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stylesispunk · 5 days ago

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'Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus'

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, the General Acacius is willing to fight for you.

w.c: 5k>

warnings: angst, violence, power imbalance,and fluff.

a/n: I had this one in my drafts but after watching gladiator ii twice. I had to finish it and write about my beloved General Acacius because he deserves it. I hope you like it. This may have a part ii depending on its performance. PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN. Reblogs and comments are always. appreciated 💌

| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe in, breath out.

There was it, the rattle breathing inside Marcus Acacius lungs. The way life has turned out for him felt like cuts all over his skin.

Sometimes he felt he could even breath from how bloody his hands were. How dirty his name felt to his own honor. How salty his tears felt down his cheeks every night. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the screams pierced through his ears.

Mothers mourning their children.

Men mourning their wives.

Families destroyed.

All because of him.

All because he must have served those two spoiled kids so called emperors of Rome.

And he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of you, someone so pure and kind was cursed to share the same blood as them.

Every time he came back to the city. He witnessed on first hand, how badly you were treated by them. The laughs, the humiliation, the segregation, and how your voice had been silenced just for you to be unwillingly part of a legacy that felt like your back being split in two.

Marcus was aware of the adoration people felt for you, how your kindness had reached to every single person in the empire. People loved you, but you were nothing more than a puppet under their fingers.

And he felt pity for you.

He could see the way your eyes seemed lost in the arena, in the way your hands trembled where Geta or Caracalla looked at you with disgust when you didn't approve of the madness they had arisen under their control.

You were the opposite of them.

You were Kind.

Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.

An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.

and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.

Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.

For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.

And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.

The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.

But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.

The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.

You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.

“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.

And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.

Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.

“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”

Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”

“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”

You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.

“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”

“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”

The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.

“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.

“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”

Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.

Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”

As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.

There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.

Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.

You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.

You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.

And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.

You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.

And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.

Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.

"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.

"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.

“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.

He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”

A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.

You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."

"How they don't know about this place?"

"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”

Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.

You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.

"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.

He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."

You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.

"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."

"My lady…"

"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.

Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.

“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”

His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.

“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”

“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”

You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.

“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”

Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”

You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.

“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.

“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”

Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.

The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.

Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.

But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.

“General,” you greeted, your voice low.

“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.

For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.

“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.

Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.

Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.

But the moment didn’t last.

“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.

You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.

Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”

Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”

Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”

He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.

“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”

Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.

You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”

He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”

You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.

“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.

Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.

And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.

"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.

You felt humiliated.

You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.

Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.

“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”

His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.

The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.

And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.

“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”

“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”

His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.

The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.

“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”

But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.

The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.

“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.

You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.

The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.

“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.

The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.

“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.

"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."

You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.

"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.

"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."

"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.

"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"

You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.

"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."

He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."

He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."

His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”

For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.

"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."

He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"

"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.

His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.

His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.

You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.

The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”

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lokischocolatefountain · 4 months ago

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home in three days, do not wash

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: age gap, mild choking, mentions of child death, hurt comfort, breeding kink, lactation, reader has children, taboo for the time oral sex, talk of war. Word count: 3.6k words Summary: Your General returns home ravenous for you and you cannot decline him, even if any exposure of his act would bring him great shame. A/N: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the awesome graphics. Napoleon said 'be home in three days, do not wash' and what was I supposed to do? Not use it for our big thicc roman general returning home from war to fuck us? I did research and shit and came to know that eating pussy was a big no no back in the day. dj Khaled would love to be an ancient roman ig. also learned that rich ladies didn't breastfeed and used a wet nurse but they knew that breastfeeding could help and some women did it. Outside all that research, it's just depravity, baby. Anyway, validate my depravity with some comments pls.

Laughter echoed through the hallways of your palatial home and you stood at a balcony with the best view from atop the hill. The campaign that had taken your husband away had finally come to an end with victory for Rome. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, you were always one of the last people to receive the latest news of importance. This time was an exception to the rule.

Home in three days. Do not wash.

All you wanted when you received the message was to run in the direction of the roads that would bring your beloved home. Three days were too long. You wanted to curtail the long wait, run to him so you would be in one another’s arms in a day and a half.

But you chose the more realistic path and prepared the home for his arrival. The servants polished every surface, your handmaiden ensured you had all your most preferred clothing— that which he loved to see on your body. The kitchen was busy preparing every meal that the master loved. Your two older children with your general busied themselves recollecting everything they learned from their private tutor to impress their father.

Your youngest, your first son, was still so young he had never met his father. He was the child your dearest had longed to have for so long. For all the luck the gods had given him in the battlefield, they had given very little in the way of children to carry his legacy. In his heart, he was father to seven daughters and six sons. The gods had only allowed four daughters to live. Two of his sons passed in infancy, one passed in birth, taking his mother with him. One other was taken by disease and another killed in battle.

He now had only one son and he hadn’t yet the joy of holding him in his arms. Everyday that Marcus was in the battlefield was torture. Babe on your breast and fear in your heart over whether his father would live to see him. Fear sometimes subsided for anger to have its way. That very anger remained in your chest, prepared to unleash on him the moment he stepped into the home.

When the sun dimmed, night crept in and so did Marcus. You refused to greet him at the door. A warm welcome was reserved for men who told their wives where they were going before they left. You had half a mind to ask for a bath to be prepared. To wash yourself with milk and fragrant oils in front of him so he could see your defiance in action.

But you remained in the balcony, eyes set on the moon who served as your companion when he left you. For all the fury you had for him, there was also an ache of sympathy. You wouldn’t sour his mood the moment he entered. He must see his son first. Then you would see to that he groveled at your feet for his cruelty.

Just as you thought, you had a long time to relax on the settee. He always went to his children first. Be it after months away on the battlefield or a mere day in the city. You asked for your son’s crib to be moved to your daughters’ room so he would be able to see them all at once, saving him the battle of choosing between his great loves. You’d sent word to him on the battlefield after you gave birth, sent him the name of his son so he would know to include him in his prayers.

You heard whispers of his voice conversing with a servant. Your heart quickened its pace, each thud against your ribs matching the thuds of his feet against the floor. Oh how you wanted to turn around. It had been so long since your eyes were blessed with him. His towering height, broad frame, the pink of his lips and the curls you so loved to comb through with your fingers. You trembled, the cold breeze reminding you how devoid you’d been of his warmth. Yet you were resolved to not give yourself up to him so soon. You stayed in place and closed your eyes.

He stopped behind you and your name spilled from his lips like honey. It had been so long since anyone spoke your name so… The servants called you mistress and your children called you mother. Your birth family only wrote your name in their many letters. He was the only one who spoke your name, leaving you without hearing your own name since his departure. But you stayed, did not turn, did not open your eyes. He spoke it again, his voice gentle but louder as he stopped at your side.

“Open your eyes, dearest.”

“Where have you come, General?” You asked, your voice cold enough to be the envy of the winter breeze.

“General?” He asked, a hint of amusement playing at his lips.

“Are you not a General?” You taunted, finally opening your eyes. He looked weary from battle and travel. You longed to take him to your chambers and strip him of his armor to count his wounds, kiss each one be it new or old. His hair was grayer than when he left, his skin duller, but his eyes were still the soft brown that gave you peace when you first saw him as his young bride.

“Your General,” he said with a small smile as though his words were supposed to make you forgive him at once and shower him with kisses. It only strengthened your resolve. If he wouldn’t treat you as a wife, you wouldn’t give him the respect of a husband.

“You have a son,” you said, stretching your legs out in the settee just as he made to take his seat there. His hand wrapped around your ankle and you kicked it off, daring him to make another attempt at moving your legs so he could sit. He smiled softly, conceding as he moved to stand by your head.

“He is beautiful, mellilla,” he said, caressing your cheek. You slapped his hand away. All of Rome may fall at his feet and welcome him back with praises of his victory. He was deserving of course, not only for his achievements but for his undying loyalty to Rome. If Rome were a woman, she would be his principal wife and you— you would only be a tavern whore he fucked and left in the dead of night.

“You block the moonlight, General Acacius.”

“Marcus,” he said, moving to allow you sight of the moon once again. He sat in the little remaining space on the settee and looked down at you. Despite the toll war had taken on him, he was incredibly handsome. Bold nose, pink lips and graying curls that only made him look ever so slightly more distinguished. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your lips. You did not return the kiss, but you did not push him away. There was an limit even to your anger. You placed a hand on his shoulder, the act of denying yourself the joy of your lover weighing heavy in your heart.

“I’m afraid I haven’t such an honor.” You bit down on your lip, annoyed at yourself for the trembling of your voice as you spoke. Your anger for him had a foundation of pain after all.

His face fell and he sighed. He looked down at his lap and you hoped it was from shame.

“If you have nothing to say, you may leave. If you need it, you may summon the servants for your meal. But I am sure the emperor did not send his best general hungering for food or cunt,” you spat, rising to sit up on the settee. Hand as strong as iron wrapped around your wrist, coupling with his strong torso that trapped you in place to keep you from getting up. You squirmed in his grasp, but he did not budge.

“Listen to me.”

“Is that an order?”

He wrapped an arm around you and held your cheek in his hand. You looked up at him, giving him biting fury to his firm yet gentle gaze. “If it is the only way I will have your obedience, then yes. It is an order.”

“You may speak, but you cannot make me listen and you most certainly cannot make me respond.”

“I am your husband.”

“A husband doesn’t leave for a year long war at the dead of night with no explanation to the woman swelling with his child,” you screamed, fist slamming against his chest. It didn’t affect Marcus. Nothing affected the great General Acacius, you thought with derision. You hit him in the chest again, tears brimming in your eyes and clouding your vision.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You ceased your attacks as his apology coupled with the pain in his eyes reduced you to tears. You’d kept everything in for so long, put on a brave face for your daughters and hid your heart in your letter to your father. It was only with Marcus that you didn’t need to hide. He always tore your fears down and pulled you into the safety of his arms.

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave had I said goodbye.”

“I was so afraid,” you confessed, leaning into his chest. Every pretense of strength and composure left your body as you let him hold you to his chest. The gold earrings you wore to please his eyes pressed cold against your skin under his hand. He moved next to your hair and then you neck, the hand that held swords and spilled blood only to return home to love you.

“Carissima…You were all I could think of after I left. Forgive me,” he begged, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to each finger.

“Later. I have missed you. Marcus,” you whispered, craning your neck to kiss him. He returned your kiss in an instant, arms cradling you as you devoured each other. He smelled of war— blood, soil, sweat, and leather. It was far more pleasing to your senses than any fragrant oils and flowers. Your Marcus and his distinctly masculine scent was above all but the fragrance of your newborn.

You whined as he retreated. He laughed and returned to scatter kisses along your jawline like Rome scattered rose petals along the steps of the Colosseum for his feet. He reached under your layers of silk and linen, making you tremble and press yourself closer to his chest.

“So soft…”

“I need you, please.” It was all he needed to hear before he walked up to the doors of the balcony and slammed them shut. What he did with you, for you, wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but your own.

He unlatched the gold clips that held your palla to your shoulders and set them aside. Your stola and tunic followed, piling up on the marble floor. Cold air caressed your bare breasts, bigger and fuller now as you nursed your son yourself. You traced your hand up his arm, feeling his vambrace before finding his muscular arms. You whimpered from just how big he was in your hands. You squeezed, feeling the hard muscle and rough skin.

Your General knelt before you and you sat up straight, confused by his action. He couldn’t be… You sought his apologies and regret, but by no means would you ask him to humiliate himself for you. Such a man, superior to you in every way.

“Dominus!” You shrieked, reminding him who he was even when he came home.

“Shh…”

“Are you going to—?”

“Lick you cunt? Yes. Sit back, now,” he said as he guided you to lean back on the settee. You shook your head from side to side, appalled by the circumstances and confused as to how you were supposed to stop him. He spread your legs wide, planting your feet upon the seat. He licked his plush lips and looked up at you, his eyes those of a ravenous beast.

“You cannot. I only want you to understand the torture you put me through, not debase yourself in front of me. It’s not right.”

A corner of his lips curled up slightly. He spat on his hand and rubbed it into your cunt. You arched into his palm, your cunt chasing any contact you could have with your beloved. “Tell me, who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“Speak fully and speak my name.”

“I belong to you, Marcus.”

“Correct. Why do you think then, that you can tell me what I can and cannot do with you?”

He parted your cunt lips and slid a finger inside you. “You belong to me. All of you. This cunt belongs to me. Does it not?” You nodded as he pumped his thick finger in and out of you. It had been so long since you’d been touched that even his finger felt a little much for you to take. You shuddered as you thought of his cock, promising the virility that came with such a size.

“Speak,” he commanded, every bit the fearsome General who led men into battle. When even warriors couldn’t defy him, how could you?

“It belongs to you, Marcus.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, curling his finger inside you, making you whimper. “If I want to lick this cunt then, do you have any right to stop me?”

“N-no,” you cried, grabbing his wrist and imploring him to slow down for you couldn’t take such intoxicating pleasure. “If peo— Marcus! If someone knew—”

Then he dove into your core and licked the nub above your cunt, eliciting a squeal from you. He looked up at you from between your legs, tongue still licking you as he smirked. It was sinful, the sight and the act of a man serving a woman. You shook your head, your senses already addled from being so close to him after a long year. It was wrong. Wrong. But oh gods, he made all the wrongs feel right and who were you to deny him?

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no longer from the agony of separation from your dearest but from the building pressure in your core.

“Marcus…” you said, unable to say anything else. You reached your hand towards him, needing to be anchored to the Earth as he flew you to the heavens. He enveloped your hand in his and gave a small squeeze. His other hand and his lips were unrelenting, giving him new ways to torment you.

How did anyone deem it submissive for a man to kneel and lick cunt? Your Marcus still looked as majestic as ever. The picture of victory that Rome worshiped. The Marcus Acacius who slew and killed was home and ruthless in his conquest of you. Even as he licked your core, he was the one with all the power in hand. This was but a new way for him to take you.

You gasped inaudibly as he inserted another finger in your cunt, stretching you in preparation for his cock. You felt your unraveling come closer. He pulled you deeper into whatever spell he had you under whenever he touched your cunt. You squeezed his hand tighter, saying everything your lips couldn’t. Hold me, keep me safe, never let me go.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shores of the beach as you came crashing down from the heavens. Marcus kept his wordless promise. You tightened your legs around his head yet he held you in place and kept you safe.

When you came to, you found your fingers tangled in between his dark curls. You loosened your grip on him but did not let go, needing to feel him even if it was just his hair.

“I should not have liked that.”

He laughed and gave your cunt another lick, smirking as he watched you shudder.

“But you did,” he said, getting up at last. “I knew you tasted divine, but having you directly from your cunt is something else, melilla.”

“I have not washed in days because of you. I am sure I taste horrendous.”

“Good girl, following orders well. But you are wrong. You taste and smell like a woman. Not a perfumed woman. This,” he said in a low voice as the tip of his nose traced up your neck. He inhaled your scent and moaned. “This is nothing you can find in a vial. This is your true scent,” he said, stopping at your ear and placing a kiss.

“I would recognize it anywhere.” He reached under his pteruges and toga and retrieved his cock. Your cunt clenched at the mere sight of him.

He was far too covered. As much as you loved to see your General in his armor, you loved more to see him bare. You needed to run your fingers over his bare chest and dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he wrung his pleasure out of you. You found the ties that held his armor in place and began to undo them.

“Impatient girl,” he chided as he aligned himself with your cunt.

“Help me out then,” you snapped back as you struggled with the knots. He ignored your request and continued on his path of destroying you, plunging his length inside you much too quickly. You cried from the pain and pleasure of being stretched out by him once again.

“Marcus!”

He bent forward and whispered your name against your lips before claiming them. You moaned into the kiss as you rubbed yourself against him for friction. You were loath to pull away from his cock even the slightest as you ached for him too much to part from him. You wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels down on his back, pulling him deeper inside you.

He wrapped a hand around your throat, tightening and loosening every now and then. “Day and night, I longed for you,” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. “Dreamt of the day I would be inside you again.”

You echoed the sentiment, but he quickly silenced you with a hard thrust that you felt in the deepest part of your core. He wasn’t the gentle Marcus who treated you like you did your fine silks but the General who conquered every land he set foot on. He rammed in and out of you, reclaiming you as his. Your cunt opened up to take its master, molded itself around him like it did each time since your wedding night. He had taken you, his young bride, and shown you a world only he could. He’d taken and taken, made you a woman by showing you what your body could do for you.

He licked up your neck, growling like he was tasting the finest delicacies from the emperors’ table after being starved for months. “You smell sweet, Carisimma.”

“You lived in tents with men for a year. I’m sure a pig would smell sweet to you now,” you said, making him laugh even as he wrecked you. He reached down to your breasts and grabbed one in his hand. He pinched your nipple between his fingers and tugged, making you cry out in pain.

“Marcus!” Drops of milk trickled from your breasts and he swiped it with him thumb before licking it.

“I only regret that I could not see you grow bigger with my seed.”

“You ha- you have seen it before.”

“Yet I am not satisfied. I need more, I need to fill you up with my seed, keep you full with my children in perpetuity.”

“Marcus! Please…”

“What do you beg for, girl?”

“Give me sons, Marcus. Let me give you heirs,” you cried, overcome by the need to become his in that primal way. It was more than just your duty as his wife. It was an innate desire. As frightening as pregnancy was, you wanted it again and again at the hands of your husband. To give him sons carry his name and daughters who would control the great General with their laughter.

“Give me sons,” he repeated, the hand around your neck squeezing tight. This time, he did not relax, holding your air hostage as he used your cunt for his carnal desires. You gasped for breath. Your cunt squeezed around him, keeping him in so he would give you his seed and refusing to let go even for a moment.

Every thrust after sent delicious ripples of pain. You knew that you would wake the next morning unable to walk as usual. You would hear your servant girls giggle when they thought you couldn’t hear. He would wreck you day and night, make you scream for all the house to hear. He would take you to high places in the city, an arrogant smile on his lips as he showed you off, rounded again with his child.

As though he could read your thoughts, he spilled inside you with a cry of your name. You held him close, afraid he would part from your body and rob you of his warmth.

He showered you with kisses, beginning as a downpour and ending with a drizzle. You melted into his arms, the tension in your muscles leaving now that you had your Marcus home. You were no longer alone, he was here and he would take care of everything.

“Am I forgiven now?”

You smiled, burrowing into his chest as draped your discarded silk over you and picked you up in his arms. “I will consider it if you make sure I don’t bleed this cycle.”

You felt his chest rumble as he laughed. A kiss on the top of your head.

“As you say, melilla.”

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

Legends Never Die

Carlos Sainz x Senna!Reader

Summary: sometimes the hole in your heart left behind by the passing of your father becomes almost too much to bear, but Carlos and his family never fail to ease the ache

Brazilian Grand Prix, 2023

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you step out onto the podium at Interlagos after winning your home race — the Brazilian Grand Prix — for McLaren.

You wave to the sea of fans, trying to keep your emotions in check. But it’s impossible. Everywhere you look there are reminders of your father.

Fans wave Brazilian flags emblazoned with his iconic yellow and green helmet. Others wear t-shirts bearing his name and race number. Signs reading “Senna Forever” make your chest tighten.

He’s everywhere … except where you need him most. In your memories.

You were just a baby when he died in that fateful accident at Imola in 1994. You only know the sound of his voice through crackling video footage, his infectious smile from yellowing photographs. But you don’t actually remember him. Your own father, the man whose immense legacy you carry on your shoulders each time you slide into the cockpit of a Formula 1 car.

By the time the national anthem plays and the champagne corks pop, you can barely see through the tears welling in your eyes. You blink them back rapidly, hoping the cameras don’t pick up on your emotional state. As soon as the ceremony ends, you practically run off the podium, heading straight for the sanctuary of your driver’s room.

You barely make it through the door before the sobs start wracking your body. You sink down onto the couch, drawing your knees up and burying your face in your hands as the tears flow freely.

How can you feel so alone when surrounded by so many who loved him?

A soft knock at the door cuts through your cries. You know immediately who it is without having to ask.

“Come in,” you manage to choke out, swiping at the dampness on your cheeks.

The door opens and there’s Carlos, looking concerned but unsurprised to find you in this state. Of course he knows. By now, he can likely sense when these waves of emotion are about to crash over you.

Carlos crosses the room and settles onto the couch, gathering you into his arms. You immediately curl against his chest, comforted by his familiar warmth and scent. One of his hands comes up to soothingly stroke your hair as the other rubs circles across your back.

“Let it out, mi amor,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m here.”

The gentleness in his voice is your undoing. You let out a gasping sob, tears soaking through the material of his firesuit as you finally allow yourself to unravel completely in his embrace.

“I-I don’t remember him,” you hiccup between harsh breaths. “I w-won my home race and all I could see out there were ghosts. He was everywhere b-but in my own mind!”

“Shh, I know,” Carlos soothes, rubbing your back. “I know it hurts, mi vida. But he’s here.” He places his palm over your heart. “Your dad lives in here, just like you live in his.”

You lift your head, seeking out his warm brown eyes through your tear-blurred vision. “How can you be so sure? I don’t have a single first-hand memory of him. I know Ayrton Senna the legend, but not my own father.”

A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of Carlos’s lips. “Because that’s how it is for all of us who didn’t get the chance to really know him.” His thumb brushes away a stray tear trailing down your cheek. “We keep him alive in our hearts through the way he inspired us, the lives he touched without ever realizing it. And for you ...” His expression turns amazed, eyes shining with an emotion you can’t quite place. “For you, he’s here.” He runs his hands over the sides of your body, splaying his fingers wide. “A part of him lives on, in you and through you each time you drive. You embody everything he represented behind the wheel — passion, adrenaline, an unquenchable desire to be the best. That’s your father’s legacy beating within you.”

You stare at him, trying to make sense of the jumbled tempest of feelings swirling inside you. Part of you wants to protest, to insist your longing for a tangible connection to your father can’t be satisfied by philosophical musing.

And yet … Carlos’ words reverberate within you, striking a chord. You think of the split-second decision making, the fearless way you attack corners, your refusal to ever give any less than your full effort.

Those are all traits you’ve been told time and time again you inherited from Ayrton. And maybe Carlos is right — maybe that is how you’ll know him best in this life.

Slowly, you reach up to cradle Carlos’ face in your palms, searching his caring gaze. “How did I get so lucky?” You whisper, a few rogue tears spilling over. “To have someone who understands me, understands this hole in my life, and loves me enough to fill it as best he can?”

