#duke too? uncertain

[goatsghost]

the best art style is when they draw the batboys and their partners looking like a lesbian couple

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 26

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

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

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

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

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Monday's are for pain.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"More wine," Queen Jazlene demands. 

You stand at her shoulder, awaiting her every command. The familiarity of your duty feels safe though you cannot deny the peril all around. You move forward cautiously, sending a glance to king. 

King Geralt has not said or done much. He's hardly even touched his plate. For the first time that night, to your surprise as much as your relief, he looks at you. You pause, hand hovering before the ewer. 

"Another cup won't fare you well on the morrow," he girds. 

Jazlene huffs, "what else am I to do in this dull place but drink?" 

His lashes lower and he sits back. He props his elbow on the straight arm of the chair and gazes out at the boards full of bawdy voices and steps. He tilts his head as his pale sight skewers the chamber. 

"It is a banquet," he utters flatly. You remain close to Jazlene but retract your hand. 

"It is, husband, what do you propose?" She's breathy, almost hopeful. She peers out across the plucking of strings, "a dance?" 

"I know some steps," he extends his fingers, "suppose... there won't be much dancing on the road and Lord Vesemir did go to all this effort." 

"Truly? A dance?" She squals and grabs his forearm, "husband, is this not some cruel jape?" 

His jaw squares and he looks at her without humour, "only a suggestion. We are... married. The people should like to see king and queen together." 

You step back, as surprised as the daughter of Debray. The king himself hardly seems eager but he is ever aloof. You wonder if it is genuine. His refusal to look at you has you uncertain. Does he regret his missteps or are you once assuming too kindly of him? He has taught you those last few days to be skeptical. You are less than grateful for the lesson.  

"I would very much love to dance," Jazlene seizes his large hand and he winces, "thank you, thank you, thank you." She chants in excitement as she rises and the king steels himself as he does the same.  You're not so sure her glee is specific to her partner, but rather the act.

You can’t help but pity the queen. It’s clear she’s desperate for excitement. It would explain her flirtations and her tantrums and all her behaviour. Still, the isn’t the little girl flitting around her father’s castle anymore; she is the queen and her misdeeds will have consequences should she carry on. 

Your eyes drift out as a lull ripples over the chamber followed quickly by a tide of murmurs. The king and queen emerge from behind the royal table as curiosity thrums all around. The troupe continues to strum as Jazlene can hardly contain her elation despite the king’s stoic propriety. They begin the steps; hers jouncy, his flat and formal. She hardly notices her partner’s nonchalance. 

The other partners give breadth to the royal couple as others pause to watch. Whispers and cheers, some whistles encourage the king and queen. It is the first that any have seen the royal couple as one. 

You watch but hardly take in the scene. Your mind wanders to the chamber in the tower, then to the queen’s rooms; you hear only Geralt’s gritting frustration and the queen’s shrill defiance. They play their parts but you are not convinced. 

You peer around and your eyes catch on a shock of rusty orange. Gilles stands by the doors, amid as cluster of other guards. Where his fellow soldiers drink ale and grumble, he stares at the royal pair, bound by the sight of the queen on the king’s arm.  

You follow his gaze and meet King Geralt’s golden irises. His brow twitches and he quickly draws his attention back to his queen. You are confounded by him. You cannot figure if he truly has reconsidered his intent or he is merely hiding. He’s shown you before that he can feign whatever role suits his means; gallant king, pensive man, troubled soul. In the end, his only concern is his own will. 

Your chest rents deeper amidst your doom-laden thoughts. When did you grow so cynical? It’s these Hinterlands; their chill invades even the soul. Your lips tug down and you put your eyes to the stone wall. You need only see the night through. The road will keep all too busy for recklessness. 

As you stand there, you sense a shift, and turn to look over your shoulder. Lord Vesemir waves in your direction, bidding you to him with a pointed finger. You squint and peer back at the queen and king. You cannot disobey the host even if you are bound to a higher title. 

You sidle along behind the tables and stop behind the white-haired lord. He pushes his chair out, leaning into the straight wooden back. He looks up at you, cheeks ruddy with drink. 

“Little dove,” he grits, “how amusing, isn’t it, to see the king afoot on the boards.” 

“My lord,” you agree evenly. 

“I must say he never took so happily to the dance lessons as he did the sword,” Vesemir chuckles, “though he is graceful in both. My own feet do not listen to each other.” 

You bow your head, signaling your attention. You tilt your ear to him and stare at the table. 

“If any knew to watch for it, they would see he does prefer another partner,” the lord sighs, “alas, it would not be wise, as I’ve told him. A king cannot so quickly descend into folly. How many times did I say the same to his own father?” 

You lower your lashes.  

“I believe he has heeded my foreboding,” Vesemir reaches for his goblet and grunts as he finds it empty, tilting it to show his disappointment. You move forward to grab the jug of ale and pour him a new cup. He thanks you as he watches you. “And you. You had a restful night? You were provided the promised chamber? A bed?” 

“Yes, my lord, thank you,” you say, “it is rather much for a maid.” 

“We both know you are not any maid,” he pauses to gulp, “tell me, dove, do you find my halls too cold?” 

You set the jug down and step back on your heels. You fold your hands and consider his question as a riddle. You know not how to untangle the words of nobles so you will not try. 

“Cold, yes, but not intolerable, my lord,” you answer. 

“Hm, yes, but you may line your wool a bit thicker,” he reaches to pinch the cuff of your sleeve, “you would not shiver so much.” He rescinds his touch and looks into his cup, swirling the ale, “and your former castle, what was that like? Suppose the Duke of Debray is a rather busy lord, the way he scurries around like rat.” 

You hesitate. You cannot tell if he refers to Lord Dustan’s betrayal. 

“There’s always work for servants in a castle,” you say, “summer or winter. We were kept busy though not many ventured to Debray. It was always the lord that traveled.” 

“Mm, yes, you would not guess it but this vulture’s nest is rarely so lively as this. You’ve only seen it invaded by the king and his horde. When the winter is falling, it is so quiet. The snows drown out the noise below and the ice sparkles as diamonds...” he describes dreamily, “it is calm, peaceful. Not as life is at court. I prefer it. I was never one for that farce.” 

You look at him, listening intently. You think of the cave, of the moths, the desolation nestled within those icy walls. This place is beautiful despite its frosted bite. You might’ve seen clearer sooner were it not for the shroud cast on it by crowded halls. 

“It is safer here,” he continues, “and even as peace is declared, times will grow no less turbulent. Wars do not end so cleanly.” 

You furrow your brow and watch the lord, trying to unfold his words into their true meaning. He chuckles and empties his goblet once more. He sets it down and stands. 

“Perhaps this old man does ramble in his cups,” he shakes his head, “I thank you, dove, for your ear. Loyal as you are, gentle too. You could not know what spell you cast.” 

You retreat as Lord Vesemir angles his broad figure around his chair. He beckons as he turns and for a moment, you think he gestures at you. Instead, the maid, Ezme, appears from the shadows and meets him at the end of the table. He speaks to her as you back up against the wall. He walks with her from the hall as you stare after them. 

His words echo in your head.

What did he mean to say all he did? Another warning of what you already dread? A suggestion that you simply could never heed? Does he suggest escape even as he denotes your futility? Or does he simple speak for nothing more than his own voice? 

You look back to the king and queen. A new pitch picks up as the music swells with the stomping feet on the boards and the japes and jeers. Amid the revelry, the king remains as staunch as always, and once more, your eyes meet. 

Lord Vesemir is not mistaken. There is only turmoil ahead. 

⚔️

The night ends in a march along the corridors. You keep a distance from the king and queen as they walk ahead. Jazlene leans on her husband as she drunkenly babbles. Despite his discouragement, she kept to her wine. Ahead, Gilles walks with his hand on his sword. 

The guard opens the queen’s doors and the king escorts his wife through. You tarry in the archway as the ginger-headed man takes his post but cannot restrain from peeking within. Jazlene falls onto her mattress and sighs, giggling into a chattering shiver. 

“Oh, it is so cold,” she hugs herself, rubbing her arms. 

“You should not wear satin,” the king remands. 

“Rats to that!” She sneers and pushes herself up on her elbows, “I was plenty warm on the boards...” she looks at him coyly and grins, “with you, husband.” 

“And the wine in your belly does convince you of warmth,” he tuts. “I’ve known many men who drank themselves to death thinking it could cure the cold.” 

“Ugh, you are so dour,” she chides shrilly and sits up, reaching for him, “husband, we have a long road ahead. Will you not make use of our last night in the castle?” 

He huffs, “you are drunk and I must see Lord Vesemir about our travel-” 

“It is late. You might see to it in the morn,” she whines. 

He exhales again. He looks down at his boots and tilts his head to his side, but does not raises his eyes. He flicks his fingers in your direction, “close the door. I will see my wife abed.” 

Jazlene falls back and purrs. You can tell by the loll in her head that the wine will see her unconscious shortly. The king puts his hands to his hips and watches her as you back out and Gilles pulls shut the doors, not without undue force. 

“Go then, maid,” he snarls as he steps back against the wall. 

You obey. You are not certain whether to return to the chamber you shared with Ezme or to search out the servants’ quarters. You make no determination before you’re stopped the same slender shadow as the night previous. 

It is Ezme, as if she was summoned by the very thought of her. She is silent as she nods and turns to lead you onward. You follow without bidding. Your stomach churns as you already know she is not taking you to sleep. Something is amiss. 

You stop before a set of doors marked by iron vultures’ heads. She knocks and enters, letting you in after her. Within, Lord Vesemir sits before a fire, the glow flickering over him as he watches the flame. His shirt is untucked, his jacket disposed, and his hair hangs around his bullish face. 

“Dove, your wings cannot weather these winter winds,” he declares sonorously. 

You’re silent. Ezme closes the doors as you remain close to them. You peer around warily. She goes to the lord of the castle and he reaches to squeeze her hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it. You blink as you stare at them. They are... 

“Please, sit down,” Vesemir insists, “I suppose we will be waiting some time for our king.” 

You don’t understand. Lord Vesemir and Ezme? A noble and a servant. Yet he warns King Geralt against the same with you. It is their manner, you suppose, to do what they would tell others not to. 

You don’t move. You crane to look at the doors then back to the maid and her master. It seems both Geralt and Vesemir agreed upon his attendance there that night but what place do you have there? You are not so brazen as to ask. 

You relent and come further into the chamber. You sit upon the wooden stool close to the wall as Ezme lights another lamp and sets it on the table. You wring your hands in your lap as you wait in silence. The lord lowers his head, patient as he closes his eyes. Or perhaps, fatigued as you are. 

Time sifts through the air like sand through a sieve. Slow and grinding. You stare at your skirts as the other maid drifts like a wraith and the lord sits as a statue. The longer you wait, the deeper the pit grows in your gut. You are owed no explanation but you long for one. 

Finally, there is a tap at the doors. Just the one. Hard but not violent. Ezme moves to open the door. You stand out of habit and a large shadow enters. It is the king. His golden eyes catch the lantern light as he sees the Lord sat before his hearth. 

“Vesemir, I have much to do before the sun.” 

“Aye, don’t I know,” the lord says calmly, “so you best listen and not waste time or breath.” 

The king angles his head, both curious and skeptical. You shift on your feet and the movement draws his attention. He winces as he sees you and his shoulders tense. He peers back at the lord in the light of the fire. He clears his throat. 

“Vesemir, what is your meaning here?” The king demands. 

[avocado-writing]

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

*eats your words*

no but seriously, your writing has me kicking my feet when I’m supposed to be typing an essay 😞‼️ I was wondering if you could do some headcanons for the companions x monk! Tav who, when being confessed to, Tav responds with “it’ll pass”?

basically fleabag inspired 😍‼️ please and thank you! stay safe n warm 🔫

OH GOD HEARTBREAKING i tried to make it have a happy ending tho!!! enjoy! and I'm so glad that you enjoy my writing! (mild nsfw mentions)

writing as if you're saying this because you think you wouldn't be the best option for their future, one way or another, and want to try and soften the blow for them by replying like this. you only want them to be happy and you're scared it can't be with you.

Astarion

you cup his face, and the look in your eyes is so, so sad.

you think perhaps your simple nomadic lifestyle will not be enough for him. you love him, you do, but he needs someone more modern. more cosmopolitan.

when you tell him it will pass you see a myriad of expressions cross his face: sadness, confusion, anger... but finally, resolve.

he takes your hand in his, firmly.

"my heart. I know when things will pass, and when they won't. my love for you is not some trifle, a fashion to be abandoned like it would go out of style. I mean it. I can make my own decisions, and I have decided where I want to be. It's with you."

he reaches out to embrace you. you're surprised, but let him do it anyway, and you bury your face into his neck to hide your emotions.

maybe, just maybe, you were wrong.

you hold him tighter than ever that night.

Gale

you're worried he is too smart for you. that he will get bored of you, and the idea breaks your heart.

you tell him "it'll pass" when he confesses because you're scared.

seems actually offended that you'd tell him his love for you might be fleeting.

"there are things which will span the ages. stories, gods, heroes. my love for you is one of them. I do not confess that lightly. you are a beacon of hope in my life, love... and that will never fade."

goes on for some time afterwards about how committed he is and how much he loves you, until eventually you accept that he's not going anywhere.

bloody wizards, so good with their words...

fall asleep that night after having the most intimate lovemaking session, all about feeling each other's breath and heartbeats.

he is here to stay, forever.

Wyll

wyll deserves someone amazing. someone who could handle his life if he became duke, and you're scared you'll let him down.

when you tell him 'it'll pass' he is hurt, and leaves the conversation for a moment. you think perhaps it is for the best. you don't need this to cause any more pain.

but later he comes to find you and asks if he can have a private moment. you find out he wasn't hiding from you but preparing: he has a little intimate picnic set up where you can sit and be alone.

when you're comfortable he tells you about how deep his love is, how fate has thrown you together.

"there is nothing about how i feel about you that could pass. nothing."

to prove his point, he slips to his knee, and that is when he proposes.

you're overcome with emotion. you have to accept how committed to you he is, and work out if you deserve something as fierce as his love.

there are tears in your eyes when you accept. you never think his love will pass again.

Karlach

probably the hardest one to say this too. together, your future is so uncertain. it will be easier to break it off here rather than maim both of you.

gets angry. in fact, goes into a rage. tears up the surroundings, and for a moment you're taken aback--

but then she turns and she's sobbing, stuck at the midpoint between being apoplectic and brokenhearted.

"you don't get to decide that for me! you don't! you're the first person i've loved... I've touched... I've felt anything for, for a fucking decade! when i feel this, it doesn't fade! how dare you think about yourself like that? as if you're some sort of phase?"

eventually she calms down enough but bursts into tears instead. you go to hold her and she embraces you so tightly that the wind is knocked from your body.

"i love you. i won't leave you. don't leave me." her voice is tiny.

how could you ever say no? how could you ever doubt her?

when the two of you are in Avernus, you're reminded of this moment, and so glad she fought against it. you'd trade this away for nothing.

