry. “Earlier today, I mean. Before we came here.”

Y/N lets out a sigh, “it’s nothing, just my parents being themselves again.”

“Another suitor?”

She hums and nods, picking up a cupcake. “They’re really starting to push the idea of marriage on me, I think they’re getting desperate.”

“I’m sorry.” Wanda mumbles. She feels bad for not knowing how to comfort Y/N better in these situations.

“It’s fine.” Y/N smiles gently, gently bumping her shoulder against Wanda’s. “I don’t want to think about marriages when I’m with you.”

Wanda bumps her shoulder back, grabbing a handful of blueberries as she drops the subject.

Soon the sun fully sets down, the evening darkness slowly starting to engulf the garden. Wanda and Y/N move the blanket away from the oak tree, so they could lay on it and watch the stars.

“Which one do you want to go to?” Y/N asks softly after a moment of silence.

“What do you mean?”

“When we met, you said you’d like to travel to a stars.” She states, her gaze on the sky. It’s not fully dark yet, but the brightest stars are already visible. “Which one would you like to go to?”

Wanda hums. “I don’t know the names of the stars.”

“We have some astronomy books in the library, I’ll get them for you.” Y/N mumbles, turning her head to the side to look at Wanda.

Her side profile is ethereal. Y/N doesn’t know if she’s ever seen something so effortlessly beautiful. A small smile adorns her face, she swears she can see the twinkle of the stars in Wanda’s eyes, she’s sure Wanda’s eyes are the stars.

“Really?” Wanda turning her head to look at her makes her come out of her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “I’d do anything for you.” Y/N raises up to lean on her elbows, the upper half of her body over Wanda’s. They stare at each other for a moment, before she slowly lowers her face closer, pressing their lips together in a soft and slow kiss.

One of Wanda’s hands moves around Y/N’s waist, rubbing the dress covered skin gently.

They pull away, though their faces are still close enough to feel the other’s warm breath on their faces. Y/N feels like her heart is beating out of her chest. “Do you want to run away with me?” The question comes out so quietly Wanda almost doesn’t understand it.

Her eyes widen and she sits up properly, bringing Y/N up with her. “What?”

“I…I want to run away with you. Go someplace where no one knows me, where we don’t have to be careful or hide.” The heartbeat is almost deafening in her ears.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

A silence falls. Wanda stares at Y/N with slightly furrowed brows, her hands shaking at the prospect of running away with her, leaving her family and friends behind. They would understand, but could she really do it.

“I’m sorry.” Y/N clears her throat, her gaze falling after the silence continues. “It was a stupid idea. Our whole lives are here and w-“

“Yes.”

“What?”

Wanda sets her hands on Y/N’s cheeks, pulling their faces closer together. A smile grows on her face, one of those that hurt her cheeks but she can’t stop. “I’ll run away with you.”

Letting out a laugh, whether of shock or relief Y/N doesn’t know, she sets her hands on top of Wanda’s. “You’re perfect.”

The laughter is contagious. Giddiness and a sense of freedom fill their bodies as Wanda drops back down on her back, pulling Y/N down with her. Her other hand goes to the back of the Princess’ neck, bringing their lips together, their teeth almost clashing together.

They stay like that for a moment, hands wondering and occasional giggles interrupting their kisses. When they finally pull apart, they’re panting, huge smiles on their faces.

“When are we leaving?” Wanda whispers, moving a strand of Y/N’s hair behind her ear.

“Soon. We just need to get ready, say our goodbyes, and make sure my parents won’t do anything.” She lets out a shaky breath, the weight of their decision settling in her chest. “But it’ll be good, I’m certain Natasha and Yelena will help us.”

“My family too.” Wanda smiles, her thumb rubbing Y/N’s cheek. She can sense the nerves in her. “I can’t think of anything better than spending my whole life with you.”

Y/N’s leans her head against Wanda’s shoulder as they lay on the blanket. “Me neither.”

Another silence falls over them, a comforting one. They stay close to each other, Wanda looking at the sky and Y/N listening to the beat of her heart.

A small rustle breaks the atmosphere.

They practically fly away from each other, both of their eyes moving to the direction of the sound. There’s just a flower bush there, no insects, no other movement. Just in case, they stay quiet for a moment, waiting for any kind of disturbance.

“Probably just a bird.” Y/N whispers, fearful of raising her voice.

“Yeah…”

Nonetheless, they gather up the blanket and basket, making their way back to the castle.

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tianalaurence1 · 1 month ago

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Happy 70th birthday Vice Admiral Sir Timothy Laurence 🎂

#Happy 70th birthday Tim #Technological integrated man servant #Tim Laurence #Timothy Laurence #GOAT VICE ADMIRAL SIR TIMOTHY LAURENCE #still the sexiest man alive #he's so handsome #Queen Elizabeth II #prince phillip #king charles iii #Duchess of Edinburgh #Princess Royal #Princess Anne #British Royal family #get well soon

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runasaster · 7 days ago

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Some self indulgent self insert with Horror Sans

Lord Nuri was heading back to the main foyer of the castle when they accidentally bump into one of the kitchen aide servants, whom they've never met until now.