The look of utter adoration on Carlos’ face steals your breath. Gently, he leans in to capture your lips in the softest, sweetest of kisses. The tenderness, the depth of emotion in that one simple gesture is enough to make your knees go weak.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “I’m the lucky one, mi amor,” he murmurs, the words ghosting across your lips. “To be loved by you ...” He shakes his head slowly in seeming awe of you. “You make me feel blessed every day just by letting me share in your existence.”

You let out a watery laugh, rolling your eyes but unable to fight the giddy smile blooming across your face. Trust Carlos to somehow make you feel like the luckiest, most special person in the world after you’ve just spent who knows how long crying on his shoulder.

“You big sap,” you tease, booping him on the nose. You search his expression, your chest filling with warmth at the laughter lines crinkling around his eyes. “I love you, you know that right?”

The words hang there, heavy and significant. You realize you’ve never actually said them before, not with such simple yet loaded sincerity.

From the look of surprise and unbridled joy that overtakes Carlos’ features, he realizes it too. His hands come up to cradle your face, fingers threading through your hair as he holds you tenderly.

“Mi alma ...” he breathes out reverently. “Te amo, mi vida. I love you with all my heart.”

The depth of emotion in his voice, the Spanish words of love and adoration tumbling from his lips, it’s all too much. You surge forward, claiming his mouth in a searing kiss as the last of your tears, these born of happiness and love rather than sorrow, streak down your cheeks.

Carlos kisses you back with an intensity that leaves you lightheaded. His fingers tighten almost possessively in your hair as the kiss deepens, growing more heated and passionate. You’re vaguely aware of him shifting until you’re nearly in his lap, bodies aligned and thrumming with a very different kind of electricity than you’re used to on the track.

Eventually, the need for air becomes too insistent to ignore. You break apart, both of you panting heavily. Carlos’ lips are red and swollen, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a man thoroughly ravished.

You can’t help the impish grin. “So I take it you feel the same way?”

His laugh is low and gravelly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh mi amor ...” he rumbles, nuzzling his nose against yours. “You have no idea.”

You bite your lip, about to suggest taking this celebration elsewhere more private. But a new thought suddenly occurs, giving you pause. Slowly, almost shyly, you meet his heated gaze.

“Carlos … do you really think he would be proud of me?” The uncertainty in your voice is painfully obvious. “My father, I mean. You think he’s ...” You swallow hard. “You think he’s watching over me and approving of the person I’ve become?”

The seriousness of your question douses some of the blazing desire in Carlos’ eyes. But it’s quickly replaced by a look of such fierce conviction, such affection for you, it makes your breath catch.

“Cariño,” he begins, voice thick with emotion as he tucks an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “Your father was the embodiment of passion and integrity in the pursuit of greatness. On the track, he gave everything. He put his heart and soul into being the best driver, the best competitor he could be. And that’s exactly what I see when I watch you race.”

Carlos leans in, resting his forehead against yours as his fingers tenderly trace the line of your jaw. “You drive with the same fire, the same refusal to let anything less than your full ability shine through. And off the track?” He lets out a soft huff of laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, let’s just say the determination, the sheer force of will I see in you would make any parent proud.”

You bite your lip, struggling against the swell of emotion building in your chest at his words. “Really? You don’t think he’d be … disappointed? That I’m not living up to his legacy or-”

“Hey.” Carlos cuts you off firmly, holding your gaze. “Your father didn’t just leave a legacy of winning championships or setting records, mi amor. He left a legacy of spirit. Of personality. Of being a loving, passionate human being who inspired millions.” His thumb strokes along your cheekbone as his eyes shine with complete sincerity. “And let me tell you — in that way? You are so perfectly your father’s daughter it’s unreal.”

The tears that have been threatening finally spill over, but this time they are born of relief, of love and reassurance. You manage a watery smile, curling your hand around the back of Carlos’ neck to pull him close until your foreheads touch.

“Thank you,” you whisper fervently. “For understanding. For loving me through the shadows and the ghosts. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His arms tighten around you, holding you flush against his body in an embrace filled with devotion. “Well, you’ll never have to find out,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing tantalizingly against the sensitive skin just below your ear. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”

A delighted shiver runs through you at his tone, at the deliciously possessive edge to his promise. Shifting in his lap, you capture his lips in a searing kiss filled with all the love, the passion, the longing you’ve been holding at bay.

Carlos responds with equal fervor, one hand burying in your hair while the other maps searing paths across your back, your sides, pulling you ever closer until there’s no space between your bodies. The room seems to simultaneously tilt and burn away until there is only the two of you, tangled together in a heated spiral of want and need.

At some point, you become vaguely aware of Carlos rising to his feet, your legs winding instinctively around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. Your back presses against the nearest wall and you moan softly into his mouth at the delicious friction. His hands are everywhere, stoking the fire burning through your veins with every scorching caress.

Finally, and reluctantly, you pull your lips from his with a gasp. “Carlos … if we don’t get out of here soon, I can’t be held responsible for what might happen.”

He grins wolfishly at you, pupils blown wide with desire. “Is that a promise, mi amor?” His voice is low, gravelly, and sends sparks of pure hunger fluttering through your stomach.

Holding his heated gaze, you slowly drag your nails down the back of his neck in a deliberate tease, relishing the way his eyes darken even further. “Take me home, Carlos,” you purr, leaning in to brush your lips against his once more. “And I’ll show you just how promising I can be.”

His response is to capture your mouth in another bruising kiss, pressing you harder against the wall as a growl rumbles up from deep in his chest. Then, without warning, he’s turning and striding towards the door, carrying you easily as your legs remain locked around his waist.

Breathless with wanting, you finally pull away as he reaches for the doorknob, laughing softly. “I see someone’s eager.”

Carlos’s eyes gleam with pure, undisguised hunger as he looks at you over his shoulder. “For you, mi alma?” He leans in, lips hovering tantalizingly close as his beard brushes your tingling skin. “Always.”

With that, he’s swinging the door open and striding out into the hallway, completely uncaring of who might see. His focus, his entire world, is solely on you in this moment. Just as yours is on him.

As the adrenaline of victory fades and the ache of longing for your absent father eases into a dull, familiar ache, you’re reminded once more of the incredible gift you’ve been given.

Carlos’ love, his understanding and acceptance of every broken, yearning part of you is a blessing. One you vow never to take for granted.

Winding your arms securely around his neck, you let yourself get lost in the heat of his gaze, the depth of emotion shining there. And you realize — with him, you don’t feel so alone.

Even if your father isn’t here in person, some piece of him does live on. Not in memories or old recordings. But in the love you hold in your heart. The love you pour into everything you do, every dream you dare to chase. The love that connects you to Carlos so wholly.

Maybe, just maybe, your father is prouder than either of you can fathom as he watches the remarkable life you’ve created together unfold.

Smiling softly, you lean in to feather a kiss along the sharp line of Carlos’ jaw, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Take me home, meu amor.”

Australian Grand Prix, 2024

The podium ceremony is pure pandemonium. Carlos stands on the top step, beaming and cheering, having just claimed his first win of the new season. You’re on the second step beside him, arm raised in celebration of your own P2 finish. The energy from the crowd is electric, filling your veins with the same adrenaline rush as when you crossed the finish line.

You should be deliriously happy. Scoring such a strong result alongside your boyfriend at the third race is the dream start to your championship chase. And yet … something feels off. A strange melancholy tugs at the corner of your heart even as the champagne sprays and camera flashes bombard you from all angles.

Then you spot him — Carlos’ father, beaming at his son from the front of the crowd gathered below the podium. His chest is puffed out with undisguised pride, eyes crinkled at the corners behind his designer shades.

As you watch, father and son’s gazes meet and lock, and the sheer depth of emotion in that one look breaks something inside you.

Oh.

That’s what’s missing.

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, stealing your breath. You barely register the Spanish national anthem playing as your eyes stay glued to the tender scene before you.

Carlos shooting his father a brilliant grin, chin dipping in acknowledgment of the pride shining through. Carlos Sr.’s face split by the biggest smile you’ve ever seen him wear. It’s such a simple gesture, but one utterly steeped in parental pride.

You should look away before it gets to be too much, but some masochistic part of you can’t tear your gaze from the heartwarming display. Seeing that effortless bond between father and son, witnessing their silent communication and affection laden with years of inside jokes and childhood memories … it awakens a hollow ache, one you’re terribly familiar with.

By the time the ceremony finally winds down, hot tears are stinging your eyes. You blink rapidly, ducking your head in hopes that the dark tint of your sunglasses conceals your fragile state. But of course, Carlos notices immediately.

He pauses mid-celebration, halfway through accepting some prize filled with the event sponsor’s product. Frowning, he leans in close under the pretense of thanking you for pushing him all the way. “Mi alma? What’s wrong?”

You nearly choke on your own breath at the naked concern in his voice. Trust Carlos to pick up on your inner turmoil even in the middle of what should be an incredibly joyous occasion. Steeling yourself, you manage a smile that you hope passes as genuine.

“Nothing, I’m just ...” Your excuse dies in your throat as you look past him towards the crowd once more.

Carlos Sr. is shouldering his way through the mass of staff and media, pushing towards his son. He’s waving and grinning from ear to ear as Carlos straightens up, delight overtaking his features. The second the older Sainz’s feet cross the barriers, Carlos drops everything and bounds over, hauling his father into a tight embrace.

They laugh and cheer as Carlos pumps a victorious fist in the air, the other arm wrapped securely around Carlos Sr. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise of the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. Their body language says it all.

Pride. Joy. Celebration. A bond forged in the fires of hardship and sacrifice, of a lifetime pursuing the most elite level of a deadly sport.

Father and son, reveling together in the sweetness of hard-earned success.

Your throat constricts painfully as you watch them, your own arms wrapping protectively around your middle. How many times had you dreamed of recreating this exact moment as a young girl? Crossing the chequered line in first place, only to be swept up in a boundless hug by a beaming, triumphant father?

You remember pretending with your childhood race cars, standing on an overturned bucket that served as your make-believe podium. You’d mimic the anthems and champagne sprays, then launch yourself off the “top step“ and into the arms of an imaginary Ayrton, dreaming about what it would feel like to bury your face in his shoulder as he swung you around, both of you dissolving into happy laughter as you celebrated together.

Of course, those were only childish fantasies even then. By the time you were old enough to understand racing, to grasp what your father did and meant to the world, he was already long gone. You never got the chance to make those podium daydreams a reality.

And you never would.

The harsh truth is like a bucket of ice water over your head. You’re vaguely aware of your sunglasses slipping down your nose as your eyes burn with unshed tears. Angrily, you blink them back, steeling your jaw.

Now is not the time.

You plaster on the brightest smile you can muster as Carlos and his father turn back towards you. Throwing propriety to the wind, Carlos Sr. comes up to engulf you in a tight hug, the scratch of barely-there stubble rasping against your cheek.

“Another stellar drive, mariposa,” he praises in his thick, warm accent as Carlos laughs in delight beside you. “Keeping this one on his toes, I see.”

Despite your fragile emotional state, you can’t help but grin at his spirit and affection. “Always,” you reply, squeezing him back firmly before pulling away to make room for Carlos.

Almost automatically, you take a step back to give them space. You have no wish to intrude on what should be their private moment together. And sure enough, no sooner have you retreated than Carlos is wrapping his arm around his father’s shoulders, guiding him towards the edge of the pit lane where Ferrari representatives are waiting.

You hang back, a sad smile playing across your lips as you watch them go. All the teasing and laughing, the play-fights and unbreakable bonds of family you wish you could have experienced for yourself play out in vivid detail before your eyes.

Off to the side, almost like an afterthought despite your place right beside him on the podium. Just … watching.

Slowly, you turn away, the roar of the fans and celebrations fading into the distance as you head up the ramp to the McLaren motorhome.

A thousand wistful memories drift through your mind. Muted footage of you as a newborn cradled in your father’s arms, grinning up at him in pure innocence and adoration. Photos of Ayrton gazing down at his infant daughter with a look of such unconditional love that it breaks you all over again.

No matter how many trophies you win or records you break, that will always be the one achievement he never had the chance to witness. You’ll never experience a father’s unadulterated pride at his child’s success.

Your breath hitches as you finally reach the solitude of your private room, sinking onto the plush sofa as the tears begin rolling in earnest. Who are you kidding? As much as Carlos and his family envelop you in their warmth, as much as you are unquestionably part of their clan now … there is always going to be an empty space in your heart where a father’s love should be.

You bury your face in your hands, ignoring the wet streaks smearing across your knuckles as you try in vain to compose yourself. You can’t be like this, falling apart every time. Carlos deserves to revel in one of the greatest wins of his career. He shouldn’t have to devote energy to consoling you, not after a spectacular drive like that.

A soft knock at the door startles you. Swiping hastily at your cheeks, you suck in a shuddering breath and call out. “Come in.”

The door opens, and of course, it’s Carlos. Because even in the midst of unbridled jubilation, he senses your inner turmoil. He steps inside, the happiness draining from his expression as he takes in your blotchy complexion and reddened eyes.

“Mi amor,” he breathes, crossing to you in two quick strides and gathering you into his arms. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his sweat-damp race suit as he rubs soothing circles across your back. “Talk to me, cariño. What’s got you so upset, hmm?”

You want to explain, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you simply shake your head, a few errant tears slipping free to wet the material covering his shoulder. Carlos doesn’t push, just holds you close and lets you cry it out against him.

Eventually, you find your voice, thick with emotion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your celebration like this. You should be out there enjoying your win, not consoling your mess of a girlfriend.”

“Hey now,” he chides gently, tipping your chin up to meet his concerned gaze. “None of that, mi alma. Your feelings are never something to apologize for.” His thumb brushes away a stray tear from your cheek. “I know today was … difficult. Seeing me with my dad, it brought up a lot of old hurts, didn’t it?”

You let out a watery chuckle, amazed as always by his intuition when it comes to your innermost struggles. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows and loves every facet of you,” he replies simply, stroking your hair back from your forehead. “Will you tell me? Let me in on what you’re feeling so I can try to understand?”

Taking a shuddering breath, you nod and disentangle yourself enough to sit beside him on the couch. You keep one of his hands linked with yours, anchoring you as you gather your thoughts. “It’s just … out there on the podium, when I saw you and your dad together ...” You pause, blinking rapidly against a fresh swell of tears. “It reminded me all over again of what I’m missing. What I’ll never get to have.”

Carlos’ expression softens with understanding and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, silently urging you to continue. You draw strength from his presence beside you.

“You two have this … bond. This connection, like you’re the only ones who truly understand each other’s perspectives. And I’m envious, Carlos. So envious of the lifetime of love and memories that exists just in the silent communication between you.” You let out a mirthless chuckle, swiping at the dampness on your cheeks. “God, that sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud.”

“No, mi vida.” Carlos is firm, his eyes shining with sincerity. “Not pathetic at all. You’re allowed to feel that longing, that sadness over being deprived of something so integral.” His free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb stroking along your cheekbone. “You miss your dad. You mourn not having that relationship in your life. Those are entirely valid feelings to have, especially on days like this when I got to share my joy with my own father.”

You lean into his touch, fresh tears spilling over at his words as your breath hitches. “It’s like … no matter what I accomplish, no matter how successful I become, there will always be this hole.” Your hand comes up to clasp his wrist, holding him close. “Because he never got to see it. He never got to be that person cheering me on, taking pride in my achievements. Instead, I’m left imagining what it would be like, watching you and your dad and aching for something I can’t have.”

Carlos’ eyes turn molten, brimming with empathy and sorrow for your pain. Slowly, he guides you forward until your foreheads are pressed together, his breath fanning across your lips.

“Mi amor … I can’t replace what you’ve lost, or take away that regret and heartache. All I can do is promise to spend every day showing you how proud I am of you.” His fingers thread through your hair, cradling your head tenderly. “You are the strongest, bravest, most amazing woman I have ever known. Watching you out on the track, giving everything you have with that same fire and spirit as your father … words can’t express how awestruck I am. How honored I feel to witness your brilliance and passion race after race.”

You suck in a sharp breath at the reverent tone in his voice, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks at the depth of feeling behind his words. Carlos tugs you even closer until there’s no space between your bodies, until you’re sharing the same air in an intimate embrace.

“I only wish he could see you the way I do,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours with each word. “I wish he was here to feel the immense pride and adoration I feel every single time you leave me breathless behind the wheel.” A tender, lingering kiss punctuates his words. “You are your father’s greatest legacy, mi alma. And I will spend every day showing you that, if you’ll let me.”

A choked whimper escapes your lips as you surge forward, capturing Carlos’ mouth in a searing, fevered kiss. You pour every ounce of overwhelmed emotion, every bit of ardor and heartache and gratitude into the heated glide of your lips against his. His arms band around you like steel cables, holding you impossibly close as the kiss turns bruising, desperate, all-consuming.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both panting harshly. Carlos’ pupils are blown wide, lips red and swollen and thoroughly kissed. He stares at you with such naked adoration, such devotion, that it steals what little breath you have left.

“Thank you,” you rasp, cradling his face in your trembling hands. “Thank you for loving me so completely. Despite all my broken pieces, you see me at my core and still chose me.”

He leans into your touch, lips brushing your palm. “There is nothing to thank me for, mi amor. You are the sun, I’m merely lucky enough to orbit you and bask in your warmth.” He places another soft, lingering kiss to your wrist, right over your thundering pulse. “I am yours, corazón. Every piece of me, for every piece of you. Never doubt that.”

A fresh wave of emotion rises up, this one filled with pure, dizzying love and affection for the incredible man kneeling before you. Pulling him up, you simply hold him for a long moment, relishing his solid strength surrounding you in the protective circle of his arms.

Here, in his embrace, the ache of your father’s absence dulls to a faded echo in the corners of your heart. Here, you can breathe easy, reassured and loved down to your very core.

Eventually, the sounds of celebration filter in through the door — your team must be getting restless waiting for their driver. Carlos seems to hear it too, huffing out a quiet chuckle against your hairline.

“We should get out there, hmm? Before both of our teams send a search party for their drivers.”

You nod, but make no move to disentangle yourself, soaking up his warmth and steady presence for a few more selfish moments.

When you do finally pull away, there are fresh tear tracks on your cheeks but also a peaceful smile gracing your lips. Reverently, you run your fingers through the sweat-damp curls at Carlos’ temples as his eyes flutter closed, savoring your touch.

“I love you,” you murmur, the words seeming impossibly inadequate to convey the depth of feeling they represent. “Endlessly, meu amado.”

Carlos’ gaze when he opens his eyes practically glows with emotion, pure elation and adoration radiating from his expression. “As I love you, mi alma,” he husks, stealing one more searingly tender kiss. “Always.”

With twin smiles and your hands linked tightly, you exit the room together into the raucous cheers and celebrations. Outside, you can see Carlos Sr. surrounded by a sea of red, laughing and beaming with incomparable pride and joy at his son’s success. Your breath catches when he spots the two of you emerging, arms flinging wide.

“There are my superstars! Vámonos, we have a victory to toast!”

As Carlos tugs you forward into the chaos, his father enveloping you both in a crushing embrace and peppering your cheeks with scratchy kisses, you feel a sense of peace settle over you.

Yes, there will always be an absence where your father should have been, a hollow space in your heart shaped perfectly to his memory. But you’ll never truly be alone.

Not with Carlos beside you every step of the way. Not with his family’s boundless love and affection enveloping you, treating you as their own daughter. They are the salve for when that empty ache becomes too much to bear.

So you let yourself sink into the celebration, into the warmth of the Sainz clan and the sheer euphoria of your personal success. As long as Carlos keeps chasing his passion with the same fanatical devotion as his father … as long as you chase your own with every ounce of vigor and spirit that your father passed down through shared blood … then Ayrton will never stop watching over you both with immeasurable pride and a heart overflowing with love.

And for now, for today, that will simply have to be enough.

Days Before the Miami Grand Prix, 2024

The Miami sun sinks lower in the sky, bathing the hotel balcony in a warm orange glow. You lean against the railing, staring unseeingly at the cruise ships dotting the horizon. Your eyes are glassy, your mind a million miles away.

It’s been thirty years to the day since your father’s life was snatched away. Thirty years of living in his immense shadow, constantly reminded of the racing legend you never truly knew.

Your phone buzzes incessantly in your pocket, a steady stream of texts and calls offering condolences. Old acquaintances you haven’t spoken to in years, suddenly reaching out on this morbid anniversary.

What can you possibly say that the world doesn’t already know? That they haven’t already dissected and analyzed a million times over?

The harsh truth is that so many strangers have more vivid memories of Ayrton Senna than his own daughter. It’s a sobering reality, one that reopens that wound all over again every May 1st.

You feel numb, gutted, emptied out.

“Amor?” The familiar voice pulls you from your reverie. You turn to find Carlos staring at you with soft concern in his warm brown eyes. “Are you alright?”

You try for a reassuring smile, but it feels stale on your lips. “I’m fine, just … thinking.”

He sees right through you, the way he always does. Crossing the balcony, he wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting atop your head. You lean back into his solid embrace, drawing comfort from his presence.

“You know you don’t have to put on a brave face for me, right?” He murmurs against your hair. “Not today.”

You let out a shuddering breath, blinking back the sting of tears. “I know. It’s just … it never gets any easier, you know? All these years later and the wound still feels fresh.”

His arms tighten around you. “I’m so sorry, mi amor. I wish I could take the pain away.”

“You help more than you know, just by being here,” you reply thickly. A tremulous smile curves your lips as you cover his hands with yours. “Thank you for putting up with my melancholy every year.”

“You never have to thank me for that,” he says fiercely. “I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

The sound of the balcony door opening draws your attention as Carlos Sr. steps out onto the balcony, his eyes kind but assessing as he takes in the two of you embracing.

“Ah, lo siento,” he says apologetically. “I did not mean to intrude on a private moment.”

“No, no, you’re not intruding,” you assure him, reluctantly extracting yourself from Carlos’ arms. You turn to face his father, subtly wiping at your damp eyes. “What’s going on?”

Carlos Sr. hesitates, shooting his son a questioning look. Carlos nods almost imperceptibly.

“Actually, hijo, do you mind if I borrow Y/N for a few minutes?” Carlos’ father asks. “Hombre a hombre, as they say.”

