#ensuring long-lasting elegance.

[tronform]

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[rafey-baby]

trinket

rafe thinks his maid is just the sweetest little thing...  

prince!rafe x maid!reader 

c/w: rafe being a menace, him flirting (?) w her, some royal cameron family angst ig, brief descriptions of him having sex w another woman, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k

also this is by no means historically accurate which is why i’m not gonna name any specific era for this xx

moodboard & introduction

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Every mid-December, the palace comes alive in an entirely novel way with the bustling preparations for the annual winter ball that the king and queen host to celebrate ‘another wonderful year’.

The once quiet and calm castle transforms into something colorful and vivid with the mouthwatering smell of cakes and pastries cooking in the ovens of the royal kitchen, along with maids and other servants whirling around the long hallways as they place intricate decorations and shiny ribbons all over the broad staircases and windows. 

She’s grateful she doesn’t have to partake in the hustle and bustle all that much since her primary duties include taking care of the prince and ensuring he has everything and anything he could possibly need.  

Although right now, she sort of wishes she could be stringing up polished ornaments or garnishing elegant baked goods because apparently, being the prince’s personal maid sometimes means sitting quietly in his bedchambers (as per his request to keep him company while he’s reading) with her own thoughts and the sounds outside the door her only source of entertainment.  

Therefore, she’s elated when he suddenly turns to face her in his armchair— flitting his eyes over to her from the hefty book that seems to have made him exasperated rather than enthralled.  

“Will you join me for a walk? All this noise is makin’ m’head hurt.”

There’s enthusiasm in the nod of her head; a yearning to see the fresh layer of snow covering the trees and painting the entire kingdom with its powdery whiteness— the aftermath of last night’s blizzard. She doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the crystalline snowfall glittering under the touch of the afternoon sun— or maybe a certain pair of aquamarine eyes, but that’s beside the point.  

“That would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” she easily agrees. 

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I despise that name? There’s no need to use it when s’just me,” he scolds her before he’s straightening up and stretching out his arms over his head. 

“My apologies, it’s a habit,” she rises to her feet as well; trying her hardest not to let her eyes linger on the sliver of his stomach peeking out from underneath the silky fabric of his shirt. 

“I don’t want your apologies, want you to use my name,” he says before stepping closer— standing tall before her and forcing her to blink up at him in order to meet his eyes. “Go on, sweetheart, say it,” he practically orders; eager eyes fixed on her face.  

She hesitates under the sudden attention. He’s always seemed so fascinated by her and she doesn’t know why.  

“Um…Rafe.”  

He lets out a hum of approval. “That’s good. You ready to leave?” 

“Y— yes, uh, Rafe.”  

“Good job. Not so difficult, is it?” he coos at her almost mockingly— fingertips grazing the skin of her cheek when he tucks a loose tendril of hair back behind her ear. 

She merely shakes her head— a warmth dusting over the apples of her cheeks when his touch lingers on the side of her face afterwards. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to drown in the lagoons of his eyes, but then he clears his throat and offers the palm of his hand for her to take.  

And it’s rather unusual for someone of his status to do; a prince who’s bound to wear the crown one day holding his maid’s hand isn’t exactly something that’s written in any book regarding the royal etiquette. However, he’s never been one to allow for dreadful rules and traditions to dictate his behavior, especially not towards her.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

“Are you looking forward to the winter ball?” she asks when they stop by the stables to check up on his horse, Jupiter.  

“You know I hate dancin’,” he mutters out as he watches its teeth grind on the carrot he brought with him.  

She smiles because she does know, before letting out a wistful sigh. “I wish I could attend.”

“You do? Why?” he’s perplexed by her enthusiasm towards something he considers as more tedious than anything— having to plaster on a smile for an entire night and socialize with people he doesn’t necessarily care for in order to humor his father never being something he’s particularly taken delight in.  

Especially when Sarah is going to be the one receiving all of their father’s attention anyway. Not that he cares (he does) but he would appreciate it, if for once in his life, his old man would show him even an ounce of the care he seems to so easily shower his sisters in.  

“Well, I’d love to wear a ball gown, but mostly for the food,” her feather-light voice brings him back to the moment.  

“I’ll make sure to bring you a plate ‘n you can eat it in my room then, yeah?” he promises as he runs his fingers through Jupiter’s black main.  