Lae'zel

would she want someone like you? long term? she's so brave, so fierce. what if you're not good enough? what if your relationship develops only for you to let her down?

she gets angry too, but quieter.

is furious that you would question her affection.

"githyanki do not give their devotion lightly. the fact that you think my love for you could pass makes me wonder how well you know me."

it turns into an argument where you try and explain your side, and she's angry at you for thinking this way.

eventually it descends into angrily making out. some fierce lovemaking. her saying how much she loves you, possesses you, between every bite and kiss.

you lie in the afterglow. she says she will not leave, and pretty much tells you that you won't either. you agree, and tangle your hand with hers.

Shadowheart

tries to hide how hurt she is.

yes, Shar is the lady of loss, but the idea of losing you... of not having you in her life? unthinkable.

you only tried to tell her it will pass so that, if she wishes to become a dark justiciar, she will have no lingering attachment to you after.

and yet...

it is blasphemy for her, but she refuses to let you go.

"no. i won't allow it. i can't believe this will fade between us. you are the most precious thing to me. stay."

you're weak for her, end up tumbling into bed, reconfirming your love for each other.

you never quite believe that this is forever until she changes her hair, embraces selune. then your heart is full of joy. and it is full of Shadowheart.

[minimujina]

wriothesley is an old lover, i think. he’s tough and strong and oh-so-ruggedly handsome; he’s a gentle handler, a slow mover. it takes knowing someone a long time before he can either fall in love with them or, if he happened to fall fast and hard, get the guts to do something about it.

when he does something about it, it’s so romantic and genuine and sweet that you’ll want to metaphorically throw up. in a time where things move so fast—technology makes strides every day, engineers are speeding along the progress of society, and people become daily entangled in small trysts of passion, leaving fragments of themselves scattered—wriothesley moves deliciously slow.

it makes you feel so special, the way he practically courts you. he’s so god damn respectful of everything about you, it’s disgusting. the simple ways he shows affection for you are so beautiful and veneratingly intimate that it almost feels vulgar. wriothesley naturally creates a space around himself that is so safe and so quiet, you melt into vulnerability before you can even think. he makes it easy to be relaxed, and that can be scary when you are used to being on guard.

he is patient, and he’s kind. he’s certainly not perfect, as no one can be—he has his flaws, and he recognizes his own shortcomings. though easy to talk to, easy to get along with, wriothesley does guard his heart carefully, masking himself and his intentions until he’s gauged the trustworthiness of a companion. it can sometimes be difficult to bring the defenses down, even in the most trusted presence; he is used to being fully performative, fully vigilant. he can struggle to communicate in this stage, because he is uncertain of himself and others and, frankly, everything all at once. but once the wall comes down, he’s all authentic, coming as he is without the pre-painted mask.

i feel as if it takes a lot of mutual comfort and reassurance in that stage of scary vulnerability. it is somewhat grotesque to be seen as you are and then to watch someone choose to see more of you over and over and over. you are dying and you are living and it’s mortifying and really very wonderful.

after the initial knowing, there comes the valley where it feels as if your souls begin to intertwine, and the knowing becomes so much more intimate than you might have prepared yourself for. wriothesley wants to hide, and you might too. there are probably some bumps where he puts off replying to letters, or perhaps you procrastinate scheduling visits to the fortress, and you both act very silly, and you misunderstand and squabble a bit and make up. the silliness, however, is not unwarranted, as you both are very aware of how scary it can be to like someone and to be liked. and to watch and feel as the liking turns to loving, and knowing turns to becoming, and suddenly your hands and hearts are glued like crafts and it would be a dire mistake to unravel the lovely work of two loving souls—but moving forward is still, perhaps, so very uncomfortable. but you will, you will do it.

wriothesley likes you so much that he feels himself fall apart. the entirety of the strength he has built up within himself wavers under your soft gaze; your eyes rip him to shreds, but gently, lovingly. you reduce him to nothing but a lovestruck schmuck.

the depths of his adoration for you are, in a sense, biblical. if you have no religious background, you could call his love something sacred, something reverent. he’d never anticipated feeling this way for someone; now that he’s become so deeply entrenched in everything about you, wriothesley feels a deep need to protect and to provide. he is unsure what the future could look like due to his position as the duke of meropide, but he is certain that everything will fall into place if it is meant to be. whatever the case, he’s an absolute schmuck, hanging off your every word and footstep. 100% would follow you around like a lost puppy were he not duty-bound to his work.

for you, it’s really the fact that you could sit in his presence for hours, safely and peacefully, without having spoken a word. there could be no sound in his office but the time-dusted record playing and tea-crusted pages turning, and all would still be well. no guessing, nothing under the rug for you to worry your silly head about—it is just he and you and his work and your books, and the music and his breathing and your humming and embroidery. nothing has transpired but the work that has been done and the record that has played a dozen times over. you may pick up where you left off with him, only with a lighter chest and clearer mind.

sigewinne would oft find the duke passed out in his big red chair, his sweet little lover over on the couch gone to dreamland all the same. it was picturesque. she sometimes wished she could call her friend mamere to paint it, to capture in art whatever it was she could not with words. sigewinne was still learning about humans—and she could glean a lot just from watching you and the duke. but sometimes, like this domestic scene, she would find herself puzzled, unable to describe the feelings that emerged from seeing two humans so safe and comfortable with each other in this particular manner. sigewinne would tip-toe back down the stairs and out of the duke’s office, much to ponder, and much to ask monsieur neuvillette.

very self indulgent, but i finally wrote something 😵‍💫 it just came out like blaarrggh

[training4theapocalypse]

A Royal Misunderstanding (Prince Friedrich x f!Reader)

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only

Word Count: 7k

Warnings / Tags: SMUT, virgin Prince Friedrich and experienced(ish) reader, kinda switchy Prince F, unprotected sex (for the plot).

Summary: He's looking for the future Princess Consort. You're looking for a life out of the spotlight. It'd never work.

A/N: K and an E and a T and a T, E and an R and an ING. T and an O and a W, N. Kettering Town. F.C. Also thank you to my regency queens @stealsteels and @shinytalent for reading this 👑

Masterlist

There’s an unnecessary knock on the open stable door as you move to untack your mare. She needs a thorough brush after the ride you had today.

“You are the stable hand?” inquires a young man’s voice.

You whirl around, ready to deliver a sharp retort, but hesitate when you see his earnest, slightly incredulous expression. You’ve never encountered him before, you’re sure of it. His handsome face, tuft of blonde hair and wide-eyed demeanour would certainly have been memorable.

“I was told I would be meeting the stable hand here,” he continues, still uncertain. “To collect a horse.”

An accent. Foreign. He must be part of Prince Friedrich’s contingent, newly arrived from the Kingdom of Prussia this morning. And he must be exceedingly green to mistake you for a stable hand. Despite your riding breeches being muddied from your ride, any discerning footman would recognise that the fine tailoring is not typical of a servant's attire. Even one in the employ of the Crown. His own attire, however, is old-fashioned and ill-fitting - it bears all the marks of a hand-me-down from another household servant or perhaps an older family member.

You purse your lips to stifle a smile. The opportunity to toy with one of the charmingly naive lackeys from the Prussian delegation sparks your mischievous side. Besides, he’ll need to toughen up if he’s to survive in London. “Don’t they permit women to become stable hands in Prussia?”

He blinks. “No.”

“And this horse is for Prince Friedrich?”

“Yes.” He raises his eyebrows, as though it should be self-evident why he’s here. As if everyone should recognise Prince Friedrich’s footman. The man pulls his shoulder back and there’s a subtle hint of authority in his stance. You’re unsure if it’s the language barrier or his presumption, but his curt answers irk you.

“Very well, then,” you say, gently guiding your horse towards him. “This is Artemis. She’s the finest in the stable.”

“This is your finest horse?” He chuckles heartily and your mouth becomes a thin line and your nostrils flare. 

“Perhaps His Royal Highness would prefer a pony?”

He straightens, a haughty glint in his eye. “It’s covered in filth.”

“My lady is a keen rider and has already been out this morning. But if Prince Freidrich can’t handle a little dirt -”

“Of course, I can manage.”

You arch an eyebrow, his tone further irritating you. “If you say so,” you reply, handing him the reins.

As he mounts Artemis, you can’t help but decide to give him a parting gift. You give her a firm slap on her hindquarters. Artemis bolts forward, sending the young man bouncing precariously in the saddle. You watch with satisfaction as he disappears down the path, his shouts of alarm fading into the distance. 

Perhaps now he’ll think twice before assuming someone is a servant.

With a contented smile, you leave the stables, already brimming with excitement at the thought of telling your ladies-in-waiting about your encounter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As far as you’re concerned, there isn’t enough wide open space in London. Far too many locked doors and whispered secrets. Or worse. Written down secrets. Specifically, the sort published by Lady Whistledown. You’d much rather be at home than endure another visit to the capital but when Queen Charlotte invited you to stay at her residence for the duration of the social season, you could hardly refuse. Not when Her Majesty and your late father, the Duke of Kettering, were such dear friends.

You suspect this invitation to spend the season at the palace might be the Queen’s ultimate attempt to honour your father’s memory. It was expected that you’d be desperate to find a husband after he passed. On paper, it should have been simple enough - your inheritance is decent enough to tempt a husband.

But finding a suitor hasn’t been easy. You’re not asking for much. You don’t want titles or wealth. Just a husband who’d be content to let you spend the day out riding rather than attending social engagements. Events like this one are your idea of hell on earth. Although it wasn’t as bad as yesterday when you had to present yourself to the Queen as one of the eligible misses of the season. 

As you stepped into the centre of the room, your palms turned cold and you could feel your stomach turning inside out as you waited for the Queen to give her verdict. There’s an old saying: the brighter a lady shines, the faster she may burn. And you’d rather not find yourself turned to ash at the hands of the ton. 

You exhaled an audible sigh of relief when Her Majesty remained seated and deigned to give you a small nod of approval. Neither the diamond nor the disgrace of the season and you’re glad of it - it means fewer eyes on you. But even that short burst in the relatively dim limelight made you want to flee from the room and vomit. You put yourself through your paces in the saddle this morning just to shake off the lingering feeling of dread.

You should be grateful that the Queen did not wave you away dismissively. This is your second social season after all and your value is quickly plummeting. You just need a husband who is content to stay out of the spotlight. And is resigned to the fact that you’ll probably prefer your horse’s company to theirs. 

If only you really were a stable hand instead of the late Duke of Kettering’s daughter.

As you mingle in Queen Charlotte’s banquet hall amongst other guests, waiting upon the arrival of Prince Freidrich, you feel a twinge of guilt about your encounter with his footman this morning. Perhaps after this welcome dinner, you’ll discreetly invite him to meet you in the stables as a gesture of apology.

The footman was handsome, after all, despite the blonde whiskers he must have grown in an attempt to appear more mature. You wouldn’t mind ruffling his perfectly coiffed hair before letting him bend you over the stable door.

Your companion jolts you from your daydream by squeezing your arm with her silk glove excitedly. You turn and smooth the front of your gown as Queen Charlotte and her nephew Prince Friedrich’s arrival is announced. 

The doors open and it takes every ounce of your self-control to maintain a dignified composure as Queen Charlotte walks in, arm-in-arm with Prince Friedrich’s footman.

Or the man who you thought was Prince Friedrich’s footman.

Damn.

Of course, you sent Prince Friedrich himself chasing across the palace grounds on the back of your startled mare.

While your face retains a dignified composure, you can’t do anything about the prickle of embarrassment flushing your chest. It’s only a matter of time before the Queen introduces Prince Freidrich to you and you will need to eat copious amounts of humble pie, slathered with grovelling apologies and dusted off with begging for forgiveness.

There’s no avoiding it. Even though tonight’s dinner isn’t an official event of the season - just a small dinner for the fifty or so palace guests and members of the Royal Family, Prince Friedrich is still introduced to every eligible woman in the room. Including you. 

Queen Charlotte, eventually steers him towards you. “Allow me to present my nephew, Prince Friedrich of Prussia.”

You curtsy and allow him to greet your gloved hand with a kiss but your stomach twists in anticipation, waiting for him to admonish you in front of the Queen.

“Lady Kettering, your gown - it is exquisite,” he says, in the usual formality. “And I hope your ride this morning was more pleasant than mine.”

You take a breath to compose your apology but you’re saved from the necessity.

“Yes, the Prince had a simply awful time this morning. First, his footman forgets to pack his riding wear so he has to borrow some from the Viscount of Paisley. And then a common girl posing as a stable hand gave Prince Friedrich your horse and sent him galloping across the plain.”

“I see,” you say cautiously but the corners of Prince Freidrich’s mouth twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. You ask, “And is my horse alright?”

Queen Charlotte laughs at this. “I should have known that you would be more concerned about your mount than the Prince of Prussia.”

You smile. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It’s only that I’m confident a duplicitous stable girl was no match for His Royal Highness.”

“Your mare was returned safely,” smiles Prince Friedrich, a roguish glint in his eye.

Prince Friedrich bows and Queen Charlotte bustles him away onto the next group of eager girls. 

As you watch him greet the next group you wonder: why is the Prince of Prussia making excuses for you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the grand dining room, you search for your place setting at the far end of the table beside the other noble families from minor houses to no avail. They’ve missed me, you think in horror as you look around at the filled seats but one of your friends nudges you and nods at the empty seat next to Prince Friedrich. 

There must be some mistake. 

But when you glance at the Prince, still standing behind his chair expectantly at the middle of the table, he catches your eye and places a hand on the empty seat. 

Barely daring to breathe, you wonder if this is his way of getting back at you for the events of this morning. Perhaps he arranged for your table setting to go missing and you’ll be publicly humiliated when you dare to assume the seat next to him would be for you. 

You walk for what feels like a very long time to the other side of the table, feeling eyes on you as every step is like your shoes are made of lead. You do your best not to clench your fists as your face grows hot in anticipation of being embarrassed in front of everyone. 

Dipping your head, you refuse to look at Prince Friedrich and instead discreetly look at the place cards as you pass. The titles become increasingly grand as you approach the centre of the table until you reach the grandest of them all.

Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte.

His Royal Highness, Prince Friedrich.

Then you see your name. Etched in gold on eggshell paper. At the place setting beside Prince Friedrich’s.

You blink, feeling relief course through you. You’ve never sat this close to the Queen before. The centre of the table was reserved for distinguished guests like, well, Prince Friedrich.

“Lady Kettering, I hope you don’t mind me stealing you away from your usual dinner companions,” says Prince Friedrich, looking at your friends staring wide-eyed at you from the other end of the table.

“It’s my pleasure, Your Highness,” you say, giving them a sharp look. As the servers remove the cloches from the banquet before you, conversation erupts around the table, giving you the chance to swallow your pride. “And I do apologise for this morning,” you add quietly. “I had mistakenly assumed you were Prince Friedrich’s footman.”

“A footman?” He grins, and tilts his head, picturing himself as a footman before adding. “I too would like to apologise. I should never have assumed a beautiful woman such as yourself was a stable hand,” he says. 