Your brows knit in confusion, but Carlos just smiles faintly and drops a kiss on your temple. “Of course. I’ll be inside whenever you’re ready, mi vida.”

With a final squeeze of your hand, he disappears back into the suite, leaving you alone with his father on the balcony. The older Sainz settles into one of the plush lounge chairs with a slight groan.

“Please, join an old man,” he says, patting the chair beside him. You hesitate briefly before sinking into the indicated seat. An awkward silence stretches between you both.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Carlos’ father begins at last. “I am not usually at such a loss for words. But I find myself struggling to know what to say on a day like today.”

You manage a watery chuckle. “Trust me, you’re not the only one at a loss. I don’t even know what to say to myself half the time.”

He regards you with such tender understanding that it steals your breath away. “My dear girl, you have carried such a heavy burden on those young shoulders for far too long. No child should have to grow up in the shadow of tragedy the way you have.”

Tears well up anew in your eyes. “I just … I wish I could remember him, you know? Really remember him, not just what I’ve seen in videos or heard in interviews. It feels so unfair that the whole world has vibrant memories of who he was, but I’m just … left with echoes and fragments of a man I never truly knew.”

Carlos Sr.’s eyes glisten with empathy as he reaches over to take your hand, enveloping it in his calloused grip. “Listen to me, mija. While I cannot begin to understand the depth of your loss, I do know this — it is never strange to mourn someone you loved, even if you cannot recall the time you spent together.”

His words are like a soothing balm on the ragged wound of your heart. You squeeze his hand fiercely, struggling to keep your composure as he continues.

“Your father was ...” He pauses, seeming to carefully weigh his next words. “Your father was an incredible man, one who touched countless lives all over the world. But to you, he was simply your father. And that bond, that love between a parent and child, transcends memory. It lives on in here.” He taps his heart with his free hand. “In a way that no amount of biographies or documentaries could ever capture.”

The tears spill over, streaking down your cheeks. You make no effort to stop them this time. Carlos’ father merely watches you with infinite tenderness, his thumb brushing soothingly over your knuckles.

“I know I cannot replace the father you lost,” he continues softly. “Nor would I ever try. But I hope you know that our family … we love you as one of our own, mija. You will always have a home and a family with us, for as long as you desire it.”

A broken sound escapes your throat and Carlos Sr. immediately rises from his chair to gather you into his arms, his embrace warm and secure and achingly paternal. You bury your face in his shoulder, body shaking with muffled sobs as the floodgates finally burst open.

“That’s it, let it all out,” he murmurs, one broad hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Holding in such grief for so long, it’s a wonder you did not crumble beneath the weight of it long ago. You are stronger than you know, mija.”

You cry until you’re completely spent, until the front of Carlos Sr.’s shirt is damp and your eyes are swollen and puffy. When at last the tears subside, leaving you wrung out but strangely peaceful, he produces a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs at your cheeks.

“There now, that’s better isn’t it?” He asks, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles down at you. “I think my son may have plans to cheer you up, if you’re amenable?”

You let out a watery chuckle, feeling lighter than you have in days … weeks … months maybe. “That does sound nice.”

The elder Spaniard presses the handkerchief into your hand, then steers you back towards the balcony door with a gentle hand on your back. “Then what are we waiting for? That boy may look like me, but his sweet tooth is all his mother’s doing.”

You pause in the doorway, impulsively turning to throw your arms around the man who has, in many ways, become a second father to you. “Thank you,” you whisper shakily against his shoulder. “For everything.”

His arms tighten around you briefly. “De nada, mija. That’s what family is for.”

When at last you disentangle yourself, Carlos is waiting just inside, a bright smile lighting up his face at the sight of the two of you. On the counter, a cheerful array of pastries and confections beckons, the delicious aroma of fresh Brazilian baked goods enveloping you in a warm, sugary hug.

Carlos’ eyes are shining with love and relief as you cross the room to plant a lingering kiss of gratitude on his smiling lips.

“I love you,” you murmur when you finally pull back, cradling his face in your palms. “Thank you for being you.”

His forehead drops to rest against yours. “Always, mi alma. I’ll never stop loving you and being here for you, no matter what.”

You hold him tightly for a long moment, savoring his warmth and solidity. When you finally part, Carlos’ arm stays looped around your waist as he turns towards the dessert spread.

“So, I may have gone a little overboard at the bakery,” he admits with an unrepentant grin, waving his free hand at the sugary bounty. “But it’s been a rough day and you deserve to indulge a little.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling some of the lingering heaviness dissipate at the pure, infectious joy on his face. Leave it to Carlos to try and solve everything with baked goods and affection.

“Well, when you put it that way,” you tease, leaning into his side, “I suppose I can’t say no to that face.”

“That’s the spirit!” Carlos crows, beaming at you with such adoration that it makes your heart squeeze. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he scoops up one of the frosted confections and holds it up to your lips. “Open wide, mi amor.”

You obediently take a bite of the sugary pastry, the rich flavors of doce de leite and buttery dough melting over your tongue. Carlos watches you with rapt attention, his eyes darkening slightly as you slowly lick a stray bit of frosting from the corner of your mouth.

His father clears his throat loudly behind you. “Ay dios mio, get a room you two!”

Carlos has the grace to look abashed, but you just grin unrepentantly at your future father-in-law as he shakes his head in mock exasperation.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Carlos says cheekily, surprising you by suddenly sweeping you up into his arms bridal-style.

You let out a squeak of surprise that quickly dissolves into delighted laughter as he starts carrying you toward the bedroom, peppering your face with noisy kisses. Over his shoulder, you catch Carlos Sr.’s indulgent smile and parting wink before the door swings shut behind you.

The rest of the evening passes in a sugary, affectionate haze. For the first time in as long as you can remember, the grief feels bearable, soothed by the love of your chosen family.

While the ache may never fully heal, you have a newfound sense of lightness in your heart.

As you lay tangled in the sheets later that night, Carlos’ arm a grounding weight around your waist, you send up a silent thank you to whatever cosmic forces brought this incredible man into your life.

And maybe, just maybe, your father can finally rest easy knowing his little girl found her way to happiness after all.

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n0cturn4 · 1 month ago

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Character: Adult!Damian Wayne x Reader Summary: “I offer you my heart,” he murmured, his voice now an intimate whisper. “And the freedom to do with it as you will.” Word Count: 1185 Music: Habibi

It was a night of scorching heat in the infinite desert, where the sky, dotted with stars, reflected the glow of a fate written long before the birth of kingdoms. In the palace of Al-Nadir, grand and carved in marble and gold, Prince Damian Wayne, now a grown man, wandered silently through its vast corridors. His firm steps echoed like a whisper of responsibility and power. Damian, the prince who carried the weight of two legacies within him, had always been an enigma, a man made of shadows and steel. But that night, something beyond the throne unsettled him. He felt an emptiness, an absence that neither gold nor glory could fill.

The festival of Al-Nadir pulsed like a living heart in the city below, where the people celebrated, and the arts flourished under the desert heat. On that special night, dancers from all corners came to showcase their talents, but there was one in particular, a presence that stood out among all, like a rare flower in the sands of destiny.

And then he saw her.

You, a dancer whose movements seemed to defy the very stars. Your feet glided across the stage like a gentle breeze over the dunes, and your eyes, burning and mysterious, revealed stories that words could never contain. Your body, adorned with veils and jewels that shimmered in the torchlight, moved with a grace that did not belong to this world. Every gesture, every curve of your body was silent poetry, a promise of freedom and power.

Damian, a man accustomed to hiding his emotions, felt his heart waver. The serenity he always carried like armor shattered before your dance. He, a prince of steel, was captivated by a flame he did not understand but could not ignore.

When the music ceased and the applause echoed, Damian knew he had to meet you. He ordered to be taken to you, not with the arrogance of a prince, but with the curiosity of a man before a mystery he longed to unravel. In the palace’s private gardens, beneath the shadows of exotic trees, he waited. The sound of water running through the fountains was the only noise besides his own heartbeat.

You arrived, your eyes raised, firm and fearless, as enigmatic as your dance. There was no fear in your posture, only calm curiosity, as if you knew this encounter was inevitable.

“You called for me, Your Highness?” your voice was a thread of silk, as soft as the night breeze.

Damian tilted his head, his green eyes analyzing you as if he could read your soul through every subtle movement.

“There is something in your dance,” he said, his voice deep and controlled, “something that goes beyond art. There’s a story behind every one of your movements. A battle... a freedom.”

Your lips curved into a slight smile, something enigmatic, like a moon partially veiled by clouds. You observed him with the same care, surprised by his insight.

“Every gesture I make carries the weight of my own story,” you replied. “Dancing is the only freedom I truly have.”

Damian stepped closer, his words like veiled promises in the warm night air. “What if I could offer you more than just that fleeting freedom? What if I could give you something greater?”

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What exactly would you offer me, Your Highness?”

He did not hesitate, his words were precise, like the arrows he so skillfully wielded. “A choice. Stay by my side. Not as a prisoner of my will, but as an equal. Someone who challenges my spirit and shares the burden of power with me. I see in you what few would—strength that deserves to be honored, not tamed.”

The night seemed suspended between you, the wind carrying only the echoes of something forming, something neither of you had anticipated.

“And if I accept this offer,” you asked, your tone low but filled with meaning, “what do I get in return, besides power and your wealth?”

Damian took another step closer, until his eyes, intense as the desert itself, penetrated yours.

“I offer you my heart,” he murmured, his voice now an intimate whisper. “And the freedom to do with it as you will.”

You stepped forward, reducing the distance that still remained between you. Your eyes, deep and mysterious, met his with firmness. It was like looking into a distorted mirror—you, the free dancer, and he, the chained prince. Two worlds so different, yet drawn to each other as if the universe had conspired for this moment.

“And what would you do, Prince,” you began, your voice flowing like a soft melody, “if I took your heart and turned it into my own dance? If I made it part of who I am?”

Damian smiled, a rare smile, almost imperceptible, carrying both melancholy and hope. There was something vulnerable in his stance, a man who had always been a fortress now lowering his defenses before a stranger, yet still, a soul he seemed to have known forever.

“Then,” he replied, with a soft gleam in his eyes, “I would become part of your freedom. Because in the end, there is no greater power than being in the hands of someone you trust.”

For a moment, the world around you seemed to stop. The sounds of the festival in the distance, the murmuring fountains, even the soft breeze among the leaves, all silenced in the intensity of that moment. The moon poured its silver light over the garden, as if the heavens were watching and approving of what was unfolding.

You stepped even closer, until you were so near that you could feel the heat emanating from his body, his presence strong and solid. Your fingers, delicate and skilled like in your dance, gently touched Damian's chest, right over where his heart beat. The touch was light, almost like a breeze, but the connection that formed was deep, instantaneous.

“Your freedom and mine are like two stars dancing in the sky, Prince,” you said softly. “I accept what you offer, but know that I will not be a silent companion. My soul is not meant to be contained.”

Damian breathed deeply, as if your words had the power to ignite something deep within him. His eyes never left yours for a moment.

“That is exactly why I chose you,” he murmured, his voice dense, full of promise. “I don’t want someone who bows, but someone who walks beside me. I want someone who challenges me, who makes me question the world as it is.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, as if deciphering the final secret hidden in his soul.

“Then, Prince Damian,” you said, a light smile on your lips, “we will dance together.”

And so, under the stars that silently watched, the bond between you was formed. The Prince of Al-Nadir, with his heart in the hands of a dancer, and you, with the promise of a love that could not be contained by borders or duties. The night, a silent witness, became the stage for the first act of a story that would defy fate and time.

And in that dance of souls and hearts entwined, Damian Wayne's world began to change, one step at a time.

#Adult!Damian Wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #x reader #damian al ghul #demian wayne/reader #n0cturn4 whites ♡

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merakiui · 2 months ago

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moros's looking glass.

yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.

To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste.

Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time.

“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!”

“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.”

He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.

“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”

With a huff, she strides past you.

You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.

It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.

I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.

Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.

“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”

Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.

Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.

“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.

“I understand. Thank you.”

You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall.

Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.

It occurs to you that he truly is dead.

Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”

You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”

She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”

“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”

“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”

“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.

Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.

Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother.

Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?

You can scarcely say.

Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.

It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.

A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.

Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.

Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.

Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.

Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.

And then you stop.

An uncovered mirror?

In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.

This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!

You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still.

You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.

No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.

The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.

“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—

“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”

Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.

“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”

Silence is your only reply.

“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”

Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.

In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.

It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.

A mouse, perhaps?

But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.

Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.

Nails on…glass. On glass.

Glass.

It’s coming from Riddle’s room.

The mirror!

You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.

You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.

“Ugh! How filthy!”

Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion.

“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.

“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”

The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror.

If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!

Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.

Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.

You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.

“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”

Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.

All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.

You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.

Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.

A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

“Oh?”

You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.

This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.

Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.

If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.

Never falter.

You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.

Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.

You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.

When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.

Where have I found myself?

You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.

This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.

The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.

You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.

He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.

This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—

“Riddle?”

His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.

“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”

If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.

Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”

“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.

You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.

He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.

Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”

He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”

Am I dreaming?

“Are you certain this is real?”

He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”

“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”

“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”

“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”

“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”

“I’ve always been alive.”

“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”

“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”

And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.

He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”

Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.

“Riddle—”

He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.

“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”

My Riddle was never this forward.

“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.

You stare at him, horrified.

“S-Say that again, if you would…”

“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”

You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”

He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”

“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”

Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.

Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.

You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.

“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”

You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.

“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you.

That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.

Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.

“Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”

Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.

You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”

You receive no reply.

A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.

You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.

“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.

Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.

“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”

You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.

Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.

Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…

Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.

I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.

Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…

And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).

And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…

A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.

The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?

You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.

Evidence of Fact

It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.

It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.

It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.

It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)

The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.

It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).

It calls itself Riddle.

You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.

He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.

You hold the diary close to your chest.

If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…

You don’t dare think any further.

Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.

Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home.

Not if but when. A certainty.

You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros��s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”

You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”

Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.

All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.

Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.

It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.

But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast.

Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.

Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?

You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.

When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.

I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.

You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.

I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.

Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.

Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”

He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.

“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”

Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…

“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”

“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”

“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”

If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…

The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”

“Aren’t they just?”

“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.

You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”

“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”

“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”

“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”

“And what of exiting?”

“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”

“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”

“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”

So the boundary is the gate. Very well.

“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.

Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.

I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.

You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.

“Riddle.”

“Yes, my rose?”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“And I love you. Most ardently.”

You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”

“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”

“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”

He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”

“Of course it is…”

He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.

You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.

Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.

Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?

You refer to the watch once more.

I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.

You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.

“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”

You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”

Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.

You emerge just a few minutes before three.

Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.

In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.

You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.

You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.

Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.

I must return.

When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh! Riddle—”

“What were you doing?”

“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”

He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”

“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”

Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”

He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”

“Is that so?”

“Verily.”

For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the…cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”

“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”

“To you? Why, you left.”

“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”

Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”

“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”

“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”

I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?

“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”

He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.

Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they?

You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!

Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.

“Riddle…”

“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”

“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”

He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”

“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”

His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”

He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.

“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”

“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.

I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.

“(Name)…”

Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!

“(Name)…”

You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.

But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.

“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”

His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.

You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.

“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”

“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”

“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.

“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”

You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.

The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.

“W-What are you?”

He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”

You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.

“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”

The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.

“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.

You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.

“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”

You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!

He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.

Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.

I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.

You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.

The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil.

“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”

Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!

You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”

Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.

After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.

And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…

You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?

Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.

This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.

You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.

When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.

In the face of adversity…

“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.

It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.

Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.

What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.

Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.

Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.

A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.

“Riddle.”

“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”

You scowl at him. “What do you want?”

“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”

“You… You murdered my husband.”

He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”

“What did you do?”

“Sit down.”

“What did you do?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What in blazes did you do to him?!”

“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”

He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.

“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”

“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”

“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”

“So you—you’re the reason he—”

“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”

“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”

A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.

“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”

“You’re Moros, are you not?”

He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.

“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”

“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”

“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”

“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”

“A fiend.”

“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”

“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”

The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.

“S-Stop—I can’t—can’t breathe! Please! R-Riddle… Riddle, please!”

At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.

“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”

“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”

“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”

You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”

“In what way?”

“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”

He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”

“Can you leave through the mirror?”

“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”

“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”

Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”

“And who trapped you here?”

“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”

“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”

“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”

“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”

“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”

“One more question.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“What happens if the mirror breaks?”

“No further questions.”

“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”

He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”

“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”

“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”

“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”

“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”

The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.

Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!

“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”

Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”

He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.

Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”

You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”

The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.

“Wasn’t that just grand?”

You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”

“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”

You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.

And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.

“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”

“I’ll never be yours!”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”

You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.

“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”

Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.

“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”

“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”

Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.

“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”

Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.

“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”

You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.

Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom.

The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.

You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.

“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!”

You do. You just choose not to listen.

You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.

A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.

“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”

Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.

You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”

A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.

You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.

So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.

You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”

You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.

For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.

Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.

“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”

You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”

The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.

“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”

I’ve endured far worse.

“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”

A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.

If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.

Five Years Later.

At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.

A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.

Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.

“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.

“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.

“Is it truly?”

“Look, see!” The other points.

Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.

“Blast. No key.”

“Surely we can break it in?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.

“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”

“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”

“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”

“It could be worth something small.”

“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”

“Who for?”

“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.

“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.”

They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle #yandere riddle x reader

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 6 months ago

Text

*puts down some SAGAU fluff* come here i have a tasty meal for you :)

Childe often goes to the city to pick up supplies, as you can't wander into a crowd without getting accused of impersonation- he's seen the scars etched over your skin, the lines of starry blood from blades and burns. so even with the cloth mask you always wear, he doesn't push you to venture into any big cities or villages. you are the Creator, after all, and Childe- Ajax- wants you to be as happy as possible. besides, it's always the perfect opportunity to catch wind of any news floating around, both from his subordinates and chatter on the street. the Eleventh Harbinger is oddly quiet nowadays, completing his work in silence and deep thought, yet the agents of the Fatui swear they can see a faint sparkle in his deep blue eyes.

it's during one of his outings that Ajax notices that he has a shadow- a small, fuzzy shadow, a kitten trotting after him as he goes around doing his weekly errands. the tiny thing is determined keep following him, even though one of his steps is practically an entire journey to it, and after the kitten trails after him to every shop he visits, Ajax simply scoops it up in one hand and carries it with him. it clambers onto his shoulder and makes itself comfortable, periodically mewing and nudging his cheek. Foul Legacy is going mad trying to stay silent in the back of Ajax's head, trilling and chirping in delight at the new adorable friend.

you're equally as delighted when Ajax brings the kitten home, gasping and reaching out as he gently sets it in your hands- and just in time, as Foul Legacy takes over their shared body, nuzzling up to you and chittering very quietly so he doesn't scare the cat. he watches your every move and reaction, the warm smile on your face after all that you've suffered making his heart melt. your newfound friend meows, high pitched and squeaky, kneading biscuits against your scarred palms as Legacy gently pulls you into his lap and purrs deeply along with the tiny kitten's buzzing.

the Creator, an Abyssal monster, and their fluffy companion- now all you need to do is think of a name.

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thatonegreekgodwrites · 5 months ago

Text

“ECHOES OF ELYSIUM”

Odysseus x Fem!Reader

warnings. sexual assault, slavery, a greek retelling, eventual smut, war/gore, this won’t have a happy ending

pairing. odysseus x fem! reader (inspired by epic:the musical)

in the heart of troy, amidst the towering walls and architecture, the city bustled with the vibrant energy of its people. the market squares were filled with the sounds of merchants haggling and children playing, unaware of the shadow of war creeping ever closer. within the palace, the air was different—heavier with the scent of incense and the hum of anticipation.

you, a young slave girl with kind eyes and calloused hands, moved silently through the halls. your life was one of routine and quiet obedience, your existence almost invisible among the grandeur of the palace. today, however, was a day of celebration, and even you could not escape the excitement that seemed to permeate the very stones of troy.

the reason for the festivities was the birth of the heir, the firstborn son of prince hector and his beloved wife, andromache. the birth of the child promised new hope and joy, a symbol of strength and continuity. their legacy now secured if the gods favored them so. the celebration was to be grand, with nobles and warriors alike gathering to honor the new prince and his family.

you had been tasked with pouring wine for the guests. it was a simple task, yet it required precision and grace—qualities that had been drilled into you from a young age. you carried a large jug, the cool red liquid sloshing gently inside, as you made your way to the grand hall.

as you entered the hall, you were struck by the sight before you. the room was adorned with rich tapestries and garlands of flowers. the tables were laden with food and drink, and the air was filled with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. at the center of it all was prince hector, his tall frame and noble bearing making him easily recognizable. beside him stood andromache, cradling their newborn son, both of them beaming with pride and joy.

you approached the head table with a steady gait, careful not to draw too much attention to yourself. you dipped your head respectfully, eyes fixed on the ground. you could feel the weight of the guests' gazes on you, but you remained focused, constantly reminding yourself to not make a mistake in your mind as you were known to be a bit clumsy.

"wine, my lord?" you asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

hector turned to you, his expression warm and kind. "yes, thank you," he said, gesturing to the goblet before him.

you carefully poured the wine, the liquid catching the light and sparkling as it filled the goblet. moving down the table, you repeated the process for andromache and the other guests. as you worked, you couldn't help but steal glances at the infant in andromache's arms. the baby boy, unaware of the significance of his birth, slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath.

the celebration continued, the sounds of music and laughter filling the hall. you retreated to the edges of the room, task completed only for the moment. you watched the scene unfold, a mixture of longing and contentment in your heart. despite your status, you found joy in the happiness of others, even if it was a distant joy.

the night wore on and you remained vigilant, ready to attend to any needs that might arise. you and everyone else were unaware of the storm brewing beyond the walls of troy, the consequences of paris' actions casting a long shadow over the kingdom that would consume them in darkness in due time. for now, in this moment of peace, the future seemed bright and full of promise.

but you knew, as did everyone in troy, that peace was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the whims of fate. and as you stood in the grand hall, the echoes of the past and the whispers of the future intertwined, creating a tapestry of uncertainty that would shape the destiny of troy and all who lived within its walls.

lingering on the edges of the grand hall, your eyes scanning the room for any sign that you might be needed. the celebration for the birth of hector's son was still going even as night fell, the hall being brought alive with music and laughter.

suddenly, the room seemed to tilt as a hand gripped your shoulder, pulling you roughly into the light.

you turned to see hector's younger brother, prince deiphobus, his face flushed with wine and his eyes glazed with a drunken haze. he was known for his roguish charm, but tonight, it was more than evident that he had indulged too much.