They might have to linger around the kitchen quarters if Mars(Horror) is there...

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sillygoose1777 · 5 months ago

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Chapter 1: Disobedience sparks pity

word count: 4114

Tags: Servant whumpee, caretaker, humiliation whump, royal whump, royal caretaker, whump, tw whipping, tw slavery, whipped whumpee, non con stripping, whumpee taken in by royalty, crossdressing whumpee, og ocs, og world, og story, whumpee, whumper, noble whumper, whumpee perceived as female, possessive whumper, mentions of past trauma, mentions of past torture, tw stoning, past injuries mentioned, non con nudity, stern caretaker, multple care takers, multiple whumpers, forceful caretaking, fear of eye contact, defiant whumpee, whumpee that doesn’t talk a lot, curious caretaker, stranger whumpee and caretaker, mentions of non con activity, mentions of forced non con, manhandling, healing arc

Sonnet flinched as his master’s whip flew past his head, barely missing his ear. The next time his master didn’t miss, connecting with his shoulder and splitting his skin open. He cried out, having already lost count at what number lashing that was. Two more followed after before his master finally started wrapping the whip around his arm.

Sweat dripped into Sonnets eyes despite the wind being cool this morning. The sun had only begun to rise a couple of minutes ago, shining light onto the small crowd that had gathered. Humiliation burned in Sonnet’s cheeks, and he leaned against the wooden pole he was tied too. He was sitting on his knees with his wrists tied behind him, making his shoulders strain. His torn up servant dress was in taters before him, though his skirt safely covered everything below the waist. Despite everything, he somehow had enough dignity, or stupidity depending on who you asked, to glare at his master. Mr.Winslow caught his eye and fumed. He advanced on Sonnet, grabbing his jaw and forcing him upwards. His shoulders screamed, if not for his voice.

“You stupid boy, show some shame for your crime!” His master screamed in his face.

“Make me,” Sonnet spat.

That comment made Mr.Winslow livid, and he kicked Sonnet in the ribs. Sonnet struggled to heave in a breath through the pressure in his chest, and he leaned forward like a wilted flower. Clearly not done with his anger, Mr.Winslow took a swing at Sonnet. His fist connected with Sonnet’s cheekbone, cutting skin open. Sonnet saw stars as an insistent ringing began in his ears. He could hear Mr.Winslow speaking but couldn’t make sense of it.

Once Sonnet was able to blink away the stars, he saw that his master was speaking to the slightly larger crowd. Sonnet could just make out Mr Winslow barking out an order for ‘no one to touch his stupid slave’. Then Mr.Winslow walked away to drag his pitiful wife home. Mrs.Winslow looked over her shoulder at Sonnet and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’. She had always liked Sonnet, and was usually very kind to him. But no matter how much she tried, she could never get Sonnet out of Mr.Winslow’s punishments.

The ringing in his ears slowly dimmed to nothing but the voices of the crowd. Some were still watching, others had grown bored and walked away. Sonnet avoided eye contact with all of them. The last thing he needed was to realize just how much he had humiliated himself. He was likely going to sit there till sunset where Mr.Winslow would hand him right over to a merchant to resell him.

Sonnect closed his eyes and started collecting his thoughts. If Mr.Winslow really was going to sell him, there was no way he would be seeing any of his stuff again. Even if they did let him keep his stuff, it would likely be taken from him by the next family he was bought by. And on the off chance Mrs.Winslow could convince her husband not to get rid of him, he would be dumped in the furnace room to work till exhaustion. He didn’t know which one he wanted less.

…

Sonnet looked up at the sky and deduced it was a little past noon. The sun burned into his skin, making it turn bright red and soaked with sweat. He was still shirtless from this morning's whipping, and would likely be for a while unless a townsperson decided to cover him with something. That's how it worked in the kingdom of Montrose. If servants were disobedient to their masters, their master had the choice of how they would like to deal with it. Public humiliation was a popular pick, beating lessons into most servants the first time. If the public felt bad enough, they could give the punished water and feed them, could even give them clothes in Sonnet’s case. But most would not, either convinced the victim deserved it or too scared of the public eye would shame them for helping the weak.

So Sonnet let the sun roast his skin and parch his tongue. The blood that once poured from his wounds dried on his skin. The market had long been set up and became a bustling place for passersbys. Everyone would give him a wide berth, not daring to get their polished shoes near what they considered filth. Sonnet liked it that way, it meant no one would further harm him.