“When did you come to the realisation that I wasn’t?”

“I knew your horse’s name. When I asked who owned her, I was told it was a lady who was as wild as the horses she keeps.” Your mouth twists into a reluctant smile. “Is that true?” he asks, his green eyes twinkling with interest.

“Oh no,” you smile, sipping your freshly poured wine, aware of his eyes following your every movement. “My horses are very well-behaved.”

He laughs. It’s a pretty laugh. “Can I assume that means you are looking forward to the season beginning?” He gives you a wry smile. His eyes are alight with enthusiasm as he waits for you to share in his excitement for the beginning of the social season. But there’s something else in his gaze, something more intimate.

You must put an end to this before he gets the wrong idea and you’re made a spectacle of. Prince Friedrich will be the most sought-after man of the season and you don’t want the attention that accompanies competing for his affections - to be thrust into the spotlight and have Lady Whistledown write about you would be more attention than you could bear. 

You glance around to see if anyone is listening before lowering your voice. “Your Highness - may I speak candidly?”

“Nothing would please me more,” he says sincerely, his tone softening.

“Why did you arrange for me to sit here?”

Prince Friedrich looks taken aback. “Well… after this morning, I knew I had to find out more about you.”

You nod sadly. This is what you were afraid of but you had expected it nonetheless.

“This is my second - and hopefully last - season. You see, I’m not used to being in the public eye and I find the social season to be entirely mortifying.”

“I see…” says Prince Friedrich slowly.

“You Highness, please don’t mistake me. I’m honoured to be in your presence but -”

“Lady Kettering -” Prince Friedrich lowers his voice. “You told me you would speak candidly. Please disperse with the airs and graces.”

You push your food around on your plate. It’s risky to speak so plainly to aristocracy. Their fragile egos normally demand a guarded formality. “I am sorry but the idea of competing with other women to become the Princess Consort of Prussia is more publicity than I can handle. I need to find a husband quickly. A marriage of convenience.”

“Convenience…” He nods thoughtfully. “I understand. A marriage to me would certainly draw attention.”

He’s not offended. Thank god. “Exactly, Your Highness. Being in the public eye. The scrutiny. It would be unbearable.”

“It is a pity,” he says quietly. “Because I’m sure a mutually convenient marriage would have its benefits.”

Mutually convenient? Your own inheritance pales in comparison to the riches that Prince Friedrich is heir to. What would he gain from marrying you?

You look up from your plate to see that he’s brazenly smirking at you. 

Oh. 

It’s undeniable this time. He’s flirting with you. You feel heat creeping up your neck and you know you must look feverish when his eyes roam across your corseted chest.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness,” you say, your whisper barely audible.

“I mean that sharing a marital bed would have its… advantages.” Prince Friedrich takes a sip of his wine, seemingly pleased that he’s made you flustered. Now, you can’t have that.

You glance over his shoulder to make sure Queen Charlotte is occupied. “I don’t need a husband to reap those sorts of advantages.”

When you say that, he slops half of his wine down his front in surprise. “You - you don’t?”

You arch an eyebrow. “You don’t have other companions for that sort of thing?” You pass him your napkin so he can clean himself up, your fingers grazing his knee under the table, making him inhale a sharp intake of breath. “You’re not worried about being unable to please your new wife?”

He stares straight ahead, momentarily stunned. Like he never realised sex was something you could be bad at. After a beat, he shakes his head. “It would not be prudent if people knew I was having - ”

“You mistake me. It is not my intention to get caught.”

Prince Friedrich sighs, a sad smile playing on his lips. “If only it were that simple. I’m surrounded by people. Always.”

The two of you sit quietly, allowing the servants to replace your empty plates with dessert. You can practically hear the cogs in the Prince’s head as his brain works overtime, trying to decide how to respond to this new information. Prince Friedrich takes a polite bite of chocolate cake and sits back.

“Once again, being the Queen’s nephew complicates things,” you say, sitting forward and sliding your fork through a sizable portion. “Don’t you have an appetite after your ride this morning, Your Highness?”

“I think the news that you do not wish me to court you has disappointed me so much that I never want to eat again,” he jokes half-heartedly before returning his focus entirely to you.

“If only we really were a stable hand and a footman - waiting until all the palace guests had gone to bed to meet in the stables after dark,” you say after eating the last bite of cake on your plate. 

Prince Friedrich swallows thickly and your eyes move from his Adam's apple to the almost untouched piece of cake on his plate.

“Are you - are you still hungry, my lady?” he asks.

You lean forward and steal a scoop of whipped cream from his plate with your fork. You eat the whipped cream and he watches with bated breath as you take several seconds longer than necessary to drag the polished silver fork from between your lips.

"I'm insatiable, Your Highness."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You scratch Artemis’s head in the dark stables, wondering if you’ve made a mistake in being here. Mostly you were interested to see if the sweet, naive Prince Friedrich would turn up. But you know how noblemen are. Their egos are so easy to bruise that an adverturess could scare them off simply by existing. 

Which is why you can scarcely believe it when there’s a knock at the closed stable door. You don’t breathe for a second before remembering that only Prince Freidrich would knock before entering a stable of all places.

He opens the door and for a moment is visibly relieved to see you. You stare at each other. The only sound is the soft rustling of the horses, that is until he closes the door behind him and moves to you with an agility that surprises you, considering how unstable he was on your horse earlier.  

If he had no appetite earlier, it has certainly returned now. Prince Friedrich has a hungry look in his eyes as he pulls you close by the waist and kisses you. You squeeze your eyes shut, expecting a clash of teeth but his kiss is passionate, even skilled. Your shoulders untense as you relax into it and slide your arms around his neck, allowing him to pull your body against his. Even through the many skirts under your evening gown, you can feel that he’s hard.

His tongue enters your mouth, licking and swirling it against yours - it’s surprisingly good. And he smells good. A beautiful sandalwood cologne that can only be from the finest perfumery.

You pull back breathlessly before you can allow the inebriating scent and feel of him to rid you of your senses. “Prince Friedrich, I -”

“Please, just Freidrich.”

“Friedrich.” Even with his permission the name feels strange in your mouth. “How much romantic experience do you have?”

“I’ve read books,” he says quickly and you press your lips together to stop laughing.

“You mean romance books? Like Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron?”

“No, I mean… instructional.”

“Instructions on how to fuck?” He nods and flushes a deep shade of pink at the question and this time you can’t help but laugh. “Remind me to spend time in the palace library in Prussia if I ever visit.” You study him. “I meant more… practical experience. It’s not the type of thing you can learn from a book.”

“I have a little experience.”

“Like what? Just kissing?” He hesitates and you move your hand down between your bodies and brush his hard cock through his trousers. “Or has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

Friedrich swallows. “Before now, you mean?” You nod and he hesitates again, guessing that it’s not the answer you want to hear. “No,” he says, truthfully.

You withdraw your hand. “Maybe this is something you should save for your future wife.”

“Marry me, then,” he blurts out, his voice trembling slightly with urgency.

You groan inwardly, shaking your head. “Friedrich, I wasn’t being coy when I told you I don’t want to be wed to a Prince. Besides, the season is starting tomorrow and you’ll be introduced to a hundred wealthy, beautiful women. Each one of them would be a better match than I.”

“Impossible.”

“You don’t know that -”

“I know that nobody has ever spoken to me the way that you did tonight. Or this morning for that matter.”

You smile despite yourself. You can believe it. If you were trying to secure the Prince’s hand in marriage, you would have carried yourself with much more grace and dignity than you have thus far.

“That’s because I have the manners of a common mule and the propriety of a common whore,” your grin falters and you look at him seriously. “And both of those qualities make me thoroughly incompatible with the Prince of Prussia. Marrying you is out of the question.”

“I understand,” he says, clearly worried that you’re reconsidering lying with him. “Let me be one of your companions. Show me how to do it.”

“Will you promise not to ask for my hand in marriage when this is done?”

Your hands undo the lacing on his trousers as he hitches his breath. “Anything. Sh-show me. Please.”

You remove your gloves and toss them on the stable floor. You slide your bare hand into his underwear and feel him shudder when you grip his cock. Christ almighty. It’s bigger than what you had expected from the innocent Prince.

“Since we’re practising so that you can please your future wife,” you tell him as you jerk your hand along his length. “I’ll tell you what feels good and what doesn’t. And you must do the same.”

He exhales shakily. “This - this feels good.”

“That’s a good start,” you smirk. “And you have a nice cock, Your Highness. The Princess Consort of Prussia will be a very lucky woman indeed once I’ve shown you how to use it.”

“Oha,” he breathes. 

“So eager,” you tut playfully, your face inches from his. 

You pull him close and he moans into your mouth as you kiss him. The sound of his evident pleasure sends heat tearing through you. You make a mental note to tell your future lovers to share their vocal appreciation because the sounds Prince Friedrich is making are driving you wild. 

As you kiss him, you lead him over to the loose pile of straw and get to the floor. The straw is scratchy on your bare arms but your legs are thankfully spared by the protection of your skirts. 

“When the time comes to do this with your lady wife, you should both undress. But our clothes will remain on - mostly. This is more convenient if there’s an unexpected intruder. Plus, this hay is itchy.”

“Allow me,” says Prince Freidrich, sitting back on his knees and pulling off his jacket. For a second you wonder if he’s misunderstood what you said about undressing but then he flattens his jacket on the straw behind you for you to lie on.

If you were the swooning type, you might just have fainted then and there.

“May I?” he asks, touching the hem of your skirt at your ankle. You nod and he pushes up your skirts. You lift your hips, allowing him to remove your satin underwear. “Verdammt,” he breathes. He moves his head between your legs and you almost sit up in surprise. You don’t mind him having a better look at you if it’s his first time but this feels extremely personal.

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

He looks up at you and you pull your skirts close to your stomach. “My book - it said to kiss you here to make sure you are ready.” His face is so close to you that you can feel his hot breath against your pussy.

“Your book said to kiss me… there?” Your eyebrows knit together but you think about how his tongue felt swirling inside your mouth and a stab of ache pierces through your ribs. 

“It is not customary?” You shake your head and he frowns in confusion but doesn’t move. 

And you realise that you don’t want him to go anywhere. That the idea of him kissing you there in the skilled way he was kissing your mouth inflames you. Out of amused interest, you lift yourself up onto one elbow only to find him looking at you intently, hanging on your every word, waiting to find out what he should do. You realise that you rather like the look of him here, between your legs.

“You -” You swallow. “- You may try. If it pleases you. But I warn you, I - oh -”

Your warning dissipates into the air as Prince Friedrich leans down and glides his hot tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation. You feel yourself relax as you let him get on with this custom he’s learned from his book. You admit, it’s not unpleasant. But you’re not sure what he’s trying to achieve. 

It sort of feels like when you touch yourself. Maybe less dextrous but it’s hotter and wetter and - and - 

Good lord.

Much to your surprise - and your delight - you feel a soft, delicious warmth spreading from your core as he kisses you where you’ve never been kissed before. You splay your fingers through his blonde hair - your other hand still clutching your dress as his velvet mouth envelops your clutch of nerves and a wave of pleasure cascades through your body.

“Oh - oh fuck,” you curse, not caring that you’re swearing in front of the Prince. He pulls back abruptly and you pant.

“My lady?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yes - god, yes,” you whine, impatient for his mouth to return to you.

He looks at you with that same subtle glint of authority he gave you this morning and says, “In that case, you are not keeping up with your side of the bargain. You promised you’d tell me what feels good.” 

Prince Friedrich dips his head and resumes, going from sucking on your clit to lapping up your juices and back again as you squirm and rock against him. This time you remember to hold up your side of the bargain. You pant and tell him how good his mouth feels - how good he feels. Everything is soaked, from your skirts to his chin and nose as he lets you grind yourself against his face. 

The flat of his tongue slides across your heat and it’s heavenly. Usually, when you’re with a partner, you’re used to working hard for your release - at the exact right position and tempo to pry yourself apart. But right now you’re just lying back and taking what Prince Friedrich’s tongue offers to you. And it’s offering exactly what you need.

“Don’t stop,” you mewl. “So good. S’good. So good -”

You feel yourself unravelling, your praise and words of affirmation turning into an incoherent babble as your orgasm breaches the surface. You must be making some semblance of sense because he listens - he keeps going and it’s all too much and not enough at once as your walls squeeze around nothing while Prince Friedrich continues his delicious assault on your bundle of nerves. 

Damn. You do your very best not to cry out and draw attention to the stables as Prince Friedrich gets closer and closer to making you cum on his tongue. But it’s nigh impossible as you feel the heat rise from your stomach and pull back like the tide. 

And then there’s the drop you’d been waiting for. 

“Oh - god,” you moan, drawing out the last syllable so that it drips as slowly as treacle. Ecstasy courses through your body as your release washes over you, making your thighs tremble on either side of the Prince’s head. Your chest heaves and you gently tug on his hair, away from your oversensitive cunt. “That’s - that’s good. It’s good. It’s enough,” you gasp before collapsing your head back onto his jacket.

Prince Friedrich gives you a few more slow, gentle licks and murmurs, “So feucht.” before drawing a finger over your twitching, soaking wet entrance, admiring his own handiwork. You don’t know what his words mean and you don’t have the cognizance to ask as you stare up at the wooden beams and try to regain your senses. 

After what feels like a lifetime of bliss, you’re happy for your view of the stable roof to be interrupted when Prince Friedrich moves up your body to kiss you and you taste the unfamiliar taste of your arousal on his lips. You kiss him back, slipping your tongue into his mouth and nipping at his bottom lip. God, this was supposed to be you teaching him a few things - not the other way around. When you anonymise this encounter and retell it to your friends later they will certainly be hearing about this.

“Good?” he asks when he pulls back and you nod, before swallowing air.

“I have half a mind to sell my estate and move to Prussia after the social season is over if that is what they do there,” you say breathlessly. 

He smirks. “I have told you that it could be arranged. Come home with me and we won’t have to be discreet. We could do this every day.”

You pout playfully and push a loose curl from his forehead. “But I like the stables,” you joke even though your back is aching and a palace bed sounds much more appealing. 

“Well, we have stables in Prussia. You could bring Artemis.”

Artemis. 

He remembered her name. 

Your face softens as you picture her as a royal steed, wearing a white feathered plume like she’s the diamond of the season. 

But then the fleeting daydream disappears when you tell yourself that it’s a fantasy you can’t allow either of you to indulge in. As much as Queen Charlotte favours you, you know it would be seen as unacceptable for the Prince to marry someone from such a minor house.

And besides, you remind yourself that you don’t need a royal husband. You have your own home. You have your own horses. You have your own friends. You have everything you’ve ever wanted. But then, why does the thought of him making his social season debut at the ball tomorrow make your heart ache?

“There’s something else I’d like to ride, presently,” you say, in an attempt to rid the thought from your mind as you gently push on his shoulders until he lies on his back. 

You straddle the Prince and unfasten his trousers so you can pull his cock out. The sight of him, hard and ready for you and the way he twitches involuntarily in your palm makes your heart pound as hard and steady as horses hooves galloping.