"well, well, what do we have here?" he slurred, his hand wandering from your shoulder down your arm, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. "a pretty little dove in the midst of all these hawks."

you stiffened, your pulse quickening as you bit your tongue, swallowing the surge of disgust that rose within you. you were a servant—a slave, and he was a prince. to resist would mean severe punishment, which meant you had no choice but to endure.

"my lord, can i get you some water?" you offered, hoping to distract him, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

deiphobus laughed, a sound that was more menacing than mirthful. "water? no, i have something else in mind." his hand moved to your waist, drawing you closer as his breath was hot and reeking of alcohol against your ear. "tell me, does a slave like you know how to have fun?"

you forced a smile, the muscles in your face straining with the effort. "i am here to serve, my lord, in whatever way pleases you."

he grinned, his hand sliding lower. "good girl," he murmured, fingers tracing the curve of your hip. "i knew you would understand."

every fiber of your being screamed to pull away, but you remained still, eyes fixed on the ground. you could feel the weight of the guests' gazes on you, some watching with curiosity, others with indifference—after all, your plight meant nothing to them.

"why don't we find a quieter place, hmm?" deiphobus suggested, his tone laced with a dangerous edge.

"deiphobus," helenus called out from next to them, raising his goblet to his lips as he quirked a brow, voice calm but commanding. "leave her be."

deiphobus turned, a drunken sneer on his face. "ah, helenus. always the serious one. why don't you go back to your scrolls and leave the fun to me?"

helenus' eyes narrowed. "surely you can go one night without tainting another servant. find entertainment elsewhere and by the gods, remember that you're a prince, have some decorum."

deiphobus scoffed, but the firmness in helenus's voice gave him pause. he let go of you with a rough shove, making you stumble back. "fine, fine," he muttered, turning away with a dismissive wave. "always spoiling the fun."

helenus watched him go, his expression unchanging until deiphobus disappeared into the crowd. then, he turned to you, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "next time you ought to remember i won't be able to stop him, i suggest you find a way to keep your hands busy."

you nodded with a tug inside your chest. "yes, my lord, thank you."

with that, he looked away, drowning the conversation of the people around him as his own servants served him grapes. you took a deep breath, your hands trembling slightly as you took helenus' advice, moving around the large room to keep yourself occupied and out of the sight of deiphobus.

you felt the fragility of peace hanging in the air, a feeling of knowing that the celebration of new life was shadowed by the impending storm. yet, within the confines of your role, you found a flicker of strength, a resolve to endure whatever fate the gods had in store for you.

author’s note. comment your thoughts, if this does well I’ll continue it over on here and might put more effort into the account. you can find this story also on my wattpad account. thanks for reading!

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Note

Reader husband with either Rhaenyra / Alicent their dynamic with the kids. R is a strict but good father and husband, unlike most.

The King's Heart

- Summary: You spend some time with your beloved wife and children.

- Paring: male!reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: The reader is the only male heir of the late King Viserys I Targaryen and the late Queen Aemma Arryn and rightful heir to the Iron Throne. The reader is one married to Alicent Hightower, Viserys never married her.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

The heavy, wooden doors to the royal gardens creak open as you step through, the sun casting long silhouettes against the courtyard. A warm, late afternoon light spills across the stone pathways, dappling the greenery with soft gold. The scent of roses and jasmine fills the air, carried by a light breeze that tugs at the edge of your cloak. Your gaze sweeps across the scene in front of you, and your heart swells with pride as you spot them—your children, your blood, the very legacy you’ve fought so fiercely to protect.

Aegon, tall and broad-shouldered even at his young age, stands at the far end of the garden, his brow furrowed in concentration as he practices his swordplay against a wooden target. Each swing of his blade is purposeful, powerful, as though he’s determined to prove his worth. Though you’ve never voiced it outright, Aegon has always sought your approval. You see it in his eyes, the way he stands straighter when you enter the room, the way he sharpens his skill day after day. You’ve never doubted him, though you suspect he doesn’t fully realize it.

Further down, Aemond watches from a distance, his one remaining eye sharp and attentive. He idolizes you, that much is clear, and in many ways, he is more like you than Aegon. His focus, his determination—it mirrors your own. Aemond has always been the quieter one, absorbing everything in his surroundings, learning through observation before springing into action.

Closer to the fountain, Helaena sits on a stone bench, her delicate hands gently guiding a dragonfly that flutters on her palm. You smile softly as you watch her. She’s always had a fascination with creatures, small and strange, and you have a soft spot for her gentleness. She is your only daughter, your precious little girl, and though she is growing, you still find yourself drawn to her innocence, to her gentle spirit that is so unlike the rest of the world around you.

And then there’s Daeron, your youngest, bounding across the lawn with a joy only children seem to possess. He’s chasing after a butterfly, his laughter light and infectious. In him, you see the future—full of life, untamed, and filled with potential. He is still your little dragon, no matter how quickly he grows.

As you walk towards them, your presence is immediately noticed. Aegon lowers his sword and stands straighter, chest rising and falling from the exertion. Aemond’s eye flickers in your direction, though he remains still, ever watchful. Helaena lifts her head, her lips curving into a soft smile, and Daeron, upon seeing you, abandons his pursuit of the butterfly entirely and runs toward you.

“Father!” Daeron’s voice rings out, his arms outstretched. You kneel just in time to catch him, lifting him effortlessly into your arms. He wraps his small arms around your neck, and you chuckle softly, holding him close.

“There’s my little dragon,” you murmur against his ear before setting him down gently. His eyes, wide and bright, look up at you with unabashed admiration.

“I almost caught the butterfly,” Daeron announces, puffing his chest out with pride.

You smile down at him, ruffling his hair. “Next time, I’ve no doubt you will.”

Aegon approaches, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He stands before you, sword still in hand, waiting for your assessment. You place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension there.

“You’ve been practicing hard, Aegon,” you say, your voice firm but not unkind. “I can see your improvement.”

Aegon’s posture loosens slightly, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I want to be ready, Father. To be worthy of our name.”

You nod, understanding the weight that rests on his shoulders. “You already are worthy, Aegon. But remember, strength is not only in the sword. It is in wisdom, in patience. The truest kings are those who know when not to strike.”

Aegon’s expression shifts, thoughtful now. He nods once, a sign that he understands, or at least is trying to.

Nearby, Aemond finally approaches, standing quietly beside his brother. You turn your attention to him, offering a small smile. “And you, Aemond? Have you been keeping up with your studies?”

Aemond nods, his voice quiet but steady. “Yes, Father. I’ve been reading the histories, as you instructed. And the maps.”

You place a hand on his shoulder as well, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Good. Knowledge is as valuable a weapon as any blade. One day, you will need both.”

Aemond’s eye gleams with pride at your words, and though he says little, you can see the fire burning within him—the same fire that burns within you.

As the evening settles in, you make your way toward Helaena, who has remained on the bench, her eyes following the dragonfly as it finally flits away. She looks up as you approach, her smile serene.

“Father,” she greets softly, her voice like a whisper in the breeze.

You sit beside her, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “What have you found today, my love?”

She glances toward the garden, her gaze faraway for a moment. “A dragonfly. They always come here in the late afternoon. They’re drawn to the light, I think.”

You smile at her musings, ever the dreamer. “Much like you, my dear. Always seeking the light.”

Helaena leans her head against your shoulder, and you wrap an arm around her, holding her close. Though you are King, though you hold the weight of the realm on your shoulders, moments like this remind you that your true legacy lies here, with them.

As the day winds down, you gather them all near, your four children—your pride, your joy. They chatter amongst themselves, even Aegon and Aemond, whose competitive natures often keep them at odds, are peaceful in this moment.

From the shadows of the gardens, you see Alicent approaching, her presence as regal as ever, her gaze softening as it falls upon you and the children. She steps closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder as she stands behind you.

“They’re happy,” she says softly, her voice laced with warmth.

You glance up at her, your heart swelling with affection. “They have every reason to be. They are our future, Alicent.”

She smiles, her eyes shining with love for you. “And they are fortunate to have you as their father.”

You reach up to take her hand, squeezing it gently. “And I am fortunate to have you.”

For a moment, the world beyond the garden walls fades away—the pressures of the crown, the duties of the realm—and all that remains is your family, the heart of your life. You pull Alicent down to sit beside you, her hand still in yours, as the children laugh and play around you.

In this moment, you are not a king, not a ruler. You are simply a father, a husband, a man surrounded by those he loves. And that, above all else, is what truly matters.

#house of the dragon #hotd x male reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #alicent x y/n #alicent x you #alicent x reader #alicent hightower #alicent x male reader #hotd

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jinkicake · 2 years ago

Note

YOUR ARRANGED/FORCED MARRIAGE IS SO GOOD OMG. if you’re up to it, i was wondering if you could write one for childe? ofc only if you want to <3

Forced / Arranged Marriage Trope

Childe, Scaramouche x Reader

A/N: Hi, Anon, you're so sweet!!! Thank you!! I had to add Scaramouche too bc... I simply had to (it fits so well w him) so I hope that is okay~ I kinda got carried away and made Childe sorta yandere, im sorry I love him being unhinged and it scares me in the best way like somehow scara is soft but I made childe not…. Hmmm i love childe!!!!!!

fem!reader bc I like the use of ‘wife’