That was until a group of boys started making a beeline for him. Sonnet noticed the stones in their hands and felt a sense of dread. Before they had even made it within the circle everyone else avoided, they were throwing the stones and shouting obscenities at him. Bruises would definitely bloom later, joining the list of injuries Sonnet would have to tend to. In the distance, Sonnet thought he could hear a trumpet being played over the boys shouting.

Sonnet continued to shrink away from the boys until he heard the sound of horse hooves clattering on the sidewalk. The king was back from his trip from a nearby country, and he was coming down this very street. The boys who were once throwing stones realized this as well and froze. The horses were thundering down the street fast with the crowd already parted away. One of the boys tried to dart away, either from fear of being caught or the fear of being trampled. It clearly couldn't be the second as the boy ran straight in front of the horse's path.

Everyone including Sonnet gasped in horror as the knights reared the horses, towering over the boy. A few members of the crowd screamed as the horses came down, knocking the boy to the ground. As soon as the hooves touched the ground, the knights were climbing off their horses and dragging the boy up. Yelling and threatening him, the crowd divided into chaos. In the corner of his eye, Sonnet saw the door of the carriage fling open. He held his breath as he watched the king himself leave the safety of the carriage.

“SILENCE!” The king's voice boomed over the crowd.

Sonnet watched in awe as everyone within the next few miles stilled. The king glared around, clearly already in an awful mood only to be dealing with unruly people. The king walked over to the boy, his friends having abandoned him. One of the knights neared the king with hesitancy.

“Your highness, it's not safe out here–” The king raised his hand to silence the knight.

“What happened here?” he asked calmly.

“I-I didn’t hear the trumpets and tried getting out of the way,” the boy said, cowering under the gaze of the king. The king huffed, then noticed something.

“What are you holding?”

The knight holding the boy let go assuming the king was talking to him. The boy also raised his hands for the king to see. There were two small stones in his hands, waiting to be thrown at Sonnet.

“Why do you have stones?”

“I uh um, I like collecting s-stones?” The kid stammered. The king eyed him as the boy's friends sniggered in the crowd.

Feeling someone staring at him, the king turned around. Sonnet immediately averted his gaze and looked at the king's shoes. He instantly became aware of his shame and his cheeks started to go red like his sunburns. He looked down at his bloodied, sun burned, and sweat stained skin and wished he could have been swallowed up by the earth at that moment. Having been deep in his thoughts of humiliation, Sonnet hadn’t noticed that the king was standing in front of him. Sonnet looked up at the king before realizing his mistake and averting his gaze again.

The king took in the sight before him. A bloodied and beaten servant was stripped nearly bare and tied down on display. He noticed the rocks surrounding the servant and connected the dots together. The king turned to his knights to address them.

“Bring me some water for this servant to drink. And arrest that boy for stoning a citizen of Montrose.”

Two knights grabbed the boy and dragged him off in anger as his friends watched in shock. A third knight presented a water bottle to the king which he took. The king then knelt down and cupped Sonnet’s cheek.

“Untie him,” the king ordered his knight. He then turned to Sonnet and began helping him drink water. The cold water rushed down his parched throat, cooling his flaming insides. The king paused the water stream when Sonnet sagged forward once he was released from the ropes tying him down. The king offered the water bottle to Sonnet and he took it, finishing it in a few messy gulps. He wiped away the few drops that escaped his mouth and flinched when the king draped him in something. He realized it was the king's cloak and he stared in astonishment.

The king was too busy speaking to his knights. Sonnet closed the king's cloak further in to cover up as much of his bloodied chest as possible. In the next moment, arms pulled him up from his armpits and he yelped. He held the skirts at his waist, making sure they wouldn’t fall down as he wobbled on unsteady legs. He was dragged by the knight up and into the king's carriage, before being sat across from the king. The door shut behind the knight, leaving only the king and Sonnet staring at each other.

He avoided making eye contact with the king, it was what he was taught since he was a kid. They sat in awkward silence as the carriage lurched forward and began to move. Sonnet grabbed onto the railing, startled by the movement. The king chuckled quietly and Sonnet blushed. This was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him, and he almost wished he was left at the whipping post.

“Why were you tied there?” the king asked. Sonnet pulled the cloak further in on himself to hide the marks. Sonnet tried formulating the words, to try and sum up all the variables that played into today’s punishment.

“Because I wasn’t a woman,” Sonnet finally said. He could tell that the king was confused but didn’t know if continuing to explain would be over stepping. So he stayed silent, like he always did.

