#clive rosfield imagine

[qvrcll]

no smooth roads for us

Summary: Clive tries to keep his strength at bay. You admonish him for it. Warnings: explicit content / NSFW, rough sex, female reader anatomy, use of the word ‘minx’, dirty talk. A/N: My first time writing for Clive! This was a journey. I want to keep writing for him — reblog’s / comments are always appreciated! :)

You discover quickly that Clive fucks you like he fights.

It starts with the gentlest of kisses, searing hot like a burn from the sun itself. Shy, but he doesn’t mean for it to be. He remedies that by driving you against him till there is no space to give, only his chest that beats with some gratifying noise when you’re bare and naked for him to witness every inch of it.

You don’t tell him, but you like it when you holds you close and fucks you rough. His fingers, calloused with the fatal semblance of war, prove your excitement as they prod and grope at your skin experimentally. He’d fucked you rough once before and refrained from it again — a fear of breaking you, he thinks. He plays it soft now.

When you moan, shudder against the splay of his fingers against the share of your muscle, the pebbled crest of your nipples, he leads his fingers further. Deeper. He tries to ignore the burning heat curdling at his hip, for you, but the intrusion against your thigh is so hard to miss.

Clive — please, touch me, comes your plea.

The madness in your voice makes the blood rush to his cock. It ruins him, makes him want to consume you whole right here, from the heat of his lap. He fights it, though, still, and his jaw bulges from the effort of it.

He begins again, tries to create and follow a slower acclivity. Maybe he could finger you, eat you out, pleasure you delicately beneath the weight of his hot, heavy fingers.

There — there you go, my love.

He splits you open deliciously slow and his remaining fingers swim against the wetness collecting on your clit. There’s a familiar rhythm amped by the joint effort of his fingers on and in your cunt but you want more of something different. A fuck thoroughly rough that you know he can manage.

It’s you who wrenches his hand from your cunt with a disappointing pop — he thinks he’s upset you in some shape or form, that he’s pleasured you too dully or too hard, but soon comes to learn that you’re acting like brat.

Come, now, my love — don’t be like that, he warns. His voice is addictively firm and set, which in turn fuels your need for more. You attempt to wiggle out his grip, piss him off further, but the flux presses against his throbbing, oozing cock, which has already spilt some of its seed against his stomach with the wait.

Don’t — his resolves works no more. His voice is more shout than reason, as he delivers your arms with a bruising feeling from the steely grip they have on them. He’s lost his patience, and his mind, pushing you into the ground with none of the prior promise of tenuity. You’ve angered him, gotten what you want finally.

Is this what you wanted, you minx? Are you happy?

He drives your ass into the floor, kneads it within the roughness of his palm like dough. On regular days, he would work you open till you were gushing and open to a guaranteed degree. Now, he primes his intrusion of your cunt with an animalistic growl, his cock pushing in till you’ve had your fill.

Rough enough?

He mocks you. Gives you no room to recover. Batters your cunt again and again with the rough slap of his hips. He grins wickedly when you cry hot, fat tears and goes to mock you once more.

Why are you crying? Isn’t this what you wanted? Could’ve sat still while I worked you open but you wanted it rough — I’m giving you rough.

You’d never thought it would be this good, this illusive. He flips you till your back faces him, and ploughs into you like none before, delivers messy and violent shocks across your body. There’s barely any touch to his ministrations, just push, as he drives your head against the floor — in the name of take it, take it, I know you can take it.

He suffocates your senses — you clamp harshly against his cock with a loud cry, unsure of your bearings. Your body spasms underneath the weight of his and when he finished with his business, taken his fill as he shatters inside you, he’s quick to smother the quickness of this violence.

I’m — I’m sorry — are you hurt? I got ahead of myself — I’m sorry, my love.

You hush him with shaking hands, and as much as your fingers reject motion, you cradle his cheeks in your palm. The reflective heat from them comforts Clive, leaves him with the blatant truth that this is what you had wanted — and now that you had it, you weren’t in it to stop.

There’s a strange curl to his lips, with the knowledge that comes to him softly in the after-burn.

He liked playing rough.

© 2023 qvrcll. Do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Headcanons for Clive Rosfield with gn s/o reassuring him that he's a good man who does his best to help people despite everything he has gone through, they're proud of him, and they love him so much? With hugs and kisses too!

Clive Rosfield had to be one of, if not the most strongest man you’ve ever met in your life.

Yet you’ve found that the stronger the man, the more broken they seemed to be in due to certain circumstances that happened within their past.

A past that could still be felt to this very day as it clung onto your beloved’s soul, it’s claws digging in deep into him that you worried that you’d deal him more damage if you were to pull them out raw.

You wanted nothing more then to help your exhausted lover and thankfully a time did come where Clive needed your comfort and sweet words and even sweeter reminders the most in the aftermath of a nightmare;

‘What if I’m an omen of death, destined to leave a trail of dead bodies, friends and foes alike in my wake?’ Clive admitted to you under starry skies. Yet despite how ethereal the sight above was…the topic at hand was anything but. ‘What if by the end of this I wouldn’t have had you gravely harmed, whether it’d be by my hand or others because of me.’ He adds sombrely, clutching your hand when he felt it involuntarily twitch.

‘I don’t want to have to watch that day come to pass.’ Clive was whispering now as though if he raised his voice any louder then something awful would take place, and it wouldn’t even matter whether the inherent danger were to take place five minutes from your conversation or even going as far as five weeks.

For as long as Clive could sense danger, he would always on a subconscious have himself somehow incorporated into it one way or another. He truly felt the one to blame for every wrongdoing that was committed no matter the scale of it, he just felt as though all bad things tie back to him in even the most minuscule ways.

‘Clive,’ you gripped his hand tightly, ‘not everything bad is inherently your fault.’ You told him but you weren’t finished yet. ‘You’re a good man, regardless of what the past speaks of your character. You’ve done a whole lot of good since those dark times and done a whole lot of good for the people who felt as though they had no hope to hold onto, Who felt like they too were deserving of the wrongdoings that have happened in their pasts because they felt as though they didn’t deserve better.’ You raised his hand and pressed a dozen kisses against the skin there as you decided to hold his hand close to your chest.

‘You’re a good man Clive Rosfield and I will not stand in hearing you slander yourself on the pretences of lies and falsehoods.’ You said as you tug him closer so you could bring your arms to hold him against you as you began to speak your words against his ebony locks. ‘For the Clive Rosfield I know is a brave, strong man of many talents, and he’s a beautiful man with a gentle, kind and caring heart.’ You felt Clive relax further into you, as though attempting to drown himself in your warmth and your scent with how he noses it’s way from against your collar bone, and upwards until his head is firmly flushed against your neck where he would then find comfort in your pulse point as his eyes began to drift off at the sound of your soothing voice.

A voice Clive would rather die then to never hear again, whispering sweet enchantments that you call encouragement into his ear.

‘And I am proud, so very proud of my Clive that neither words nor any form of expression can begin to accurately convey of the magnitude of how proud I am of him.’ You whispered sweetly, pressed kisses now and then again his hair or any form of exposed warm skin that was within your lips reach to douse in a plethora of kisses, leaving not a spec untouched by your lips, and even as you pulled away, you could feel Clive’s body writhe as it began to desperately miss your lips; considering how determined your beloved seemed to press himself further up against you, you’d think that he was trying to imprint himself onto you in some form of way.

‘His demons may want him to claim otherwise but I wish for him to remember that he isn’t what they say he is, Clive Rosfield isn’t a monster, nor a death omen, but I know my Clive Rosfield and my Clive Rosefield is anything and everything but those words. He’s generous, brave, bold, and yes I do have to admit, a little stubborn and hardheaded.’ You admitted, chuckling as Clive removed his head from your neck to give you a look. ‘But, even though he may often claim that he’s putting me in danger just for loving him.’

You pressed your forehead against his, nudging your nose against his, smiling when he wordlessly reciprocated the action. ‘I’ve never felt more safer then I ever have then within his arms.’ You muttered against his lips before closing the gap and kissing every ounce of love and affection you held for Clive into that kiss in hopes it’d make its way to his soul. Humming in delight as you felt him practically bruise your lips with the force of his kiss that burned with a fierce passion that at some points you felt as though you couldn’t keep up with him.

You knew Clive had a whole lot of love to give to the point where it became overwhelming and consumed every action he did, from the way he protected others, to the way he was currently holding onto you as though you were the last flicker of light in his life; which you might as well be. His grip was firm and strong but while also being gentle and cautious as not to bring you bodily harm, because god knows Clive would never forgive himself if he was the main reason you were hurt, as proven multiple times where you had gotten hurt saving his ass and you’d awaken up with Clive at bedside, holding your hand within his larger and warmer ones; it felt as though your hand was trapped within the depths of a campfire. Comforting and warm.

‘What have I done to deserve you, my love?’ Clive whispered against your lips upon pulling away but consciously choosing to stay within proximity of you in hopes that your words and love would continue to rub off on him like they have for as long as you both been lovers. You smiled, bringing your hands up to his scruffy jaw, enjoying the prickly sensation that kissed the pads of your fingertips deliciously. ‘You were just yourself my star, I was just merely captivated by your beauty and the way you treated others as equals and fell deeply in love ever since.’

‘What about now?’ Clive asked you.

You pecked his lips, ‘I’m still falling my star, I’m still falling.’

[drabblesandimagines]

One year since Prescription! 🥰

Prescription

Clive Rosfield x fem reader Fluffy fluff, bit of injury

“Nearly there,” Clive murmurs as you take another painful step towards the infirmary. You think the words are more for his benefit that this ordeal is nearly over. Ever the chivalrous gentleman, he’d offered to carry you multiple times, but you’d refused his offer and, being Clive, he was hardly going to go against a lady’s wishes.