WC - 1.5k

TW // SLIGHT YANDERE!CHILDE (NOT REALLY)

~~~

Childe

“If you’re thinking about going back to that kitten outside I will tie you down to our bed.” Childe’s rather calm voice strikes you down on the spot, almost as if you’ve been struck with a flash of lightning. The original plan that you had was to make a stealthy exit through the front door, you should have known better. You try to keep your frantic heart sane as you slowly turn on the tips of your toes to face him.

Your husband is sitting in one of the couches of your front room as he thumbs through a book gifted by a friend of his in Liyue. It’s incredibly hard to not roll your eyes as he practically sits in the dark like some villain, tucked away and hoping to catch you lacking.

“Come here.” Despite his soft voice, you can tell that he is not in the mood to play with you. You clench your teeth painfully tight and wordlessly head to stand by his side. The harbinger doesn’t look up from his book as he blindly grabs your wrist, tightly wrapping his fingers around the two bones. He presses his touch, imprinting his fingers, into your skin as his thumb rubs comforting strokes against you. “Be more careful wife, it’s too dangerous to go out late at night.” Through your leveled breathing, you can’t help but gasp as he tugs you closer toward him. “I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

You don’t have it in yourself to tell him that the dangers inside this house put any of those outside of it to shame.

“I know,” You settle for something that will please him, a kind phrase that will acknowledge his worries and provide him with a sense of understanding. By the narrowing of his dull eyes, you seemingly said something completely wrong.

“I don’t think you do.” Childe finally looks at you and the blank expression on his face causes a sense of fear to find root in your heart. He looks at you calculatingly as if he is planning his every move and the one that follows in his head. “How can I possibly make it clear to you?”

The vision that lights up on his hip makes your entire body freeze.

“No- I believe you, I won’t go out anymore,” In your panic, all you manage to sound is desperate. Childe ignores you.

“I really just want to protect you, don’t you understand how much you mean to me?” It’s so terribly difficult for you to focus on him as his voice is overcome with heavy emotion. Almost like a flip of a switch, the thought of losing you breaks his sanity and pushes him to a dark edge. “Oh, ангел (angel), you must listen to me,”

You’ll do anything if it means you’ll never have to see him in his foul legacy form again.

“I will, I will, I promise.” Despite all your troubles, you dryly swallow any anxious nerves down. You place your free hand over his own, slowly closing the book that Childe is reading. “жизнь моя (my life), let’s go to bed, please.” His native language sounds heavy on your tongue and you nearly twist the muscle trying to spit the pet name out. For once, you applaud your memory and mentally thank Childe for always calling you something other than your own name.

“Right,” Childe puts the book on the coffee table before rising to his towering height, he stands above you with a sweet smile on his face. Despite the warm expression, you nearly start to break into a sweat at the lack of feeling seen in his eyes. “I am rather tired. We can finish this in the morning.”

“Of course,” You struggle to give him a smile back and choose to instead place a kiss on the back of his knuckles. Childe greedily bathes in your affections as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest.

“You know that I love you, жена (wife),” His voice now sounds uncharacteristically vulnerable, it quickly smothers over any of your fear and hostility and causes your heartstrings to twinge with adoration. “I couldn’t handle it if anything happened to you.”

Perhaps you are just as far gone off the deep end as he is because, above all else, you feel safest in his arms and sheer terror in his presence.

“I will always protect you with my life. If I must, I will kill for you, Родна́я (dear).”

Scaramouche

“You can’t be serious.” In all the years you’ve been married to Scaramouche, there have been multiple times when you thought him to be ridiculous. This situation is by far the most ridiculous of them all. Above everything else, the Harbinger is a drama king.

“I will not have my wife being accompanied by another man.” His anger is laughable, you’ve seen the true extent of it but, it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s glaring at you from under his too-large-of-a-hat.

“I wouldn’t have to be accompanied at all if you just let me go by myself,” Your reasoning does not get through to him.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He snaps and the bite isn’t even strong, you already expected this from him. “As if I could let you out of my sight for a minute,”

In the worst way possible, your husband is attached to you with no desire to let you go. Although he tries with his affections and will lovingly pet your hair with an awkward hand, he still stumbles over his own two feet when around you.

“I want to visit Mondstadt for their Windblume festival, you promised me that we would go.” You’re stubborn in your ways and are unwilling to let Scaramouche forget his first and foremost obligations to you. “I am going with or without you.”

Your husband glares at you, eyes narrowed in frustration as he clenches and unclenches his fists. All you do is stand patiently and wait for his fit to end.

“Fine.” He grunts and quickly writes a note on his desk, you excitedly wait for him as he hands the note to one of the guards outside his door. It’s only when he closes his office door again and it’s the two of you alone inside that you run to him with open arms.

“I’m so excited!” You gush and gush while squeezing your arms around his waist. Scaramouche pats you back as he tips his hat to cover more of his face, he quietly scoffs through your cheers.

If he had an ounce of courage to stand up to you the way he does the other Harbingers, the way he just told Dottore to fuck off through a simple note, then perhaps the puppet would have some control in his marriage.

Much to your delight, he does not.

“What is the point of all this?” The grumpiness that Scaramouche is exuding does not go over your head. All it takes is a simple squeeze of your hand, which is tightly held within his own, to make his grumbling melt away under the Mondstadt sun. Being tucked away in the forest, away from the cozy town and any of its people is something you’ve already become accustomed to.

Whenever you travel with your husband, the two of you can’t get too close to others because of his status as a Harbinger and everything else.

“We are supposed to strengthen our relationships!” You place your basket onto the soft green grass before pulling out a blanket with one hand. Somehow you manage to spread it out and sit before ushering your husband to do the same. “Don’t you want to improve your relationship with me?”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes.

“What is there to improve?” He turns to glare at anything but you, his hard eyes rest on the trees and then the blue sky all while you sweetly tuck his hair behind his ear. The soft action internally makes him flinch but, on the outside, all the Harbinger manages to do is blush. “You’re already perfect,”

“Aren’t you sweet?” You tease and lean over to place a kiss on his cheek. Scaramouche pushes you away, hand resting on your shoulder before he throws the idea away and tightens his grip. The gentle smile on your face, radiating more warmth than the spring sun could ever provide him, makes the Harbinger feel a little nervous.

You are everything to him.

Just as he goes to kiss you, a lone dandelion flows through the air. He watches it carefully as it sneaks over your head and fades away into the distance. The entire time he is distracted, you lean over again and place a kiss on his lips.

“Happy Windblume, my love,”

Scaramouche can’t even fight the ridiculous smile off of his face as he makes a promise about your future together.

“We will have to do this again next year. We’ll return every year.”

#childe x reader #scaramouche x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x female reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #yandere childe #scaramouche fluff #childe x y/n #scaramouche x you

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whitejays-galaxy · 1 month ago

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Designing the entire disaster lineage as cats🐱(Reupload)

I accidentally made some design errors, so I had to redo them... To make up for my mistake, there's a small surprise in the end ^^

The disaster lineage:

This is their actual size chart

My favorite trio:

Dooky and Quiggs becuz they deserve more love:

Ref sheets:

Horizonstar/step(Yoda):

Name Meaning:

"Horizon" carried the meaning of him being the leader of his clan, a beacon of light in the distance, "Step" meant he was always one step ahead of his clanmates, thus using his knowledge and power to help his cats.

Frostshard(Dooku):

Name Meaning:

I chose "Frost" because of his cold, collected, haughty demeanor, and "Shard", his presence being able to hurt others, like when you touch a broken shard of glass. It also represents his sharpness.

Sagepelt(Qui-Gon-Jinn):

Name Meaning:

"Sage" symbolizes his wisdom of the living Force, spiritual sanctity, vice, and virtue, which some knights thought he was delusional, while others respected his high moral standards.

If you look at a sage plant, the leaves are fuzzy, and they often grow in large swishing bushels, hence the suffix "Pelt"

Hazeldusk(Obi-Wan-Kenobi):

Pls ignore his traumatized face

Anyway

Name Meaning:

I chose "Hazel" because of his pelt color and warm/comforting personality. "Dusk" has a deeper meaning; Hazel trains Skyfire, who turns to the dark side and brings Dawnclan's legacy to an end; therefore, Hazel teaches the one who brought the "Dusk" of Dawnclan's era.

Skyfire(Anakin Skywalker):

Name Meaning:

I chose "Sky" because of his godlike abilities, for in many countries and religions, the sky was where the gods lived, "Fire" because of him being ferocious yet warm/loving like a small bit of flame in a hearth. It also foreshadows how he would fall, consumed into flames.

Tawnyrain(Ahsoka-Tano):

Name Meaning:

I chose "Tawny" because of her pelt color, and "Rain", symbolizes her abandoning the teachings of Dawnclan when she goes into exile, like the rain washing over dust and grime, the corruption of Dawnclan ways, coated over her innocence and pure heart.

Long yap incoming...

<Lore>

Dawnclan was created over a thousand years ago by four Force-sensitive cats: Sunspirit(Cala Brin), Tigerblaze(Rajivari), Valorsoul(Garon Jard), and Eclipseshadow(Ters Sendon).

"True justice cannot be driven by emotion. We knights can set our passions aside, and seek the truth without fear or favor." - Sunspirit

"When Dawnclan's order began, I saw we must be dedicated to peace. To calm our emotions, and end war across the galaxy. If we fought, it should only be in self-defense. That is the founding principle of civilization." - Valorsoul

"So much is fleeting. But I remain. And I remain the cat I was." - Tigerblaze

"I am Eclipseshadow, keeper of the histories. A founder, and chronicler, of Dawnclan." - Eclipseshadow

-They walk the dreams of their ancestors in Starclan, a clan created by the light side of the Force.

-A Force-Sensitive kit is taken to the temple at a very young age, training in the basic forms of dueling.

-Padawans(apprentices) train for approximately two years with their assigned Master, the names usually ending with a 'Paw'(a universal suffix meaning apprentice or student)

-Knights must at least have trained an apprentice before they can be selected for the Dawnclan Council, a group of the most talented cats.

-A Dawnclan knight is forbidden to take a mate or have kits.

There is no Emotion, there is Peace

There is no Ignorance, there is Knowledge

There is no Passion, there is Serenity

There is no Chaos, there is Harmony

There is no Death, there is the Force

It is hard to know the birth of Darkhaven, yet one thing is for sure, evil has lurked since no beginning nor end.

The official name of these dark warriors was created by Hellfire, a soulless she-cat whom many say was the embodiment of evil itself.

The Fate Wars, the first great war in the Galaxy, led to the victory of the knights of Dawnclan, who built their main camp on the ruins of Darkhaven.

After the events of the Fate Wars, two more happened during the history of the Galaxy:

The first was the Cold War: in which former Darkhavener Corvidheart(Darth Revan) challenged the Emperor Vortexvoid(Emperor Vitalle) to reclaim balance on both sides.

The second was the Grey Wars: Darkhaven leader Stormcutter(Darth Malgus) brought the Dawnclan order to its knees and took over for a long time. This caused a rebellion act against the Darkhaven Empire by normal citizens, and as a result, the Republic was born - an invisible group that consisted of various clans and tribes to discuss peace and to help each other in crisis.

Many years passed after the Grey Wars, and one by one, the warriors of Darkhaven were hunted down by the knights of Dawnclan.

Nightshade(Darth Bane), the last known leader of Darkhaven, and the maker of the Rule of Two, swore revenge. They will always lurk in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Her apprentice Plagueshadow(Darth Plagueis) continued her work in silence, training the dreaded Lightningstrike(Darth Sidious), who would create the most feared and powerful Darkhavener of all time: Lord Deadsoul(Darth Vader)

When a Dawnclan knight falls to the Dark side, their features grow haughty and sharp because of the Dark Forest water.

Only Darkhaveners have orange eyes.

They usually have red crystals on their foreheads but in rare circumstances, purple or black could be seen also.

They communicate with the Dark Forest, an everlasting place of the Dark side of the Force, with murky water and wizened trees.

They have the Rule of Two, only allowing a Master and an Apprentice to live.

Peace is a lie, there is only Passion

Through Passion, I gain Strength

Through Strength, I gain Power

Through Power, I gain Victory

Through Victory, My Chains Are Broken

The Force shall set me Free

About Kyberclaws:

They glow red hot at the tip when unsheathed at battle mode. But they can't use them for long, or the heat would kill them(Yoda/Horizonstar has a record of using them for a full thirty minutes)

They are functioned by the Kyber Crystals on their foreheads and could cut through anything except Beskar Wood( a tree known for its silvery wood and toughness, used by the Mandalorian cats)

A Dawnclan cat develops this ability once they are 6 moons old, as their bodies mature enough to withstand the claw tip's deadly heat.

About crystals on foreheads:

The Crystals are the main source of the Kyberclaw's power, and when forcefully taken, it would cripple the owner for eternity(like a bird without wings)

When a Dawnclan cat dies, the Crystals turn a dead-looking grey, devoid of all power.

About Droids in the Au:

They are animals that are neither living nor dead(such as rats, foxes, shrews, badgers...etc)

Their commander controls them with the Smoke Crystals(used like comlinks)

About Starships in the Au:

They are huge birds of prey tamed by the cats.

Alright... the surprise... I'm actually astonished you scrolled all the way down here.

Cuddle Pile!!!

This is one of my oldest Aus that I'm working on; it's a mix of my two favorite fandoms: StarWars and Warriors(cats)

Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this👍

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natsaffection · 1 year ago

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Kingdom of Secrets | Prologue | N. Romanoff

Knight!Natasha x younger!princess!Reader

MINOR DNI!! (18+!)

warnings: age gap (Natasha is 16 when she comes to the palace and the reader is 4 years old. At the end of this chapter Natasha is 33 and reader 21) fingering, begging, crying

word count: 4,5k

A/n: welcome to the prologue of Kingdom of Secrets! (Yes the title has a meaning) This is just the opening chapter. So it's not the first real part. It cost me already tears because I wanted it to come across the way people spoke back in the Middle Ages..so please give feedback!🫂

In the heart of the great kingdom of Celestria, where emerald fields stretch as far as the eye can see and spires kiss the sky, there was great anticipation in the royal court. King Alistair and Queen Seraphina Dawn, the beloved rulers of the realm, had long yearned for an heir to carry on the legacy of their noble lineage. The palace echoed with the whispers of courtiers as news spread of a momentous event.

Queen Seraphina was expecting a child.

Months passed, each one accompanied by prayers and whispered hopes echoing through the halls of the palace. The kingdom collectively held its breath, waiting for the joyous news that would bring new life to the royal family. The gardens adorned with blooming flowers bore witness to the ebb and flow of the seasons, reflecting the anticipation within the palace walls.

And then, as the golden colors of autumn tinged the landscape, the long-awaited moment arrived. Like a melody of hope, the announcement resounded through the kingdom and spread from town to town. Queen Seraphina had given birth to a daughter, a shining beacon of joy in the embrace of her parents' love.

The kingdom erupted in jubilation. Banners swayed in the fresh breeze, their colors dancing to the rhythm of the joy that flowed through the streets. The citizens rushed to the gates of the palace in their finest clothes to join in the royal rejoicing. The sweet scent of flowers was in the air and the distant sounds of musicians tuning their instruments heralded the great celebrations to come.

Inside the palace, the little princess lay in her mother's arms, wrapped in a tapestry of delicate silk. Queen Seraphina's eyes, glistening with tears of happiness, met King Alistair's gaze, a silent exchange that spoke volumes about the unspoken journey they had traveled to reach this blessed moment.

As the sun sank below the horizon, the palace gates opened to welcome the many well-wishers. The Great Hall, decorated with golden tapestries and crystal chandeliers, shone in the light of a thousand candles. Laughter and chatter filled the air as nobles, commoners and dignitaries alike joined in the celebration.

In the midst of this splendor, the little princess lay in her crib, surrounded by a symphony of admiration. Her tiny fingers, like rose petals, grasped at the air as if reaching for the love that surrounded her. The flickering candlelight painted her delicate features and cast a warm, ethereal glow on her.

Y/n, as she would later be called, became the beacon of hope that united the kingdom. Her laughter echoed through the palace like silver bells, eliciting smiles from all who basked in her innocent radiance. The court musicians, attuned to the heartbeat of the celebration, played melodies that blended with the collective heartbeat of the kingdom, a harmonious testament to the unity created by the birth of the princess.

Over the years, the princess's birthdays became a cherished tradition. The kingdom celebrated with greater fervor each year, turning the anniversary of her birth into a grand spectacle. The gardens, where once the whispers of anticipation could be heard, now bloomed in vibrant colors that reflected the princess's exuberant spirit.On her birthdays, the people of Celestria gathered to honor their beloved princess. The streets were lined with stalls selling sweet treats and enchanting trinkets. Musicians played lilting melodies and performers brought fairy tales to life through dance and theater. But amidst the splendor, it was Y/n herself who was in the spotlight.

Her laughter, the elixir that had breathed life into the kingdom years ago, echoed through the air. The joy that emanated from her was infectious and transformed the celebration into a mosaic of smiles and shared happiness. Y/n had become the living embodiment of the kingdom's dreams with her sparkling eyes and a heart full of kindness.

As Y/n grew, so did the kingdom around her. The once silent halls of the palace echoed with the footsteps of a vibrant princess whose spirit danced like the sunlight that fell through the leaves. She became a symbol of hope, bridging the realms of royalty and commonality - a beacon of unity for a kingdom that had waited with bated breath for her arrival.

And so, under the golden skies of Celestria, the royal court and citizens celebrated the birth of their princess, whose laughter echoed throughout the kingdom, mingling with the melodies of joy that had marked her grand entrance into the world.

But a shadowy group lurked in the hidden corridors beneath the splendor of the kingdom. Unseen and unheard, this gang shrouded in mystery plotted insidiously to infiltrate the royal house.

In the dimly lit chamber adorned with ancient symbols, the agents of the group - Shadows of Darkness - received a chilling instruction. The leaders, shrouded in the cloak of shadows, readjusted their strategy. Princess Y/n, an unforeseen variable, demanded an adjustment to their malevolent plans.

As Y/n's laughter rang through the palace, the group's secret game unfolded on an invisible chessboard. The birth of the princess upset their carefully laid plans and brought an element of unpredictability into play. Beneath the surface of the festivities, a calculated dance played out, where joyful echoes collided with the malice lurking in the shadows. Citizens and royalty revelled in blissful ignorance, unaware of the ominous threat lurking in the hidden corners of the palace. A dangerous dance began. One in which the laughter of a princess served as an eerie soundtrack to a covert operation that would reshape Celestria's destiny.

As daylight bathed the kingdom in golden hues, the shadowy group moved in secrecy. Their ominous influence extended to unsuspecting future queens. The dark puppet, manipulated by unseen hands, infiltrated the royal court and left a menacing presence.

The king, who had followers in every country, became aware of the terrifying power. Fearing for his family and the future of his country, he had his troops strengthened and also looked for a guardian for his daughter. So he spread the word throughout the country that a tournament was to be held in the late evening and that the bravest and strongest fighters were to take part.The anticipation of the great tournament was in the air that day. The king, seeking the perfect protector for his most precious treasure, gathered warriors from faraway lands. Men vying for the honor of protecting the jewel of the realm presented themselves in the arena.

The tournament, a spectacle of skill and courage, began with the clash of swords and the thundering hooves of warhorses. Knights from all corners of the realm showcased their skills, a dance of blades played out under the watchful eyes of the royal court.

As the dust settled and countless fighters succumbed to the skill of their opponents, there was a quiet tension among the spectators. The king, seated on his magnificent throne, surveyed the remaining warriors, his keen eyes searching for the one who would serve as a shield against the impending danger to the princess. Then, amidst the remaining fighters, a lone, young figure emerged, clad in armor that seemed to absorb the essence of the shadows. The air fell silent as this knight stepped forward, exuding an aura of fear and admiration. A murmur went through the audience, a collective acknowledgement that a formidable force had entered the arena.

The king, mesmerized and wary, leaned forward in his throne, a silent question etched on his regal countenance. "Tell me, what is a child doing on the field?" he asked his 1st in command. He bowed to his king, "Forgive me, my majesty, but you emphasized that the gates were open to anyone carrying a sword." The king forced the moment back into his mind and now looked further down, at the person.

At that very moment, the mysterious knight removed the helmet, revealing a cascade of fiery red hair framing a face marked by the scars of countless battles. Her piercing gaze, a mixture of steel and determination, met the king's eyes with an unwavering intensity. A murmur went through the hall as the realization set in. "Lady, Natalia Alianovna Romanoff," someone breathed, the name inspiring both awe and fear. As the first young woman to be knighted, Natasha was widely known, and her accomplishments on the battlefield were whispered about in saintly tones. The king, who also learned of her presence, widened his eyes.

As she approached the king, Natasha dropped to one knee, a sign of respect and submission. Her armor bore the marks of countless victories, and the sword at her side was a testament to her skill as a warrior.

"Your Majesty," Natasha's voice, a symphony of authority and humility, echoed through the arena. "I am Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, sworn to protect those deemed worthy of the Empire's protection. I offer my skills and loyalty to defend your princess, the jewel of Celestria." The king, observing the steely determination in Natasha's eyes, pondered her words. Isn't she too young to be a knight? Presently good..She could form a bond with Y/n. He thought.

The court remained in a collective breathless pause, awaiting the monarch's decision. After a moment's thought, the king nodded, a gesture that echoed through the arena like a decree.

"Lady Natasha Romanoff, rise. You have proven that you are an excellent Fighter. May the realm be witness to your service as my daughter's protector."

The crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and whispers in appreciation of the gravity of the moment. Natasha rose from her knees and hid her features behind her helmet again. With measured steps, she returned to the ranks of the assembled knights, her presence leaving an indelible impression on the tournament and setting the stage for a new chapter in the kingdom's saga. Since then, the unique bond between the young princess and the fearless knight began to grow. Y/n, a little bundle of joyful energy, zoomed through the flowerbeds. "Tasha, look, I can fly!" she cried, spreading her tiny arms. Natasha, with a smile on her lips, leaned down. "Really? Show me, little whirlwind." And chase her through the field.

"Tasha, why are you so strong?" asked Y/n three years later, while they were playing in the halls. Natasha, with a mischievous smile, replied, "Strength comes not only from muscles, but also from courage and determination, my Princess."

The royal parents, from their thrones, watched the scene with warm smiles. "Look how Natasha is teaching our daughter," said the queen. The king nodded proudly. "A bond strengthened not only by duty, but also by the heart..I could not have chosen anyone better."

In the shelter of the pavilion, Y/n and Natasha talked about the years of shared experiences. "Promise me, Natasha, that you will always be by my side," Natasha, serious yet tender, replied, "As long as I breathe, I will watch over you, Princess."

Over the years, not only did Y/n grow up, but so did the love between her and Natasha. Adventures together, laughter and tears formed a bond that blurred the boundaries between princess and protector.

At the age of 20, Y/n found herself in the midst of an inner turmoil. The years had passed since Natasha had taken up residence as her protector, and a subtle change was creeping into the princess's mind.

In the quiet moments when the sun slowly disappeared behind the palace walls, Y/n discovered a growing urge to seek Natasha's closeness. Every look from the knightess, every gentle touch, seemed to break through an invisible barrier within Y/n.

The glances Natasha cast across the ballroom as they shared in royal festivities carried a deeper meaning. Y/n recognized the warmth in Natasha's eyes, which came not only from her proximity to the king, but betrayed something more intimate. Uncertainty gnawed at Y/n as she thought about these growing feelings. Society, royal expectations, all created a veil that kept her growing affection for Natasha hidden.

The Royal Mother observed the subtle changes in Y/n's behavior, but the secret remained hidden between the lines. Y/n felt her heart beat faster when she faced Natasha, and the soft sighs that escaped her were carried on the winds of fate.

One day, Natasha, bathed in sweat from the rigorous training session, gracefully moved through the courtyard, effortlessly wrestling each knight that dared to cross her path to the ground. As Y/n strolled through the palace, she unexpectedly caught sight of Natasha in action, sans her usual formidable armor.

Mesmerized by the raw power and agility on display, Yn found it challenging to look away. Natasha's every move seemed like a choreographed dance of strength and finesse. It was the first time Y/n had seen her like this, vulnerable yet invincible

Natasha, engrossed in her sparring session, sensed Y/n's eyes on her. Mid-wrestle with one of the knights, she subtly shifted her gaze to meet Y/n's, exhaling almost imperceptibly. In that brief connection, Natasha's intense focus softened, and a ghost of a smile played on her lips, as if she had caught Y/n in the act.

Y/n, startled by Natasha's awareness, quickly averted her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in the palace architecture. The blush on her cheeks, however, betrayed her attempt to conceal the intrigue Natasha's athleticism had sparked.

She continued her training, each movement deliberate and powerful. Y/n, despite her efforts to remain discreet, stole occasional glances, hoping Natasha wouldn't notice..

When a maid approached, unaware of the silent exchange, Y/n stammered, "I-I was just, you know, walking around," as she tried to divert attention from the fact that Natasha had momentarily captured her focus. Natasha, still engaged in her training, shot Y/n a knowing look, her eyes betraying a hint of amusement, silently acknowledging the unspoken connection while respecting Y/n's attempt to keep her feelings concealed.

Several hours passed, and Y/n immersed herself in the demands of royal duties. As she diligently attended to matters within the palace, she couldn't shake the memory of Natasha's training session. Much to her surprise, as she returned to the main hall, there was Natasha, seamlessly transitioning from warrior to protector, resuming her role by Y/n's side.

Their eyes met once again, and this time Natasha's expression spoke volumes. A playful glint in her eyes suggested a shared secret, referencing the earlier stolen glances. Y/n couldn't help but smile in response, a subtle acknowledgment of the connection they had formed.

Weeks later when the moon towered over Celestria, Y/n dared a tentative look into Natasha's eyes. It was as if the universe melded their souls together, and in that moment, Y/n knew it was more than mere reverence for the brave knight. The realization that her heart was following a path of love was like the blossoming of a delicate flower within her. But the world she lived in demanded secrecy - a love that blossomed in the shadow of royal duties.