In actuality it was more than him not being a woman. Mr.Winslow always resented Sonnet, and often looked for any reason to punish him. But it came to a head this morning when Sonnet wore his servants dress like he always did. He helped Mrs. Winslow with her morning bath like he always did. Mrs. Winslow and a few other staff were the only ones who knew Sonnet was really a man. Though they didn’t seem to mind, if anything they seemed to find it attractive which only increased Sonnet’s discomfort as their servant. Apparently, Mr.Winslow was never informed of Sonnet’s identity and had always assumed that Sonnet was a woman. He was also known for having romantic flings with women other than his wife. So when Mr.Winslow made his advancement and Sonnet turned him down, he tried to force himself onto Sonnet, thus learning that he was in fact not a woman. He never actually told the king that, because he never asked. But it was sad for him to think about.

The king never filled that silence. He stared at Sonnet for the majority of the ride to the castle, no longer amused whenever Sonnet would startle from a bump in the road. Sonnet gripped the railing of the carriage tight, to stop him from falling onto the king's feet. There was no need to further prove his humiliation.

Sonnet could tell when they had reached the castle gates when the carriage became enveloped in voices. Soon they were rolling through the gates and stopped before one of the side entries into the castle. The doors of the carriage opened and the knight waiting there helped the king down. Sonnet hesitated and before he could make the decision to leave or stay, the same knight that helped the king before now yanked him out of the carriage. He stumbled and was barely able to catch his balance before he hit the floor. An iron glove gripped Sonnet’s arm and held him close, making sure he wouldn’t escape. The king was too busy talking to some of his royal staff to notice the mistreatment of his new possession. But the man who was currently talking to the king did.

“--I'm sorry to hear about the failed- who is that?” the man across from the king asked. The king turned around and seemed to remember that Sonnet existed.

“Oh, him.” The king snapped and a servant scurried over. “Go tell Sister Florence to run a bath for this servant. I want him properly dressed and seen by a physician afterwards.” As the servant walked away, the king motioned to the knight holding Sonnet to follow.

The grip on Sonnet’s arm tightened where he swore it would leave bruises, and he was dragged off into the castle. The servant they were following split off in a different direction than the knight was taking him, presumably to grab whoever Sister Florence was. There were several times where Sonnet nearly fell from the pace at which they were walking. And everytime the guard would scoff and yank him onward. By the time they had reached a spacious and lavishly designed bathroom, the knight was more than happy to let go of them.

Sonnet stood alone in the entrance of the bathroom, too scared to step further in or to leave. So instead he looked upwards as he pulled the cloak closer together. There was an intricate chandelier above him, twinkling glass charms dangling from lit candles. It was a luxury Sonnet never personally experienced, never allowed to be in fancy bathrooms unless he was with Mrs Winslow.

There was a knock on the door and Sonnet startled. He stared as a woman dressed in all black entered, followed by a handmaiden. The woman in black gave him a sweet smile and extended her hand to him.

“My name’s Sister Florence, I was sent to make sure you were properly taken care of.”

Sonnet neither spoke nor took her hand to shake it, leaving the room to rest in awkward silence. Sister Florence let her hand fall to her side after a few moments of no movement.

“Well, I’ll go draw that bath for you,” she said, walking past Sonnet and further into the bathroom. The handmaiden scurried after her, barely giving him a second glance. He started to wonder if it was too late to leave now.

Sonnet could hear water running from where he was left standing. In a few minutes he watched the mirrors in the distance start to fog up from steam. The air became filled with scented oils, rich with lavender and lemongrass. Scents he only knew the names of because of the amount of times he had run them for Ms. Winslow.

“Come on dear,” Sister Florence called.

Reluctantly, Sonnet stepped further into the bathroom. Sister Florence had her hand in the water to test the temperature while the handmaiden was bringing soap bottles to the edge of the bathtub. Noticing him, Sister Florence flicked the water droplets from her hand and came closer.

“Put your hands on my shoulder.”

Sonnet didn’t listen and watched as she knelt onto the floor. She pulled his foot out from under him and he stumbled, inevitably grabbing her shoulders. She carefully took off his shoes and chucked them to the side. Sonnet took his hands off of her as she stood up. She grabbed the cloak and pulled it off of him. The handmaiden behind him gasped and covered her mouth. Sonnet flushed, feeling exposed, both literally and metaphorically.

“Ameila! Watch yourself,” Sister Florence scolded.

“Sorry sister,” Amelia replied.

Sister Florence turned back to Sonnet and took his hand in hers. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Now, let's get the rest of these clothes off of you.”

He was thankful when Sister Florence let go of his hand. He was not so thankful when they began to take off the rest of his clothes till he had nothing left to wear. All of his clothes were tossed haphazardly onto a pile. Sonnet unclipped his dagger sheath he had attached to his thigh for Sister Florence and handed it to him carefully. She took it and looked at it curiously before setting it carefully on the bathroom counter. He was then guided into the bath, more or less against his will. Despite his reluctance, the water was quite warm and soothing. The soapy water stung against his open wounds, making them alight with fire.

He audibly winced when Sister Florence dumped water over his back. She and the handmaiden Ameila took great care in washing him. He hated the hands that were on him, invading his skin. They lathered soap into his skin then rinsed it off before repeating it over again. By the fourth time he was rinsed, his skin felt as if it was rubbed raw.