You know he’s probably confused as to why you’d refuse his assistance. You’ve bested men twice your size in battle, so it can’t be that you’re worried you’ll appear weak, that if Otto, Gav or the other Cursebreakers catch sight of you being carried back to the Hideaway in his arms they’ll mollycoddle you for weeks. It’s perhaps more embarrassing than that – it’s the thought of being held in his muscular arms, against his chest that already sets your heart pounding, a flush to your cheeks… And if that’s the sort of effect the thought had on your body, you dread to think what actually being in his arms will result in.

Besides, your injuries weren’t that bad… once Clive had compressed them with bandages from his pouch and you hadn’t even been that far from the docks when it had occurred. You could make it to the boat and then up to the infirmary at the Hideaway without any need to be cradled in your crush’s arms.

Clive had compromised on you leaning against him, your arm around his waist, your fingers gripped into the laces down the side, and his arm hooked around your upper back, taking the majority of the weight off your injured leg and side. You’re just hoping if he can feel your heart pounding, he’ll think it’s the adrenaline from the fight and injury wearing off.

They were injuries you’d taken defending him, to his horror. As the two of you had walked back down the slope towards the small dock where Obolus was waiting in his skiff, a lone Black Shield had lunged out of the undergrowth, his sword straight at Clive’s neck. As you drew your blade from your side, you’d elbowed Clive back, him stumbling down the slope as yours and the assailant’s blade clashed but the momentum he had built sent you spinning, and he’d got a good slice in your hip. Stopping your momentum, you’d managed to get him in his shoulder, pushing him down onto his knees before he got another swipe at your calf and then your blade swiped across his throat. It was all over in a matter of seconds, Clive’s sword only just drawn as he stumbled back up the hill.

Torgal whines, sensing your discomfort. He’d been waiting at the dock as the boat had pulled in, Obolus commenting that he hoped your blood hadn’t stained the timber.

“Oh, Torgal, don’t you start.” You pout down at the wolf.

“What happened?” Jill’s panicked voice comes from the level above, hurrying down the flight of stairs to meet you at the infirmary door.

“It’s not-“

“It is not nothing.” Clive growls, though you know it’s in frustration at himself. “She sustained it defending me.” Jill gives you an exasperated look before pushing the door open, holding it wide for the two of you enter. Tarja is leant over a desk, swiveling her head round at the noise of company.

Her eyes narrow as she sees the blood-stained bandages around your leg and side, before she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

“Honestly, Clive, you made her walk?”

“I did no such thing. She refused to let me carry her.”

“Well, I’m overruling that refusal.” Tarja comments, pointing to a bed. Clive doesn’t hesitate then – Tarja always got her way - swiftly hooking his arm under your knees, though mindful not to touch your wound, and sweeps you up, resulting in your half-gasped protest. He strides over to the bed in what feels like two steps – your heart hammering - and places you down gently.

“See, wouldn’t that have been much easier?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You say lightly, as he hovers over you perhaps a moment too long. He forces a smile – one you’ve seen when he’s pretending to be care-free.

“Right, Clive – out.” Tarja orders, gathering a tray of medical supplies to bring over to the bed.

“Right. Erm… Take care. Send word if you need anything, or…”

“Out.” Tarja reiterates.

He raises his hand in acknowledgement and strides out – his shoulders sagging as he does.

Tarja makes quick work of removing the soiled bandages, mumbling under her breath – curses at your stubbornness, you suspect, but you leave her to her work and stay still like a good patient.

“Jill, I think these trousers and shirt are done for. Can you see if Hortense has anything spare?”

“Of course.” Jill smiles. “I’ll be back shortly.”

You hear the door shut and continue to stare up at the ceiling, breathing in and out as Tarja moves on to cleaning your wounds with a rather stinging concoction.

“Good news, you’ll live.” She leans back from your bedside and turns to the tray, retrieving some items.

“That sounds like there’s bad news…”

“Well…” Tarja holds aloft the needle and thread. “The bad news is you’ll need stitches.”

“Ah.”

“Deep breath and we’ll get started.”

It shouldn’t, you know it shouldn’t, but the needle piercing into your flesh hurts more than the sword that caused the injury did and you tense.

“Deep breath. First one’s the worst.”

Except it wasn’t, not for you. After a few more reminders to breathe, the healer lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You’re too tense,” Tarja chides, leaning back. “You need to relax, otherwise the stitches will be too taut and it’ll split the second you take a step.”

“Sorry, Tarja, it’s not exactly a relaxing activity.”

“Do you want me to call for Clive to hold your hand?” The door opens. “Oh, maybe he could unbutton his shirt as a distraction…”

“Who, Clive?” Jill’s voice teases.

“Stop it, it’s not like that.”

“Mm-hm.” The two women are synchronized and you can feel your face burning. Besides, if anything, Clive with an unbuttoned shirt would make you more tense…

“Hortense says she thinks she can salvage your clothes, but she had a spare dress she reckons will fit you until then.” Jill appears above you, holding up a plain blue dress. It’ll do, certainly. You doubt you’ll be out on any assignments the rest of the week.

“Thank you.”

Tarja places the needle down on the tray and gets to her feet, heading over to the apothecary drawers and rummaging through one. She returns with a small vial.

“Right, drink.”

“What is it?”

“It’ll make you relax, that’s all. Non-drowsy.”

You pop the cork off – the thing smells foul – but you know you’re in trouble with Tarja enough now so you do as you’re told, downing it in one.

A minute or so later, you feel your muscles unconsciously relax, releasing a lot of tension in places you weren’t aware you had it. Tarja murmurs her approval and sets to work stitching up your wounds in no time, before applying a salve and new bandages and helping you out of your blood-stained clothes and into your borrowed dress with no protest. Not for want of trying but her look enough when you’d opened your mouth as she told you to put your arms up was enough.

“Stay.” The red-head orders and gets to her feet, taking the tray with her to be sanitized.

“How do you feel?” Jill asks, as kind as ever. She’s by your bedside, folding up your ruined clothes. You can sense she’s itching to get them to Hortense.

“Fine. It’s not a big deal.” You shrug lightly – your tone a little lighter than you’d wanted it to be. “Can’t I go now?”

“No, you need to wait for that relaxant to wear off. You stand up and your legs will collapse under you like a flan.” Tarja calls over. “Stay in bed.” The door opens. “Well, well, well,” Gav’s voice. “I should’ve known you were in here… given the welcome I got from our beloved leader.”

“What welcome?”

“Gav, this isn’t the tavern – this is the infirmary.” The healer chides.

“But it’s not safe at the Tub and Crown.” Gav approaches your bed, placing his hands on his hips. “Clive’s hunting down a sparring partner and it’s not going to be me with that attitude. He’s got the same look in his eyes the last time you got hurt and he splintered all the training swords.”

“Well, the lady here wouldn’t let him carry her.” Jill reveals. “I’ll take these clothes to Hortense.” She heads towards the door, clutching the cloth to her chest.

“Oh, you’ll have wounded his pride with that!” Gav chuckles. “What with his court manners, ever the chivalrous gent. Why wouldn’t you indulge the poor man – I thought he’d caught your fancy, no?”

“Gav, no, that’s not… Shush.” You protest, though the colour in your cheeks betrays you once more.

“You should let him out of his bloody misery – we all know he’s not going to be the first, so you’ve got to be the brave one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tarja joins Gav at your bedside, placing her hands on her hips once more. “Please. The whole Hideaway knows by now. Even Otto asked me what the hold-up was.”

“The Hideaway is wrong.” You bite your lip and the next sentence comes out in a tumble of words before you can even really think about it. “Besides… if I confessed I’d just embarrass myself – he’s Clive Rosfield.”

“And?”

“And I’m me, Gav.” “Yes, you – a former Branded Bearer turned Cursebreaker, defender of the previous Hideaway, scourge of the Black Shields…” Gav lists off your achievements, sounding incredulous with every word that comes out of his mouth.

“Exactly.” You nod. “Me.”

“Not seeing your point. Don’t tell me you’re scared of sharing your feelings but you’ll go stare down a Morbol easy as anything on a morning.”

“You know, I think she is,” Tarja teases.

“Maybe you could send it in a missive, if you’re too scared of face-to-face. Leave it on his desk, like.”

“Or get Gaute to put it in the reports – he’s always checking those.”

“Yeah, or stick it on the bulletin board…!”

“Okay, fine!” Tarja and Gav pause in their banter and stare at you, smiles still plastered on their faces. “How about I walk up to him at the Cursebreakers' intelligence briefing and tell him that my heart pounds wherever he glances in my direction? What about I stand up on a table at the Tub and Crown and tell him about how it feels like lightning is shooting through my veins for days after any touch we share? How about I meet him in the training pit and tell him I would gladly stand in front of an enemy blade every single day if it meant that he was safe and unharmed.” Your voice is getting louder, your emotions bubbling to the surface, your tongue so relaxed it has a mind of its own. You slide over in the bed, hanging your legs off the side. You can tell Tarja wants to interrupt but you’re on too much of a roll.

“How about I walk into Clive Rosfield’s chambers and announce that I’m in love with him, that I have been for years? That when I lay in bed my thoughts are consumed with him and that low-cut shirt, those broad shoulders and how much I wish he’d take me in his arms and…”

“I did offer - multiple times - and you declined.”

Your heart skips a beat at the sound of Clive’s voice from the door and you freeze. No, no, no.

“I think that’s my cue.” Gav chuckles, slapping his thighs and getting to his feet, Tarja following. Maybe you could faint? That would make Tarja stay…

The healer pauses, placing a hand on Clive’s shoulder. “Be kind, Clive. I gave her a relaxant for the stitches. I think it relaxed her tongue perhaps a little more than she’d like.”