You wriggle forward until you feel the smooth underside of his cock sliding under your messily slick folds, still wet from the orgasm the Prince had bestowed upon you with his mouth. A flicker of dark enjoyment ignites in you when you see a line between his brows as he knits them together and watches as you lift your skirts so he can watch you sliding back and forward along the length of his cock.

“Do you enjoy watching me do this, Your Highness?” you ask as you grind against him.

“I would enjoy watching you do anything,” he says, pushing your gown out of the way to take hold of your hips. “Du bist schön.”

You pause. “Do what?” 

“Nothing. Please. Don’t stop.” He presses his thumbs into your hipbones, urging you to create friction against him again. 

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

“Isn’t - isn’t that what we’re doing?” stutters Prince Friedrich. 

“Oh, my sweet Prince.” You bring your hand to his jaw as you lift yourself so you can position the head of his cock between your soaking folds with your other hand. “We’re only just getting started.”

You lock eyes with him and watch his face contort in pleasure as you slowly sink down, inch by glorious fucking inch. “Oh gott,” he whines. Your German is poor but you’re pretty confident you know what that means. 

“Let me know when you’re going to spill - I don’t want to carry your bastard,” you murmur, still cupping his face. “Do you understand?”

“Ja,” he says through gritted teeth. “I understand.”

You’re not sure he really does but that primal part of your brain that wants to fuck him now and worry about the consequences later tells you to shove your hips down against the resistance. You force the rest of his thick cock into you and inhale through your teeth, feeling the delicious way he stretches and fills you. His hands clamp down hard on your hips, his thumbs pressing fresh bruises into your hipbones. 

They don’t make them like this in Kettering. Or London for that matter. Equal parts sweet and naive yet firm and decisive. He doesn’t know what he wants yet but he still wants it. Desperately. 

As if proving your point, you lean forward to feel the beautiful way he drags out of you and he seizes the opportunity to bury his face into your cleavage, your corseted dress making it exceptionally easy for him. 

He moans open-mouthed against your chest, his tongue sloppily trying to find your nipple. You move your hips back and down and wildfire bursts in your lower belly when his cock nudges against that sweet spot you’ve been longing for. 

It’s not enough for him - he wants more. He lifts his hips and the tip of his cock drives against your G-spot.

“Oh - fuck. Freidrich. That feels good.”

“So it is okay for me to move too?” he asks.

“Please,” you murmur, closing your eyes and feeling him slide back into you at that perfect angle. 

You don’t need to tell him twice.

He rolls his hips upwards to meet yours as you ride him. You can hear how fucking wet you are.  Everything is slick and hot and drenched as you roll your hips up and down on top of him and he fucks himself into you.

“So schön,” he grunts and the foreign words sound guttural to your ears. 

“I hope that means ‘good’,” you tease, leaning forward to breathe hot air onto his neck.

“Pretty,” he murmurs in your ear. “So pretty.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage as his hips pick up pace. Fuck - you like him being under you like this. Even here, in the stables where someone might come looking if they notice that Prince Friedrich is missing from his chambers. 

The sound of your stretched, wet cunt fills the stables so obscenely that it peppers shame into your consciousness. But he hears it too. He jerks up so fiercely that his balls slap against you. You suck air in through your teeth at the sharp sting and he looks concerned but you reassure him. “It’s - oh fuck - keep going. Right there.”

You go from slamming yourself down on him to your whole body stiffening, letting him drive up into you as your hot orgasm approaches, creeping over you in pulsing waves. Your walls grip him, tightening and convulsing as -

“I should - tja - remove myself from inside you -” he stops thrusting up into you and you almost wail with disappointment.

“No - fuck - keep going.” What are you saying? You rock your hips and bounce on him, every nerve inside you applauding your decision to ignore your conscience as you manage to hang onto the precipice. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m going to -”

“Fuck it,” you heave, your walls squeezing impossibly tighter as you fuck yourself on him. “Cum in me. I don’t care.” What the fuck are you saying?!

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

It’ll be fine. 

You’ve had an accident or two and have been lucky so far.

You may as well have told the Prince that Christmas had come early. The sight of your flushed face, dishevelled hair and the way your tits are threatening to spill out of your dress with every bounce of your hips drives him wild. 

Frankly, you’re the most deliciously intoxicating thing he’s ever experienced. He just doesn’t have the necessary vocabulary to tell you this in English.

By this point, “Oh gott,” is the only thing he says that you can understand. You hardly hear the rest as he babbles away in German - you can barely hear anything over the pulse of blood pounding in your ears as Friedrich picks up his pace again. Your body locks down around him so tightly you wonder if you might break him. 

“Just like that - fuck, there,” you whimper. He takes the instruction well, driving his cock deep into you - exactly where you need it. The coil of heat in your core tightens impossibly tighter as he chokes words you don’t understand into your ear as he pulls you close to his chest

Maybe one day he’ll teach you what those words mean and you’ll find out that he was telling you what a good girl you are for taking his cock like this.

“Fuck - I’m - that’s it,” you sob, your chest heaving against his fine silk shirt and your fingers entwined in his soft blonde hair. You squeeze around him like a vice. “Friedrich, I -”

“Do it,” he groans. You hadn’t expected him to say that. And certainly not with the commanding tone he chooses. “Let me feel it.”

The coil inside you snaps. A blaze of white-hot fire bursts through you like stitches being ripped. You seize and cry out as your release whips through you with such force that you think you might go cross-eyed. You bury your face into his neck, smelling the rich sandalwood scent splashed on his skin, mixed with his sweat. 

Freidrich keeps his tight hold of your hips, fucking into you even as you shake and tremble. 

“Ich komme,” breathes the Prince. “Ich komme, ich komme.” It only takes a few more rough, slapping thrusts until you don’t have to guess what that means. You feel him finishing inside you, thick ropes of his spend painting your insides. 

You lie here like this for a few moments, collapsed onto his chest and feeling his seed leaking out of you. You feel dizzy as his chest rises and falls underneath you and his fingers tenderly trace lines up and down your back. He closes his eyes, feeling the satin of your gown as his fingertips dance across it.

You could easily fall asleep like this.

Instead, you hoist yourself off him and lie flat on your back as if unattaching yourself from him will place a barrier between you. Put a halt to the immense surge of affection you feel for him in this moment. But he doesn’t let you get far. Prince Friedrich rolls onto his side and cups your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone and skirting across your lips before he leans down to kiss you. You close your eyes, letting the kiss dissolve into a wet, lazy haze.

He pulls back and looks down into your eyes. “I promised I would not ask for your hand when this was over. So I have nothing else to say.”

“At least now you are prepared for the social season beginning tomorrow.”

“I don’t care about the season. I want to leave. Tonight. To take you with me.”

“I don’t have the wealth or the beauty for that to be allowed to happen,” you say. “The Queen would never find us to be a suitable match. Never mind Lady Whistledown having a field day.”

“You have more than enough of both for me.”

“For you, Friedrich. But not enough for Prince Friedrich. Not enough for The Crown,” you say, your heart breaking as you do. This was a bad idea, after all. You adjust your gown and get to your feet, pretending to ignore Prince Friedrich’s attempts to help you up.

“And what about my - my seed? What if you’re with child?”

You laugh mirthlessly. “We’d have to be exceptionally unlucky for that to happen on our first try. Put it far from your mind. Go and meet with the diamond of the season tomorrow and all of the ladies queuing up to become the Princess Consort of Prussia. They will make you much happier than I ever could.”

You walk towards the stable door but he takes your hand and gives you your discarded gloves. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, Friedrich.” You can’t. You can hear the gossip already. A thousand people whispering behind your back about how you’re not good enough for the Prince. It would be like that every day for the rest of your life in the spotlight if you did marry him. You tear your eyes away from him and open the stable door. 

“Will I ever see you again?” he asks after you.

You pause and turn around. “Perhaps.” You smile at him sadly. “Who knows? If I am with child, maybe you’ll have no choice but to whisk me away back to Prussia and marry me, never to be seen in London ever again. And everyone will wonder why.”

You turn back before he can see your face crumble, leaving the stable door open behind you as Prince Friedrich watches you leave into the night. Your mare whinnies, nudging him gently over her stable door.

Prince Friedrich gives in to her pestering and scratches her neck, much to her enjoyment. Before dawn, he will write a letter. To make sure a stall is prepared for Artemis in the palace stables in Prussia.

Just in case.

[masuchu]

“𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆?” [WRIOTHESLEY]

what happens when your gaze is hopelessly bound to those seemingly innocent, but inexplicably lewd handcuffs your boyfriend constantly carries around with him? ‧₊˚

genre. smut! nothing actually happens, but the entire thing is extremely suggestive, mentions of bondage & punishment, manhandling lol

pairing. wriothesley x reader

love, masu. ah, i think this is an amazing way to get myself back into writing on this blog again! my real writing style is finally being shown haha, none of that sickly, too cute stuff. hope you enjoy!!!!! let me know if you want a part two :))

Wriothesley always spoke with such a sultry, sickening tone that left you feeling your heartbeat in places you usually do not. Perhaps the gentle rasp was what left you so at his mercy? Or maybe, the simple yet defined vocabulary he used when explaining his day, or in other, more intimate moments, what he would like to do to you.

Having said all of this, why could you care not a shred for his words this very moment? Why were absolutely none of his sentences registering in you hazed mind? Instead of paying attention like a lover should, you had your hungry eyes pinned on those alluring, metal cuffs dangling from his belt. The images they conjure, the activities they connote: it all left you salivating and shuddering in the office of the infamous Duke. (Or in terms more personal to you, your lover.)

“Like I said, the prisoners become rowdy when they get bored. I’ll need to implement— Sweetheart, are you listening?” Wriothesley’s eyes dragged across your abnormal, quivering form and he mentally concluded that something was … distracting you.

You jumped out of fear of your daydreams being exposed, but also in mild concern of the daydreams themselves and their insatiable nature. Nodding fast like a guilty toddler, you blurted,

“Oh, I have never been better! Whatever gives you the impression I am not okay?”

The man in question took a careful glance at your wide, doe eyes and stiff form. Suddenly, his head tipped back just an inch or two, and a low chuckle departed from his lips. (The action having a much more arousing effect on your nether regions than you would ever admit.)

“I said ‘are you listening’, not ‘are you okay’. Well done for exposing yourself, sweetness.”

If only he knew what else you were hiding, you thought gravely to yourself. In a naïve belief that he had unknowingly saved you from a mortifying admission, you attempted to go along with his interpretation of your abnormality.

“How silly of me! I really am not with it-!”

Your hips were suddenly locked in solid grip, hard enough to invoke deep, purple bruises along your skin, and you were yanked into a firm but comfortable chest. A chest you knew all too well.

“Also, don’t think I didn’t noticed the way you were looking at my handcuffs, pretty. Got something you wanna’ tell me?”

“You’re mistaken, I— It was simply a one time glance! Absolutely nothing to do with—!”

Your boyfriend removed one hand from your waist and weaved the remaining arm tightly around your waist entirely, keeping you firm against him. His now free hand took a delicate hold of your jaw, and whilst lifting it up his face travelled closer to yours. His hot breath fanned over your lips, and all you wanted for him to rearrange your guts then and there.

“Ah, and now you’re lying? Lying is not very becoming, especially not on you. It makes you bad, and do you know what I do to bad girls?”

His ragged yet stylish hair, his impenetrable, piercing eyes, his strong hold on your body. The physique of a God, you thought. Every aspect of him, how his eyes were intently fixes on yours, waiting for you to answer his question, to use your words— as he was always so keen on you doing. It all came together to allow you to blurt out such a meek, pitiful and uncertain whimper,

“You punish them, Your Grace?”

A devilish smirk tugged on his lips.

“Clever girl. Your little … imaginations might just be brought to life far earlier then you expected. Now strip.”

2023 © masuchu , do not repost, reword, plagiarise, take inspiration, translate or share my work anywhere!

[byun-slug]

⚙️🕔 CLOCKWORK ALPHA 🕐🗝️

[And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more.” Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven]

I finally finished make a whole model and texture after the previous short animation post. So here's front and back view of Clockwork Hiro, from my Villain Hiro AU.

I guess I can finally make an explanation of a short lore of before I make a long post of whole storyline of AU.

Clockwork Alpha - Winder of the Railway

Clockwork Hiro is one of the Hiros from many different universes. Unlike the canon HOTR ending, This Hiro got a bad ending after Spencer got win in the race battle against Thomas. When he almost got scrapped and desperately want to live, someone came and listened him. One day, Sodor's clock tower disappeared, not too many days after Hiro's scrap. Many of people and engines thought The Fat Controller decided to build a new clock tower. Only after some days, a breaking news came out that Spencer, the silver engine owned by Duke and Duchess, got a huge crash from nowhere and unable to be repaired, immediately sent for the scrap.

🕔 🕐

[🚫3D Model made by me(ByunSlug),

Do NOT Steal/Use/Reupload my works!🚫]

[nhlclover]

𝐒𝐎 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 | 𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐂𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘

word count: 1.35k

summary: on your way to the spend a weekend at the lake house with his teammates, you think about your future with rutger

warnings: british reader!, mentions of some other umich players (nick, duke brothers), brief sad thoughts

notes: based on 'so american' by olivia rodrigo. who am i if not writing fics based on songs.

The morning sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden hue on Rutger’s jeep that rumbled down the highway, its tires humming against the asphalt. Rutger sat in the driver's seat, his left hand holding a loose grip on the wheel, while you sat comfortably in the passenger seat, your feet were propped up on the dashboard. Rutger insisted you hit the road early to get to Jacob’s lake house around mid-morning. You felt that was a little too early, but he was excited to spend some spare time at the end of the semester with his friends and girlfriend, relaxing on the water. To make up for the early start time, Rutger bought you an iced coffee and promised that you could sleep in the car on the way over.

However, you couldn’t find yourself able to fall back asleep, instead taking over aux, the early morning air that flowed through the cracked windows helping to rejuvenate you. You tapped your fingers against the door handle, matching the beat of the song you’d selected. Dirt On My Boots by Jon Pardi filled the space, a contented smile gracing your lips.

“You’ve turned so American.” Rutger says, pulling your brain out of its brief daze.

“What?” You ask, your brows furrowing.

“I mean… look at you,” Rutger says with a chuckle. “You’re sitting there with your feet on the dash, you’re listening to country music, and you’re repping USA merch.”

Rutger motions to one of his hoodies that you’d thrown on as you were leaving. It was one given to him by the world juniors team he’d just played on, the letters U-S-A largely displayed on the chest.

You turned to him, adjusting your position in the seat. "Oh, please, don't say that. I'm still very much British, thank you very much." You retort, rejecting the idea that you’d become American in any way.

When you applied for an exchange to the University of Michigan, nothing could’ve prepared you for what would’ve come. On your first day of classes in the new country, you met Rutger. When a pretty girl sat next to him in one of his classes, he knew he had to talk to her. It didn’t take long for the two of you to develop feelings, Rutger soon being the ‘dreamy American’ that your friends had jokingly told you you’d fall for. And fall for him you did.