Sister Florence then had Sonnet sit as close to the edge of the tub as possible and tilted his head back. As he looked up at the ceiling she scrubbed shampoo into his hair. He almost relaxed into her touch, the feeling somewhat soothing. She titled his head up again and blocked his eyes while dumping water over his head. She repeated this process again before doing it one more time with conditioner. With his head thoroughly washed and the bath water having turned murky gray, they finally let him out of the bath.

He was wrapped in one of the softest bath towels he’d ever known. Sister Florence sent the handmaiden Amila to grab his clothes while she gently rubbed him dry. Amila came back with clothes in hand. Sister Florence went to take off his towel when he stepped back.

“I can dress myself,” the first words he said to her. Sister Florence seems surprised that he spoke but respected his wish. She and the handmaiden Amila turned around while he carefully dressed. Sonnet quietly grabbed his dagger off the counter and strapped it back to his thigh. He adorned undergarments, a silk button up shirt, and wide length shorts. He was slightly disappointed he wasn’t allowed to wear a dress, but he made no fuss about it. Sister Florence and Amila turned around while he was pulling up the socks they had given him. Sister Florence had him sit down while she began to work on his hair and Amila helped him put on shoes.

After about twenty minutes, his hair was brushed out and trimmed slightly to shoulder length. Sonnet protested against any length shorter than that. Sister Florence helped Sonnet stand up and they led him out of the bathroom. Stepping into fresh air that wasn’t filled with scented oils felt intoxicating. He followed quietly as they brought him to a bedroom. It looked like a noble’s personal suite, much too big for a servant to stay.

“A physician will be with you shortly,” Sister Florence told him before leaving him alone in the room.

Sonnet didn’t know what to do with his new found aloneness. He looked around the room without moving, letting himself admire the room. He could tell this was a guest bedroom with how unlived in it looked. He wondered when the last time someone had touched this room besides servants cleaning it. Would he be the first to grace this room with a living breath? A very exhausted, yet living breath.

The door opened and Sonnet snapped his head to look at the person who entered. It was a man in a doctor's coat, holding a briefcase in one hand and the doors handle in the other. He smiled at Sonnet and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m Dr. Clarke, and you are?” the physician asked.

“Sonnet.”

“That’s a lovely name.” Sonnet didn’t respond. “If I could have you sit on the bed, we can get started,” Dr. Clarke said as he gestured to the bed.

Sonnet followed his gaze and sat on the very edge of the bed. Dr. Clarke followed, setting his briefcase near Sonnet. He opened it up and pulled out a few tools. He started by checking Sonnets eyes, ears, and mouth. Once the normal routines were done, Dr. Clarke put away his tools and put on a set of gloves.

“If I could have you take off your shirt for me.”

Sonnet did as he was told, and held the folded shirt in his lap. Dr. Clarke began his work with each wound. Pouring antiseptics into the open ones, burning out any possible infection. Gently covering them in ointment before wrapping them in cloth. He would gently press against any bruises Sonnet had to test whether they needed attention or not. He had Sonnet turn around so that he could do the same thing over again for all the wounds on his back. Those ones hurt the most and Sonnet had to bite his tongue multiple times to stop himself from crying. Sonnet was allowed to turn back around when the physician was done. He buttoned his shirt back up while Dr. Clarke changed his gloves.

“Now I’ll have you take off your pants,” Dr. Clarke stated.

Sonnet hesitated under the physician's gaze, but eventually took them off. There were fewer wounds for Dr. Clarke to focus his attention on, making it a lot quicker then when he worked on his torso. As soon as Dr. Clarke was done, Sonnet pulled his shorts back on, wanting to be left alone. Dr. Clarke packed up his briefcase, then handed a bottle to Sonnet.

“Drink a cap-full of this tonic with every meal till your bruises are gone.”

Sonnet held the bottle in his hands as the physician left. He leaned against the bed and exhaustion finally settled onto his shoulders. He looked out the window of the guest room and saw that the sun had well past setting. Stars were already creeping up the skyline. Just when Sonnet thought he had actually been left alone for the night, there was a knock on his door. A servant walked in with a tray of food. They set it down on a side table next to some bookshelves before addressing Sonnet.

“I was told to inform you that you will be spending the night here. Silas will be coming to get you in the morning for your audience with the king.”

They then gave a small head bow before leaving the room. Sonnet looked at the bottle in his hand before sighing and walking over to the tray of food. A small voice in his head warned him of the food being poisoned, but at this point he really didn’t care. So what if the king had him treated this nicely just to poison him in the end, it was better than the Winslows ever had. Sonnet sat at the small table and ate slowly, watching the castle's life dwindle by the night. By the end of the meal, he felt even more exhausted and in pain. He poured out a cap-full of the tonic before shooting it like whiskey.