“Noted.” Why does he sound so amused? She whispers something in his ear and you hear her and Gav’s footsteps leave the infirmary.

You can’t move, can’t look up – horrified of what is about to happen.

His footsteps sound painfully slow until you see his boots by the side of the bed and he crouches down in front of you, trying to catch your gaze. His gloved fingers grasp your chin, gently, tilting your head up to meet his eyes when you refuse.

“Shouldn’t you be lying down? I believe Tarja hasn’t discharged you yet.”

He lets go, a soft smile on his face, as you swallow and shuffle back, carefully, lifting your legs back on the bed and resting your back against the pillow.

There’s a moment of silence before you find your voice. “Clive, what you heard…”

“Is that why you wouldn’t allow me to carry you earlier?”

“Kind of. I just… It would’ve been…” You’re completely tongue-tied. How can you get yourself out of this hole? Why is he smiling?!

“I cannot tell you how long my thoughts have been consumed with ones such as you in my arms… my darling.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Though I must clarify not because you are injured, but I’m upset you’d deny me of the pleasure all the same. I do, however, wish it hadn’t taken you getting injured and a concoction of Tarja’s to hear you boldly return my feelings.” You’re still too stunned to speak.

“May I request a kiss of my beloved?”

A realization hits you. “I died, didn’t I?”

“Let me reassure you this is very real.” He leans forward, placing his palm on your cheek and a chaste kiss on your lips. There’s a delicious smirk on his face as he leans back.

“No, I’m… I’m not sure I felt that, you should reassure me again.”

Clive chuckles, taking your hand and rubbing his fingers over your knuckles.

“I’m afraid your physician only permitted me the one kiss in your recovery, but once you’re discharged…”

By the Mothers.

--

I love him. Asks are open for requests - FF16 characters hit me up x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[dayasan]

Obviously we all love the name Clive now but I remember the ridicule it got when it was revealed and it could have been worse. It could have been Craig.

[breathinginyoursmoke]

The Look of Love (ft. The Rosfield brothers)

"The eyes, chico. They never lie."

-

Clive's gaze could swallow one whole. It's far from timid, yet, at an instant, it's intensity could be yanked as he swiftly pulls his eyes of you. He is a man who is able to control himself, hide in his own thoughts and memories. If complete isolation was the only solution to this problem, he would contemplate it. He's not a naive fool, he knows others could possibly notice the look in his eye whenever it wonders to you voice, to your figure, with absolute passion. You create storms in his heart. It fights with the realistic voice in his head who is screaming to put a stop to this foolishness.

One day, if he finally finds the strength to smite these growing flames, he will. For now, perhaps he's allowed to indulge this once, and find your own gaze.

Joshua's gaze could warm you even on the coldest nights. An almost boyish-like look that appears innocent enough to make even the sturdiest of walls crumble. He finds out a hint of your past, commenting on anything he finds interesting, asking...pondering. He worms his way into your brain and heart with the simplest of words, disguising them as trivial small talk. This isn't malicious, not in the slightest. He's simply aware of how closed off some people in this world are, knows the troubles. It may not look it, but the man's heart is fleeing with joy at the chance to converse with you, his eyes are practically sparkling.

Anyone, especially his elder brother, could tell he's most definitely embraced the arms of love, and wants to spread it to the one who has stolen his heart.

[ship-garbage-pile]

SHIRTLESS CLIVE RENDER...Jill is in absolute bliss

[disgorgedfoetus]

Imagine that.

Imagine being created to kill your brother and to be punished for it. Over and over.

[ijustthinkhesneat]

The fact Clive AND Joshua die is proof there is in fact no god.

[skyelvl1]

Clive Rosfield: I think I should comb my hair.

Everyone who is attracted to him: no. don't. don't you do that, my sweet shaggy wet dog of a man.

[lyssala]

“My lord, my lady,” the tutor cleared his throat, making both Jill and Clive sit up straight, the inches suddenly growing between them again. “Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” Jill said with a slight nod of her head.

“Allergies,” Clive supplied, though Jill didn't seem to think he was helping because Joshua saw the way Clive jerked slightly, the result of Jill probably nudging him from under the table. “It is a little dusty in here don't you think, Joshua?” Clive winked at him.

“Oh yes, it is rather dusty, I think,” Joshua agreed quickly.

—————————————————————————————-

A collection of one shots to tell the stories in-between canon; the ones hinted at and alluded to but never quite giving the whole story. Of memories that were mentioned briefly while reminiscing, of quiet moments left unseen, of how a relationship can go from two kids with crushes to two adults in love.

Each chapter takes place at a different point in canon; all chapter notes contain the time frame upfront to help those who are still avoiding spoilers.

[keithle]

someone should draw clive with all the seals and choker(?) he has gotten. i think it would be hilarious.

like is he just wearing all of them at once???

[roamingblogster]

Brothers 💙

Phoenix Down

[ignitedshield]

You are an easy person to get along with (32.14%).

"Better results than what I was expecting."

[pinkkittysaw]

CHAPTER II

- MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

← chapter one

series master-list can be found here!

summary: the night of your brother’s annual birthday ball takes an unexpected turn

paring: knight! clive rosfield x princess! reader

word count: 9,613

content: NSFW (minors + ageless blogs DNI! you will be BLOCKED!) heavy plot, oral (f! receiving), fingering (f! receiving) handjob, power imbalance, dirty talk, spit, slight humiliation kink, parental loss.

disclaimer(s): although this series is inspired by the medieval and regency time periods, they are not 1:1 representations. although i will always do my best to represent both as accurately as possible, there may be some minor changes.

some of the plot points in the original game story have been altered or taken out to fit this au better. there are no eikons

a/n: i want to dedicate this chapter to my AMAZING friend, and fellow writer, jordy (@cryptictongues) who not only let me bounce ideas off her constantly, but also beta read some of this chapter as well. thank you for everything!!!!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

dividers by @/saradika-graphics and art is by edmund blair leighton

A month or so passed since your last tryst with Clive, leaving the relationship between the two of you to be strained with pent-up tension. In light of the momentary heat of passion, you both agreed that such conduct would be better kept private, in places where no wandering eyes could intrude, so as to not arouse any more suspicion. There were to be absolutely no dubious behaviors in public, which proved to be undoubtedly difficult.

With every promenade you'd take around the castle grounds, you'd see him training, all sweaty and flush in his fit form, and all you'd be able to think about was mounting him then and there, riding him until you were both run ragged.

Your confidants and lady's maid have caught your prolonged glances during your strolls in the sunshine, but you've always met their accusations with a dismissive flap of your hand fan, stating that you were "simply curious about the training regiment that the knights were conducting," even if your eyes always lingered on one knight in particular. Baddies

There was talk around the palace for a while about the sudden disappearance of a certain scullery maid, but seeing as the crown had more pressing matters to deal with than the loss of a single maid, one who could easily be replaced, any investigation resulted in the conclusion that she had simply "fleed her duties," and it was left at that.

In reality, though, you had visited her late in the night after your passionate affair with Clive many moons ago, offering to pay off her debts and then some if she swore to secrecy that nothing she saw that night would make its way into the ears of the public.

The amount of gil being offered was unlike anything she could have ever imagined. Seeing as your father amassed insurmountable fortunes during his reign, idle gossip wasn't worth the consequences if she were to be found out as the source of the rumor, so she took the small fortune and fled the palace walls that very same night.

Now you find yourself sitting in another store room, one that's presumed to be in less use than the previous one, perched upon an old barrel.

A royal ball was in attendance, and all nobility within the realm were invited. The occasion? Your younger brother and future heir to the throne's birthday. He reached the tender age of one and twenty, which just so happens to be the legal age of marriage in your country, so, of course, your father invited all the reputable debutantes in the realm in hopes that your brother would secure a future queen, though he'd never admit to such schemes out loud.

You were hoping that tonight would be another secret rendezvous with your lover, but you haven't so much as gotten a single word with him all evening.

All you had thought about during the preparation was how you were going to tease him throughout the night. The gown you had selected to wear was chosen with him in mind. The silhouette hugged your figure to perfection, and your cleavage was heavily accentuated in the lavender muslin. The hem was detailed with a layer of tulle tulips, and crystals of various sizes decorated the bustline. Put simply, you looked ravishing—the epitome of the most elegantly cut diamond.

Your father would spare no expense when it came to his son's birthday ball, so you were in luck to some degree, but the only man whose eyes you wanted on you was nowhere to be found.

The ball was supposed to provide perfect cover. All the orderly staff would be at your father's beck and call all evening, and he'd be too busy showing off your brother like a prized chocobo to notice your disappearance, leaving you to your own devices after a certain amount of time.

You and Clive would be able to sneak off without a trace or care in the world, but for some reason, every man of nobility just happened to be extremely insistent upon getting in at least one dance with you, all whilst having meaningless conversations regarding topics you couldn't bother yourself with caring about.

The ball started off well enough. You knew you couldn't immediately disappear into the shadows; you owed both your father and brother a dance to start the evening, as was tradition for the royal balls in your country.

The three of you walked out into the ballroom together. Your father went first, then you and your brother in succession.

The room was lavish, as it often was whenever such events were hosted in your kingdom. Multiple chandeliers holding long wax candles filled the ceiling, and the light reflecting off the gems on your gown made you shine beautifully. A golden hue encapsulates the entire room, casting wispy shadows and twinkling shapes on the hardwood floor. Your family emblem was painted in stark white chalk at the center of it. Various flowers from the royal gardens hung in sconces around the perimeter of the room, with vines filling out the empty space in between. Fine fabric in your kingdom's colors was draped over the windows in high arch shapes.

Scanning the room, you look for where to make your grand escape. After a few dances and perhaps some intermingling at the refreshments table, you'd be skittering along the ballroom walls, hiding in the shadows, before making your exit.