“You would do that?”  

“If you promise not to tell the other maids or they’re gonna accuse you of gettin’ special treatment,” his tone is playful. 

“They already do that,” she points out. “They think we spend too much time together.” 

“And what do you think?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t mind. I quite enjoy your company,” she answers truthfully. After all, she has grown quite fond of Rafe throughout the years. Sometimes she just wishes he wasn’t so overwhelming, in every sense of the word. 

“Yeah?” a smirk pulls at the side of his mouth, seemingly pleased with her answer. 

She’s certain he’s well aware of the effect he has on her— the effect he has on everyone. And she thinks that he enjoys it; relishes in toying with her for his own amusement simply because he can. He can practically do anything he wants since his father is oftentimes gone for long periods of time; fulfilling his duties for the kingdom and whatnot.  

And she knows Rafe doesn’t particularly mind the fact that his father is rarely home because he’s always been hard on him, much harder than on his sisters because whether he likes it or not, he’s set off to be the new king one day. And his reputation of having female guests over more often than not whenever his father is away doesn’t necessarily help with gaining his approval.

After all, rumor travels fast around the palace.  

Rafe once admitted to her that he often felt like a disappointment, and that the pressure of everyone’s expectations sometimes made him wish he was nothing more than a stableman. After all, he does get along with horses better than he ever has with his family— it’s not exactly a secret amongst the royal court.  

“Would you wanna go for a ride with me? Think Jupiter’s gettin’ bored,” he suddenly asks.  

“Oh, I would love to but I’ve never, um, ridden a horse before,” she timidly admits. 

“No? You wanna know how it feels? You could jus’ sit behind me, don’t need to do anythin’, yeah?” he coaxes her to say yes with a seemingly sincere smile; already walking Jupiter out of its stable and leaving her no choice but to follow them outside.   

“Really?” the frosty air causes a shiver to crawl up her spine when she eyes him, hesitant.  

“Mhm. Promise nothing’s gonna happen, I’ll take care of you. ‘N I know you’ll like it, s’very freeing,” he assures her as he’s already saddling up the horse, seemingly aware that she could never refuse him of anything.  

“Okay...if you insist,” she tentatively agrees with a nod that he rewards with a beaming grin; the icy snowflakes sticking to his hair making him look like something straight out of a fairy tale.  

Then, he’s lifting her up to straddle the entirely too big of an animal that sort of still scares her— strong hands gripping onto her hips and leaving her momentarily starstruck at how effortlessly he does it; as if she weighs nothing more than the carrot Jupiter was just chewing on.  

He follows soon after, settling down in front of her with ease before looking at her over his shoulder. “Need you to hold onto me unless you wanna fall,” he instructs, seemingly reveling in the fact that he gets to be the one teaching her something new.  

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, gingerly setting her hands on his waist, movements uncertain.  

“Gonna need you to hold on tighter, promise I won’t bite,” he huffs out a laugh before he’s grabbing her arms and wrapping them around his middle more firmly— forcing her to fully lean against his back when the sudden clip-clopping of Jupiter’s hooves against the snow-covered cobblestone causes her to let out a surprised shriek.   

“Good?” he asks, seemingly amused at the way she’s practically clutching onto him as the cottony snow prances around them. 

She manages out a hum, wondering if he can hear her poor heart loudly thumping in her ribcage when he decides to pick up the speed some more, as if she wasn’t already terrified.  

“Rafe! Can you slow down?” she squeaks out when Jupiter seems to only accelerate further underneath them.  

“Where’s the fun in that?” he lets out a hearty chuckle in response, apparently finding amusement in her utterly frightened state while she wonders why she let herself think for even one second that he had pure intentions.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Y/N? Will you go look for my son? I fear he’s once again escaped his responsibilities to God knows where,” the king requests with an exasperated sigh while she’s crouching down and helping a servant clean up the sharp pieces of a shattered wine glass— the sound of laughter and dancing flourishing around them. 

And she could swear she saw Rafe conversing with a guest only a few short moments ago. However, as she looks around in an attempt to locate the missing prince, he’s nowhere to be found.  

“Right away, Your Majesty,” she’s quick to answer with a polite smile.  

“Thank you,” he nods gratefully, seemingly fed up with his son already.  