It was unfair of Rutger to make you feel this much when you both knew your future was uncertain.

“Hey, there is nothing wrong with being American.” Rutger points out.

“Yeah says the American.” You tease, rolling your eyes. “Thank god I’m going home soon. I need to reconnect with my roots if you think I’ve become American.”

Despite that being a joke, you couldn't shake the underlying sadness that gnawed at you. In just one week, you were leaving Michigan and returning to the UK. The thought of leaving Rutger and the life you’d established in Michigan weighed heavily on your heart. You knew that the bond you’d established with Rutger would withstand the miles and borders, however the prospect of being separated from him felt like tearing away a piece of you.

Rutger, sensing the shift in your demeanour as well as knowing that the inevitable move was weighing on you, reached over, taking your hand in his. His cold fingers lacing between yours quickly drew you back to reality.

“Hey,” He said softly. “Try not to think about it for now. Enjoy this weekend. We’ve got ages to figure it all out.”

You squeezed Rutger’s hand drawing comfort from his touch. With a gentle smile, you met his gaze, gratitude shining in your eyes. “Thank you, Rut.” You said softly.

Rutger returned your smile, turning his attention back to the road while keeping your hand in his. You continued the drive, doing your best to expel the thoughts of leaving from your mind.

Three hours later, Rutger pulled down a laneway that ultimately led to a large house on the water. Rutger’s teammates were already outside, eagerly awaiting your arrival.

“Hey guys!” Rutger called out as they stepped out of the car. Rutger’s teammates come over, greeting the two of them.

“This place is beautiful.” You comment, admiring the glimpse of the water you could see past the house.

“God, I will never get over the accent.” Nick said. Rutger shoved his shoulder while you playfully rolled your eyes.

You considered yourself lucky that you’d become friends with Rutger’s teammates. From the moment Rutger introduced you to them, they’d welcomed you with open arms. And as you spent more time with them, they weren’t just Rutger’s teammates, they were your friends as well.

“Alright, now go get changed, we’re hitting the water.” Luca said, ushering the two of you inside.

You headed up to your room, changed into the swimsuits you’d brought, and then headed downstairs to meet the rest of the group. The rest of the afternoon, you guys remained on the water. You all took turns on the tube, as well as some of the boys deciding to test their water skiing skills. When the sun began to descend towards the horizon, a golden hue being cast on the water, you headed back to the house to start dinner, which was a full team activity in which everyone was put to work doing something. You and Rutger were put in charge of the barbecue on the back patio, teaming up with Dylan and Tyler to grill the burgers and corn.

After dinner was demolished, you headed down to the fire pit, relaxing in the Adirondack chairs, talking about whatever came to mind. The flames cast flickering glows on everyone's faces as you discussed sports, your exams, and random childhood anecdotes whether relevant or not. After a while of drinking and chatting, both you and Rutger hit your limits and decide to call it a night.

The second that Rutger’s head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light, the day’s activities catching up with him. After a full day of tubing and waterskiing, combined with the drinks they’d consumed throughout the day, everyone was wiped. You, however, lay awake, the moonlight reflecting off the water and into the open window.

You traced your fingers through Rutger's hair, watching his bare chest rise and fall with steady breaths. With the tranquillity of the room enveloping you, you find yourself lost in a maze of thoughts, your mind swirling with visions of Rutger and the future they could share.

England was home. England was where you grew up, where your family and friends still resided. The thought of leaving them to be in North America made your heart tense. However, lying in the sheets and staring up at the ceiling, you couldn’t help but imagine moving to North America to be with Rutger. As you look over at him, still peacefully asleep, you imagine the prospect of uprooting your life for the American boy you fell in love with, of bridging the distance to be with Rutger.

Your thoughts continue to wander, picturing what could come of life in America with Rutger. Your mind entertains the notion of marriage, a distant yet possible milestone. That might be a little presumptuous of you, with your relationship still being in its infancy, but you practically couldn’t help it. The way he’d made you feel in the past 8 months was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. Every moment with him felt like a moment torn from a romance book. Every moment with him was filled with laughter and stolen glances, creating an undeniable intimacy and connection.

You had to eventually force those thoughts out of your mind or else they would’ve kept you up all night. You rolled over, curling into Rutger’s side, and placing a delicate hand on his abs. Rutger stirred momentarily, instinctively wrapping his arm around you, drawing you closer. For now, you were content to simply be in this moment with him, cherishing the time you had left before you had to return home.

[ivystoryweaver]

Day 14: You Never Said Anything (Leto Atreides)

Angstember Prompt Post || Word Count: 1.2k Leto Atreides x reader who would wear a wedding dress/makeup/has boobs

The warm tenor timbre of his voice drifts down the corridor upon his arrival - the sound of it sending servants scurrying and your heart racing. Misty eyes flutter closed as you sharply inhale, disturbing the final touches your cousin is putting on your makeup.

She asks if you're well and you insist you needed a breather. Gathering your wedding gown in trembling hands, you scurry along familiar passageways, hoping for merely glimpse of him, while unaware of his invitation to the wedding.

You find him in a place you used to rendezvous, in the east wing, standing as stoic as the statues surrounding him.

"Leto..."

At the sound of his name on your lips, he meets your searching gaze, the breadth of his shoulders rising and falling dramatically. His eyes flicker, dancing away as he presses plush lips into a fine line.

"What grants me the honor of the bride's presence on her wedding day?" He chokes out, almost flinching as your gentle hand lands upon his arm. The mighty Duke of House Atreides weakens for you.

"I didn't know you would come. I had no idea," you breathlessly utter.

"I was invited," he simply responds, jaw clenching.

Your hand drops defeatedly. "Will you at least look at me?"

His boots shuffle forward, toe-to-toe with your delicate slippers. He fully regards you then, eyes wide open, and in them, you can see straight to his soul.

“You’re breathtaking,” Leto whispers, stealing your own breath along with this stolen moment with someone else's bride-to-be. He doesn't dare touch something so beautiful - someone not his. Earthen eyes tenderly trace the contours of your face as his corded neck bobs uncertainly above the collar of his pristine uniform.

"Thank you." Your eyes dip demurely under his gentle scrutiny. You clench your fingers into fists by your sides, the ache to rake them through his curls overwhelming. "H-how is your son?"

Chin tipping up proudly, he recognizes the question for what it is: a reminder that he exited your life and you are about to start a new one. "He's growing fast. Smart. Devoted to his studies and training."

"That's wonderful," you sincerely nod, but pause, realizing there are few pleasantries you can exchange before addressing, or ignoring, what pulses beneath the surface.

“I’ve missed you.” The words escape your lips almost without your mind’s consent, but you can’t waste the opportunity to utter them. Placing your gloved hand over his, you allow your body to lean in, eyes misting with the torrent of emotion he elicits. “I wished for this. To see you one more time.”

“I thought it was my wish - this moment,” he admits, tilting his head to catch your gaze once more. “To see you happy before…”

He drags in an uncertain breath, a vulnerability he’s not likely to expose to many.

“Before what?” You’re holding hands now, whispering, huddled together in a manner far too intimate for one betrothed.

“Before I’m gone.” His eyes darken as his jaw squares. Shoulders straighten as his body tries to convince him, and you, that he is ready for his duty. “The Emperor has ordered House Atreides to Arrakis, to oversee the production of spice.”

“He wouldn’t,” you protest.

“He has. It is done.”

“Let me speak with him,” you plead. “He is my father’s cousin. Let me intercede on your behalf. I know your heart is with Caladan.”

“There is no call House Atreides does not answer,” Leto proudly reminds you.

You bitterly chuckle at the notion of the loyal, stoic obedience of House Atreides. It broke your heart long ago.

“So you came to stay goodbye then?” Your lip trembles at what this directive could mean for him and his house.

The deep wrinkle between his eyes softens as he braces himself for your final moments together.

“I came to wish you well.” His eyes drop to your joined hands. “And bid you farewell.”

You turn away from him then, head dropping as fresh tears sting your eyes.

“I wanted this to be you today, Leto. Not him,” you openly confess.

He sighs, the starched fabric of his uniform shifting as he eases around in front of you.

“As did I. Truly.”

“Truly? You never said anything,” you gasp, shaking your head forlornly. “You just let me go.”

A tormented sadness ghosts over his face as he realizes… “No, the Emperor forbade it. I thought you knew. I thought you agreed.”

“How could I know? You never said anything.”

“Oh my love,” he gasps, pulling you instantly into his strong embrace. You melt against the solid heat of his chest, fists grasping at his uniform jacket. His mouth seeks yours out, roughly covering your lips with his own.

Long fingers wind behind the nape of your neck as he tilts his head, dragging his lips against yours until his tongue parts the seam of your lips for a deeper taste. You feel the heat of his breath, the flush of his skin, and as the hand wound around you finds the fullness of your hip through your wedding gown, he squeezes possessively.

Tongue rolling over yours, he devours you, releasing your neck to drag his palm down over the swell of your breast, cupping underneath it. A moan spills from your mouth to his and you do finally twist your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck.

Any sense of propriety leaves you as he molds your body to his, and you feel certain if you didn't hear footsteps falling along the corridor that you would give yourself to him completely.

"Come away with me," he pleads on your ear, holding you against him for a brief eternity before his son appears in the doorway. He quickly but tenderly dismisses the boy as you rush to make yourself presentable.

Noticing he's smeared your makeup and ruffled your stunning gown pulls a sincere apology from his lips.

"Forgive me. It's your wedding day. I shouldn't." He doesn't know what else to say. Your life is here. Your future is here. He cannot shuttle you away to Arrakis to wilt in the desert heat.

"I would...come with you," you softly admit, eyes searching for his, to ground him here, to keep him in your sight, close to you for a few divine moments longer.

"But the Emperor forbids it," he restates the obvious, "and you are to be married to a man of his choosing."

"Leto," you cry, reaching for his face, brushing your fingers through his thick beard, "what can we do?"

You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for the only answer he could ever give.

"We will do our duty. We must."

"What is duty without love?" You protest, wishing he would hold you like he did moments before, but knowing he never will again. "Would you really take me with you?"

"No," he answers resolutely, brown eyes darkening. "But I will come back for you...if that is what you wish." Touching his forehead to yours, he caresses your cheek tenderly. "But understand: you could have love here. The love of your family, your friends. Even him. And someday, the love of a child. There's no other love like it, I assure you."

"It's you I love," you insist, kissing him one final time.

You have a choice to make. Marry today or wait for the Duke of House Atreides, until the Emperor's task for him on Arrakis is complete.

If only you could have seen then, it would be a lifelong wait.

Angstember Masterlist || Misc. Masterlist || Main Masterlist

[eyesfullofsttars]

— I can't decide if it's a choice getting swept away, I hear the sound of my own voice asking you to stay. . .

sypnosis; the beginning of the relationship between duchess abigail and the new viscountess ellie seems complicated by their own prejudices against each other, causing animosity. although, as they get to know each other better, they may be able to find a middle ground, right?

notes; just finished the second season of bridgerton (way too late...) and got totally obsessed, so i ended up here writing a little something about the beginning of the relationship between these two in a similar universe... (even though none of them wear dresses, i dunno why, but i just can't picture ellie or abby in those dresses!!!)

warnings: none! just historical inaccuracies

The beginning of their relationship sparked a genuine scandal, with Abigail brimming with prejudice toward Ellie's poor manners and defiant nature, never fearing to question everything, excessively abusing her newfound position as a newcomer to the Miller family.

Ellie, on the other hand, proudly rebuffed Abby's feigned courtesy, fully aware of her true sentiments. After all, it was the prevailing opinion when eyes scrutinized her from head to toe.

Thus, their relationship evolved into a constant competition at balls, where they vied to invite more ladies to dance, paying more attention to each other than to their own partners. (Even if Williams detests dancing with her life)

Ellie would purposely brush past Abby, aiming to test her patience, yet she couldn't help but stare whenever Anderson rolled up her sleeves and flexed her muscles, though she would never admit it aloud.

Abigail would murmur uncertain rumors about Ellie in the company of her friends, relishing in how Williams had mastered the skill of lip-reading to uncover secrets and complain about it.

"God! I can read her lips from here and tell she's speaking ill of me," Ellie comments to Dina, completely outraged, rolling her eyes and letting out an annoyed huff, unable to believe it.

Dina simply looks at her curiously. "Why are you even looking at Anderson's lips?" she questions teasingly, causing Ellie to release an even more exasperated sigh.

Though the Anderson dukes' family maintained a cordial relationship with the Miller family, who held the title of viscounts, Jerry often accompanied Joel on hunts, enjoying long evenings discussing business and their families, both having daughters in their legacy.

Thus, in the summer, while in the countryside, Ellie and Abby found themselves forced to spend even more time together, much to their horror, competing in croquet matches in the vast gardens. Ellie used every turn to distance the ball as far as possible from Abby.

However, Anderson returned the gesture, using her strength to push her away, taking up more space than necessary, blocking Williams' view for her next strategic shot, ruining the few occasions Ellie decided to focus on herself.

"It was my turn!" Ellie exclaims, utterly indignant, continuously tapping Abby's shoulder to get her attention. "Move!"

"Miss Williams, you're only going to use your turn to sabotage me, aren't you? Leave me alone," Abigail replies, rolling her eyes and not even paying much attention, too focused on calculating the perfect shot.

"You're tricking. How low you've stooped, Anderson," Ellie mutters under her breath, defeated, crossing her arms and stepping back to judge her with her gaze. "Unfair..."

Ultimately, the supposedly friendly match ended with both arguing, demanding the other to surrender, but neither would yield to the absurd, pathetic victory of a simple family game aimed at improving their relationship.

That seemed impossible until one night, when Ellie, unable to sleep, wandered through the grand corridors of the country house admiring the artwork, she encountered Abby, who seemed to be in the same predicament.

That night, they argued again, but this time not about each other, but about their views on the art talent reflected in the paintings, with Ellie contradicting Abigail, who reluctantly gave her the floor knowing she was an artist, albeit ashamedly denying it.

"You're much more intellectual than I am..." Abby whispers that statement near Ellie's ear with a slight smile on her lips, which the latter isn't sure whether to interpret as genuine or playfully teasing.

"Not at all." Williams quickly shakes her head, her hand moving to tuck a strand of Abigail's blonde hair behind her ear deliberately and effortlessly. "You're not so bad yourself..."

"Shut up." Abigail responds teasingly, letting out a small laugh, her warm breath brushing against Ellie's freckled cheek. Without hesitation, she leans in to accept the touch she offers. "Accept the compliment, will you?"

"You're so irritable, Miss Anderson." Ellie retorts with the same tone, not backing down but also not feigning any innocence about her own words.

Well, it seems they can't even agree on that!

And although they tried to ignore it, that night they both went to bed with a shared complicit smile. Ellie continued to compete relentlessly with Abby, who never seemed to be beaten, willing to play along without any annoyance, but rather enjoying it.

Upon their return, the rumors about Williams ceased within society. And if anyone dared to spread misinformation, Anderson would swiftly intervene, considering it unnecessary to mention Ellie's surname, not because he liked her, but because it was... repetitive.