Another year passed and Y/n's duties to the throne drew ever closer. Her parents now saw her as an adult woman who would later rule the people. However, this could not be done alone and the time had come to find a suitable mate. So they embarked on various journeys to neighboring countries to consider their princes and princesses. A point Y/n is proud to show. With all the fuss she secretly has about Natasha, her eyes opened to another part.

It was a sunny day when the royal family were visiting another kingdom. The family was welcomed with joy. But the festive atmosphere was pervaded by an underlying tension. As Y/n strode through the hall in royal garb, she was swarmed by the polite remarks and advances of the foreign prince. The looks he gave her were full of obvious interest, and the smile on his lips betrayed intentions that went beyond polite courtesies.

Natasha, standing in her imposing armor alongside the royal family, felt a flame of jealousy flare up inside her. Every passionate look, every touched hand, felt like a stab in her chest. In a quiet moment, when the prince engaged Y/n in a private conversation, Natasha could hardly bear the sight. Her hands clenched into fists as she inwardly fought back the burning sting of jealousy.

Finally, the festive gathering broke up and the royal family returned to their chambers. The opulent chambers of Y/n awoke to the pale glow of candles as the evening shrouded the royal estate in an atmosphere of twilight. The prince, wearing a polite facade, had made his intentions clear. But Natasha sensed the unease in the air. When the prince attempted to cross the boundaries of politeness and seek out Y/n in her chambers, Natasha turned cold as ice. Her eyes, normally as impenetrable as the darkness, bore into the young nobleman. Without a word, her gaze spoke volumes, and the prince retreated as if he had entered an invisible barrier.

When Natasha entered Y/n's chamber, the discomfort was reflected on Y/n's face. "Thank you.. I was so uncomfortable, but I didn't mean to be rude," Y/n murmured, her voice low in the intimate atmosphere. Natasha stepped closer, her touch cooler than the night breeze blowing through the open window. "My princess, you never have to compromise for politeness."

In a calculated move that blurred the line between protector and seductress, Natasha lifted Y/n's hand and stroked her fingertips over the delicate skin. "Don't let anyone enter your world if you don't want them to. You deserve respect and so much more."

The darkness of the room seemed to tighten around the two of them as Natasha continued, intensifying her own touch. "And maybe, there is someone..who is willing to go deeper than politeness allows."

The words echoed between the walls as the coolness of the night turned into a dance of desire. Y/n sensed the play of shadows as Natasha, took on the role of seductress. A passionate revelation that in the twilight of her chambers revealed a connection that transcended the duties of the royal hall.

The room lost its dimensions in darkness as Natasha and Y/n were caught in a mesmerizing dance of tension. Y/n's heartbeat quickened as Natasha's words sounded like a breath in the night, a promise that implied more than it stated. "Natasha, I don't know what you mean..." whispered Y/n, her voice caught between curiosity and an underlying desire that lingered in the air. Natasha stepped closer, her gaze like the dark veil of night that hid everything and yet revealed everything. "I speak of desire that goes deeper than any protocol that exists within the walls of a palace."

The atmosphere thickened as Natasha began to loosen Y/n's royal robes with deft fingers. "You can feel it, can't you? This suppressed energy between us. It's time to explore the shadows that lurk in the corners of our connection."

Y/n's breathing quickened as the warmth of Natasha's hands touched her skin. A mixture of fear and desire flickered in her eyes as she embraced the unknown.

"N-Natasha, I... Is this right?" asked Y/n, but her reticence was swallowed up by the darkness.

Natasha replied with a cool smile that betrayed a deep, hidden passion. "Right or wrong, Y/n, does not exist in this world of shadows. There is only what you desire and what you are willing to experience." The air between them was charged as Natasha gently placed her lips on Y/n's. A passionate kiss that burned down the blurred lines between duty and desire. Still, Natasha paused for a moment and looked her princess in the eye, “I notice your looks, your breath when I sneak up on you..you’re begging when I retreat to my chambers..” Natasha pushed the princess onto the bed. The redhead had Y/n's legs wide open. Open for her to devour.

Natasha licked her lips, staring at Y/n's underwear, a hungry look in her mouth. Y/n still felt the slight urge to protest. What is she doing here? What happens if her parents find out about this? Are they allowed-

But all words of resistance melted into a moan in her mouth as Natasha opened her entrance with her tongue. She lay down in front of Y/n, lifting the princess's legs by her thighs onto her shoulders. Natasha's tongue turned her princess's moans into groans and then shouts of ecstasy. After tasting Y/n for long enough, Natasha lifted her head. Her mouth was covered in Y/n's fluid, giving her face a glow that Y/n found simply intoxicating.

"How are you feeling? Can I continue?" Natasha's eyes widened as she saw the sight of her ruler. Spread wide and with her hands clenched in the pillows, "K-Keep going please..” Natasha smiled and climbed up to Y/n to take off her dress and while she undressed Y/n, Natasha kissed Y/n and she tasted herself on her lips. Without breaking the kiss, Natasha inserted two of her fingers into Y/n. In response, the young princess let out a deep moan into Natasha's mouth as she slowly penetrated her. As Natasha alternated between driving her index and middle fingers in and out of Y/n's cavity, Y/n was disturbed by the amount of armor Natasha still had on and set about removing it.

Natasha smirked again as she realized what Y/n's plans were and sat back up, "You could have asked, my highness..." Y/n's eyes were wide as she watched Natasha remove every single piece of metal from her body. Eventually it just tinkled on the floor and Natasha stood before her in a white shirt. She wasted no more time and pounced on the young girl again.

"What do you want me to do, princess?" Natasha now asked, breathing in unison with her aroused ruler. She had already slipped a hand between Y/n's thighs and was leaning on her shorts. Y/n knew what Natasha wanted to hear. "Please.." she begged, "fuck me." Natasha watched Y/n's flushed face. It was so, so lewd. This time, however, Natasha stroked a finger over the edge of her labia and felt how far the wetness had spread.

"You really want it, don't you?" said Natasha with a hint of smugness in her voice. Y/n knew it wasn't to humiliate her, but rather to increase her sense of exposure.

Yes, I really fucking want it, Y/n wanted to say, but managed to hold back. Natasha, however, didn't miss the look on her face before she leaned in and slowly kissed Y/n again. She began to run her fingers up and down the wetness between Y/n's legs, stroking slowly and rhythmically.

Y/n held back any sound that wanted to come out of her mouth, knowing there was more to come. A touch slipped past a certain spot so briefly and lightly that Y/n's body flinched in response. Natasha had to keep her senses together, just a little longer. The stroking and kissing gradually became faster, without either of them noticing against the backdrop of their growing arousal. Natasha's fingers were touching Y/n's clit more and more frequently now, and Y/n couldn't keep up, the tension between her legs growing and her mouth remaining slightly open.

"A-A-hh..." she gasped, and her body arched back more and more. She was crying out now, twisting and turning, her clit at the center of the movement, her hands wrapped around Y/ns, her face pressed into her shoulders, her upper body arched so that her breasts and erect nipples moved against Natasha's body in the same rhythm as the caresses between her thighs. "Nat-..Natasha...!" She cried out. "I'm... ah, I'm..."

Natasha kissed her neck in response and concentrated fully on bringing Y/n to climax. She wanted to hear her princess scream, to feel her thrusting against her body in a frenzy of pleasure. She wanted Y/n to lose all inhibitions and move against her hand like a horny slut. Y/n couldn't take it anymore. Her hips and buttocks began to move against Natasha, thrusting towards her with desire, begging her not to stop. It felt so dirty to cooperate and beg so earnestly, but Y/n didn't care about any of it. Natasha moaned along with Y/n and couldn't hold back either after listening to Y/n feel this way about her.

“Cum for me.”

When Y/n heard Natasha's soft and loving voice moaning like that, she shook with pleasure. Her mind went blank. The room disappeared, the bed vanished. The world consisted only of her body, which contracted and pulsated to release all its pent-up arousal in one go. Y/n didn't know how much time had passed while she trembled and shook and moaned, even though she didn't want to. All she knew was that Natasha had been holding her the whole time and watched every single facial feature of her beloved princess.

TAGLIST: @taliiiaasteria @natty-taffy @natashaswife4125 @lifebyinez @aemilia19 @natwifesblog @clearcoloredlenses @ragoshmog @eringranola

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha smut #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romanov smut #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha

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callsigns-haze · 8 months ago

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Oh, How She's Changed...

Pairing: Acotar x reader Warnings: Contains mature themes, including violence, romance, and adult situations. Summary: YN, the immortal descendant of gods, reunites with her friends Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel at a lavish gathering in the Night Court's grand ballroom. As they reminisce about past adventures and observe the antics of other courtiers, they marvel at YN's transformation from an innocent girl into a captivating woman. However, their reunion is cut short when one of YN's guards arrives to escort her away, leaving Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel with lingering thoughts and a sense of longing as they watch her depart into the night.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue across the Night Court's palace, YN, the immortal descendant of gods, found herself ensconced in a lavish chamber. Intricate tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of ancient battles and celestial beings, while flickering candles bathed the room in a soft, ethereal glow. At the heart of the chamber, YN stood surrounded by the opulent splendour of her surroundings, her gaze drawn to the figures of Mor and Amren bustling around her.

Mor, her fiery locks cascading in loose waves around her shoulders, moved with a grace born of centuries of battle and camaraderie. Dressed in elegant attire befitting her station as a high-ranking member of the Night Court, she approached YN with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Well, YN," she said, her voice carrying a note of playful anticipation, "are you ready to grace the fae with your divine presence tonight?"

YN, radiant in her own right, adorned in garments woven from the finest silks and adorned with jewels that shimmered like stars, offered Mor a warm smile. "I hope I can do justice to the legacy of my ancestors," she replied, her voice infused with a hint of humility.

Meanwhile, Amren, the enigmatic being of ancient origins, moved with a fluidity that spoke of eons spent mastering the arcane arts. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned forth threads of celestial magic, weaving enchantments into the fabric of YN's gown. Each stitch pulsed with otherworldly energy, resonating with the divine power that flowed through YN's immortal veins.

"Fear not, YN," Amren reassured her, her voice a melodic echo of distant thunder, "with Mor's impeccable taste and my arcane prowess, you'll be the epitome of divine elegance."

Mor nodded in agreement, her gaze sweeping over YN with an approving smile. "And let's not forget your own innate charm and grace, YN," she added, her eyes alight with pride. "You were born for moments like these."

Grateful for their support and guidance, YN felt a surge of confidence coursing through her veins. "Thank you, both of you," she said, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "I'm grateful to have such wise counsel."

Amren's lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glittering with ancient wisdom. "The honour is ours, YN," she replied, her voice carrying the weight of centuries past. "Now, let us ensure that you're prepared for whatever the night may hold."

But as YN caught her reflection in the polished mirror, something stirred within her. Gone was the innocent girl she had always been, replaced by a woman exuding an air of confidence and allure. With a subtle sway of her hips and a coy smile playing upon her lips, she realized that with this new look, she was ready for some spice.

And so, as she stepped out into the night, her heart brimming with anticipation, YN knew that she was not just a descendant of gods, but a force to be reckoned with—a goddess in her own right, ready to conquer whatever challenges lay ahead.

In the heart of the Night Court's grand ballroom, the air hummed with the vibrant energy of celebration. The room pulsated with music, the melodies weaving through the throng of fae dancers swirling gracefully across the floor. Amidst the lively festivities, three figures sat at a secluded table, their voices mingling with laughter and camaraderie.

Rhysand, the enigmatic High Lord of the Night Court, reclined in his seat with an easy grace, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Beside him, Cassian and Azriel, his loyal companions and warriors of the Night Court, shared a toast, their laughter echoing through the hall.

"Another round, gentlemen?" Rhysand suggested, raising his glass in a playful salute.

Cassian grinned, clinking his glass against Rhysand's. "You read my mind, Rhys."

Azriel nodded in agreement, his usually stoic demeanor softened by the warmth of the moment. "To old friends and new beginnings," he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated with quiet strength.

As they sipped their drinks, their conversation turned to memories of times long past. They spoke of battles fought and victories won, of challenges overcome and bonds forged in the crucible of war. And yet, amidst the tales of triumph, there lingered a sense of longing—a yearning for something—or rather, someone—missing from their midst.

"I can't wait to see YN again," Cassian remarked, his eyes alight with anticipation. "It's been far too long since she graced us with her presence."

Rhysand nodded in agreement, a flicker of excitement dancing in his gaze. "Indeed. It will be interesting to see how she's changed over the years."

Azriel's expression softened with a hint of nostalgia. "She was always a force to be reckoned with," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "I have no doubt that she's only grown stronger with time."

As they spoke of YN, the immortal descendant of gods, their voices filled with a mixture of fondness and admiration. Though separated by distance and time, their bond with her remained unbreakable—a testament to the enduring power of friendship and loyalty.

And so, amidst the revelry of the Night Court, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel raised their glasses once more, toasting to the promise of a long-awaited reunion—a moment that would soon bring together old friends and new beginnings in a celebration of life, love, and the enduring bonds that unite them all.

As the night wore on and the revelry reached its peak, the grand ballroom of the Night Court was alive with energy. Fae of all shapes and sizes danced in a whirl of vibrant colors and laughter, their movements reflecting the joy and freedom of the moment.

Amidst the swirling throng, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel found themselves drawn into the rhythm of the music, their spirits lifted by the infectious enthusiasm of the crowd. They moved with a fluid grace, their movements a testament to years of training and camaraderie.

As they danced, their thoughts inevitably turned to YN, the immortal descendant of gods they had long considered a dear friend. Memories of their past adventures together flooded their minds, filling them with a sense of nostalgia and longing.

"I remember the first time I met YN," Cassian reminisced, his voice tinged with fondness. "She was like a breath of fresh air—a ray of sunshine in the darkness."

Rhysand chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, I recall that day well. She certainly knew how to make an entrance."

Azriel nodded in agreement, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "She was always full of surprises. I have no doubt that tonight will be no different."

As they danced and laughed, their anticipation for YN's arrival grew with each passing moment. They imagined the joy of seeing her again, the warmth of her smile, and the strength of her spirit.

And so, amidst the music and merriment of the Night Court's grand celebration, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel continued to dance, their hearts filled with excitement and anticipation for the long-awaited reunion that awaited them. For in that moment, surrounded by friends and allies, they knew that no matter what the future held, they would face it together, united in their bond of friendship and shared experiences.

As the trio continued their animated conversation, a sudden interruption from behind caught them off guard. Before they could react, a voice, once familiar but now tinged with a newfound confidence, sliced through the air.

"Did I hear someone talking about me?" YN's voice teased, laced with amusement and a hint of mischief.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel froze mid-conversation, their heads snapping around to find the source of the interruption. And there, standing before them, was YN—transformed beyond recognition.

Gone was the innocent girl they remembered from years past. In her place stood a woman of breathtaking beauty and undeniable allure. Her hair cascaded in waves of midnight silk, framing a face that radiated with confidence and strength. Every movement she made exuded grace and poise, her eyes sparkling with a newfound fire that sent shivers down their spines.

For a moment, the trio could only stare in stunned silence, their minds struggling to reconcile the image before them with the memories of the girl they once knew. It took them a beat too long to realize that the innocent girl had blossomed into a captivating woman—a realization that nearly caused Azriel to choke on his drink.

Cassian was the first to recover, his trademark grin spreading across his face. "Well, well, well," he exclaimed, his voice filled with playful delight. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Rhysand's eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed YN's transformation. "I must say, you clean up rather nicely, YN," he remarked, his tone teasing yet genuine.

Azriel, usually composed and reserved, found himself at a loss for words. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his cheeks flushing faintly as he struggled to regain his composure. "You... uh... look... stunning," he managed to stammer out, his voice barely above a whisper.

YN chuckled at their reactions, a knowing gleam dancing in her eyes. "Why, thank you, gentlemen," she replied, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "I must admit, it's been quite the journey."

As they exchanged pleasantries and caught up on lost time, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel couldn't help but marvel at the woman YN had become. And as they continued to bask in the warmth of her presence, they knew that this reunion would mark the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with excitement, adventure, and the enduring bond of friendship that had stood the test of time.

As Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN retreated to a secluded corner of the ballroom, their conversation took a more relaxed turn. Surrounded by the lively festivities of the Night Court, they observed the arrival of other lords and ladies with a mixture of amusement and mild skepticism.

Rhysand leaned against a pillar, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he surveyed the gathering crowd. "Ah, it seems the usual suspects have graced us with their presence," he remarked, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Cassian chuckled, his eyes scanning the room with a discerning gaze. "Indeed. I see Lord Tarquin has brought his entourage of sycophants," he observed, a bemused expression crossing his features.

Azriel's lips quirked into a wry smile as he watched the various courtiers mingling with practiced charm and false pretenses. "And let's not forget Lady Ianthe, fluttering about like a peacock in heat," he added, his voice dripping with dry humor.

YN, who had been quietly observing the scene, couldn't help but join in their laughter. "It's almost comical, isn't it?" she remarked, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "All this posturing and preening for the sake of appearances."

As they continued to share in their amusement, their conversation turned to lighter topics—old memories, shared experiences, and the absurdities of fae society. They laughed and joked, their camaraderie growing stronger with each passing moment.

But amidst the laughter and light-hearted banter, there was an unspoken understanding—a recognition of the challenges they faced and the dangers that lurked in the shadows. And as they stood together, united in their bond of friendship and shared experiences, they knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, with strength, courage, and a healthy dose of laughter to see them through.

As Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN observed the arrivals, their conversation took on a slightly more critical tone. They couldn't help but exchange knowing glances and subtle nods of agreement as they assessed the behavior of the other lords and ladies.

"Look at Lord Beron," Rhysand remarked, his voice dripping with disdain as he gestured towards a particularly pompous nobleman. "Does he ever tire of hearing himself talk?"

Cassian snorted in amusement, his eyes following Rhysand's gesture. "I doubt it," he replied, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "He's too enamored with the sound of his own voice."

Azriel, ever the silent observer, watched with a keen eye as the various courtiers vied for attention and favor. "And what about Lord Eris?" he mused, his tone tinged with skepticism. "Does he ever tire of playing his little games?"

YN nodded in agreement, her gaze narrowing slightly as she observed Lord Eris' calculating smile. "He's always been one for manipulation and intrigue," she remarked, her voice tinged with a hint of disdain. "But I doubt he'll find much success here tonight."

As they continued to pass judgment on the behavior of their fellow courtiers, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN found themselves sharing in a sense of camaraderie born of mutual understanding. They may have been outsiders in the eyes of some, but together, they formed a formidable alliance—one built on trust, loyalty, and a shared disdain for the superficiality and pretense that often permeated fae society.

And as they stood together, laughing and jesting in their secluded corner of the ballroom, they knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them with unwavering resolve and the unbreakable bond of friendship that bound them together.

As the night wore on, the revelry continued to swell around them, but amidst the celebration, a hushed murmur reached YN's ears. Turning slightly, she saw one of her guards approaching, his demeanor serious and resolute.

Excusing herself from the conversation with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel, YN turned to face her guard. His presence reminded her of the responsibilities that came with her divine lineage—the duties and obligations that often weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

With a nod of understanding, YN bid farewell to her companions, offering each of them a warm smile and a promise to meet again soon. Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel returned her smile, their expressions filled with a mixture of fondness and admiration.

As YN began to make her way towards the exit, the trio watched her go, their eyes following her with a mixture of awe and longing. It was impossible not to notice how she had changed—the way she carried herself with a newfound confidence, the subtle shift in her demeanor that spoke of experiences and challenges faced.

"She's grown into quite the remarkable woman, hasn't she?" Rhysand remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of pride.

Cassian nodded in agreement, his gaze never leaving YN's retreating figure. "Indeed. She's like a jewel—radiant and untouchable."

Azriel remained silent, his eyes fixed on YN with a depth of emotion that spoke volumes. He had always felt a special connection to her—a bond forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unspoken understanding. And as he watched her disappear into the night, a sense of longing stirred within him—a yearning to be by her side, to protect her and guide her through the challenges that lay ahead.

As YN disappeared from view, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel turned back to the festivities, their thoughts lingering on the woman who had captured their hearts and inspired their admiration. For in that moment, they knew that no matter where their paths may lead, their bond with YN would remain unbreakable—a beacon of light in the darkness, guiding them through the trials and tribulations of the fae realm.

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@shanimallina87

@kmc1989

@djs8891

@hardballoonlove

@callsign-dexter

@mamachasesmayhem

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@rosiahills22

#acotar #rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys x y/n #rhys x you #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #cassian x reader #cassian x you #cassian x y/n #bat boys #bat boys x reader #bat boys x you #decided on something new...

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emjayewrites · 1 month ago

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fouled by fate • aurelien tchouameni (7/10)

SYNOPSIS: Aurélien Tchouaméni, one of football’s rising stars, is used to navigating the pressures of the pitch—but nothing could prepare him for an arranged marriage. With his family’s legacy and cultural traditions at stake, Aurélien reluctantly agrees to marry a woman he barely knows. But as they’re thrust into the public eye, sparks fly in unexpected ways. The two must navigate the complexities of love, duty, and fame, all while figuring out if they’re playing on the same team—or if their hearts are destined for different paths.

PAIRINGS: Aurélien Tchouaméni x Zuri Awanto Nchang (faceclaim Samira Ahmed @/iamsamiira)

WARNINGS: cursing, football b.s., dry humor/wit, slight arguing, friends to lovers, instant attraction, angst, eventual smut (18+/minors dni)

TAGLIST: @trenterprise @f1-football-fiend @lettersofgold @hopefulromantic1 @deonn-jaelle @vile-harlot @perfecttrashface @2serenity0 @essaysbyciara @saturnville @trentswrld @planetmimi @muglermami @shepgurl @sucredreamer @julescpu @tchouathon @greyishbach @shelovesfootie @certifiedlesbianbaddie @trinitoldyouso @bbgkoo @lottins-only

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be removed from the tag list Thank you again for your love and appreciation!

Zuri blinked against the morning light as it filtered through the thin curtains of her room. For a moment, she wasn’t entirely sure where she was, her body still warm and heavy with sleep. Then it hit her —her bedroom. Her bed. Not Aurélien’s.

She let out a soft sigh, chastising herself as she stretched beneath the sheets. After everything that had happened the last few days, she had been so close to just staying with him. They had spent every evening together, talking, laughing, and occasionally flirting in a way that left her heart racing. Yet, she had still chosen to slip back to her own room last night, even though she wanted to be near him.

Zuri closed her eyes for a second, mentally scolding herself for the decision. It wasn’t because she didn’t feel something for him — she definitely did. In fact, that was part of the problem. She was starting to feel Aurélien a lot, more than she had expected when all of this started. He wasn’t just the guy she had been arranged to marry anymore; he was becoming someone she was genuinely drawn to. And that terrified her a little.

She didn’t want to get caught up in her emotions just because Aurélien had looked so damn sexy in his traditional Bamileke attire the other night. The memory made her groan inwardly, heat rising in her cheeks. The way the fabric had hugged his body, highlighting every muscle, and the way he carried himself with that effortless confidence — it had taken every ounce of self-control not to jump his bones right then and there.

But no, she had wanted to make sure what she was feeling was real, not just lust clouding her judgment. She needed to know that whatever was happening between them wasn’t just a product of the circumstances or physical attraction. So, she had slipped back to her own bed, hoping a little space would help her think clearly.

How’s that going for you? she thought dryly, throwing the covers off.

As she stretched and rolled out of bed, the sound of music drifted in from outside. Hip-hop. Familiar, but unexpected in the quiet morning air. Curious, Zuri padded over to the window and peered out, her eyebrows raising in surprise.

There, in the pool, was Aurélien. His broad shoulders gleamed under the early sun as he swam laps effortlessly, cutting through the water with perfect form. Zeus lay lazily by the poolside, his massive head resting on his paws, clearly content with the morning's serenity. The sight made her smile, warmth blooming in her chest. She watched Aurélien for a few moments, appreciating the fluidity of his movements, the way his muscles flexed with every stroke.

Damn, this man really is something, she thought, biting her lip before shaking her head. Her eyes flicked over to Zeus, and a soft laugh escaped her. He was always glued to Aurélien, never more than a few feet away. The two of them were practically inseparable, much like how she had been with him these past few days.

Her thoughts drifted to Senait and Jules, who had left yesterday after spending the rest of the weekend with them. Zuri had noticed how Senait seemed unusually keen on Jules, which had amused her. Her best friend had a habit of playing coy when it came to men, a tactic Zuri knew all too well. Senait would flirt, tease, and be all up in a guy’s face but rarely let her guard down. It was her way of avoiding getting hurt, a defense mechanism she had honed over the years.

Zuri couldn’t exactly blame her — Jules was handsome, with that quiet confidence and an easy smile that made him hard to resist. He was the kind of guy who could make a woman feel comfortable without even trying. But despite Senait’s usual games, Zuri could tell there was something different this time. She saw how Senait’s eyes lingered on Jules when she thought no one was watching, and how Jules seemed genuinely interested in her.