It tasted bitter in his mouth and he washed it down with a glass of water. With a full stomach and a tired mind, Sonnet blew out the candles in the room and crawled into bed. The mattress was softer than any cot he had been allowed to sleep on. Despite his history with insomnia, the soft blankets and the comfort of safety in sitting in his stomach lulled him down enough to actually fall into soundless sleep.

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phantompanties · 7 months ago

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Here he is! The new monster boy for the monster museum! His name is Blaise, and he's a ghost butler! Here is some lore:

Blaise is an amnesiac spirit that wandered earth for an indiscriminant amount of time. Has it been days? Weeks? Even years? He hasn't a clue. He doesn't remember his life before death, nor does he exactly remember how he died. All he knows is that it involved fire. The farthest back he can remember is waking up in the remains of a burnt house, with his lips sewn shut. Thankfully, he remembered that he was able to communicate with sign language, possibly due to muscle memory. He isn't fully mute, and he can open his mouth ever so slightly to slip out a word or two, but his mouth always snaps shut almost immediately. He isn't sure why he can't speak, nor why he can't cut the threads binding his lips together. It frustrates him.

He wandered the city he found himself in, trying to ask people if they knew or recognized him, but it always ended with him being chased out of the frightened resident's homes by priests and spirit mediums. Soon rumors spread about an evil spirit with a flaming head that would burn people's houses down. Eventually, with nowhere to turn to, he found himself in a castle, still trying to find someone who could help him. That's where he met you, the lone heir to the throne who was secretly a fan of the occult. Instead of screaming and having a priest exorcise him like so many before, you welcomed him, asked him questions about himself, actually talked to him! When you found out he didn't remember his name, you gave him a name off the top of your head. Blaise. A bit on the nose, but he didn't hate it. When you asked him how well he could clean, he was puzzled. "What do you mean?" He wrote on the sheet of paper you offered him so you could communicate. That's when you made the offer that changed his whole life. Or, well... afterlife. You told him you'd let him work for you as a butler while you searched for a way to cure his amnesia and let him ascend to heaven. Since that day, Blaise has donned a butler's suit and has been at your every beck and call as you work to crack the mystery of who he was and how he died.

#ghost x reader #ghost oc #oc x reader #Blaise the ghost butler #Blaise x reader #monster fucker #monster lover #this is soley for one of my favourite ship dynamics that i hardly ever see anything of #and that's secret relationship servant x royal #looooooove that shit #hope you enjoy him :3

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noirscript · 17 days ago

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the lion's shadow

PAIRING: King Callixto x Servant Reader

Warning/s: Surprisingly, none?

Read the series: [ ONE ] | [ TWO ] | [ THREE ] | [ FOUR ]

Note: I might publish this series and other future releases in advance somewhere. Also, if I were to write a book, will you support me? Just wondering before releasing something.

TIP JAR | COMMISSION

For the first time in a long while, your days were quiet. Peaceful.

The shack, though small and weathered by time, had become a sanctuary. The morning sun spilled through the cracks in the wooden walls, dust motes dancing in the golden light as you stirred awake to the soft chirping of birds. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, a stark contrast to the stifling perfume and candle smoke that clung to the walls of the palace you had once called home.

Here, you woke to silence, not the murmurs of servants or the distant chime of the court’s bells. Here, you chose how to spend your days.

You had found a rhythm in your solitude. Each morning, you would step outside, feet sinking into the damp soil, hands brushing against the wildflowers growing in the clearing. The wind carried the scent of honeysuckle, mixing with the distant smokiness of burning wood from a village far beyond the trees. You would gather what you could—berries, roots, herbs that you recognized from your mother’s teachings—and return home with your hands full, your child growing steadily beneath your ribs.

At midday, you would sit outside, weaving. A half-finished sweater lay in your lap, the wool coarse against your fingers, but you took comfort in the act of creating something. A gift for the child who had no name yet, who stirred within you when the sun was at its highest, reminding you that you were never truly alone.

Evenings were the most beautiful. When the sun dipped behind the trees, the world turned golden, the leaves burning in hues of amber and rust. Fireflies blinked to life, flickering like tiny stars caught between branches. The air smelled of earth after rain, of moss and damp bark, and in the distance, the distant hoot of an owl signaled the coming of night.

It was a quiet life. A small life. But it was yours.

For the first time in so long, you felt… safe.

No whispered court gossip, no watchful eyes lingering on your every move. No suffocating presence lurking just beyond your reach.

You dared to believe you had finally escaped him.

But peace, as you would soon learn, was a fleeting thing.

It came first as a sound.

A knock.

Loud. Desperate.

Your heart seized.

Another knock—no, pounding now. Fists striking against the wooden door, heavy enough to rattle the walls.