Thanks to that encounter in the countryside, perhaps Anderson softened towards Williams. They spoke sparingly, but always about specific topics, something they found difficult with others. In Abby's case, it seemed everyone agreed with her due to her position, while with Ellie, no one seemed willing to listen.

And what better than two intellectual women arguing over tea time, where tranquility was supposed to reign? There they were, contradicting each other, but no longer with the desire to feel superior or with pure malice derived from dislike, but rather finding pleasure in the discussion, spending hours without reaching a conclusion.

Over time, Ellie and Abby's discussions became a regular ritual, a moment awaited by both to exchange ideas and opinions on various topics, from politics to art, literature, and science.

"You can never grant credence to such thoughts. It's illogical," Ellie argues with a smug smile, leaning back in her seat with her legs comfortably spread, albeit not in a very ladylike manner. "They should revoke your right to speak."

"And yours to partake in society," Abby retorts wryly, tapping her foot against Ellie's ankle to prompt her to sit upright and formally, even if they were alone.

"Oh, please," Ellie sighs exhaustively, rolling her eyes and ignoring Abby's indirect commands. "I've seen you sit the same way countless times."

"Not that I can recall," Abigail counters, shaking her head slowly, adjusting in her seat similarly, sitting rather ungracefully with her knees apart, her arms resting there, holding her chin with one hand.

Williams, once seen as an intruder, was now a necessary companion in Abigail's life, sought after at every gathering, dance, or event, for a chat, even if only for a few minutes of silly, sarcastic banter. It seemed Ellie was able to amuse Abby like no one else.

Ellie, on her part, was more than pleased to leave behind her indifference toward Abby. Now she greeted her without hesitation, with a smile on her freckled face, offering her hand with the need to maintain minimal contact. She always found herself standing by Abby's side at balls, no longer seeking other dance partners.

[wataksampingan]

Very long Chapter 96 feelings/thoughts below cut coz I saved my hard-earned Naver cookies for this and I'm going to react while it's fresh dammit.

Spoilers in every possible way, as always.

Oh my God its their first official date and of course it doesn't go Theo's way at all coz he's fighting a lost cause against an author with a sense of humour I share. Thank God his people love him

Nearly 100 chapters later and only now do we start steering towards Therdeo "My angel" Lapileon from the prologue (which I still find it difficult to fathom; the road is long and arduous from Therdeo 'Face as Red as My Eyes' Lapileon we see right now)

I have yet to translate the dialogue properly, but that last panel of him honestly unnerves me (and judging from Google Translated comments in Korean, I'm not the only one.) I'm not really one for the kind of ML who is madly obsessive over their love interest to extremely difficult extents coz I'm too old and cynical to see this as a good thing in a relationship, fictional or otherwise (This is purely a personal preference; no judgement if that's your jam and jelly)

But the thing is that it makes sense. Of course Theo would get dangerous over the first woman he's fallen in love with. Of course he'd do anything to keep her now that, yknow, she's actually made her feelings known. After 90+ chapters of angsting, literally watching her die a few times in front of him, holding such huge feelings of guilt for what his blood has done to her, quietly despairing over keeping anyone close to him coz he's a Lapileon and they succumb so often to death -- this overwhelming fear of losing her is understandable. The idea of her leaving now must be intolerable, like "not after every damn thing I've been through. Everything we have been through. Over my cold dead body".

...I've had the thought quite a few times that seungu succeeded in convincing me that Theo is scary, and this chapter - while also very sweet - is really laying that fact out again in no uncertain terms: Therdeo Lapileon really shouldn't be messed with.

The thing is, meta-wise, there is no end to cold, stern dukes of the frozen North with fearsome reputations, black/dark hair and red/dark eyes - it's one of the most longstanding fantasy romance tropes in manhwa after all. Throw a stone and you'll hit a milord with a chest so wide you can fit a full dresser sideways between his shoulders and a face so stony Medusa is taking notes. And of course, his grace is going to have the reputation of Ultimate Warrior and Sovereign of His Land, Tamer of the Terrain, Reviver of the Barren Soil Now Made Fertile under His Leadership, because only such a powerful man with a heart of ice and terror would have the wherewithal to bend the unyielding north to his will. He isn't emperor/king simply because of circumstances (TM), character and/or choice.

To name just a few: Prince (...kinda? Sorta? Its a long story) Killian from Like Wind on a Dry Branch, Hades from I Married the Main Lead's Dad, Riftan from Under the Oak Tree, Kandel from I Thought My Time Was Up, Milian from Karina's Last Days; heck, even the other Killian from Not Your Typical Reincarnation Story is about to inherit a territory that isn't so great but which he will no doubt develop into a thriving land coz he's Capable that way. If you remove the hair and eye colour conditions, there are even more examples. 99% of them are said to strike fear into the hearts of men just by being mentioned in a room.

...ngl, putting my gigantic bias aside, Theo truly is among my top three scariest ML. Not even Killian (Rieta's) gives me pause the way Theo does, and I have immense respect and admiration for the way Like Wind on A Dry Branch is told (and translated). I know Killian is a powerful man; I feel Theo is threatening. (Brief aside here to acknowledge that Killian has game for days, while Theo is....... look, he's trying.)

Take this opinion with many grains of salt, but few MLs that I've seen so far (and admittedly my repertoire is probably very limited compared to others) has come close to the time Theo plain snapped during Celphi's bullying arc, and when he nearly decapitated a wholeass princess in front of the entire court because she killed his wife (again. And yes, justifiable but still, in front of the EMPEROR HIMSELF.)

Also, the man looked like THIS when the servant who poisoned her begged him to "go back to the princess":

I say this with all love: Theo is not a balanced individual.

We already know this is a world where medieval torture is par for the course, but so far it's been reserved for Gen, who tortured and experimented on a child, and this dude who's been an accessory to Dodolea's crimes since the beginning. Theo does not give a single fuck about trivial things like consequences when it comes to Celphi and Perry's wellbeing. The world will burn if it must, just so he can find out who hurt them.

I said before that Saoirse is a true Lapileon, and Theo was the softest hearted of the siblings. I still maintain it's true, but with the addendum that Theo isn't far off in ruthlessness. You just need to make the mistake of hurting his wife or his son.

Granted, the obsession is only a problem if he restricts Perry just because she's "His". And she's proven a few times that she will Do Shit She Wants regardless of the Lapileons, Princess Dodolea or even herself (god, the way she second guessed herself so hard, only to bust back into the room with those shackles and physically FIGHT MIA OFF in ch 92 - Phineas owes her impulsiveness his life literally). I don't think the story can logically progress that way unless Perry has some sort of personality transplant. And I trust seungu too much for that. The fear is in more what he'll do behind her back (please don't Theo, we've been through this, you know what happened the last time you did things without telling her first - and even if other things went well (like suppressing ugly false stories in publications) that doesn't guarantee you're doing the right thing by not keeping her informed, you walnut.

...yes I know she also has the same bad habit of Not Telling You Her Business but she's LEARNING. I think.)

...also, tbf, Theo doesn't need his obsession to make him a danger to his own love life. Romance or not, he's still Socially Awkward and Fucked Up so lord only knows how many awkward mistakes he's going to make trying to actively court his wife 🥲

Then again, it's not like she's any better considering her last serious relationship was so awful, she literally died and went back in time. I'm not surprised, and in fact quite glad, it took her this long to admit to her finer feelings. However, now this is slightly uncharted territory, and this woman bottles up her feelings and lies to herself just about as much as Theo does. (Why are you so bothered Mia spent so much time around him? Why are you so upset that you can't do more to help him? Why are you so worried whenever he's seemingly avoiding you? Why do you look away each time he gives you puppy dog eyes, Pereshati? HMMM? WHY INDEED)

And now they have to return to the capital with all these revelations, and be within reach of the imperial family again and I AM AFRAID FOR THEM, PRECIOUS, I TRULY AM.

On a completely different tangent: I am truly not a fan of the novel ending where Theo ends up being crowned emperor. So if this manhwa ends with the coronation of His Imperial Majesty Emperor Therdeo Lapileon and Her Imperial Majesty Empress Pereshati Jahardt, I will be heartbroken. Like, I would have the same reaction to it the way Game of Thrones fans reacted to Season 8. That's how bad I would take it. I hope to all things good seungu deviates from there as well. It feels like the romance is following the novel just a smidge more - a soupçon if you will - in this season, so I'm a little trepidatious about what other aspects might follow. I remain a big fan of how different the manhwa direction is, so... GO SEUNGU!! FOLLOW YOUR STAR!!

P/S: my train of thought while reading ch 90:

Seungu is just bringing all of Phineas' personal trauma in full technicolor when he flashes back to his younger self witnessing his parents fight while his older brother sustains a severe eye injury, oh my god. This poor boy - no wonder he wanted to run so badly.

Oh god, Gloria having to try and save her children from this insane man.

Okay, so this cements that it was Theo's grandfather who was tyrannical as fuck and abused everyone including his youngest grandson? not Theo's father who also looks like he was just Trying His Best? But Gen's dialogue mentions "abeoji" (father)? Did Phineas' older brother neglect his kids or grow up into another abuser??? oh GOD THIS FAMILY

PPS: I cannot WAIT to see how the English translators handle that panel in ch95 when he finally finds enough braincells to return her embrace (that's not just any hug, cmon - that's a full on, no holds barred, literary Embrace)

I'm fairly sure she said "It's/I'm cold", but I also got overexcited because I thought she said "I like you" (???) It's easy to overlap/overhear either phrase as each other coz they sound fairly similar if you say it quickly (same energy like saying "suki" in Japanese but you need context to know if they mean they like a person or something else entirely).

Either way, it was definitely NOT "saranghae", which let's face it, IS FAR TOO DEEP for where they are right now. These two doofuses have only just begun to find out what their feelings mean, tho Theo may be too quick a study , eomma help.

PPPS: Ep 87 comes out in English tomorrow morning (for us in GMT+8 anyway) AND I WILL HAVE WORDS ABOUT THAT CONVERSATION, VJFHDJSKSKSL I CANNOT WAIT

PPPPS: it just occurred to me that all the examples I mentioned about the other comparable dukes of the North have more or less Definitively gotten together with their love interests, emotionally and/or physically. I mean if someone came up with a gantt chart/comparative timeline/line graph of when each duke finally kissed/tumbled into bed with their love interests to prove me wrong/right, that'd be fantastic but anyway

Theo has only just hugged her in ch 95.

They have shared a bed for over 90 chapters and it is ONLY JUST NOW that there is prolonged bodily contact apart from holding (often gloved) hands.

...I keep saying this because it's true: I love this slow burn so much.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 21

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

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

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

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

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I am very tired.

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As promised, the king acquires you a full outfit to face the cold. A fur trimmed hat to replace your standard linen cap, a pair of lined hide gloves, and thick boots that go to your knees. He has bolstered you to face the elements but you are wholly unprepared to face the corridors as the glances of soldiers and servants meet you with a new glint of judgement.  

You wear the king’s cloak as before. You keep your head low under the hood as he walks ahead of you. It is a farce. A poorly acted charade. How naive you’d been for so long not see through it all. You were the perfect fool for an intent audience. 

You descend and come out to the west of the castle, through a door beneath a sharply peaked arch. The snow continues to heap over the land though the winds have relented. The king pauses as you emerge and reaches to take you by the wrist, as if he fears you might be lost in the powder. 

He walks you across the yard towards the stables built across a flat of land nestled along a curved rock wall. The doors creaks as he pushes through and the heat of braziers and horses’ bodies greets you within. Sniffs, snorts, and knickers rise in the air as you walk between the stalls. There is one in which a single horse resides, the rest crowded in pairs and trios. 

You look up at the steed’s dark snout, it’s eyes even bleaker as it snuffs out harshly. It’s nostrils flair at your approach and the king clicks his tongue at the beast. It raises its nose then shakes its head. It’s ebony iris fixates on you as its master touches its braided mane. 

“Roach,” you murmur into the dry air. 

“You remember,” he comments gently. 

“Yes,” you watch the horse as it watches you. It bows its head, nose coming close to yours, fuming hot breath around you. It sniffs the trim of your hood. 

“Let the animal see you,” the king advises. 

You bring your hands up and push back the hood, letting it hang over your shoulders. You stare at the dark eyes. Roach continues to twitch his nose in your direction then further dips his head, pressing against your chest. Uncertain, you bring your hands to touch his soft ears. 

“Ah,” the king sighs, “Roach is rarely partial to any but me. Even I receive a nip or too from the curmudgeon.” He chuckles and touches the horse’s thick neck. “others have nearly lost a finger and even sacrificed garment or two.” 

“A creature so volatile, he makes a good war horse?” 

“She,” he corrects you. 

“Oh, apologies.” 

“I doubt she minds,” he muses and pets her long nose as she raises her head. “She is restless. She would do good for the exercise.” 

He lowers his hand and unclasps the stall door. He pulls it out as you step out of the way. The horse clomps through, kicking impatiently as it blows through its lips. The king moves parallel to you and draws you before him. Before you or Roach can react, he has you aloft, urging you onto the horse’s unsaddled back. 

“Hold tight,” he girds and puts his hands to the horse’s shoulder, “come, Roach.” 

The horse starts and you press your hands to her back, clamping on with your thighs. You rock with her motion to keep from slipping. You duck with the mount as she bends through the door the king holds open. The winter snows dusts down on you as you emerge. 

The king drags his palm along the horse’s side and swings himself up with little effort. He sit behind you, Roach not missing a step or buckling at his ascent. He pulls you snug to him, tugging up your hood as the chill nips at your cheeks. He wraps his arms around you and clutches a swathe of the horse’s braids. He whistles and leans, guiding the horse away from the castle. 

“She is obedient,” you remark at her agile response. 

“I prefer mares for that reason,” he returns. You wonder if it is a quip meant for the queen or yourself. Perhaps both. “It isn’t very far, though the path is steep.” 

You nod and stare at the white expanse, a few jutting rocks pocking out above the carpet of snow, leafless branches reaching out here and there. The horse carries you to a ledge, narrow and treacherous, and you lean back into the King Geralt as the edge has you dizzy. He slips his hand beneath your cloak to squeeze your hip. 

“I have you, treasure, you needn’t fear,” he assures.” 

“Yes, your highness, thank you,” you touch his knuckles and shiver. 

“Sweet summer maid,” he purrs as he draws you snugger. “This winter is harsh but I will keep you warm.” 

You shudder and hang your head. For so much comfort as he offers, you find little. It isn’t only the snow which chills you. 

You ride on, the impact of hooves softened by the layers below, the air hollow and biting as it seeps beneath your hood. The sky ripples grey and seems to darken as you descend the curling path along the cliff’s edge. At once, you are plunged into thick blackness. 

The world levels out and the king shifts, sliding off the mount to land on his feet. You peek over your shoulder and see the grim light through the mouth of the cave. The king touches your leg and you turn, letting him help you from the height. Roach kicks and spits. 