There was still a short amount of time before the guests started to file in, so after the final touches were made to the decorations, you took your place on the dais next to your family, with your father in the center and your brother to your right.

The royal knights line up in front of the small stage, and though Clive is always the pinnacle of orderliness while on duty—excellent posture and great form—you swear that you catch his eye as he files inside the room. He's not so careless as to let his emotions wear on his face while in the presence of others, especially your father and the Lord Commander, but you're certain that the slightest tinge of pink floods his cheeks at the sight of you.

As the knights continue to get into position, your gaze falls upon Clive's shaggy hair, reminiscing about how the thick yet soft tendrils felt between the length of your fingers as he made his presence known between your legs moons prior.

Your father's voice reels you back from your fantasies as you clear your throat slightly and hope that the bright lights of the chandelier won't give way to your previous thoughts.

Nobles from all across the realm begin to file in and make their greetings, some familiar and some new. A part of you is surprised that all these people traveled from their home countries just to visit your brother, but you supposed that none of the nations wanted bad blood between your kingdom and theirs.

After all the introductions were made, your father began his long-winded speech about your brother, the future of the country, and how proud he is of how far his children have come. The smile plastered on your face feels stiff, and your thighs feel as though they're about to collapse from the amount of curtsying you've been forced to do.

Finally, after what felt like hours, you're granted some relief from the spotlight while the band sets up on the stage where you and your family previously resided.

You make your way over to the refreshment table, nodding and curtseying to the fellow noble ladies as you make your way over to procure yourself a glass of iced lemonade.

It was not even three seconds later that your father was introducing you to some nobleman.

"Dearest daughter," he starts. You take a deep breath and settle your princessly smile on your face once more before turning around.

"I'd be pleased to introduce you to the Archduke of Rosaria and his mother." You gaze upon the both of them; this is the first meeting you've had with the current Archduke of Rosaria. You met the previous archduke, Elwin, when you were still of tender age, before your brother was born. You scantly recall the details of the meeting, only that he gifted both you and your mother bouquets of Rosarian wildflowers and that he had a penchant for making you laugh (as later on confirmed by your mother).

It's clear, though, that the man standing before you bears no resemblance to his father, sharing the same icy eyes and pale hair as his mother.

"His Imperial and Royal Highness, Joshua, the Archduke of Rosaria, and her Imperial and Royal Highness, Annabella, the Dowager Archduchess of Rosaria," your father continues, giving you room to make your formal introductions.

"It is an honor, your Highness," you state, giving a swift curtsey to the both of them, and although Annabella merely nods to you in acknowledgment, her son gives a full bow in return.

"Come now, Joshua. There's no need for that," she chastises, as if her son were still a child and not a grown man.

"But mother, how could I not marvel at the beauty bestowed upon me?" He responds in full. At your astonishment at his bold declaration, he takes your gloved hand into his own and presses a delicate kiss to the back of your knuckles.

"Might I say that your gown looks exquisite tonight, my lady? You shine bright like a diamond." Both you and the Dowager Archduchess share a similar look of shock on your faces, and even though you can't see your father's expression from behind you, you're sure that he mirrors both of yours.

Heat floods your face as your eyes meet Joshua's, then his mother's, and although their eyes bear the same shade of cerulean, her gaze pierces through you like daggers of ice, whereas the strawberry blonde beside her carries a lot more warmth.

Time stands still, and you wonder if such flirtations were a product of his father, seeing as his mother held very little kindness or regard in her heart.

You feel your father's hands on your shoulders and realize you've spent the last minute or so gawking at Joshua and his display.

"Please forgive my daughter; she isn't used to such blatant declarations of affection from esteemed gentlemen." It's at your father's statement that your brain kicks back into gear. Your hand is withdrawn, and an immediate curtsey follows in its place.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Highness." As you raise your head, your eyes meet Clive's just across the way from behind Joshua, but he's quick to refocus and march forward in front of him.

"No apology is necessary," the Archduke smiles, "though if you truly wish to win my forgiveness, you'll allow me your hand in a dance."

Before you even get the chance to respond, Annabella interrupts, "Joshua, you mustn't. Think of your health."

"Mother," a domineering smile plasters itself on Joshua's face, "certainly I have enough energy to last me at least one dance with the most elegant princess in all of Valisthea."

Annabella sends another harsh glance toward her son before muttering, "Of course," and  taking her leave elsewhere.

Joshua heaves a heavy sigh before extending his hand, silently asking for your dance card. You raise your wrist and allow him to pencil himself in before he gives one final bow, and retreats toward his inconsolable mother.

Your father exhales the breath you were unaware he was holding when the band gets in position for their first song. Both you and your father take place in the center of the ballroom as the first dance of the evening.

You couldn't help but notice as you scanned the faces in the surrounding audience that someone was missing. As the starting notes boomed from the instruments, you whisper to your father, "Papa, where's Dion?"

Prince Dion, next in line to be the Emperor of Sanbreque, had grown to be one of your close friends—well, as close of a friend as a princess could have when confined to castle walls for most of her life. You were close in age, and given that there weren't as many young heirs throughout the realm at the time of your childhood, it was only natural that the two of you would become fast friends.

Rumors quickly spread that you and Dion would become betrothed when you were older, securing an indisputable alliance between both nations, but as the years trickled on and both of you came of age, no such proposals were made. After he became leader of the dragoons, it was apparent that one such proposal would never come, but you weren't deterred; if anything, you were relieved.

You held love for Dion in your heart; you'd known each other since you were children, but the love you held wasn't the type of love fostered between two individuals who were passionate about each other romantically.

Your father's face held a quick grimace before lowering his voice as the two of you prepared to take your first steps in tune together. "Dion is busy preparing for a war effort; he sends his regards."

"What?" You mutter, trying to keep the look of shock from developing on your face.

Though you and Dion couldn't frequently meet in person, the two of you penned missives back and forth. In none of your most recent correspondence with each other, had he mentioned anything in regards to an oncoming war.

Your father wasn't a gossip, but being the ruler of an entire kingdom, one must be well knowledgeable about the state of other nations.

He lowers his voice even further: "It seems that the King of Waloed is insistent on reclaiming his territory from Sanbreque."

"Dion never mentioned anything of the sort in his letters."

Your father gives you a lopsided smile in an attempt to reassure you: "He probably didn't want to worry you unnecessarily, especially with the ball coming up."

Your father was more than likely correct in his assumptions, but you couldn't shake the sinking feeling in your stomach.

"I'm sure Dion will be alright," he adds, brushing his thumb over your hand after noticing the newfound stiffness in your movements.

You nod. Dion was and is strong; he turned the tides for Sanbreque in battle many a time before. This was a fact, but something about him having to go against Waloed's army shakes you to your core.

Your father and the king of Waloed, Barnabas Tharmr, were amiable allies for the most part, but you've heard stories, many in particular when he visited your kingdom after the death of your mother. You were still young then, so you couldn't quite grasp the weight and meaning of the whispers your handmaidens had shared in secrecy upon his arrival.

He visited annually for some years after his initial visit before they died down altogether, though you could never ascertain what the meetings were for besides the first one.

Barnabas was kind enough, as one of his nature could be on his trip, but you could never help the feeling that something more sinister lingered beneath the surface when your young eyes met his.

You did your best to quell the unease in your heart and continued to dance with your father. Although he had gotten up there in years, he still moved swiftly across the ballroom floor, even if you had to slow your steps a bit.

It seemed that just as soon as the dance with your father began, it was over, and you were anxiously anticipating the next dance with your brother. You go hand in hand with him while the band begins to play.

"So, Crown Prince," you begin, filling the air in an attempt to quell your nerves. "Future heir to the throne, how does it feel to be Papa's favorite?" You smile, albeit teasingly.

"Surely you jest, dear sister. For without you, I'd be hopeless."

"Now who's jesting?" Your grin graces your face once more as the two of you glide across the ballroom before a somber expression soon replaces your previous jubilant one. "It pains me to think that this ball may be the last time we see each other like this."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Look at all the people here," you whisper to him, "surely you don't think Father is just merely celebrating your birthday. You're twenty-one years of age now, dear brother; officially legal to be wed."

"You don't truly think he'd see to it that I'd be married right away, do you?

You both twirl around, and your father comes into view, standing next to the royal guard.

"Maybe not right away, but you know how he is. Ever since Mama died, all he's wanted is to see our futures secured, and in your case, our bloodline. If that means marrying us off early, then so be it, I suppose. At least you have the luxury of choices in who you'll marry."

"Then how come you weren't married off as soon as you came of age?"

"Because you still needed me. You had no mother to set an example, so I needed to be in your life to show you how proper noble ladies should act," you snirk as he rolls his eyes. "If I'm speaking honestly, I feel the answer is more sentimental than logical. I don't think Father wanted to lose another member of our family before we were both of breeding age."

"I suppose you're right. It's more than what most fathers would do. Now that I'm able to be wed, do you suppose that'll hasten his plans for your marriage?"

You sigh, the thought has lingered in the back of your mind since your brother grew out of being a child. "I'm not sure, but who knows?"

"Don't look so down," he smirks. "If you reach spinsterdom, you'll always have a place here with me."

You smile kindly. "Thank you."

As the instruments die down, signaling the dance coming to a close, you once again find yourself on the outskirts of the ballroom. You snag a look at your dance card to check where Joshua has penciled himself in. A waltz, of course. He'd undoubtedly use this opportunity of close quarters to flirt with you some more.

His name was listed far enough down the line that you could make a break for the storeroom now, and...

"Your Royal Highness!"

The next hour and a half was filled with nothing but dancing, with only a few minutes of rest provided in between.

You had been skirting along the edges of the ballroom when you just so happened to catch the eyes of an old presiding duke who resides in your kingdom, and it was all downhill from there.