She ensures that the poor girl who accidentally cut her finger on the broken shards is not going to faint before tiptoeing up the broad flight of stairs in order to reach the higher levels of the palace— the loud music and blooming celebrations echoing around the halls. 

“Your Highness? Are you in there?” she knocks softly on the mahogany door leading to his bedroom.  

However, she isn’t granted a response. 

“Rafe?” she tries once more before pressing her ear against the wood separating her from the muffled sounds she can now hear from the other side— brows furrowing when something akin to a whimper reaches her ears.

It sounds nothing like Rafe; it has a higher pitch, something more feminine than his usual drawl. And as she stands there, contemplating whether something is wrong or if she should just leave, the volume only amplifies.

And in a moment of cloudy judgement, she finds herself pushing down on the handle.

However, she curses her curiosity the moment the door cracks open and she’s faced with the view of some woman’s naked back. Her long, beautiful hair reminds her of lady Lydia (a daughter of one of the dukes invited to the ball) with none other than the prince himself underneath her sweaty form.  

The sheets that she changed this morning are crumpled and creased around them and without the barrier of the door, she can now hear Rafe’s low grunts as well— can see how his big hands guide her movements. And they’re both panting heavily, seemingly lost in some haze— maybe the same one that forces her to stay rooted to her spot in the doorway.  

With her eyes as wide as saucers and mouth parted, she’s not entirely sure how long she stands there for. Until out of the blue, she notices Rafe’s eyes flickering over to her— a smirk tugging at his mouth when he catches her staring. 

She tries to move her legs but they won’t listen; making his lazy grin only grow in tandem with his strained groans that seem to only increase in volume as he locks his eyes with her.  

And she can’t breathe; the air clogging her lungs instead of flowing through as her dazed mind tries to get her to do something, anything to get her to leave the room but his heady gaze seems to have hypnotized her— compelled her to stay right where she is.  

All at once, a gravelly noise rumbles from his chest— his head dropping against the cushion of his fluffy pillows, seemingly reaching some sort of a peak in his search for pleasure as the woman above him begins to slow down her movements. And that’s when she’s finally able to step away; shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the stairs with bated breaths and heart pounding in her ears.

When she reaches the bottom, she accidentally stumbles into someone holding a golden serving tray— causing it to topple over to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes before her wobbly legs are scrambling off in an attempt to locate the nearest escape route to the garden.  

And once she’s managed to make it outdoors, she feels like she can finally breathe— the crisp December wind granting her heated skin an opportunity to cool down as she sits down on one of the wooden benches with a sigh.

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore (Here) | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: Putting all my brain rot from my notes into something cohesive. Contrary to my love for ripping your hearts out, I've come with some fluff this time around. BTW you may or may not already do things mentioned - I write my works with a specific Yuu in mind for each character so this is based on them. Just a reminder.

Habits you steal:

Posture (Inherited): You know that scene in every princess movie, where they're in training with books balanced atop their head? Walking in circles over and over to maintain perfect posture? Yeah. Just yeah. It's one of his more annoying habits, for sure.

"Any further and you will kiss the table. Right yourself this instant." <-If you so much as slouch like the gremlin he truly does love - he will straighten you himself.

Social Freedom (Inherited): You are....a wonderfully weird character. Even by Twisted Wonderland's standards. Vil loves bringing out the intricacies in people and blossoming them into perfection. His confidence oozes and bleeds. Which is why being near him makes doing the most spontaneous and crazy things easy. Especially when there's such fondness behind his 'scolding'. You won't be camera shy or just shy in general, that's for certain.

"I never thought fleeting liberty could be portrayed as elegant. Alas, I am still yet to be convinced otherwise - but it is a wonderful look on you. That was a compliment, my dear." <- Others look at Vil as someone without the ability to let loose. They're correct to an extent, yet it does come easier with you. The last person he expected such a thing from.

Healthy Eating (Inherited): Vil follows a strict dietary regimen - he won't subject you to it's itinerary to a T. However, he is going to give the snide eye if you don't get a side salad with that pizza. He'll often order on your behalf at eateries or when the team is taking meal orders on set. Never in an oppressive way, it's always things you like, but he is stubborn when it comes to nutritional gain. There lingers a deep rooted discomfort that you'll one day feel neglected in his absence. Even if Vil isn't home, expect those ready-made meal packages to be sent to the door. Vil is nothing if not attentive - that much is for certain.