The king frames your waist before he releases you. You listen to his steps as he moves through the dim. There’s is a scratch as he strikes flint and flame illuminates his shadow. He bends and takes something from the ground. He pauses and works with one hand, wrapping something around the thick stick. He lights the length of linen around the wood’s tip, a torch to see you along. 

“She will stay, she is not keen on confinement, especially underground,” he girds and removes his own cloak, draping it over the horses back, “the air enlivens me, I shouldn’t need that much.” 

He wears a leather coat, sewn of thick strips of black and studded with silver. He approaches you and bends his arm, offering it gallantly as a gentleman might with a lady. You hesitate and hook your arm through it, hugging his elbow as he leads you deeper, the torch flickering with each step. 

You enter a tunnel with rocky tendrils stretching from top to bottom, encased in layers of ice and frost. The flame illuminates the frozen layers. Deeper and deeper you go, quiet as your curiosity mingles with concern. Where are you going? 

Your boot slips on a slippery patch but the king keeps you upright. You thank him and bring your other arm across to steady yourself on his bicep. You feel his muscle bulging beneath. You do not doubt his promises. He will keep you safe. Down here, but you doubt what he might do without. 

He raises the torch as the air thins and you the cave opens up. You look around as the walls lay beyond the breadth of the torches glow. Your eyes are drawn by the icy fingers hanging from the ceiling. There is one close to you. You reach to touch its pointed tip. 

“Icicles,” the king says, “be careful of the thin ones, they might fall.” 

He moves the torch to show more, all around you, light fangs the line the cave, lining the edges. The flame sparkles on their eerie translucence. Then the king lowers the light and you look down beneath your feet. You’re stand on ice! 

“Your highness,” you instinctively pull yourself closer to him, your soles sliding as you try to walk further. 

“It will not break,” he assures you as he urges you on, “this cave never thaws, even in the warmer months. They call it the Moth’s Den.” He leads you across the ice and your eyes catch on the icicles, thick and thin, some pointed, some reach to touch the floor. You hear an odd hum, almost a buzz, and he sweeps the torch before you. 

You stop to gape at the wall before you. It looks soft and fluffy, almost like fur. Then you lean closer and see the wings. Pale silver moths, fluttering in place, clinging to the wall. Their fuzzy bodies line every morsel of the space. 

“Snow moths. Harmless creatures. Unlike their summer counterparts, the detest the light,” he extends his arm and a circle along the icy wall is sudden bare as the moths move to avoid the glare. “When I was a boy, I always wanted to have one as a pet. I could never get one past the entrance before it escaped and flew back to the depths.” 

You blink and lower your hand from his arm, though you stay hooked onto him, “I didn’t think this was your home.” 

“As a boy it was. At least, that’s how I saw it. My father, king of the day, sent me here to train with Lord Vesemir. As much to keep me out of trouble. I am not unaware of myself. I was not the best behaved. Vesemir took me in and he bides no mischief,” King Geralt explains, “though he does not rule without compassion. He taught me many things more than discipline. He taught me,” the king peers over at you, “that my heart should be heard just as plainly as my mind. If you do not balance them, then it will all topple.” 

You look back at him. Your chest aches deeply. Doesn’t he know you don’t have that privilege? Can he not see that you do not get that choice? Even for a king. 

You might never had cared for Lady Rezlyn and her gossip. You think it cruel and unkind. Often you wonder if she spoke less of others, if she might gain more friends. You never engaged much in Merinda’s whispers either. But you heard them and you know what becomes of mistresses. 

The other woman. That’s what you’ll become. A whore. A name to be spat. A figure to be avoided. A maid might be ignored but she neither favoured or despised. She just is. She has her purpose. A mistress only has the stain put upon her. The one who taints who my walk away, but she never will. 

“The ice becomes you, treasure. The cold it... pales to your beauty,” he smiles down at you. His gold eyes are vibrant and his fine features are even more admirable in the limn of the flame. 

He lifts his chin and takes steady steps away from the wall and leads you towards a jutting stone at the other end of the cavern. He bends to plant the torches base in the crevice at its foot. The torch leans but stands on its own. 

He faces you, untangling from your arm, and puts his hands on your shoulders, “I want to know what you think. Tell me. Do you like my homeland? Do you like the winter?” 

Your lips part and you glance up. Your eyes wander around the space and you turn your head. You raise your hands to touch the king’s leather gloves. 

“I think I do,” you answer. You can’t deny the beauty even if it is deadly. “I might think differently should I meet a bear or a wolf.” 

“It is why you must stay close, treasure, I would never let a beast get anywhere near,” he avows, “I refer to all beasts. Be it man or animal. You will always have me. You needn’t be afraid.” 

You lower your eyes. You can’t say the truth. He knows it but he refuses it. His is a king, he might bend even the world to his whim. You let your hands trails down his forearms. He drops his hands and takes yours. 

“Will you tell me more? About when you were a boy?” You ask, hoping to forget the present a little longer. You are intrigued to think of this man as just a child. It is a rather impossible concept. 

“Hm, well,” he lets go of you and moves around you. He comes behind you and presses himself to your back. He rocks you as he turns you to admire the cave, “I would come to these caves and talk to myself...” he laughs rockily, “you see, if you holler loud enough, your voice bounces back at you. Lord Vesemir, he is not always in the mind for conversation and horses can be just as finicky.” 

He continues to turn you with him. Even without his cloak, his warmth seeps into you. 

“And I would gather bouquets of frostwart and white willowrods for they are the closest to flowers that grow here. I would put the bunches all around, as if I was too be coronated. I was told every day I would be king and I wanted to be ready, but mostly, I’d pretend I was at tourney. I would have my practice sword and I would parry with the air. The air was not so mean as Vesemir with his jabs.” 

You listen, closing your eyes, trying to see it in your head. A white-haired boy with his golden eyes and flowers and swords. Now a man who’s marched through blood and dirt. How time changes more than the seasons, it transforms all. 

“What of you, maid? I want to know of you. When you were a child, did you frolic with the rabbits and the squirrels?” 

You go rigid. You try to pull away but he has you caught. You lean back and exhale heavily. 

“The life of a maid isn’t very interesting,” your murmur. 

“You were always a maid? Even when you were young?” 

“Always,” you affirm. “I emptied pots, brought Lord Dustan his boots, though at times, Lady Jazlene required a playmate...” 

He’s quiet at the mention of his wife. You feel the crack in your heart. Your nose is numb and tingling. 

“Yet, how did you become a maid? Before that, was there nothing?” He asks. 

“Please, your highness--” 

“I bid you call me by my name.” 

“Geralt,” you utter, “please, I beg you, I wouldn’t speak of before.” 

“Did you have parents? Siblings--” 

“None of it,” you hiss and elbow away from him, throwing your arms out to keep balance. You spin and shake your head, “please. My parents are dead. Long gone. And the memories I have of them are nothing more than that. They’ve only ever been dead to me.” 

He is taken aback, his face pale and cheeks tight, “treasure, forgive me, I only... I want to know everything of you--” 

“You know what I am. I am a maid. That is it. That is all I can ever be. I am not a lady, not a wife, not a queen,” you clap your hands together, the impact softened by your mittens, “you cannot make me anything different, king as you may be. I will only ever serve, and you will only ever command.” 

His lips part and he steps towards you, “that isn’t true.” 

“It’s what must be true,” you look to your feet, “might I make a request?” 

“Anything,” he says. 

“Take me back to the castle,” you raise your eyes.  

He nods solemnly and reaches for you, “as you wish.” 

[supernovafeather]

Fall And Learn

Leto Atreides x F!Reader

Content : angst, comfort, mention of war, throuple.

Summary : The conflict looming over House Atreides starts to affect reader seriously, and Leto intervenes.

The sky got covered by a dark veil that remained foreign to you. Here on Arrakis, the fresh nights felt just as hostile as the burning days. This planet and its atmosphere always managed to find a way to irk you, either by biting your skin with its cold fangs or with its flaming canines.

You narrowed your eyes as an uncomfortable series of goosebumps started its crusade down your entire body as you tried to decipher some potential omens – were they good or bad – displayed by this strange climate. Intense sandstorms were harassing the high dunes close to the horizon, the orangish hell getting lightened up by the machines that just got swallowed up by these etheral titans. You wondered whether or not the worms were even bigger than those. A part of you was certain this was the case.

At daytime you cursed those monotonous tones dressing Arrakis, at daytime you cursed how dead and threatening the outside world – that world you wouldn't even dare to belong to any day – looked. A shadow more daring than others that would stab you in the back, that dull and bare-looking architecture erasing more and more the comforting memories you had from the heartwarming castle you left behind you on Caladan, those monsters and Fremens out there able to survive where they shouldn't even be able to. And those corridors the Harkonnens and their men walked across of and all those atrocities committed. May they remain anonymous and forgotten.

“The whole Arrakin could feel your anxiety rising up earlier in the morning.”

You didn't respond to the Duke's statement – not to call it a reproach, still busy examining the millenial enigma harassed by those winds so far from there. The man's footsteps stopped by your right and your heard the faint brush on his palms against the fence. Has anybody got pushed off from there?

“I am still... uncertain about your strategy concerning those Fremens,” you ended up saying, “I am fully conscious we would be unable to get ready for war against the Harkonnens if we open another frontline with them on Arrakis, but...”

“As I said, time is going to be precious. Just as much as Spice, if not more.”

The Emperor got you and the Duke's whole House just like that. You snorted at that thought, clenching your jaws as your eyes now wandered over the streets now just as silent as during the endemic heatwaves. No matter how old and pure some bloodlines or cultures appeared, nothing was sacred or safe from ambition and hybris. One day that city and palace could end up in flames or buried down those dunes.

Never before following Leto had felt like a burden but today that thought crossed your mind for a second. A stupid second that now started to slowly consume you. And with all the respect due to his son Paul, his heir wasn't ready to take the throne if anything was to happen. And with all the respect due to Lady Jessica, the Bene Gesserit turned its back to her a long time ago. Would they even be a better choice that the Harkonnens anyway?

“Is there any loophole remaining?”

“You are thinking about leaving.”

“I am not.”

Leto turned to you. You felt it. Today was the day his trust in you would collapse and you accepted that fate. Everything was over here. Too many traitors amongst the guards and maids, the Emperor was against you, the Guild started to raise its voice against the Duke due to the sabotage campaigns targetting the Spice production, the Bene Gesserit tortured Paul without batting an eye, the Harkonnens were looking for revenge, the Fremens wanted their planet back. Those giant worms longer and higher than those stupid dunes, those legends, that sand. By the Gods, you missed Caladan, its safety and its seas so much.

“You are considering fleeing away,” he stated calmly.

Without answering you lowered your eyes down to your jointed hands over the fence. Maybe he was right. Would you flee if you had any possibility to do so ? Probably.

“I sworn to serve and follow your family until my death erases me from this world.”

“I know.”

Leto Atreides was not the most talkative man you had met throughout your life but he seemed to always have the right words at the right moments. His family and duty above everything else, but many precious advices if needed. You still wondered why he accepted you in his own life in such an unexpected way, and even more how Lady Jessica did the same. Not a wife, not an official concubine, not a mistress. You were part of the higher ups and ended up there with the leading couple.

“Is death what you are afraid of? Is it what makes you reconsider your values?”

With a quick glance in his direction you noticed him squinting as he tried to understand what led you to this point.

“It doesn't make me reconsider anything my Lord. I will remain loyal. I am loyal.”

“Loyal but far away from the frontline, even before war.”

“I am loyal. My Lord.”

“Far away from the frontline and without looking at me in the eyes.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe you were a coward. Watching that city so meaningless to you felt easier than promising anything to the lord you promised to serve no matter what with all your heart and soul.

“I am not like Gurney. I am not like you or Lady Jessica. I don't understand how easy it is for you to choose war.”

“Never before would I have guessed you would be so wrong one day. I didn't choose anything in this mess, and nothing is easy for any of us. I obeyed the Emperor. Are the Harkonnens the ones wanting war or him, I can't tell for sure but I didn't. I left my ancestors' land for this hell. I brought my concubine and my son with me, as well as my most loyal followers.”

You knew this already and yet you managed to make him feel offended. How could you forget the mutual surprise and confusion that spread at that announcement that sealed his family's fate ?

“I know my Lord. My apologies.”

“There is no easy way out. I don't even know if such a thing still exists,” he sighed.

You nodded, biting your lip as you tried to guess what his son or his concubine could feel. Paul seemed to be doing as fine as possible in such a mess but you couldn't read him easily. Maybe this was a wrong impression but you were convinced things could turn wrong with him. The determination he started to show, that admiration he felt for the Fremens themselves and the most secret aspects of their culture. You hoped that this whole predicament wouldn't go as far as him turning against his father or aligning himself in a more radical way with those people that had refused any diplomatic exchange so far. The last thing their House needed was a son turning against his father. Not easy to read, but potentially easy to manipulate with his feelings. And Lady Jessica? You both hoped that she definitely turned her back to this Order but also that she didn't. The Bene Gesserit were both incredibly powerful allies and foes. However, may they be close or far away this didn't change anything about the threat they were. But they tortured Paul and his own mother let this happen to him. And yet you could feel her guilt. Who was she exactly ? That planet was changing people and the universe's stakes too much. All because of that Emperor. But the anguish Gurney hid behind anger and frustration whenever conversations started to get close to the Harkonnens...

You took a deep breath as you started to feel sick. The bravest people and most admirable colleagues and friends you knew were terrified, haunted by what was going to happen and they wouldn't be there to shield you from this just like you wouldn't be able to shield them from what was going to happen. In a few hours ? In a few days ? A few months ? Your values and promises had no weight in this universe. The laws making the world turn wouldn't care about your wishes. They wouldn't care about protecting Leto or lady Jessica or their son. They didn't care about relationships, morals, bloodlines, feelings. They existed and you had to find a way to navigate through this.

“There is none,” you started, “nothing can protect us from what the world has against us all.”

“Nothing can protect us if we decide to leave and abandon our closest allies. Your help has been precious back on Caladan, and just as much if not more on Arrakis. I need you – my whole family needs you actually – as well as everyone else to make sure that everything wil be as alright as possible once the day comes. That day that will make us know whether or not if we deserve to fight with all our will. If death is what you are afraid of, do you really think you will want to be remembered as a traitor ?”

“I am not a traitor. To be fair... if the Harkonnens invade this planet I doubt there will be anything to remain from me or their victims. I could only hope they kill me off quickly. At least no matter what they'd do to my corpse, I wouldn't be aware of it.”

You did your best not to think about what Gurney told you as well as all the depressing reports you had read throughout the last decade about the Harkonnens, and prevented your mind from wondering from all those horrors that could occur one day in this city, in this palace itself.