What was supposed to have been a "romantic" evening was turning into a disaster. At every turn, you were swept into the arms of yet another elderly gentleman looking for a younger and more agreeable wife.

As you twirled and spun around the hardwood flooring, you were afforded only mere glances at your lover from afar. Every time you laid your eyes on him, he always appeared to be preoccupied with something else. Not that any of your concurrent dance partners would've noticed your wandering eye, as theirs were doing much of the same.

If there was one thing that all these men had in common, it was the ogling. Some of them "tried" to be more polite about it than others, going for glances at your cleavage in between the minimal required time they had to actually look you in the eye instead of blatantly staring at your chest the whole time.

It was clear, though, that all of them were oblivious to just how obvious they were being with their gaping looks, not realizing that you could tell when people were talking to your chest instead of your face.

Though you're certain that a drink limit was set for this ball, it was becoming quite clear that a majority of the "gentlemen" had imbibed to their pleasure, the smell of port lingering on their breath whenever they'd lean in close. 

After a while, you had managed to escape all your suitors and camouflage yourself in a nearby group of gossiping noble ladies, the majority of them being mothers, who were well-equipped with an onslaught of questions about your brother and the future of the kingdom.

After quelling their curiosity, you nestled yourself in a corner, facing the wall of the ballroom, and let out an exasperated sigh, taking a few moments to collect yourself.

You were beyond frustrated, both sexually and mentally. All you desired was to climb between the sheets with your lover and have him pleasure your body until your thoughts were reduced to a mindless fog. To say you were having intense urges was an understatement.

It'd be easier to deal with if Clive wasn't a member of staff that you saw often, like a cook or a coachman, but being your sworn shield, he was in your presence a majority of the time. So close, yet so far.

His touch was often the source of your fantasies at night. Your mind wanders, flitting between thoughts of his scruff against your neck, his breath on your skin, and how his strong hands would grip your body.

You were never able to help but wonder what your first time together would be like. What does he look like when he comes? What does he sound like? Does he moan, grunt, or whimper? Would he be gentle with you? Similar to how he grasps your hand when helping you step down from a carriage, slow, languid thrusts into your heat as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, both of your bodies clinging onto each other for purchase. Or would he be rough? Similar to how he fights: powerful, unrelenting thrusts into your cunt, overwhelming as he batters into you, stealing the breath from your lungs. You were often unable to decide which scenario you liked better as you reached your climax, whispering his name as you came down.

You know you shouldn't have such intense lust for someone who's working in your service, but knowing that just excites you more.

"Princess!"

You release another deep exhale as you turn around. You're really starting to get irritated at the word "princess."

"Your Highness!" you exclaim with a half gasp. Apparently, Joshua was set on keeping his promise of a dance.

"My sincerest apologies," you curtsey.

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand before extending it toward you. "You owe me no such things, my lady. Are you still willing to accept my dance proposal?"

"Of course, Your Highness," you place your gloved hand in his as he walks you to the dance floor, and you can't help the smile that rises on your face as you take your place together.

"I know it's against propriety for you to deny me a dance, but I'm not so cruel to force a lady when she doesn't want to."

"It's a pleasure, Your Highness. I assure you. You're perhaps the most polite man I've danced with thus far, besides my father and brother, of course."

His hand makes its way to the small of your back as more couples fall in toe behind you and the Archduke. Your conversation lulls until the music picks up, your hand delicately resting on his shoulder.

"Although I am most disappointed to hear that these gentlemen would treat a beautiful woman such as yourself with little regard, I can't deny that I'm pleased to be the only one who's seemed to win your affections."

This man.

As much as you try not to fawn over the attention, his words are like silk in your ears, as if they're the most natural sound you've ever heard.

It doesn't register that you're smiling so brightly until he comments on it: "You have one of the most radiant smiles, my lady."

You shake your head from side to side as if trying to regain your composure. Despite all the time you shared with Clive over a month ago, you weren't used to such blatant flirtations in front of so many people at once. Even if they couldn't hear your conversation, the smiles on both your faces single you out from the other couples on the floor. It leaves you feeling exposed, as if a bright light has been shone on both of you.

"Forgive me if I speak out of line, Your Highness," you inhale, "but where on Valisthea did you learn to become so charming?"

He offers a chuckle and a swoop of his strawberry-blonde hair. "I'm quite a fan of the written word. It was often one of the few escapes I truly had as a child, so I may have picked up a few techniques after reading a romance or two."

"Perhaps you could lend your novels to some of the other gentlemen here so they can learn how to properly woo a lady."

"And risk losing being the sole recipient of your affections?"

"Feeling insecure over your abilities?" You cock your head to the side, a small smirk appearing on your lips.

Joshua ponders the question for a moment, putting on a good face of deep thought as if he's truly rolling the question around in his head before responding, "More so like...I don't want to give the poor blokes false hope when I'm sure to come out on top anyway."

"It seems that you're very confident indeed."

The two of you chuckle as he twirls you around, only to be met with the scorn of Annabella's icy gaze after locking eyes with her from the other side of the ballroom. The joy in your expression quickly dies off, and the figurative noose tightens itself around your neck, suffocating the life from your lungs.

With your newfound stillness, Joshua has to guide you back into his arms. He looks off in the direction of your eye line and sighs before speaking once more, "I apologize on behalf of my mother."

"You needn't do so for my sake," you're quick to respond, attempting to reassure him that you were unaffected by Annabella's glare.

"Do you think I can't sense the dread in your eyes?" He smirks, and you offer a strained half-laugh in response while waiting for him to continue.

"I was frequently ill as a child, thus it was very rare to step foot outside the archduchy," he clears his throat, "after my father had passed, it seems that her protective nature only grew."

"I'm sorry about the loss of your father. I've only met him a handful of times, but he was always very kind. My mother once told me that I frequently laughed in his presence." You understood Joshua's pain well, having lost your mother during the birth of your brother years before the former Archduke passed. 

A solemn look graces his features before he relaxes once more. "He was a good man, from what I can recall from my memories of him," he pauses, "I can only hope that I can be half the man he was when it comes to ruling the archduchy."

You take a moment to mull over your words before voicing them. "It seems like you've managed to capture his kind and generous spirit. I'm sure you're already well on your way to living up to his name."

"You're very kind," he nods, and a genuine smile fixes itself on his face, unlike the charming one he's graced you with before.

The music slows to a stop, indicating the end of the waltz, and Joshua walks you back to the fray of the ballroom as slowly as possible. "Perhaps this is inappropriate to say given the present company, but I'd love to call upon you some time."

A part of you is surprised, not expecting a courting proposal from someone you could actually tolerate. Being thoroughly charmed, you agree.

"There's a jousting tournament within the next fortnight. It's always an invigorating time. You should attend if you're able."

He takes your gloved hand in his, raising it until your knuckles graze his lips. "I'd be most delighted to attend. Until then, my lady." He releases your hand and turns off in the direction of his mother, who looks all too unhappy with him, and you, by extension.

You sigh, ready to be completely done with the evening. You move toward your father, ready to meander around where he sits near the dais, hoping that any lingering suitors would see him situated nearby and turn the other direction.

Once you've raised your head and made your way toward your father, Clive comes into view. He's moving toward you at a fast pace, and before you can stop yourself, your feet turn to guide you in his direction instead. Momentarily forgetting your place, you call out his name, though it's difficult to hear over the chatter of the ballroom.

At the same time, two overlapping voices call out to you. One is Clive's; the sound of his voice is more familiar to you, but there's another that cuts through the air.

A gruff "princess" is all you're afforded in terms of a greeting.

Both you and Clive come to a halt and turn in the direction of the unknown voice.

The man has a familiar face, though you can't exactly place from where you know him. He's around your father's age, with wrinkles lining his eyes and forehead as well as dashes of grey in his facial hair, so you conclude that your father must be how you've made his acquaintance before.

The man is decently handsome, more so than the other creeps you've had the displeasure of dancing with. He has stark eyes, almost crystalline in nature, which are a sharp contrast to his raven-colored hair.

These traits prove to be startlingly similar to those of your current lover, but you decide it's best to dissect that later.

Clive is the one who breaks the silence. "My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty."

Your majesty?

You offer the man a curtsey in apology while Clive bows, but the stranger pays you no mind, choosing to focus on the knight instead. 

"Is something the matter?" Though it's merely a question, his voice carries a wealth of command behind it.

"Nothing that can't wait," Clive begins, his eyes flitting between you and the unknown—at least unknown to you. "Please pardon my intrusion." He bows to the both of you before stalking off toward your father.

You suppose you'll be informed later if it's truly so important.

The silence fills between you and the man again before he asks, "May I have this dance?" His mouth quirks up in a smirk.

“It's only a country dance; nothing too intimate,” you think to yourself.

If you were being honest, the last thing you wanted to do was begrudgingly endure a dance with this gentleman after having more than your fair share of imbeciles indulge themselves in your assets, but propriety comes first. So instead of telling this man to kindly fuck off, you put on your best princessly smile and place your hand in his.

"Of course," you reply, and he leads you toward the floor.

You stand next to each other in between other couples before the band begins to pick up once again. The melody starts slow enough, so you take this time to ask the man exactly who he is, keeping your tone light and polite.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty; it seems that I remember the face but not the name.”

He must've made his entrance later on in the evening after the formal introductions, because you certainly would've remembered him during the greetings.

He offers a light chuckle before muttering, "Barnabas, King of Waloed."

King of Waloed. The very same king who's planning to go toe to toe with one of your closest confidants. He's aged quite a bit in the fifteen-odd years it's been since you've seen him last; it's no wonder you didn't recognize him. 

Your body language gives you away despite your best efforts, and his laugh pierces through you. "It seems my reputation proceeds me."