For once, Zuri doubted Senait’s playful façade would hold up. Jules didn’t seem like the type to play around, and Zuri had a feeling that if Senait let her walls down, something real could happen between them.

Zuri’s thoughts returned to the present as she watched Aurélien finish his laps, his chest rising and falling as he pulled himself out of the pool, water cascading down his body. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

What are you doing, Zuri? she asked herself, staring out at him. You’re over here, in your room, when you could be there with him.

She glanced back at her bed, then at Aurélien, who was now toweling off, his focus on Zeus as he lazily scratched the dog's head. The past week had been filled with moments — moments of connection, of unspoken understanding, of a pull that was becoming harder to ignore. But what was holding her back now?

Was she scared of what this could become, or was it just a matter of time before she let herself fully embrace it?

Zuri sighed, her heart fluttering as she looked at him one last time before turning away from the window. Maybe it was time to stop fighting it. Time to let herself explore whatever this was between them. Whether it was real or just something born out of their situation, there was only one way to find out.

With a new resolve, she headed toward the bathroom to freshen up, her thoughts still lingering on the man outside. She quickly brushed her teeth, pulling her hair into a ponytail before padding down the hallway, the smell of coffee faint but unmistakable.

As she approached the kitchen, she spotted Aurélien standing by the counter, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at the new coffee machine they had gotten as a gift during their engagement party. He was pressing buttons with the caution of someone defusing a bomb, and the sight made Zuri bite back a laugh.

"Need some help?" she teased, leaning against the doorframe.

Aurélien glanced up, flashing her a sheepish grin. "You’d think a footballer could handle a coffee machine, right? But no, this thing’s smarter than me."

Zuri chuckled, walking over to him. "It’s not that complicated. You just have to remember that it’s a gift designed to make our mornings unnecessarily fancy," she said, pushing a few buttons with ease.

In seconds, the machine whirred to life, the rich aroma of brewing coffee filling the kitchen. Zuri glanced up at Aurélien, who was watching her with a playful smirk.

"Show-off," he murmured then kissed his teeth, his voice low and teasing.

She shrugged, brushing off his comment with a grin. "Someone has to keep this household running."

He laughed, leaning in closer, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. The lightness of the banter faded as their eyes met, and Zuri felt that familiar pull again. She couldn’t deny it any longer, not with him standing this close, his presence consuming every bit of space around her. Her heart sped up as Aurélien tilted his head slightly, his lips ghosting over hers in a way that made her breath catch.

Before she knew it, his mouth was on hers, soft but insistent. Zuri kissed him back without hesitation, her body responding to the warmth of his lips, the way his hand found her waist, drawing her closer. Time seemed to slow, and for those few seconds, nothing else mattered.

When they finally pulled apart, Zuri could feel her pulse racing, though she tried to play it cool. Aurélien stepped back, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips, but there was something more in his eyes—something that mirrored what she was feeling. The unspoken acknowledgment that neither of them wanted that kiss to end.

"You’ve been kissing me more and more lately," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Aurélien’s grin widened. "I like kissing you," he replied casually.

Zuri rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm." He leaned back against the counter, watching her closely, his gaze lingering on her lips before finally meeting her eyes again. "What can I say? It’s becoming my favorite pastime."

Zuri felt a flutter in her chest, the playful banter only masking the deeper emotions brewing beneath the surface.

Aurélien seemed to read her thoughts because he cleared his throat and stepped back a little more, giving them both space to breathe. "So," he said, changing the subject, "we’ve got quite the haul of gifts, don’t we?"

Zuri glanced over at the dining room, where boxes and bags were stacked high, filling the space. "I know. It’s like we’re stocking up for a small country."

"I think the coffee machine might be the most confusing one," Aurélien admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Or the juicer," Zuri added, laughing. "I don’t even know what half those buttons do."

They both chuckled, the lightness returning as they stood together in the kitchen, the tension easing for the moment. But just as quickly as the conversation shifted, Aurélien’s expression grew more serious.

"We need to get ready soon," he said, his voice softer. "Our flight leaves in a few hours."

Zuri blinked, the reality of their plans sinking in. "Paris," she murmured, the name of the city filling her with excitement. She loved Paris — the energy, the culture, the food. It was one of her favorite places in the world. But this time, the trip had added significance. Aurélien was heading there for his national team camp with Les Bleus, and she would be going with him.

"Yeah," Aurélien said, watching her carefully. "You ready?"

Zuri smiled, her excitement bubbling up. "Always ready for Paris."

"Good." Aurélien’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned in closer again, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "I hope your French has gotten better."

Zuri playfully swatted at him, her eyes narrowing. "So mean," she pouted, sticking out her tongue before turning to head back to her room to finish packing.

Just as she started walking away, Aurélien’s hand came down on her ass in a playful smack, causing her to spin around, wide-eyed in surprise.

"There’s more where that came from if you keep being bratty," he said, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.

Zuri blinked, both shocked and amused. "Oh really?" she asked, trying to sound indignant but failing to hide her smile.

"Absolutely," Aurélien replied, his tone warm and teasing, his gaze lingering on her with a mix of challenge and affection.

_______________________________________________

Paris greeted Zuri and Aurélien with a blend of old-world charm and modern elegance. The sun was setting over the Seine, casting a golden glow across the city as they made their way to their hotel. The air was crisp, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of cars filling the streets as they approached the entrance of a luxurious five-star hotel, tucked away from the bustling avenues but still close to the heart of the city.

The hotel lobby was grand but understated, with sleek marble floors and intricate chandeliers casting a warm light. Zuri felt a surge of excitement as they made their way to the elevator, the plush carpet underfoot softening their steps. As they reached their suite, the door swung open to reveal a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower, illuminated against the fading twilight.

Zuri’s breath hitched as she took it all in. The Paris skyline stretched out before her, and she marveled at how the city seemed to pulse with life, even from this quiet, elevated distance. "Wow," she breathed, stepping closer to the windows.

Aurélien smiled as he watched her, clearly enjoying her awe. "It’s something, right?" he said, coming up behind her. His fingers lightly grazed her waist as he stood just inches away, the warmth of his body a welcome presence. "I’ll be checking in at camp soon. I have to change," he murmured, his voice dropping slightly.

Before she could reply, he tilted her chin up gently, capturing her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. Zuri melted into him, her body responding immediately. His hands slid up to cup her face as he deepened the kiss, and for a moment, she felt herself getting lost in him. When his lips trailed down to her neck, pressing soft kisses against her skin, a moan escaped her. Aurélien’s breath hitched at the sound, his restraint wavering. But he pulled back, eyes dark with desire.

"We’ll finish this later," he whispered, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he stepped away reluctantly. "I have to get changed."

Zuri nodded, still catching her breath as she watched him disappear into the bedroom. Her skin was tingling, her thoughts scattered from the heat of the moment. She heard him rustling in the other room, and within minutes, he emerged in his tracksuit, ready for camp but still radiating that effortless allure that drove her wild.

"I’ll see you tonight," Aurélien said, giving her one last lingering look before grabbing his bag and heading for the door.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Zuri plopped down on the plush sofa with a deep sigh. Her mind raced, still caught in the warmth of his kisses and the way he’d touched her. There was no question in her mind — she was definitely going to fuck him tonight.

Before she could dwell on the thought any longer, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a FaceTime request from Senait. Zuri answered, smiling when her friend’s face popped up on the screen.

"Girl, tell me everything," Senait said, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

Zuri laughed. "We just got to Paris, and this suite is… insane. The view alone, you would love it."

Senait grinned. "I bet. And what about Aurélien?"

Zuri hesitated, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. "Let’s just say… tonight might be the night."

Senait’s eyes widened in excitement. "Ohhh, finally! I knew you’d give in."

Zuri chuckled softly as Senait's excited expression filled the screen. But as the initial thrill subsided, doubt crept back in. "I don’t know, Sen. I mean, he’s my fiancé now, but it’s still… complicated." She leaned back into the plush cushions, staring at the ceiling as she tried to articulate what she was feeling. "Sex always complicates things."

Senait’s eyes narrowed, her tone unwavering. "It’s your fiancé, Zuri. Not some random guy off the street. You’ve been spending all this time together, you’re clearly into him, and you’re getting married. Why overthink it? If anything, it’ll bring you closer."

Zuri hesitated, nibbling her bottom lip. "I know, but… I just don’t want to mess anything up. What if it changes things? Makes them more intense?" Her voice wavered, betraying the uncertainty that had been swirling inside her since she started developing real feelings for Aurélien.

Senait’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Girl, you're engaged to this man! And you think sex is going to complicate things? If anything, you should be testing the waters before you dive in. You need to know if this ship can sail smoothly, if you get what I mean."

Zuri let out a laugh despite herself, shaking her head. "You’re saying I need to test drive before I marry him?"

"Exactly!" Senait’s grin widened, her eyes gleaming with playful mischief. "You’ve got to know what you’re getting into. He might be sexy as hell, but you need the full picture. And from the way he’s been all over you, I think the chemistry will speak for itself.”

Zuri couldn’t help but agree, a small smile forming on her lips. "True," she admitted, the tension loosening just a bit. "You always know how to keep it real."

"Always," Senait said confidently. "Plus, if it’s good, it’ll only make everything better."

Zuri smirked, letting the words sink in. Maybe Senait had a point. Why not enjoy what they had without worrying too much? "You’re probably right."

"I’m always right. Now, enough about you and Aurélien. Tell me when I’m coming back to Madrid," Senait said, changing the subject with an eager gleam in her eyes.

Zuri grinned. "You tell me! It was such a nice surprise having you at the engagement ceremony. I still can’t believe my mom invited you out."

Senait laughed. "I think she just wanted to make sure you had your support system. And I’m always down for a good party."

"It really was the perfect surprise. I’m so glad you came. I didn’t realize how much I needed you there until I saw you," Zuri said, her voice softening as she reflected on the whirlwind of emotions from the past few days.

"Of course. You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But don’t think I’m done with Madrid yet. Jules and I might have unfinished business," Senait teased, a coy smile tugging at her lips.

Zuri arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Oh? Unfinished business, huh?"

Senait winked, her smile widening. "Let’s just say… Jules is fun. We’ll see where that goes."

Zuri laughed. "Just don’t play around with him too much, you know Jules is a good guy.”

"Trust me, I know," Senait said, her tone softening a bit. “But you know me — I’ve got my walls up. I’ll figure it out."

Zuri nodded, understanding all too well. Senait had her ways of protecting herself, and while it made sense, she hoped this time, Jules would be the exception. "Well, just make sure you don’t push him away. He seems like he’s into you."

Senait sighed, her playful demeanor softening for a moment. "I’ll try. Promise."

With that, they shifted the conversation to lighter topics, laughing and chatting about their time in Madrid. But as the call came to an end, Zuri couldn’t help but feel a sense of resolve building inside her. Maybe Senait was right. Maybe it was time to stop questioning and start feeling.

Aurélien stepped out of the car, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and the subtle hint of rubber from the training balls filled his nostrils. Clairefontaine, the heart of French football, sprawled before him in all its glory.

The vast complex, with its state-of-the-art training facilities, pristine pitches, and modern residential buildings, never failed to impress him. This place had nurtured the dreams of countless French footballers, himself included.

He entered the training camp with a sense of excitement, the familiar buzz of energy in the air as players and staff moved about. He exchanged quick nods and daps with his teammates, greeting them with easy smiles.

"Salut, mon frère (Hey, brother)," one of his teammates said, pulling him into a brief bro-hug.

"Ça fait du bien d’être de retour (Feels good to be back)," Aurélien replied, his French flowing naturally as he felt the camaraderie settle in.

The coaches stood nearby, discussing tactics for the day’s session. One of them, Coach Didier, clapped him on the back. "Prêt pour aujourd’hui? (Ready for today?)"

"Oui, Coach. Je suis chaud (Yeah, Coach. I’m ready)," Aurélien grinned. He was always ready to hit the field.

The team began their drills, moving through agility and passing exercises. The sound of cleats hitting the turf and coaches shouting instructions filled the air. As they transitioned into more complex drills, Aurélien’s thoughts drifted to Zuri. Her laugh, the way she challenged him, the way they’d kissed before he left the hotel—all of it stayed with him, making him smile even as he weaved through the cones.

He was excited about their plans — dinners at hidden restaurants, museum visits, lazy walks through Parisian streets.

As the practice continued, Aurélien moved into a passing drill, but as he pivoted to change direction, he felt a sharp pain in his foot. He grunted, stumbling as the discomfort shot up his leg.

"Ah merde (Ah, shit)," he cursed under his breath, his foot faltering beneath him.

One of the trainers noticed immediately, blowing the whistle and rushing over. "Ça va? (Are you okay?)"

Aurélien tried to walk it off, but the pain was too much. "Non… je pense que je me suis foulé le pied (No… I think I sprained my foot)," he said, wincing as he put weight on it. The medical staff quickly swooped in, helping him limp off the pitch and towards the recovery center.

Inside, the medics assessed him, gently prodding his foot as Aurélien clenched his jaw, silently worrying about another severe foot injury. After a few minutes, one of the doctors nodded. "C’est une entorse (It’s a sprain)," the doctor said, his tone calm. "Rien de grave, mais tu devrais l'élever et éviter de trop marcher dessus pendant quelques semaines." (Nothing serious, but you should elevate it and avoid putting too much weight on it for a few weeks.)

Aurélien sighed, still irritated by the situation, but somewhat happy that it wasn’t as serious as late last year. Then, his plans with Zuri flashed before him — now it all seemed out of reach. "Et l’inflammation? (And the swelling?)" he asked, hoping for a timeline.

"Repose-le pendant 24 heures. Ça devrait aider (Rest it for 24 hours. That should help)," the doctor replied, already wrapping his foot in bandages.

Just then, one of the assistants entered the room. "Aurélien, nous avons contacté tes parents et Zuri (Aurélien, we’ve contacted your parents and Zuri)," he said, looking apologetic.

Aurélien sucked his teeth in frustration. "Putain…" (Fuck) he muttered, running a hand over his face. "C’était juste une entorse…" (It’s just a sprain…)

The doctor looked at him sympathetically. "Elle arrive bientôt, ne t’inquiète pas. Ce n’est pas grave, mais c’est mieux qu’elle soit informée." (She’s on her way, don’t worry. It’s not serious, but it’s better she knows.)

Aurélien sat back, still annoyed. He and Zuri had been planning a perfect trip, and now it felt like everything was falling apart. Restaurants, museums, shopping — it was all moot. He stared at the ceiling, already dreading how limited he'd be for the next few weeks.

Soon after, the assistant returned, Zuri trailing behind her. The moment Zuri saw Aurélien, her expression softened with concern, and she rushed over, placing a gentle kiss on his lips before turning to the doctor.

"Excusez-moi, docteur," Zuri began, her French halting and unsure. "Qu'est-ce qui... um... wrong avec mon...?"

The doctor glanced at Aurélien, a bemused smile playing on his lips. He then turned back to Zuri, switching to English. "It's just a minor strain, nothing to worry about."

Zuri's relief was palpable as she nodded her understanding.

Aurélien couldn’t help but tease her. "Your French is still horrible," he said, wiping his face as he laughed softly.

Zuri rolled her eyes and pinched his bicep playfully. "Shut up."

Aurélien laughed harder, and even the doctor cracked a smile. "Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Just rest and light movement," the doctor reassured them both.

After giving him crutches, they headed out of the recovery center, where Didier was waiting to check in. "Ça va, Aurélien?" (Are you alright, Aurélien?) the coach asked in concern, glancing at Zuri.

"Oui, Coach. Je me débrouille," (Yes, Coach. I’m managing) Aurélien said before turning to Zuri. "Elle comprend mieux l’anglais," (She understands English better) he added with a smirk.

Didier switched languages, offering Zuri a warm smile. "It’s nice to meet you, Zuri. Aurélien’s told us great things."

Zuri returned the smile. "Nice to meet you too," she said, and they talked briefly before Aurélien thanked him for the concern.

As they headed back to the hotel, Aurélien sighed, feeling the weight of his injury but also Zuri’s presence next to him. They had been planning so much for their time in Paris, but now everything seemed uncertain. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that being with Zuri would make the rest of their trip worth it, even if things didn’t go exactly as planned.

Back at the hotel, Aurélien hobbled in on his crutches, feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration. The suite was exactly as they’d left it — luxurious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the bustling streets of Paris below. Normally, the view would be the first thing on his mind, but right now, he was just focused on getting off his feet.

Zuri was immediately on high alert, rushing around the room like a whirlwind. "Do you need extra pillows? Maybe you should elevate your foot higher. Wait, let me get you some water," she rambled, grabbing everything she thought he might need. "Do you want a snack?"

Aurélien chuckled as she darted from the living area to the bedroom, her voice trailing behind her. "Zuri, relax."

But she was too caught up in trying to make him comfortable. She tossed a blanket at him, then rushed over to adjust the pillows. "I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay! Do you need painkillers? I think there’s some in the bathroom."

"Mon cœur," Aurélien said gently, catching her wrist as she hurried by. “It’s just a sprain. Come sit with me. I don’t need all of this." He smiled at her, pulling her toward him. "Please."

Zuri hesitated, her brow furrowed in concern, but she finally let out a breath and sat down next to him. “I just want to help,” she said, still fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

“I know, and I appreciate it,” Aurélien replied, his voice softening. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “But right now, all I need is you. Let’s just chill, talk about something besides my foot, yeah?”

Zuri finally relaxed, leaning back against the sofa with him. “Okay, okay. No more fussing,” she promised, though her eyes still flickered to his foot, wrapped up in bandages and elevated on the coffee table.

They sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, the faint sounds of the city outside filtering through the windows. The room felt warm, cozy, and despite his injury, Aurélien found himself feeling content just being there with her.

"So," Zuri said after a beat, turning her head toward him. "What do you want to talk about?"

Aurélien smiled, relieved to move on from the whole sprain situation. "I don’t know. Anything. Tell me something random."

"Hmm…” Zuri tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Well, I was thinking about taking a cooking class while we’re in Paris. You know, since you’re supposed to be resting and all."

Aurélien raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You’re gonna show off your culinary skills, huh?"

Zuri laughed, rolling her eyes. "We’ll see how it goes. I might come back with a disaster instead of a meal."

"I’d eat anything you make," Aurélien said, leaning his head back against the sofa and giving her a playful grin. "Even if it’s a disaster."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "Don’t say that yet. Wait until I burn something first."

The conversation flowed easily after that, their playful banter filling the room. Aurélien loved these moments — when they could just talk about random things, with no pressure, no worries about anything but enjoying each other’s company. He could feel the weight of the injury lifting from his mind as they shared stories and laughs, her presence making everything feel lighter.

As the evening stretched on, Zuri finally leaned her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm. "You know," she murmured softly, "I’m really glad we came here. Even with the whole sprained foot thing. It feels… nice."

Aurélien looked down at her, his heart swelling as he watched her eyes flutter closed, clearly tired from all the running around. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. "Me too," he whispered. "I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else."

Zuri shifted slightly. "So, what about shopping? I was really looking forward to hitting up a few boutiques while we’re in Paris. Can we still do that?"

Aurélien tilted his head, pondering for a moment. "Maybe one or two stores," he replied, squeezing her hand gently as he brushed his lips over her fingers, savoring the soft skin beneath his mouth. He couldn’t help but glance at the delicate bracelets adorning her wrist—the Van Cleef & Arpels piece sparkling under the soft light, alongside the Cartier bracelet, both of which he had gifted her for her bride price ceremony.

"I like seeing you wear those," he murmured, a smile creeping onto his face. "They look beautiful on you."

Zuri lifted her wrist, admiring the jewelry. "Thanks. I thought I’d break them out for Paris. Maybe I’ll wear them more often," she said, her voice laced with a hint of mischief.

"You definitely should," Aurélien encouraged, a teasing lilt in his tone. "They suit you. Plus, they’re a reminder of how lucky you are."

Zuri raised an eyebrow playfully. "Oh, is that how it works? You just give me pretty things, and I’ll be reminded of my luck?"

Aurélien chuckled. "Exactly. But they’re also a reminder of my excellent taste, obviously."

"Ha! I’ll give you that one," Zuri laughed, shaking her head. "You do have great taste, especially when it comes to gifts."

After a while, Zuri sat up slightly, looking thoughtful. "What should we order for room service?"

Aurélien considered it for a moment, glancing at the menu that lay on the coffee table. "How about some classic French dishes? Maybe a nice coq au vin?"

Zuri grinned, her eyes lighting up at the thought of indulging in French cuisine. "That sounds perfect. And we can’t forget the pastries. I need something sweet to go with dinner."

"Of course, ma chérie. Order all the pastries you want," he promised, shifting slightly so he could reach for the phone.

As he began to dial, Zuri watched him with a smile, her heart swelling at how effortlessly he made her feel at home. After placing the order, they settled back into the couch, their hands still intertwined, and she leaned her head against his shoulder once more.

"Do you think we’ll get to do all the things we wanted?" Zuri asked quietly, her voice slightly pensive.

"Absolutely,” Aurélien replied, determination in his tone. "It might take a little adjusting, but we’ll make it work. You’re stuck with me, remember?"

Zuri smiled. "Unfortunately..."

"Luckily," he said, placing a light kiss on her cheek. "Don't think a little sprained foot would stop me, ZuZu."

Before Zuri could retort, there was a knock at the door, breaking the moment. She turned to answer it, revealing a waiter with a cart filled with their room service order.

_______________________________________________

After their delicious feast, the evening settled into a cozy rhythm. They found solace in the soft glow of the television and each other’s company, sprawled across the plush sofa in the living room, occasionally glancing at the screen while getting lost in conversation.

Zuri helped Aurélien navigate the bathroom, his crutches leaning against the wall. "Just call if you need anything, okay?" she said as he hopped into the shower, steam curling around him.

"Of course, I’ll be fine," he called back, his voice echoing in the tiled space.

A few minutes later, he hopped out, towel wrapped around his waist, droplets glistening on his skin. Zuri’s breath caught in her throat for a moment before she shook her head to clear it.

"Not fair," she murmured, trying to focus on anything but the sight of him.

Aurélien laughed softly, shaking his hair dry. "I have to look good, especially with my beautiful fiancée around."

She rolled her eyes playfully but couldn’t suppress a smile. "Keep that up, and I might just decide to steal those towels."

"Please don’t,” he teased, “I need at least one for after my shower."

As he fluffed the pillows under his foot on the bed, Zuri excused herself to change into her pajamas. When she returned, she wore a comfy oversized shirt and her signature bonnet, looking both adorable and relaxed.

"Feeling cozy?" Aurélien asked, his eyes sparkling as he patted the space beside him.

Zuri climbed onto the bed, sinking into the soft comforter next to him. "Definitely. I’m all about the comfort right now," she replied, snuggling closer.

"Good," Aurélien said, wrapping an arm around her. "You fit perfectly here, you know."

Zuri looked up at him, a mix of amusement and affection in her eyes. "Oh yeah? Even with my stellar French skills?"

Aurélien chuckled, remembering her adorable attempt to communicate with the doctor. "Especially with that. You're keeping everyone on their toes, ZuZu."

Zuri looked up at him, feeling the unspoken bond between them deepening. "So, what's on the agenda for tonight? More TV, or are we just going to lay here and pretend to be productive?"

"Let's be real," he chuckled, scrolling through his phone. "I'm all about pretending to be productive while I'm actually just enjoying this moment."

Zuri snorted, poking him in the side. "Look at you, getting all sappy on me. Who are you and what have you done with Aurélien Tchouaméni?"

Aurélien caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss. "Hey, I can be sappy when I want to be. It's part of my charm."

"Uh-huh," Zuri said, her tone skeptical but her eyes sparkling. "And does this charm work on all the ladies, or am I just special?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Aurélien teased, enjoying their banter. It still amazed him sometimes, how comfortable they'd become with each other in such a short time.

His phone buzzed with a message from Jules. "Looks like the team's organizing an impromptu game night," he said, showing Zuri the text.

Aurélien felt a twinge of disappointment, glancing down at his bandaged foot. "Guess we'll have to sit this one out."

Zuri's face softened with understanding. "Hey, that's okay. We can have our own game night right here. I spotted a chess set earlier - think you can take me on?"

Aurélien raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You play chess?"

"Prepare to have your ass handed to you, Tchouaméni," Zuri grinned, already moving to fetch the board.

As she set up the pieces, Aurélien couldn't help but smile. His injury might be keeping him from the team activities, but somehow, the prospect of a quiet night in with Zuri seemed even better.

"Alright, ZuZu," he said, sitting up straighter. "Show me what you've got."

_____________________________________________

Zuri woke to the sound of muffled cursing. She cracked one eye open to see Aurélien sitting on the edge of the bed, gingerly trying to slip a shoe over his bandaged foot.

"You know," she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep, "for a world-class athlete, you're really bad at this whole 'resting' thing."

Aurélien shot her a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. "Very funny, ZuZu. We have places to be."

Zuri sat up, running a hand over her bonnet. "Places that involve hobbling around Paris?"

"We have plans, remember?" he said, finally managing to get the shoe on. "I'm not letting a little sprain ruin our day."

As Zuri watched him struggle to stand, she couldn't help but feel a mix of fondness and frustration. "You're going to make it worse if you're not careful," she warned.

Aurélien paused, looking at her with those annoyingly sincere eyes of his. "I'll be fine, ma chérie. Promise. We'll take it easy anyways."

Zuri sighed, knowing a lost cause when she saw one. "Fine. But if you come back with a broken foot, don't expect any sympathy from me."

As they got ready, Zuri couldn't help but steal glances at Aurélien. Even with his injury, he moved with a grace that made her a little envious. She watched as he struggled with his crutches, stubbornly refusing help until he nearly toppled over trying to put on his jacket.

"For the love of—" Zuri muttered, rushing over to steady him. "Will you please let me help you, you stubborn mule?"