Your breath hitched. Hands trembling, you set the half-knitted sweater aside, gaze darting toward the door.

The knocking didn’t stop.

You swallowed down your panic, muscles coiling with the instinct to hide.

Then—

“Help me, please!”

A voice. A woman’s voice, raw and desperate.

“Help!”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. In two quick strides, you were at the door, hand hovering over the latch.

A plea like that—you knew it too well. The breathless panic, the urgency, the weight of something unseen pressing against the voice.

You had once been on the other side of that door.

With a final glance around, you unbolted it and pulled it open.

The woman before you was disheveled, dressed in tattered cloth, her hair clinging to her damp forehead. She stumbled forward, barely catching herself. Wild eyes met yours, and something in them—a deep, unshakable fear—sent a chill skittering down your spine.

She had been running.

And something—someone—was coming after her.

"Hurry," she gasped.

Without thinking, you pulled her inside.

Your peace was over.

She sat hunched in one of the old wooden chairs your father had carved, hands curled around a steaming noggin of water. It wasn’t much, but it was the only comfort you could offer.

She clutched it as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

The flickering candlelight revealed the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers, dirtied and trembling, were curled tightly around the mug, the heat of it seeping into her skin. The moment she had stumbled inside, she had sunk into the chair as if her body had finally given out.

You watched her cautiously, standing by the small counter, one hand still resting against your stomach—a protective reflex.

The silence between you stretched, thick with unspoken questions.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse. "How far along are you?"

You blinked at the suddenness of the question, then hesitated, glancing down at the curve of your belly. "I… don’t know."

Her lips parted slightly, as if she meant to say more, but she simply nodded. "Ah. My apologies."

A beat of silence. Then she took a sip from the mug, the warmth chasing away some of the tremor in her hands.

You weren’t sure why, but you found yourself speaking. "I’m not a lady."

Her gaze snapped to yours.

You gestured toward the tattered drape over her shoulders. "The quality of that fabric alone could feed an entire village. If anyone here is a lady, it’s you."

Something flickered across her face, a shadow of something old and weary, but she didn’t deny it.

"You could stay," you offered quietly, watching her reaction carefully. "This shack—it’s safe. If you need somewhere to hide, you’re welcome to it."

Her eyes widened, caught between gratitude and suspicion. "And you?"

You shrugged, already gathering what little you owned into a cloth bundle. "I need to get further away. If you found this place, it’s only a matter of time before someone else does too."

Her head bowed, shame and guilt evident in the way her hands tightened around the mug. "I’m sorry…"

"Don’t be," you said simply.

She hesitated, then set the mug down and looked up at you. "Please… take care of yourself. And if—if we ever meet again, I hope I can return the favor."

A wry smile tugged at your lips. "I hope so too."

And with that, you turned toward the door, pulling your hood low over your face.

You didn’t look back.

The journey was grueling.

For days, you moved through the forest, guided only by fading memories of old maps and the sun's slow arc across the sky. The dense canopy above swallowed most of the daylight, leaving you to navigate through shadows. Your feet ached, blistered and raw, and the weight of exhaustion pressed heavy on your shoulders.

But you kept moving.

Every rustling leaf, every snap of a branch in the distance set your nerves alight. The paranoia never faded, not even when the trees thinned and the scent of burning wood and fresh bread filled the air.

And then, at long last, you saw it.

A village.

Small, tucked away beyond the treeline, its lantern-lit streets brimming with life.

The sight made your knees weak.

You pulled your hood lower, adjusting the strap of your bundle, and stepped forward.

The village was a sanctuary—a place untouched by the cruelty of men who sat upon thrones and dictated the fates of those beneath them. Here, the air was thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, the laughter of children filled the streets, and the golden hues of sunset painted the rooftops with warmth. It was the kind of place where people looked after one another, where neighbors shared meals without expectation, and where secrets were hidden beneath smiles rather than steel.

It was the kind of place you could imagine raising your child.

Life had been kind since you arrived, a stark contrast to the gilded prison you had once called home. You had your own little room tucked away above the restaurant owned by Mia and Taren, two retired adventurers who had seen enough of the world to know when to walk away from its chaos. The couple had taken you in without question, providing a roof over your head in exchange for helping around their small yet bustling establishment.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt safe.

Mornings were spent preparing the restaurant for the day ahead—wiping down tables, slicing fresh loaves of bread, and brewing pots of strong tea that carried the scent of herbs and spices through the air. The afternoons were busier, filled with the chatter of travelers passing through, adventurers boasting of their latest feats, and villagers exchanging gossip over steaming bowls of stew.

Evenings were the best. By then, the restaurant would settle into a comfortable hum of low conversations, the lanterns casting a soft glow that made the space feel even more like home. Mia would lean over the counter, eyes twinkling as she spun stories from her days as an adventurer, while Taren would shake his head and grumble about how she exaggerated every detail.