The disdain is thinly veiled in your voice. "Don't you have a battle to prepare for?" you grit, and he laughs again as if the prospect were beneath him.

"I'm not worried," is all he offers in response. His presence must've been what Clive was trying to warn you about.

You take a deep breath, seeing it best not to stir anything up in the public eye.

You get a better look at him when the succession of people in the line with you turns around. He certainly doesn't dress like a king—definitely not one like your father. There are no bells and whistles to his outfit, no ornate capes lined with exotic furs, or gilded crowns.

If anything, it seemed like he'd dressed down for this event, and you can't tell what pisses you off more: his pompous attitude toward heading into battle that may surely send Dion to an all too early grave or his nonchalance in showing up to a royal ball in only a blue tunic and black leathers. It felt like a jab. Though his pompousness in battle may be deserved, this blatant display of disrespect was not.

He gave the impression of a venomous snake, intriguing to look at but ultimately best viewed from a faraway distance.

It takes everything in you not to grind your teeth together and overemphasize the stiffness in your movements.

As if sensing your irritation with him, Barnabas probes, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

No, you're quite simply NOT!

"I've gotten to the age where these sorts of gatherings lose their luster."

It wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't a lie either. As you got older and balls became more about finding matches, you started to dread them. You were hoping that it being your brother's birthday would be enough to spare you from marriage prospects, but alas, you were clearly wrong.

"A shame," he mutters, his words lacking enthusiasm.

The group moves along to the beat of the tune when Clive comes into your view, talking to your father.

"Who's that brooding fellow you're staring at?" Barnabas asks, trying to cut off whatever is taking your attention away from him.

The two of you move in succession toward the back of the group when it registers just how much you've been gawking at Clive in Barnabas' presence.

"Him? He's my first shield," you answer nonchalantly, letting no indication of fondness slip into your voice.

Barnabas snickers, "I had no idea noble ladies were so heavily invested in the lives of their shields."

"I know naught of what you mean," you scoff, acting like the princess you are.

His voice rises in volume as he declares, "Why don't you let a real man take care of you?"

Heat floods your body at his words, and you do little to hide your disgust.

"Excuse me?"

"He's nothing but filth," he continues to say, and the rage inside you reaches a boiling point.

"You speak of him as if he's nothing but a lowly street rat."

"He might as well be, compared to us. You could have an entire kingdom of knights protecting you as well as one of the most powerful men in the realm, instead of just one lowly feeble knight."

"Are you always so incorrigible toward those who are beneath you? It's a miracle that your kingdom still stands."

He laughs out loud, beside himself. You were sure he'd have your head. Instead, his volume just gets louder, so those dancing alongside you can hear.

"I've heard rumors that your precious first shield is actually a royal bastard, but from whom he's a descendant, I've no idea. A man of his standing is simply not fit to be in the position of protecting a princess. I'm just looking out for you."

If you were feeling rage before, now you're furious. As much as the people in your dance group tried to be respectful, heads couldn't help but turn at Barnabas' accusations.

Whether Clive being a bastard was true or not didn't matter; you refused for someone who valiantly defended your life to be made a mockery of over such trivial matters in your eyes.

"I was the one who held the sword that knighted Clive!" You start off loud, similar to him, but your voice gets lower as you draw near.

"My father gave him a title under his tutelage. Clive's been protecting me since I was the tender age of twelve years old and is the only man I'd trust with my life outside of my father and brother."

There's a pause before you continue.

"If you wish to win my favor, it'd be wise to watch what you say in regards to him," you grit.

You're not sure when the rest of the group stopped dancing alongside you, but by the time you realize it, all their eyes are on you. Though the people outside of the circle couldn't hear your conversation, the crowd caused those on the fray of the ballroom to turn their attention toward you.

Barnabas only snirks, scanning your face plainly when you turn back to face him. Your glare is prominent as he escorts you back off the dance floor once  the music dies down.

He speaks in a low voice, right in your ear, "You're a feisty one, but don't worry, I enjoy a challenge." He smiles menacingly before releasing you.

All the wandering heads seem to return to their original activities upon the group's dispersal. You don't want to cause any more disturbance, something you're sure you'll get a lecture for later on, so you give a curtsey to Barnabas, lowering your head.

"I shall bid you adieu, Your Majesty." The words are choked out, and not a moment later you're turning on your heels and making your exit out of the ballroom.

Which is how you ended up in an old store room, with nothing but your various frustrations and the ebbs n flows of silence to keep you company.

You're not sure how long you've been sitting there, but by the time you hear the door open, you're convinced that it was a servant sent to escort you back to the ballroom, but instead, it's Clive.

There's no hesitation in his movements as he steps toward you, catching your face in his gloved hands as he reads your expression.

"Are you alright?" He asks. Even if there's no threat of physical danger, that doesn't mean emotional scars weren't left after your interaction with the king.

"I tried to warn you...I tried to-"

You cut him off, "I'm okay, Clive. A little embarrassed, but it's nothing I couldn't handle." You smiled softly at him, which he returned in full.

"What were you two talking about?"

Warmth flows throughout your body once more, and you don't want to admit that the cause of the outburst you had was because of him, so you act nonchalant.

"Nothing of importance."

He raises his eyebrows like he doesn't believe what you're saying at all, but he doesn't press you on it, not now at least, and you won't give him the chance to when you ask, "Jealous?"

He smirks, shaking his head back and forth slightly. "Do you enjoy tormenting me, my lady?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Do you enjoy watching my torment? Does it give you pleasure?"

"I'm afraid I know naught of what you mean. Have you perhaps forgotten your place, knight?" You put extra emphasis on the word as you toss a smirk his way.

He backs up from where you're sitting on the barrel. "All those men, dancing with you, ogling you. All the while, I'm forced to stand by and watch them all make a pass at you."

You offer a faux pout. "Aw, come on. They're not all bad."

"Enough of them are."

"Are you truly so jealous of those who're above your peerage?" You can't help but snirk in amusement. This was the first time you'd seen him act like this.

"Yes, no!" He takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts: "The Archduke and that bastard king."

Your eyebrows rise at his declaration. "You hate them so much that you've forgone proper titles?"

He rolls his eyes at your statement, and you're unable to hold back your giggles. You hop off the barrel and take his face into your hands.

"There is absolutely no affection for that king in my heart, I assure you. As for the Archduke, though he is roguishly charming, I happen to prefer meaner mugs to delicate pretty features like his," you move to press a kiss to his cheek.

His head hangs low in shame. "I cannot deny that jealousy and resentment burn in my heart at the thought of you with another."

"Believe me," you say, stroking his cheek, "I'd much rather spend my time with you than with stiff men who smell of port. I've been looking for an escape practically all evening.“

"They don’t deserve you at all, my lady. Those men don’t deserve to know the softness of your skin,” he lowers his mouth to place delicate kisses on your neck, then moves toward the exposed flesh of your bosom above your gown.

"Clive," you gasp, tangling your fingers in his thick locks.

“They don't deserve to know the sweetness in your voice when you cry out in pleasure," he whispers, pulling away from your skin to trace his thumb along the frame of your face.

“I’ve missed you," he states.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He pulls you into him for a kiss, one full of hunger and desperation, eager to taste each other once more. The kiss is sticky; the clear gloss painted on your lips transfers onto his. He’s licking into your mouth as your lips brush against each other, tongues wrestling each other for dominance.

You're moved backward until you're pressed against the storeroom wall. Clive reaches down, grazing your bum with his palms over the fabric of your skirts before lifting your legs in the air. The back wall holds you steady as he wraps your legs around his waist.

Desperate to get close to him once more, not even wanting to separate for a second, you pull him back into you and kiss him fervently, not wanting to be parted from each other. He angles his hips toward you, teasingly grinding himself into your heat, causing you to whine into the kiss.

���Looks like you did miss me, hm?” He separates from your lips, moving to kiss down your neck once more.

“Let me make it up to you for being so neglectful of your needs.” He continues kissing down your neck, moving over to your décolleté, and then finally down the swell of your breasts.

“Founder, how I wish I could mark these tits,” he murmurs, dropping your legs back down onto the floor so that he can skim your torso and squeeze at your chest through the fabric of your gown.

“You have an intense infatuation with my breasts, don't you?” You giggle, laughing at his awestruck countenance while he continues to knead the fat in his hands.

“You've no idea." He smirks at you, then suddenly kneels before you.

“What are you doing?” You pet his hair softly as he looks up at you.

“I’m just being a good knight, my lady. On my knees for you, like I should be.”

"Oh, really now?"

"Mhm," he mumbles, taking your gloved hand in his. “I truly did miss you, and I plan on showing you just how much.” He reaches towards the hem of your gown, bunching it up over your navel.

"If you'd be so kind as to help hold up your skirts, my lady."

"I suppose I should be so kind." You lift the hem of your dress over your hips as Clive places your leg over his shoulder.

“Now this is how I shall swear fealty to you,” he leans towards your bare mound, planting a few kisses upon your mons before blowing cool air onto your cunt.

“I’ve missed your taste. I dreamt about it for so many nights." His thumbs trace slow circles into the skin near your pelvis as he continues teasing. He trails his tongue where your thigh meets the stark white stocking covering the majority of your leg.

"Fuck." He leans his face into your pussy once more, inhaling the rich scent before finally dipping his tongue into your wetness. He groans into your cunt.

Holding up the skirts of your gown the best you can in one hand, you snake the other into his shaggy locks, taking hold of his roots. Your chest heaves in anticipation.

“Please, please, Clive, don’t tease me," you whine, "it’s been too long.”

“Aw, did my sweet princess miss me?” He goads, sticking his tongue in your entrance and greedily sucking up your arousal on his wet muscle.