“I need you to focus on the present. Leaving in fear of the future is only going to feed your fear and poison your present days. That is exactly how this works. War doesn't only unfold on the frontline. Psychological war is also a formidable weapon their House cultivated for centuries. The Baron, his nephew and others are what some would call monsters and... mind is a complex thing easy to break. In theory it is also easy to protect, but you need to feel the will to do so. The will to move on, to anticipate the next threats. You need to feel ready to learn and to toughen up without refusing to get the help you need. We are all vulnerable here. If you get frozen by fear, nothing will change. You won't even have a word to say. I know what it feels like to be lonely. This is why I insist so much on creating links with Fremens. We need them as much as they need us. We have to accept that fact. I could blindly say that my House is better than theirs, that I don't need anybody else's help and that I'm ready to welcome them back on Arrakis in the way they deserve because anyone on his right mind would know they better follow me, otherwise they wouldn't stand a chance against their previous oppressor. I won't, because I accept the fact that this would be a blatant lie in order to mask my fear. I want – I have to – confront it with all my will.”

You nodded again, turning to him fully but still avoiding his eyes as you stared at his collar.

“I'm terrified,” you mumbled.

Your vision turned blurry to dark as he welcomed you in his arms silently. No loud sobbing, only a few tears dropping as you tried to gather your thoughts to finally free yourself from what you wanted to express.

“They're coming,” you added, “they're coming for us all. I refuse.”

“All our fears are linked to death in one way or another. Why are you so afraid of death ?”

You shrugged before stepping back. You got carried away and should come back on your tracks. He felt more like a confident and you shouldn't cross that line.

“Any choice could lead to your death, mine, to civilians or worse... they still live in fear of what they had to endure here. When people as tough as them shake with fear... I can't even think of being able to face it myself.”

Surprisingly, he snorted.

“Do you see what I told you this morning? You don't feel hate for them.”

You grinned in shame.

“I can only admit how determined they are to live in such conditions. And... to move on. Despite their hostility towards us. And... I think I feel in a similar way towards the ones living outside the walls. Despite the threat they are... I do respect them. More than what I let know this morning.”

“Fear corrupts and makes us turn against each other. It makes us wish for easier solutions that don't exist. War is imminent. War has always existed, exists, and will exist. Greed as well. Dignity, perversion, honor, bravery, fear, solidarity, hatred. We have to do our best and I know you can. It's a matter of choice.”

“I won't flee. I won't despite what you may think of me. I am afraid as you know already.”

“I know you won't, but I knew you needed a reminder that you're just as brave an anyone else. Make your choices. Not the right or wrong ones. Make yours.”

Embarrassed, you smiled at the way he rubbed your arms with a comforting smile. For a higher up you always found a way to waste his time. You noticed the dark bags under his eyes a long time ago, he needed to get some sleep instead of worrying for his family. After all, he had you and the others to look after him and his concubine and his son.

“You're right, as always.”

“We should have had this discussion a long time ago and yet decided to postpone it because I was afraid you wouldn't follow us on Arrakis. I'm not perfect neither. Nobody else is. But I learn and know when to apologize. Please accept my apologies.”

“I do.”

With an encouraging nod he rubbed your cheek with the back on his hand before walking away to his next destination as you went back to Arrakin, your mind trying to find new ways of protecting the walls.

- - - - -

Thanks you for reading, please comment and reblog if you liked it ! :D

@queen-of-elves

@qrjung

[wateroflifefrommountains]

Oh No, Grappling Hooks!!

I've figured it out, Cassandra Cain's kryptonite. What item was used to incapacitate her during the 1st few issues of Batgirls? It was a grappling hook, she got tied up in it. Bruce probably looked into the fight and learned that despite Cassandra's ability to read body language and, in turn, dodge bullets, she CANNOT dodge grappling hooks. That's why when he decided to take her out he didn't hesitate in using it against her.

Do you want proof? It worked, didn't it?

LOL. Seriously, I dislike it when that happens but after I vent, and I vent like a MADMAN, mind you, I try to recall Stan Lee's discussion about who would win in a superhero fight. "There's one answer to all of that; it's so simple. Anyone should know this! The person who'd win in a fight is the person that the scriptwriter wants to win!"

We all knew it was going to happen. It was predictable and disappointing. It was predictably disappointing, but we were able to brace ourselves for it so the blow was not as hard.

This makes me feel a little bit better until the cringe gets to me and I start rambling again. We can demand better stories and more consistent characterizations. This is a given; however, the writers are gods of their stories and who wins is decided by the narrative they wish to tell. Gotham Wars is a conflict between Bruce and Selina as well as the stress and psychological damage the mantle places on Bruce. Hurting his kids, going too far, becoming the thing he wished to defeat, that's what the story wants to show us.

Now for the theory crafting and storytelling practice, what if they didn't turn on Batman? What if we are looking at this like an epic War Story but it's actually just Family drama? It was clear that Dick and the rest wanted to talk to Bruce before escalating any further. They are not on Selina's side per se; rather, they just do not want a war.

Here is the Thesis for Batkids [aside from Jason]. They are uncertain about what to do, but they don't want Bruce to go too far. Jason on the other hand wants to escalate things and is fully on Selina's side. [It still upsets me that Cassandra and Duke's thoughts on this were never shown]

Jason being Jason confronts Bruce and tries to beat his message into his father's skull. Bruce reacts not only by fighting back but by insinuating Jason's death. This is when things got out of hand. This is the point when his kids decide to stop Bruce, but they are not questioning the mission by stopping him here. He uttered a threat to his kid's life. That's something Bruce/Batman wouldn't do and his family knows this. So when they realize that it needs to stop, they tell him to back off and stand down.

Now that I've reread it, this could explain the battle. Bruce is not holding back and is treating his kids as criminal threats; on the other hand, his kids still treat him with care and want him to stop hitting Jason and take a damn mental health break.

The way they all get bodied is silly and uncharacteristic [rage-inducing even] but that may be intentional as they are shown as the centrists in all of this. There is a twist in the middle there though and that may lead to other things. I can't believe I am writing this, but Gotham Wars might get better. It might explore the other Batkids and if this is copium talking, then I saw potential where there was none and fabricated a good story in my head at least.

[josefavomjaaga]

Letter from Duroc to Eugène about events in Spain

Apologies, I’m lazy. This letter is a bit shorter than the one from 1805 that I actually wanted to translate. I’ll do this one first.

Historical context: This letter is written from Spain, a couple of weeks after the Spanish Bourbon double abdication at Bayonne and the Dos de Mayo uprisings. Joseph has already been made king of Spain, Murat king of Naples. For the moment, everything seems fine. Several marshals and generals, Soult among them, are still in Germany, administering the occupied Prussian provinces.

[Probably Marrac, ca. 17 – 21 July 1808] Monseigneur, the Emperor is about to leave on a tour of Pau, Toulouse, Bordeaux, Rochefort, Nantes, Angers, Tours and Blois and if from there or on the way we are not recalled by the affairs of Spain, we can go hunting in Rambouillet or else we will return to Marrac.

The Empress is going to take the waters at Barège, and there has been fighting in Spain. Bessières, with 15,000 men against 35,000, had what can be called a battle and cut to pieces 35,000 men, half peasants, half troops of the line, from the garrisons of Galicia and Asturias. This was a very fortunate event because the forces gathered in the kingdom of Leon were at a point that was essential for army communications and for interesting outposts. Marshal Moncey, after defeating the insurgents in Valencia, has taken up a position closer to Madrid to obtain all that he needs from it.

Madrid is very quiet and the King will soon arrive there. The Grand Duke of Berg - King of Naples - is recovering at the spa. The Grand Duchess has gone to Paris from where she will set off for her kingdom. She is uncertain whether she will pass through Milan. It has occurred to me that there has been a lot of talk about you here and that the Emperor has expressed his satisfaction with you and the hopes he has placed in you. He made no secret of the fact that if circumstances forced him one day to return to the head of the armies, he would take you as his lieutenant in the same way as the Grand Duke. I'm sure that now you'll be making all sorts of wishes for war.

I thought you would be very pleased to know this and I am very happy to know it too. Please accept, Monseigneur, the assurance of my respect and attachment. Le duc de Frioul

[P.S.:] General Sorbier hopes to have returned to favour and to be able to continue as your aide-de-camp. He was very sad to think that he would have to give that up.

-

Events indeed soon would have recalled Napoleon to Spain, with the defeats of Baylén and Vimeiro and Joseph being chased from his throne. Except he didn’t go there because he chose to meet Alexander in Erfurt first and to let Joseph hang a little longer. He will only return late in the year.

Of course Duroc will praise Bessières’s victory to best buddy Eugène. 😁

There is indeed some indication that Eugène’s name was floated around during the discussion in Bayonne, at least such rumours were mentioned in newspapers. This may have been only to distract from Napoleon’s true plans, however. As far as I am aware, he only offered the crown of Spain to his brothers Louis, Jérôme and possibly Lucien (?) before giving it to Joseph and letting Murat choose between Portugal and Naples.

However, there must have been an earlier letter from Duroc to Eugène that is now lost, hinting at Eugène possibly being a candidate for the throne of Naples if Joseph left for Spain. We know this because Eugène, as a footnote states, mentions this letter from Duroc in a letter to his sister in June 1808. And his reaction to that veiled proposal was quite characteristic, too: Dieu me garde de cette galère! - God save me from this mess!

So, presumably, Eugène for once was grateful to Murat for picking Naples as his kingdom.

The passage in which Duroc gossips about Napoleon being satisfied with Eugène’s work reminds me a bit of the brief congratulation to Murat that I posted earlier. Napoleon was not in the habit of praising people to their face, so Duroc made sure they knew that the emperor thought they had done well.

General Sorbier by the way had been Eugène’s aide de camp since 1807 but had then received a promotion and had to move on to take a command in the army of Portugal. I’m not sure why he would have been in disgrace, maybe that’s just a figure of speech. In any case, he did return to Eugène’s side as his ADC, only to get mortally wounded during the battle of Caldiero in 1809. There’s a letter from Eugène to his wife mention that "poor Sorbier has been seriously wounded". Sorbier was transported back to Verona but died of his wounds some time later.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The Lich-Queen, pt1

I stared down at my would-be fiancé, a smirk playing on my lips. "So, this is all the little butterfly has in him? How pitiful," I murmured, dragging my sword against his chest, tearing the fine silk of his shirt.

His eyes were bloodshot, rims red with tears. He trembled like a newborn calf, ripe for the eating. “Iraela,” he hissed. “You bitch. Someday, somewhere, someone will kill you.”

“Duke Tamaris,” I said, savouring the taste of his name. It was sour and hateful, like the bile that burst forth when I sunk my teeth into liver. “I was a bitch when I undid the embroidery in  Ramaeria's court dress. I think we've gone quite a bit further than that, don't you? I think I might even warrant being called a monster, or perhaps an eldritch horror. Do you mind redoing that scene again? I'll start: So, this is all the little butterfly has in him?”

When he did not respond, I snickered. “In any case, by the time I get my just deserts, you will be long dead. I will have consumed Ceredell, and all of its people. Everything and everyone you love will be lost to the eternal sleep.”

He met my gaze defiantly, biting his lip to keep from crying. I could smell the blood in his beating chest, and it excited me. “Of course,” I continued, dropping to my knees and straddling his chest, “I might let you live, if you swear fealty to me. I could always use a human manservant.” Idly, I traced his cheek with a claw.

Tamaris' weaselly face twisted into a grimace. “You piece of shit,” he snarled, jerking his head away from me. “I would rather die than bow to a necromancer like you.” He hawked up a bit of spit and tried to aim it at me. It missed entirely.

“I think you have misunderstood my meaning entirely,” I purred, running my claws down his throat, where his lifeblood pulsed. “You will be mine, whether you live or not. The only choice you have, and the last choice you will ever make, is if you wish to live under me, or undie under me.”

Understanding flashed through his eyes, and with it, despair. “You- So that's why…” He trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

I grinned at him, leaning forward, until our noses touched. “That's right, my lordling. Silly little Ram decided she'd rather throw herself and her husband into the void than watch her darling sister charm the world into submission,” I purred.

Tamaris managed a scoff. “You? Charm? A hairy octopus could be more charming,” he said. 

“I'm plenty charming,” I told him, affecting affront, “Why, if I carved someone's eyes out, they'd still smile at the sight of me! Besides, you were willing to marry me, you know. That took quite a bit of charming.”

He shook his head violently, as though waving the memories away. “You want me to serve as your… What? Slave? Bodyguard? Personal plaything? What do you want, Iraela?” Tamaris' face resumed its pout. 

He was rather cute like that, I thought idly. In another time, another world, perhaps I would have actually asked for his hand, rather than taking it straight off his wrist. “All three, perhaps,” I replied. “Or maybe not the bodyguard bit. You would make a terrible warrior, you know. Far too skinny and weak.”

“Give me a moment to think about it,” Tamaris said, a transparent ploy to bide for time. The man I loved would never bow to me, I thought wistfully. 

Ah, what did it matter? I had already won. I could indulge his fancies a tad. “Sure,” I murmured, sliding off his chest. “I give you until sundown, my dearest duke. Then you will be mine.”

I left him there, tied down and guarded by my revenants, and walked out to the window.

It was a dark and stormy night. 

Actually, that was wrong. A night that majestic deserved more than an old cliché. 

Dark clouds gathered across the sky like a pillow smothering a little child, rain like the gods' tears pelting the torn-up streets. It was pain. It was power.

It was a night to reign by.

I surveyed my new territory. Revenants and ghouls were busying up the courtyard, preparing it for my coronation. It was something out of a gothic teen's wet dream, all muted reds and blues, bruises on a lover's thigh.

A ghoul hobbled up to me, carrying a letter. “Lich-Queen,” he sqwaked, “The Spirit Empress responded. She wishes to come here, directly, and witness your coronation.”

My face lit up. “Well, tell her she's more than welcome to! The more, the merrier! And do make sure to procure some fresh meat for her, then. The rotting stuff just won't do for such prestigious company,” I told him. “Run off, Death-in-me, and be quick about it.”

Death-in-me made a vague approximation of a salute, and leaped off the roof to do my bidding. I watched him go, and began my slow glide to the main gate.

I had stolen some noblewoman's court dress, a stiff-necked thing with a high, webbed collar. It was resplendent with black pearls and purple embroidery. I had made sure to compliment her corpse on her wonderful taste after reanimating her.

My coronation would be a thing of legend. Already, the whole of Ceredell had fallen to me. My silly elder sister, prophetic oracle that she was, had thought to halt my rise to the throne by splintering Ceredell, fracturing the kingdom into little city-states, but it had done nothing but speed my progress up.

I paused at the stairs, wondering if she had known I would be the one to betray her. Had she known the whole time, whilst she held me to her bosom, smiled that gentle smile? Had she known that even her last-ditch attempt to save the country would fail so spectacularly? A grim thought struck me. Had her suicide been nothing but a smokescreen, to hide her true plan for stopping my reign?

I would not put it past her. Ram was smart, for all that she looked dreamy and lost in another world. I had not thought she would be the sort to falter on her final shot. There had to be something up her sleeve. 

I shook my head to clear the thoughts, and strode down the stairs. My Void-touched sister's ghost would not be allowed to haunt my coronation. It was going to be perfect, everything I had dreamed of as a lost girl running through the woods, as the young woman overshadowed by her soothsaying sister, as the budding necromancer who finally had the means to greatness.