It was an ordinary, simple life. And it was yours.

You had begun to hope that maybe—just maybe—you had escaped the past for good.

“Did you hear?” Mia leaned in conspiratorially as she set a steaming bowl of soup in front of you. “The king has returned from his campaign.”

Taren scoffed, taking a long sip from his mug before setting it down with a dull thud. “Hmph. More like another bloodbath disguised as a campaign. Every time he rides out, he leaves behind a trail of bodies, and when he returns, the nobles praise him as if he’s the second coming of the gods.”

You blinked, gripping your spoon a little tighter. “The king?”

Mia nodded. “King Aurelian.” Her voice dropped lower, almost hesitant, as if speaking his name too loudly might summon him. “They say he’s taken a new interest in something—or someone.”

You swallowed, trying to ignore the unease curling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Taren exchanged a glance with Mia before exhaling sharply. “Rumors. That’s all. But the capital has been restless ever since he returned. People whisper about a woman, someone he dragged back from the outskirts—”

Mia elbowed him. “Enough. We don’t want to be accused of treason, do we?” She turned to you with a reassuring smile, but there was something tight about it. “Don’t worry about it, dear. It has nothing to do with us.”

You forced yourself to nod, even as the conversation left a lingering chill on your skin.

Nothing to do with us.

And yet, an unease settled deep in your bones.

Two months passed in peaceful monotony.

Your belly grew heavier with each passing day, and though your movements had slowed, you were grateful for the stability the village provided. The people here were kind—offering remedies for your aching feet, slipping extra portions of food onto your plate, and treating you as one of their own despite your foreign accent and unfamiliar past.

The world outside these borders felt like a distant nightmare, something that belonged to another life entirely.

Until the night he arrived.

The moment the doors swung open, you barely registered the gust of cold air that followed. It was the silence that struck first—the sudden, crushing weight of it. The air in the tavern shifted, thick with unspoken tension, a hush so absolute that even the crackling fire seemed subdued.

And then, the man stepped inside.

You didn’t recognize him, not in the way you had once memorized names and faces back in the palace. But you recognized something else. The kind of presence that did not belong in a quiet village like this. The way everyone around you reacted—Mia shrinking behind the counter, Taren stiffening as his fingers curled tightly around his mug, the way the remaining patrons averted their eyes, some even lowering to their knees as if bound by an unspoken law.

Your breath caught in your throat, something primal and urgent seizing your gut. Your fingers clenched against your lap as you forced yourself to breathe, to stay still—because a reaction would only draw more attention. But it was useless.

His gaze swept the room, deliberate and slow, and then—

He saw you.

The moment his eyes met yours, something inside you recoiled, the hairs along your arms rising. You didn’t know this man. Had never met him. And yet—

Your stomach twisted.

The way he looked at you, the way his lips curved into something almost lazy, almost amused—it was the look of a man who had found something valuable. Something he wasn’t supposed to have, and yet here it was, sitting right in front of him like an offering from fate itself.

You felt sick.

He doesn’t know who you are, you told yourself. He can’t. You had left that life behind, abandoned it in the dirt along with everything else. You were just another villager now, another nameless woman hidden away in a place the court had no reason to look.

And yet, instinct screamed at you that it didn’t matter.

Because he didn’t need to know your name.

He only needed to know that you didn’t belong here.

That someone, somewhere, would pay handsomely to have you dragged back.

Nausea clawed its way up your throat.

“I never thought I’d find her here,” he murmured, his voice smooth, almost indulgent, as if he were savoring the moment.

Your stomach clenched.

His gaze drifted, lower now, to the curve of your belly. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, intrigue, and something deeper, unreadable. Then, a slow, dark amusement settled into his eyes.

“And a bonus.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath you.

Your pulse roared in your ears, and for a split second, you couldn’t move. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to run, but your limbs felt frozen, locked in place by the suffocating weight of knowing.

He wasn’t here for you. Not specifically.

But he would take you anyway.

And once he knew—once he realized—

Your stomach twisted violently.

You didn’t think. You moved.

The chair scraped against the floor as you shot to your feet, your heartbeat thundering. Taren inhaled sharply, but you barely heard him. Every instinct was screaming now, every muscle coiling with the need to flee—

Then, he stepped forward.

Unhurried. Certain.

His guards shifted in tandem, just enough to remind you that the door was no longer an option. And suddenly, you knew.

They weren’t going to let you leave.

Your breathing came fast, too fast, and for the first time in months, you felt truly trapped. Not by walls, not by distance, but by the simple, cruel reality that you were prey.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

You had made a mistake.

You had let yourself believe you were safe. That peace could be more than just a fleeting dream. That no one would ever come looking.

But safety has always been a lie.

And freedom?

It had never been yours to keep.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @kthehoeforfictionalmen @yamekocatt

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