“Did her princess pussy miss how good I made her feel?” He kisses up the seam of your cunt until he reaches your clit.

"Did she miss how I made love to her with my mouth?” He spits on your pussy, the glob of saliva sticking to the hairs that cover your mound, some of it dripping to the ground.

He's quick to remove his gloves, tossing them aside before he takes his thumbs and spreads your folds apart, watching as your quivering hole twitches in anticipation.

“She must have missed me, with how much she’s leaking just for me."

All you're able to do is bite your lip and nod, feeling embarrassed as his words generate heat in both your cheeks and core.

He plugs your warm hole with his tongue, not wanting a single morsel of your essence to be wasted.

“It’s alright, princess; I’m right here.” He speaks directly into your cunt, looking at you with a deeply enamored gaze.

"I’ve missed her too, you know," he says, sliding his tongue all around your sopping pussy.

“I’ve missed her wetness, her sweetness, and her warmth. I missed how she clenched around me as I gave her pleasure," he groans.

Making his way to your clit, he gives it sweet kisses and drags the length of his tongue along the entirety of the bundle of nerves before pulling it into his mouth. His teeth graze the nub, causing your hips to jump forward, pressing more of yourself into his face.

Your fingers curl into his shaggy locks, struggling to keep your dress in your hold as you lose yourself in the feeling of pleasure, his pretty face proving to be useful for more than just gazing upon.

His teeth nip at your inner thigh, “getting greedy now, aren’t we princess?” He traces the divots of your thighs with his fingers, enjoying the feeling of your skin.

You don’t say anything, choosing to instead respond with an angry huff and pull his face back into your cunt by his hair.

“Point taken,” he smirks against you before pulling your clit back into his mouth again.

He moves his hand from your thigh and down to your pussy, sliding his middle finger back and forth between your folds, coating it in your slick. He slips to your entrance, circling the quivering hole and waiting, drawing out a whine from you.

“Please,” you exhale, your head rolling back against the wall, desperate to have him deep inside you. Though you’d much prefer squeezing down on his cock, that’d have to wait for another day.

He chuckles, the vibration from his voice moving through you, causing you to keel over slightly. Clive breeches your warm hole, slowly, letting you enjoy the feeling of his thick finger stretching you out.

“Fuck yes,” you whimper.

“That’s it, princess; you’re so wound up. Just take what you need," he coos, murmuring against you, his breath hot on your skin.

He curls his finger into you, the pad of his digit hitting the spongey spot along your walls.

“Looking for another audience? Was the poor maid not enough the first time?” He’s smirking against you now as he begins to pump his finger in and out of your cunt.

“What if your father were to catch you with me, hm? How do you think he’d react to his little girl stuffing her cunt in the face of someone he deigned worthy enough to protect her?"

Your breath is ragged, unable to form words due to the sound of his voice, deep and gravelly as he spews more filth at you.

“Keep moaning like that, and we’ll soon know the answer yet.”

He moves to your clit once more, slurping and sucking at your swollen pussy, desperate to push you over the edge. He fucks his finger into you at a rapid pace now, and his tongue is quick to catch whatever dribbles out onto his fingers, dining on your essence like it’s the finest ambrosia known to man, and to him, it might as well be.

Your head is lulled back against the wall as heat creeps onto your face and into your core. You don’t dare look down at Clive, who's nestling his face further in the hair that covers your cunt, knowing that you’ll surely come undone at the sight.

After the night you’ve had, you more than deserve this a thousand times over, and if it were up to him, he would happily oblige in all your desires.

The tips of your fingers cinch into his scalp, tugging him impossibly closer to your core, your orgasm building rapidly.

Clive pulls no punches, suctioning his lips around your clit and sucking it like a piece of hard candy. His index finger has joined the middle digit, fucking in and out of your cunt.

With practiced strokes, he contorts his fingers until your climax is upon you. Your lips part with a silent scream as your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

Your thighs shake as they try to close around his head, and his steady palms hold them apart as he removes his fingers from your pussy. Every drop of arousal that leaks from your womanhood is lapped up by his tongue til your hands are pushing his face away.

Clive gets the hint, removing your thigh from his shoulder and setting it back down on the floor. You attempt to move away from the wall, but he holds you in position until the jitter in your leg ceases.

He wipes the remnants of your spend from his face onto your inner thighs, and the roughness of his facial hair sends a shiver up your spine.

Once you've settled, he moves to help with fixing the skirts of your gown.

"Do you like it?" You smile brightly. "I wore it with you in mind."

You twirl slowly, your dress billowing slightly, wanting to show off all the detailing. His face warms at the gesture, and he presses a soft kiss on your forehead.

"I think lavender may be my new favorite color."

You allow yourself a moment to indulge in the blissful feeling before Clive speaks up once more.

"We should get moving. The break for supper will be happening soon, and we don't want any whispers of our whereabouts if we're not in attendance."

He moves to make a break for the storeroom door when you grab his forearm.

"Surely you're not going to go out there with your... predisposition," you flit your eyes down to the front of his trousers, where a prominent erection has made itself known.

"I'll take care of it myself, later."

"Let me help you..." There wasn't much time for you to return the favor with your mouth, and any other activities would leave you disheveled in a way that everyone would know of what happened between the two of you, but you could provide relief with your hand.

Despite the time restraint, you wanted to tease Clive a little, putting the tips of your silk gloves into your mouth and pulling them off of each hand slowly with your teeth before setting them aside nearby, so as to not be sullied with bodily fluids.

You wanted to get a good look at what you'd be working with, so you sink to your knees and pull his trousers down to his thighs. You give him a wide-eyed expression as the appendage bobs free, hitting his stomach gently.

His cock looked a lot different than those pictured in the medical texts that you've snuck from the royal library. He had extra skin and hair and garnered a much bigger girth as well.  

As tempted as you are to swallow the whole of him into your mouth, you settle for a simple kiss right on the tip, and his cock twitches back at you cutely in appreciation.

You rise to your feet once more with his aid and grasp him in your hand. His fingers are quick to cover your own, the size of them dwarfing yours.

"Are you positive that you want to go through with this? I truly don't mind taking care of myself," he asks.

"And not return the favor?" You chuckle. "I promise, I am doing this out of my own desire." You move to the column of his throat, placing soft and delicate kisses on the skin before moving toward the junction of his jaw.

"Now just relax," you coo, running your fingers delicately up and down his shaft.

He's so pent-up that it won't take long for him to climax, but you do your best to be as teasing as possible. His head lulls back as muffled sounds are delivered from his throat, and you can't help but admire how pretty he looks like this.

Not only does he have an impressive amount of girth, but his length is nothing to scoff at either, with a protruding vein running along the underside of him. The sheer size of him fills up your entire palm as you continue to pump slowly, the softness of your skin akin to silk upon his cock.

"So tell me, Clive, how many nights have you been fucking your fist to the thought of me?" You whisper in his ear, and his eyes shoot wide open as he takes in a gulp of air.

His hips buck lightly against you in response, giving you all the permission you need to continue your questioning.

"Come on, tell me. It can't be that bad." Your kisses continue on his neck as his hips continue to rock.

He takes in another gulp of air before answering.

"E-every night.”

"Every night? How cute," you tease, speeding up your movements on his cock. He bites his lip in an attempt to hide his noises while the rhythm of his hips meets your hand every time.

"I touch myself thinking of you too. Except my fingers are nowhere near as filling as yours," you chuckle to yourself as he groans out.

"Founder, above."

His cock is fully slick now, and at any moment, he looks like he's ready to burst, taking to wrapping his fist around yours and creating a vice-like grip with your fingers. All his movements are hurried and rushed as he chases his release.

For the final blow, you mutter to him, "Fuck my fist like you would fuck my pussy."

Clive full body shudders, tightening his grip once more before thrusting wildly. It's only a few short moments later that he's removing your hand from himself and laying his seed on the floor below, groaning your name in the process.

Afterward, the two of you take a few moments to collect yourselves and tidy your appearance. Old rags were used to wipe off the remnants of Clive from the floor, and you were just about to make your exit when the melody from one of your favorite songs played through the door.

"Clive, may I have this dance?" You extend your hand toward him, giggling to yourself.

From looking at your dance card earlier, this song was the second-to-last song to be played before the break for supper.

"And don't give me the excuse of not having enough time. We'll make it back to the ballroom before everyone's filed out for the evening."

"Even if that is true, my lady, I assure you that I know nothing of ballroom dancing."

"Did I ask you if you knew how?"

There's a momentary pause, one that he fills with a shake of his head. You nod in return.

"No, I did not. I simply asked you to dance with me. I'd still wish to so even if you had two left feet."

There's another pause as you extend your hand toward him again.

"I even saved you a spot on my dance card," you smile, shaking the parchment in front of his face, where the line for this dance is indeed left blank.

In his indecisiveness, you take his hand in your own and press yourselves close together.

"It's just you and me," you whisper, resting your head against his frame, the sound of the music filling the silence. His opposite hand moves to the small of your back, and the two of you end the evening in each other's arms, swaying to the sound of muffled music. 

[luskavasurtseto]

Clive is right, they’re cute, precious and must be protected

But also, looking at them I can’t help but be reminded of this

So I couldn’t draw them as summoners 🙈(in small voice ) sorry

But here Clive two wings 🥺

[freyito]

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴏʀᴛ

✭ pairing(s): clive rosfield x gn reader

✩ inspo: yk that one note by tarja in the infirmary? yeah.

✩ in which: tarja had requested you bring rope to the infirmary. you wonder why.

✧ a/n: THIS HAS BEEN ON MY MIND FOREVER ITS SO FUNNY TO ME IMAGINE TARJA TYING THIS FREAK DOWN. PLEASE.