Aurélien had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry, ma chérie. Force of habit."

As they made their way out of their hotel, Aurélien leaning on her more than he'd probably admit, Zuri found herself thinking about how much her life had changed. Here she was, in Paris, helping her injured footballer fiancé go shopping.

And the weirdest part? She was kind of loving it.

They managed to hit up Chanel, the boutique's elegant interior a stark contrast to Aurélien's crutches clunking against the polished floor. The sales associate's eyes widened in recognition, but to her credit, she maintained her professional demeanor.

"Consider it an early wedding gift," Aurélien said with a wink as he insisted on buying Zuri a ridiculously expensive flap bag.

Zuri rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the little thrill that ran through her. "You know, if you keep spoiling me like this, I might actually start to like you."

Aurélien's answering grin was both infuriating and adorable. "That's the plan."

By the time they reached the second store, Louis Vuitton, it was clear Aurélien's foot was bothering him more than he let on.

"Okay, tough guy," Zuri said, noticing his wince as he shifted his weight. "Time to call it a day."

"But we've barely started," Aurélien protested weakly.

Zuri rolled her eyes, but there was no heat in it. "Yeah, and at this rate, you'll be out for the whole season. Come on, let's get you back to elevate that foot."

"Can we at least eat at the hotel restaurant?" Aurélien asked as they made their way back. "I'm going crazy in that room."

Zuri wanted to argue, but the pleading look in his eyes made her relent. "Fine, but your foot is going up on a chair, I don't care how fancy the place is."

At the restaurant, they found a quiet corner table. True to her word, Zuri commandeered an extra chair for Aurélien's foot, ignoring the raised eyebrows from nearby diners.

"So," Aurélien said as they perused the menus, "how are you liking Paris so far?"

Zuri looked up, catching the genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Surreal," she admitted. "Beautiful, overwhelming, exciting. Kind of like this whole situation, you know?"

Aurélien nodded, reaching across the table to take her hand. "I know it's a lot. But for what it's worth, I think you're handling it amazingly."

As they enjoyed their meal, she casually pushed her fork around her plate. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, but she couldn’t help it. He was relaxed, even with the slight tension in his brow from his injury. The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders didn’t help her focus either.

"Stop staring," he teased, catching her in the act, his voice low and teasing. He took a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving hers.

"Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re pretending your foot isn’t killing you," she shot back, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Aurélien leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm across the backrest like he owned the place. "Trust me, I’m more worried about you making eyes at me than my foot."

Zuri’s heart did a small flip at his tone, and she tried to play it off, raising an eyebrow. "Making eyes? Please. I’m just thinking about dessert."

He smirked. "If that’s your story, I’ll let you stick to it."

The waiter interrupted their banter with dessert menus, and Zuri grabbed one like it was her lifeline, quickly burying her face in it. Aurélien’s low chuckle sent a warmth through her that she refused to acknowledge. She glanced up over the menu, catching his gaze still on her.

"So," she started, lowering the menu slightly. "What’s the plan for the rest of the night? Should I prepare for more complaints about your foot, or are you going to let me pamper you?"

Aurélien grinned, reaching across the table and lightly grazing his fingers against hers. "You’re the one with the plan. I’m just here, injured and at your mercy. Go easy on me."

After dinner, they retreated to their suite. Aurélien walked ahead of her into the living room, his movements slower due to his sprained foot. Zuri followed him, her eyes tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and the familiar way he moved, even when injured.

“I can help you with the bandage,” she offered, watching as he settled himself on the edge of the bed.

He gave her a grateful smile, and without hesitation, she knelt beside him, carefully unwrapping the now-loose gauze. The air between them was comfortable, yet charged, like both of them were aware of something lingering just beneath the surface.

“You’re getting good at this,” he mused, his fingers brushing the curve of her jaw.

She smiled softly, concentrating on her task. “I’m a fast learner.”

When she finished, she stood, watching as Aurélien made his way to the bathroom, his shirt already discarded on the way. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be quick,” he called over his shoulder.

Zuri nodded, finding herself staring after him. Once the door clicked shut behind him, she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The tension between them felt more tangible tonight —different. Maybe it was the intimacy of traveling together, of sharing this space.

Moments later, Aurélien emerged from the bathroom, fresh and clean, damp curls on top of his head. He gave her a lingering look before climbing into bed. Zuri followed his lead, slipping into the bathroom to change into her pajamas and tie her hair into her bonnet.

When she returned, the sight of him lying in bed, phone in hand, one leg elevated on pillows, sent a flutter through her chest. He looked relaxed, content — and undeniably attractive.

"Come here," he murmured, glancing up from his phone as she approached. "I need my personal heater."

Zuri settled into the space next to Aurélien, her head resting lightly on his chest as they lay intertwined beneath the blankets. She could hear the faint sound of him typing on his phone, but his attention drifted back to her almost immediately, the screen’s glow casting a soft light on his face.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, her voice a quiet murmur against his skin, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

Aurélien turned the phone towards her briefly, revealing some article he hadn’t really been focused on. "Just catching up on some news," he replied, setting the phone on the bedside table, as if realizing he didn’t need the distraction.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer into the curve of his body. Zuri let out a contented sigh, pressing her lips against his bare shoulder. The steady hum of his breathing relaxed her, but she could feel the slow burn of desire lingering between them, just beneath the surface.

"You’re comfortable?" Aurélien asked softly, his voice now lower, a little rougher, the playfulness from dinner replaced by something deeper.

Zuri shifted against him, looking up into his eyes, catching the way they darkened, watching her. She nodded, the tension in the air palpable now. "I am."

He held her gaze for a moment before leaning in, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, deliberate kiss. His hand slid up her back, caressing her skin through her pajama top. The kiss deepened, and Zuri’s breath caught as she felt the familiar pull, that unmistakable chemistry between them.

Aurélien’s lips trailed away from hers, moving down along her jawline, then lower, to her neck. He kissed the sensitive skin there, soft but insistent, his breath hot against her pulse point. Zuri tilted her head slightly, giving him better access, her fingers threading into his damp curls as she let out a quiet gasp.

"Take this off for me," Aurélien murmured against her neck, his fingers slipping to the hem of her pajama top. His voice was hushed, but there was an undeniable heat in his tone, an urgency.

Aurélien knew about her nipple piercings, but tonight would be the first time he’d actually see them. Without saying a word, she sat up just enough to pull the top over her head, letting it fall to the side. She lay back down, watching his reaction.

His gaze dropped to her chest, and for a moment, he just looked at her, eyes lingering on the small, silver bars that glinted in the dim light. He didn’t speak, but the slow spread of a grin tugged at his lips, his fingers tracing lightly along the curve of her breast before brushing over one of the piercings.

"Damn," he murmured, his thumb grazing the bar. "These suit you." His voice was low, thick with something that made her pulse quicken.

Zuri felt a flush of heat rise in her body, her breathing uneven. "Thought you might like them," she said softly, watching the way his eyes never left her breasts.

Aurélien’s hand cupped her breast, his thumb continuing to toy with the piercing. Then, without another word, he dipped his head, his mouth replacing his hand as he kissed the sensitive skin around the piercing before gently flicking his tongue over the metal. The contrast of the cool bar against the warmth of his mouth sent a jolt of pleasure straight through her.

Zuri gasped softly, her fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked gently, his tongue swirling around her nipple, teasing her. She shuddered under him, her back arching slightly as he kissed and sucked, his other hand coming up to toy with her other breast, thumb brushing over the second piercing in the same slow, deliberate way.

"You look so good like this," Aurélien murmured against her skin before taking her other nipple into his mouth, sucking lightly, his lips and tongue working her over until Zuri was gasping, her body trembling beneath him.

The sensation of his tongue circling her nipple, the teasing pressure, and the cool metal of the piercing heightened everything, making her breath catch in her throat. He was slow, thorough, his lips and hands never missing a beat as he lavished her with attention.

Zuri’s hands roamed over his broad back, pulling him closer, her body aching for him as his mouth worked magic against her skin. Aurélien kissed his way down between her breasts, leaving a trail of warmth before his lips returned to the metal bars, gently tugging them with his teeth, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Can’t stop touching you," Aurélien whispered, his voice thick, rough with want.

Zuri’s breath hitched as Aurélien’s hands roamed lower, igniting every inch of her skin. But when her thigh brushed against his leg, she hesitated, her palm gently resting on his chest, her eyes flickering with concern.

"Your foot," she murmured, fingers grazing his skin, her touch tender. "Are you sure we should keep going?"

Aurélien’s mouth curved into a small, confident smile, his hand settling on her waist. "I’m fine, bébé,” he whispered, his voice smooth yet playful. "But if you’re worried…" He leaned back against the pillows, his gaze steady and full of intent. "I’ve got an idea." His hands slid up her thighs, guiding her to sit up on him. "You on top," he suggested, his voice low as he tugged her closer.

Heat surged through Zuri at his words. The way he lay there, looking up at her with that signature half-smirk, sent her pulse racing. She sat astride him now, her body fitting perfectly against his, the warmth of his hands at her waist grounding her.

“You sure you’re good?” she teased, grinding her hips slowly down on him, feeling the tension ripple through his muscles.

“I’m perfect,” Aurélien groaned, his grip tightening on her waist, urging her to continue. His hands continued lower, pushing at the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “Off,” he muttered, barely breaking contact with her skin. “Take these off for me.”

Zuri lifted herself slightly to shimmy out of her pajamas, tossing them aside, leaving her completely bare. Aurélien’s hands explored her body, his palms rough against her softness, his gaze filled with hunger as he took in every inch of her.

Her hands slid down to his boxers, tugging them down over his hips, revealing the full length of his cock, hard and thick, pressing against his lower stomach. Zuri couldn’t help but stare for a moment, biting her lip at the sight of him. His cock was perfect — smooth, long, with a slight curve that she already knew would drive her wild.

“Fuck,” she breathed, her hand wrapping around him, stroking him slowly. Aurélien moaned at the contact, his hips bucking upwards as she worked her hand up and down his length. The weight of him in her hand felt incredible, and she could feel him twitching under her touch.

Aurélien let out a low growl, his hands sliding up to her hips as he watched her, his pupils blown wide with lust. “I need you, Zuri,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “Get me a condom. It’s in my bag.”

She reached over, her heart pounding, grabbing the condom from his bag. As she ripped it open and rolled it over his cock, Aurélien’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening. “Putain,” he groaned, his voice thick with need, his hands returning to her hips, guiding her as she positioned herself above him. “Put me inside you. Slowly.”

Zuri held him at her entrance, her breath shaky as she sank down, inch by inch, feeling the stretch, the delicious fullness of him. Aurélien’s hands gripped her hips tighter, his lips parting as a string of French curses spilled from him. “Mon Dieu… tu es si serrée… so tight,” he muttered, his accent making the words sound even filthier, sexier.

The sensation of Aurélien filling her made her body hum, and the slickness from her arousal enveloped him easily, suctioning him deeper. She could feel him pulsing as he settled. Her thighs trembled as she adjusted to the feel of him.

Zuri moaned, her hands pressing against his chest as she began to move, slowly rolling her hips against him. Each motion sent sparks of pleasure through her body, and the heat between them intensified. She leaned forward, her lips finding his as she kissed him deeply, the slow grind of her hips against his cock building a steady rhythm.

Aurélien groaned into her mouth, his grip on her tightening as he matched her movements, thrusting up into her. “Fuck, Zuri… faster. Don’t stop,” he rasped. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Tu es incroyable…”

His dirty talk, the way his hands guided her, mixed with the sensation of him filling her, had Zuri’s head spinning. She rode him faster, her hips rolling harder as the pleasure built between them, every thrust sending waves of heat coursing through her body.

“Fuck….Aurél…..mhmmm,” moaned Zuri just before she let out a whimper.

“Just like that,” Aurélien praised, his head falling back, eyes heavy-lidded as he watched her. “You’re so fucking sexy… tu me rends fou.”

Zuri’s pace quickened, her body moving on instinct now, her hands braced against his chest as her moans grew louder. The friction, the heat, the sound of their bodies moving together — it was all too much. She could feel herself getting closer, her movements becoming more erratic as the pleasure mounted, her breaths coming in short gasps.

“Aurél…..fuck….I’m gonna come, baby.”

Aurélien’s hands slid up to her breasts, his fingers teasing her nipples again, pulling gently on the piercings. The mix of sensations — the pressure between her legs, the teasing of her breasts, and his filthy words in her ear — pushed her over the edge.

“Come for me, baby,” he growled, his hips bucking up into her. “Let me feel it.”

Zuri cried out, her nails digging into his skin as her orgasm crashed over her, her body trembling as she came hard around him. Aurélien groaned, his own release following moments later, his grip on her hips tightening as he thrust up into her one final time.

They stayed like that for a moment, both panting, their bodies slick with sweat, the air between them charged with the intensity of what they’d just shared. Zuri collapsed onto his chest, her breath shaky, her heart pounding in time with his.

Aurélien’s hands slid up her back, his fingers brushing over her bonnet as he kissed her forehead softly. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered again, his voice barely a whisper now, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. “You’re perfect.”

Aurélien stirred awake, stretching slowly as he came to. The warmth of the bed still cradled him, his hand reached over instinctively, landing on the soft sheets beside him where Zuri lay. She was still asleep, her body curled up slightly, her breathing slow and steady. He smiled to himself, eyes tracing the line of her bare back, the curve of her hips, the way the sheet barely covered her.

Her bonnet had slipped off in the night, now lying haphazardly beside her. She had clearly slept well—they both had. The tension that had buzzed between them for weeks had finally cracked wide open last night, leaving them tangled in each other, spent in the best way.

Aurélien propped himself up on one elbow, just watching her for a moment. Her curls, usually tucked under that bonnet, spilled out now in soft waves against the pillow. He let his gaze travel down her body, appreciating every detail—how peaceful she looked in the early light, how content he felt just lying here next to her.

He knew it had been good—better than he’d imagined. He felt it in the way his body was still heavy with satisfaction, in the way his mind drifted back to the moment she had climbed on top of him, the slow, deliberate way they had come together. And now, with the sunlight creeping in, it felt like something had changed between them. Something that had been building for so long, quietly, had finally unfolded.

He didn’t want to wake her. Not yet. He shifted carefully, moving his foot that still ached with a dull throb from the sprain. His muscles were sore, but the stiffness was a reminder of the night they shared. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, his mind already flicking through his day ahead. Foot rehab, maybe a check-in with the coach, but no meetings.

Zuri stirred, a soft sound escaping her lips as she adjusted herself in her sleep, pulling the sheet up over her shoulders. Aurélien smiled to himself again, knowing she must have slept so good after everything. He had, too.

He slid out of bed quietly, finding his sweats on the floor and pulling them on before hopping over to the bathroom. Once he was finished relieving himself and washing his hands, he stood against the doorframe to stare at her once more.

Something about seeing her like this, relaxed and unguarded, made him pause. The night before felt like they had crossed some invisible line they had both been toeing for weeks. He had known it would be good, but this — this was something else.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft sigh. There was something about the way she carried herself, how she didn’t need him, but still let him in. It felt rare, special. He hadn’t expected to feel so… comfortable, like he’d been waiting for this all along.

She shifted again, this time slowly waking. Zuri blinked up at him, her eyes heavy with sleep but a small smile curling at her lips when she saw him standing there.

“Morning,” she murmured, her voice thick with the remnants of a deep sleep.

“Morning, bébé,” he replied, his voice soft. He hobbled back over to the bed, sitting on the edge beside her, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl from her face.

“You slept good, huh?” he teased, glancing at the bonnet lying nearby.

Zuri chuckled lightly, shifting onto her back as she stretched. “I did, yeah. No thanks to you,” she teased, her voice laced with humor.

Aurélien smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder. “No complaints, though?”

“None,” she replied, a sly smile on her lips as she looked up at him.

He exhaled slowly, letting the moment linger between them. He didn’t feel the usual rush, the need to figure out what came next. For once, everything felt just right — they felt right.

Zuri sat up slightly, the sheet falling down to reveal her bare skin, and Aurélien’s eyes darkened with a hint of desire. He could already feel the pull again, the way her presence drew him in, but this morning felt different. Softer. More meaningful.

“You thinking about last night?” Zuri asked, her voice playful as she caught his gaze.

Aurélien chuckled, shaking his head lightly. “Maybe.”

Zuri bit her lip, leaning back on her elbows. “Good. You should be.”

He laughed again, his hand sliding up her side, fingers brushing her ribs. “Trust me, I am.”

For a moment, they just sat there, quiet, soaking in the aftermath of the night they had shared. Aurélien found himself thinking about how easy this felt — how right it all seemed. And for once, he didn’t overthink it. He didn’t feel the need to define it or put it in a box.

"So," Zuri broke the silence, her tone teasing but with a hint of vulnerability, "on a scale of one to 'holy shit,' how much did we just complicate things?"

Aurélien turned to face her fully, his expression a mix of amusement and sincerity. "Honestly? I'm thinking we're somewhere around 'best complication ever.'"

Zuri snorted, but her eyes softened. "Smooth talker. But seriously, Aurél... where do we go from here?"

He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Wherever we want, ZuZu. But you sure have a lot to say for a woman who’s been moaning my name last night."

Zuri felt her cheeks warm at his implication. "I guess I do," she murmured, leaning into his touch.

"Let me fix that then," he said.

With a swift motion, Aurélien pulled her in closer, leaning down to bridge the distance. He pressed his lips against hers, the kiss slow and deliberate. Despite the ache in his foot, he felt a surge of warmth and desire as he deepened the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of her lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him in closer, and the world around them faded away, leaving just the two of them locked in this moment.

_______________________________________________

Aurélien lay back in the plush hotel bed, the midday Paris sun filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. His muscles ached, but in the best way, and the steady throb in his foot was a constant reminder of his injury. The crutches leaning against the wall mocked him with their mere presence. His frustration wasn’t just with the pain — he could handle that. It was the way his foot limited him. Normally, he was in control, positioning them however he wanted, guiding their movements, but now, every shift had to be more calculated, and that annoyed him to no end.

And then, there was Zuri.

Her kisses. God, those kisses had always been addictive. He thought he knew how much he loved them before, the way her lips sparked something inside him. But now, after finally being able to make love to her, those kisses had become something else entirely. Each time their bodies came together, the frustration of his injury melted away, replaced by a deep, primal need for her.

He glanced over at her, her body half-covered by the sheets, her skin still glowing from their latest round. They hadn’t been leaving the suite much, except for his rehab sessions at Clairefontaine, and even then, all Aurélien could think about was getting back to her. When they weren’t in bed, they were on the sofa, the bathroom sink, wherever they could find in the suite. "Humping like deranged rabbits," Zuri had once joked with a wicked grin. He hadn’t been able to argue.

It was exhausting, but a workout he couldn’t get enough of. His foot might have limited him in some ways, but hearing her moan his name— scream it, even — made up for every single limitation. Her body seemed made for his, and even with the ache in his foot, he was obsessed with the way they fit together.

Aurélien shifted slightly, adjusting the pillow beneath his injured foot. He’d been going to rehab every afternoon, the trainers at Clairefontaine helping with the swelling and his mobility. He hated being away from Zuri, even for those couple of hours. Time spent icing his foot felt like time wasted — time he could’ve spent tangled up with her.

Zuri stirred beside him, her eyes fluttering open as she stretched with a lazy smile. "Good afternoon again," she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep — or maybe from all the times she’d moaned his name earlier.

Aurélien smirked, eyes darkening at the memory. "Afternoon, ma belle," he replied, his voice low. "How are you feeling?"

Zuri let out a soft, contented laugh, pulling the sheet up over her chest. "Exhausted. Sore. But also…" She grinned, biting her lip playfully. "Feeling pretty damn good."

He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over her arm. "Good. I’m not letting this foot hold me back."

She leaned in, her lips barely touching his. "You haven’t," she whispered before pressing her mouth to his in a soft kiss that quickly deepened. Her body shifted to press against him, and Aurélien groaned softly, his hand moving to the back of her neck to pull her closer.

Even with his limitations, Aurélien couldn’t deny the spark between them. They made it work. More than work. Every kiss, every touch, felt electric.

Zuri pulled back with that mischievous look in her eyes, the one he loved so much. "You’re insatiable, you know that?"

Aurélien chuckled, kissing her hand lightly. "And you love it."

They sat in a comfortable silence, fingers intertwined, just enjoying each other's presence. The intimacy between them felt natural, deepening with every moment they spent together.

A knock on the door eventually broke the quiet, and Zuri slipped out of bed, wrapping the sheet around her as she padded over to let in the room service. Aurélien watched her, his lips curling into a soft smile. Despite the frustrations of his injury and their limited outings, these moments together felt perfect.

The smell of freshly prepared food filled the room, and as the trays were wheeled in, Zuri glanced back at him, her eyes warm with affection. "Let’s eat. I don’t know about you, but I need to refuel after this morning."

He laughed, shifting slightly to sit up. His foot may have been an obstacle, but with Zuri by his side, even the challenges felt manageable.

Later that evening, after his usual rehab session, Aurélien hobbled back into their suite, crutches tucked under his arms. The rehab sessions were necessary, but god, were they frustrating. He hated how his foot limited him in ways that didn’t seem fair, how he had to be more careful, less free. But Zuri — being back with her made everything better. She never complained, never made him feel like a burden. Instead, she joked and laughed with him, making light of his injury in a way that eased the frustration.

Zuri was curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone, but when she saw him, her face lit up. "You’re back," she said with a smile.

"Miss me?" he teased, dropping onto the sofa beside her, his crutches clattering against the floor.

"Maybe," she grinned, pulling him into a quick kiss. "How was rehab?"

"Same old. Ice, stretch, repeat," Aurélien groaned, leaning back into the cushions. "But at least now we can get back to more important things."

Zuri laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. "Like pretending we’re going to leave the suite?"

"Exactly." He kissed the top of her head. "Although..." Aurélien trailed off, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

Zuri lifted her head, eyeing him suspiciously. "Although what? I know that look, you're plotting something."

He grinned, not bothering to deny it. "What would you say to actually leaving the suite tonight?"

"What did you have in mind?" Zuri quipped, but her eyes sparkled with interest.

Aurélien shifted, pulling her closer. "Well, there's this little jazz club I know. Nothing fancy, but the music is incredible. Thought we could grab dinner, listen to some tunes. What do you say?"

She pretended to consider for a moment, tapping her chin dramatically. "Hmm, I don't know. Will you be buying me drinks?"

"All night long, ma chérie," he promised, his voice dropping low.

Zuri grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Then you've got yourself—"

Aurélien's phone buzzed, interrupting the moment. He glanced at the screen, his brow furrowing. "It's my dad."

He answered, speaking in rapid French. "Allô, Papa? Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" (Hello, Dad? What's going on?)

"Aurélien, est-ce que Zuri est avec toi?" (Aurélien, is Zuri with you?)

"Oui, elle est là. Pourquoi?" (Yes, she's here. Why?)

"Mets le haut-parleur, s'il te plaît. C'est important." (Put it on speaker, please. It's important.)

Aurélien complied, switching to speaker mode. His father's voice filled the room, now in English. "Hello, Zuri. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all," Zuri replied, confusion evident in her voice. "Is everything okay?"

There was a pause before Fernand continued. "I'm afraid I have some… unsettling news. Zuri, your father is attempting to end the arranged marriage."

The words hung in the air, heavy and shocking. Zuri's eyes widened, her gaze snapping to Aurélien's equally stunned face.

"Can he do that?" Zuri asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Not without a serious reason," Fernand explained. "But he's implying that Aurélien is… mistreating you."

"What?" Aurélien and Zuri exclaimed in unison.

"That's not true at all," Zuri insisted, her hand finding Aurélien's almost instinctively.

"We know," Fernand assured them. "The rest of the family agrees. It's clear this accusation is baseless. But Zuri, you'll need to talk to your father. Clear things up."

They talked for a few more minutes, discussing potential next steps before hanging up. The silence that followed was deafening.

Zuri stared at the phone in Aurélien's hand, her mind racing. "I can't believe this," she muttered, shaking her head. "What the hell is my dad thinking?"

Aurélien set the phone down, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know, ma chérie. But we'll figure it out."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "You want to figure it out? I mean, I know this whole thing wasn't exactly your choice…"

Aurélien's brow furrowed. "Zuri, I—"

"No, let me finish," she interrupted, holding up a hand. "I know you didn't ask for this. Hell, neither of us did. But I thought… I mean, these past few weeks…"

Aurélien reached out, cupping her face in his hands. "ZuZu, listen to me. Yeah, I wasn't thrilled about the idea of marrying a stranger. But you?" He shook his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You're not a stranger anymore. And I'm not about to let you go that easily."

Zuri's breath caught in her throat. "Really?"

"Really," he confirmed, leaning in to press his forehead against hers. "We're in this together, remember?"

A small laugh escaped her. "Yeah, I remember. God, what a mess."

"Maybe," Aurélien agreed, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. "But it's our mess. And I kind of like it."

Zuri smiled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "Me too. So what now?"

Aurélien straightened up, a determined look in his eyes. "Now? We fight for us. Starting with a call to your dad."

As Zuri nodded, reaching for her phone, Aurélien couldn't help but marvel at how quickly things had changed. A few weeks ago, he'd been dreading this arranged marriage. Now? Now he couldn't imagine his life without Zuri in it. And he'd be damned if he let anyone, even her father, take that away from them.

TO BE CONTINUED……Read Chapter 8

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