✦ taglist: @shinysora

🗒 cw: gn reader, kicked puppy clive, not proofread

✎ wc: 2.0k

Well, Tarja was good on her word. You were used to little runs to the infirmary, deliveries of herbs and what not. But when she asked for some rope, you couldn’t help but wonder what it was for. You do your best not to pry in on her patients and who needs what herbs, focusing on just what herbs she needed. But… rope? You were sure there was plenty in the infirmary. Still, you’d rather not get an earful, so you obliged.

And, well, you were treated to quite the scene. Clive, or Cid, genuinely tied down. It was rare of you to see Clive look so pathetic in a way, battered and bruised from god knows what. You’ve never seen him like this; granted, he tends to run off halfway through his treatment (i.e. the rest period). And with him tied down to the bed, he looked even more sorrowful, like a dog who was left out in the rain. If you hadn’t been poking around in Tarja’s journals when she was away, you would’ve thought this was some bizarre new treatment. 

“Ah, good, you’re here,” Tarja immediately holds out her hand, beckoning you over. “I was starting to fear the beast would break his chains.”

Jill, next to Clive, lets out a chuckle, while Clive couldn’t be more displeased. You’d rather not end up like him, so you are quick to place the rope in Tarja’s hand.

“Tarja, please, this is embarrassing…” Clive protests weakly, his voice strained as if he had been struggling to break free for hours.

“Oh, really? Would you rather lose your head when you keel over in battle?” Tarja retorts, kneeled beside the bedside to tie more ropes around poor Clive. “You need to rest before throwing yourself into the fray again, you understand that, right? Ugh, you types are so aggravating!”

The room falls silent at that, save for Clive’s insistent grunts of struggle. Meanwhile, Tarja had just finished up with the second layer of rope. All you can do is really watch, too dumbstruck to speak, too astounded to laugh. You fear if you laugh or so much as giggle, you might earn Clive’s ire, as rare as it may be. At the same time, you simply can’t make fun of a patient, no matter how silly the occurrence is. If you told anyone, Tarja would have your head. Patient Confidentiality and all that. For now, this matter was one confined to the four people in the room.

As funny as you find this, poor Clive looked absolutely embarrassed, his cheeks flushed redder than you’ve ever seen him. Jill did her best to stifle her laughter, turning her head and covering her mouth. This seemed to make Clive deflate even more, turning his head away from her and towards you. The look he gives you is pitiful, one of a mangy, starving dog on the street. Yet it succeeds in heating up your cheeks, and taking pity on him. Have you ever seen such a hardened man turn into something so soft?

“Is this truly necessary…?” With a sigh, you turn to Tarja. “The man killed Kupka for Founder’s sake, we don’t need to punish him.”

“Are you not as sick as I am when he runs off without proper rest?” While her tone is harsh and she’s quite loud, you know she means none of this irritation towards you.

“Oh, I am, but…” You look back at Clive, who’s pride seems to mend. “He just avenged all of those we lost, must we really confine him like this?”

This seems to have talked some sense to Tarja, and she takes a moment to think about it. Wounded he may be, and stubborn at that, he did bring a sense of victory and cheer to the Hideaway that had been lost in recent days. In recent years, more of. It is nothing short of rude to tie the hero to a cot, even if he’s too damned stubborn to rest. 

“Okay, okay, you’re right,” Tarja scoffs, before shaking her head. “But I am going to let him wallow like this for a minute longer. Perhaps he’ll think twice before he leaves the infirmary without resting.”

“Tarja!” Clive whines, struggling a little more with the look of a kicked puppy.

You turn your head, closing your eyes and willing yourself to shut up. You fear if you stare any longer you will enjoy the view. Not that you weren’t already, but it was starting to get to you! That, and you wanted to laugh so badly, but not at poor Clive’s condition. He was still a patient, as you keep repeating to yourself. Eventually, the awkward silence in the room feels like it’s too much to bear, and so you make your way out of the infirmary. You didn’t want to leave Clive alone, not without a voice of reason, but you had a feeling you’d done all you could. At the very least, Tarja would let him free sooner rather than in three days' time.

You’d hope you’d see him wandering around soon, to affirm that Tarja hadn’t kept him tied down. At the same time, you’d rather see him tied down than walking about, knowing he’d most likely be rushing off to another mission. And that’d earn him an indefinite spot in the Infirmary, strapped to the bed. If someone hauled him in. He’d most likely avoid it after this, not that you could blame him. But, just for extra measure, you’d make sure to drill it into him that he really should be resting after exerting himself so much. Just because you saved him doesn’t mean you aren’t of the same mind as Tarja, you’d just rather not involve ropes.

Now that you’ve (hopefully) saved the day, you feel like you’re going to burst if you don’t tell someone of the scene you just saw. You know you should be quiet and keep it to yourself, but it’s too damn much! If you don’t tell someone, anyone, you’ll die! You hurry back to the ale hall to at least find someone to chat with, and if not, you’ll drink your weight in ale and ‘accidentally’ let it slip. 

Before you even reach the hall, Gav has a hand on your shoulder. He’s chipper as always, a grin on his face and the confidence you only wish you had.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost! What was goin’ on in the infirmary…?” He cocks his head to the side. He is just begging to be told. Seems you’ve found your victim. “Don’t tell me Tarja’s got you runnin’ ‘round for more herbs.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Lady Tarja… she’s kind. As long as you follow her instructions…” You shake your head, debating to just drop it on Gav.

“Well, then you should have no reason for lookin’ so afraid… right?”

Oh, Great Greagor. You don’t care about getting out of this. You need to tell him.

“No! No, uhm, well…” Your unsure tone turns into something more upbeat, something mirthful. “She’s got Clive tied up in there.”

“WHAT!?” Gav’s mouth drops, squeezing your shoulder, before he looks back to where you came from. “She’s got Ci–”

You slap a hand over his mouth before he can continue, looking around at the few people who had turned their heads towards you. You give Gav an angry look, one that’s on par with Tarja’s. He shuts up immediately, an almost fearful look in his eyes.

“You keep your mouth shut, okay? I’m not looking to end up like him,” You huff, taking your hand off his mouth. He nods vigorously. “Not. A. Word.”

“Yessir!” Gav states dramatically, giving you a proper salute like you were Clive himself, before darting off to the infirmary. You hope for your sake, he’s quiet about it, and that Clive has already been freed of such humiliation. 

Sure enough, before Gav can even open the door, Clive is stepping out, as if he has completely ignored Tarja’s instruction for rest. Before he can spot you from far off, you duck your head and make for the ale hall, hoping now to hide away in a bowl of stew and a cup of… water. Yes, water. Something that won’t loosen your tongue. Maybe you’ll just crash in your quarters instead. Suddenly, you’re feeling very guilty over telling one soul. And the fact that Clive didn’t seem to learn his lesson doesn’t help.

You walk quicker, order your food even more hurriedly, and take a seat down at one of the tables. You settle once you're there, as if the air of tension has lifted. You fidget a little, like you had just stolen something, but no one can blame you, right? Suddenly what you’ve seen feels like an information hazard. Cid the Outlaw, who’s killed Hugo Kupka, and Benedikta Harman, shattered two mother crystals, and who has been carrying the plight of Bearers on his back, tied up and helpless. You still want to laugh. And you aren’t too prideful to admit that he’s a dashing man. Not that your relationship was any secret. But it felt wrong seeing that. Isn’t that a scene for the bedroom?

Bedroom or not, something was just so compromising about seeing him like that. And given the fact he was already up and walking around, you fear that his fate is sealed. Tarja will tie him to the cot once more, or forever more, and he will be forced to rest. What a horrible fate.

Just as you're mourning your boyfriend, he has the gall to show up. So smoothly, as if everything hadn’t happened, he sits down across from you with a warm smile.

“I have to thank you for saving me,” He chuckles, a warm blush dusting his cheeks. “I don’t know how long she would’ve kept me there.”

You want to say ‘you’re welcome’, but at the same time you also know he needs his rest. He can act as warm as he wants, but just because you saved him from that humiliation doesn’t mean you wanted him up. Especially after fighting Titan. So, you embody Tarja.

“No. No, you–” You point at him, “– are going to go back to the infirmary. Or your room. And you are going to rest. For a week.”

His demeanor changes, he wears the same expression Gav has. Are you truly that terrifying?

“No running off for a mission. No getting up to train.” You continue, pressing your finger into the table. “You will listen to Tarja and I’s instructions. If you try to run off, I won’t save you next time she decides you need three times the rope to be restrained.”

Clive deflates slightly, like rest is his greatest nightmare, and you are sentencing him an eternity to it. Or as if he believes he doesn’t deserve it, a thought process you are quite intimate with.

“... Okay…” He speaks, sounding as if he’s a child who’s just been grounded.

You can’t help but sigh and relax as he agrees, as pathetically as he does. You reach over and take his hand in yours, flipping it over and running your thumb against his palm.

“You don’t have to be so afraid of the infirmary. Or Tarja. Or me. Or rest,” You mutter, “It’ll do you good, I promise. You’ve earned it, yeah?”

He perks up a little at your praise, before nodding again.

“So you go on and start catching up on all of it that you’ve missed, and I’ll join you later tonight.”

He nods again, before grabbing your hand, and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart skips a beat for a moment, wondering how long it’s been since he’s had the chance to be sweet on you. He’s spent the last couple months stressing over Hugo Kupka’s whereabouts, that most of his time was devoted to finding the man. Now that he’s killed the man, he finally has all the time to…

You can’t allow yourself to think like that. He’s buttering you up, for sure. Because you know by the time you reach his quarters he’ll be complaining about having nothing to do, begging you to let up on him so he can continue his work. You can’t let yourself grow soft!

© freyito, 2024 | masterlist | queue | kofi | discord server | star header by roseschoices DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN, REPOST ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.