Pagers and Beepers (Inherited): A bit old-school, but he carries one. Vil can't always drop everything to check on his phone. He also puts the addictive device away two hours before bed to ensure better sleep - what he does keep on at all times is a functioning pager. This is Vil's preferred communication device and he expects you to have it on your person at all times. Never miss a beep. Especially if he is out for long periods of time, or you're in a state he's fussing over (gods do NOT get sick. He will be an absolute mess).

*Bzz* 'Home Late. 10:00.' *Bzz* 'Come to studio. Wear Mask & Bring Downtime Material' *Bzz* 'Still Sick? Have You Eaten Yet?' *Bzz Bzz Bzz* 'Love you. Miss you.'

Skincare (Inherited): Vil's very pushy when it comes to personal care - Epel can 100% attest to this, and takes every chance to voice his grievances (when Vil is not near, of course. Somehow word always gets back though). While he runs a tight ship, he's very sweet and takes your preferences into consideration when making products.

"Come here. Ah...your cheeks are reddened. Sunburn is a very dangerous opponent this time of year. Tsk. I fault myself for not thinking ahead. You might survive the occasional visit in Scarabia, but the Shaftlands climate is unpredictable." <- Vil will gently graze your cheekbones, already thinking over what potency of sun cream he needs to make. Everyone is different, after all. He already makes your perfume, shampoo, lotions, and cosmetics all from scratch - although he does have a preference for when you wear notes of citrus. Bright scents and soft looks suit your character (and are reflective of the effect you have on him). Beauty is an art, and you are his most precious canvas.

Wet-Wipes (developed): Yes, he owns smudge-proof lipstick. Yes, he could choose to wear said lipstick...Vil does not, and thoroughly enjoys seeing whatever shade he picked out smeared on your cheeks or lips. It's a rare bit of selfishness to waste time re-applying it, but he gets a bit of pleasure watching you scrub frantically at it in the mirror. Especially on days you have somewhere to be.

"Ahaha...oh? That look on your face is worth a bit of extra effort. I cannot expect to be rewarded without putting in the work, after all." <- It's a rare bit of unnecessary selfishness on his end. To waste his carefully crafted products, just to watch you scrub his mark off in the mirror. Not too frantic otherwise it'll earn a scolding...but he gets a brief twisted pleasure from it. Especially on days you have somewhere to be.

Apologies(Developed): You...always have to initiate apologies. He's nothing sour or stubborn. Vil can admit his faults when exposed to constructive criticism, and he will work on them. Do not expect things like silent treatment to work, because he will not give in. He is stubbornly attentive, making sure your pettiness won't bleed into life. Makes sure you still share meals together, etc. He will NOT apologize first though.

Habits he steals:

Junk Food (Inherited): Just like he tries to heal your body, you'll try to heal his heart through soul food. It's a part of bonding, and contractual between partners. Is he really going to sit there empty handed while you gorge on candy hearts after a bad day? He better have at least one, or you won't tell him what's wrong. What about peanut butter and potato chip sandwiches?

"You truly are one stubborn creature. Is your stomach made of impenetrable steel?... *sigh* I will taste this concoction of yours, but never claim that I do not love you. If I break out in a rash then you will have far worse to fear beyond my potions" <- He'll be disgusted, but you insist he has to have at least one bite. Just for the cultural experience. If you drink his convoluted potions, then he needs to try your culinary concoctions. Secretly? It's a bit thrilling. You're so wonderfully novel that he can act out any role without thinking the character weird. He's got the biggest weirdo at home after all.

Paparazzi (Developed): Vil will take the blunt end of the media to keep you hidden. He has a private account for people close to him on all sites, and knows what tricks to use so images can't be reused. Like always wearing the same outfit when accompanying you to the gym. This way pictures can't be reused. As much as he encourages you to blossom from your shell, he's a cautious fellow. Not unfamiliar with how obsessive some fans can be. When you're alone, there's always a body guard. Yet unwilling to make you nervous, he arranges for a more...secretive approach.

" - and how was your outing today? Rook is exceedingly knowledgeable on the tourism in this town. I'm sorry we could not go shopping together, but you bought me a gift surely?...hah! I'm merely teasing. It's good to hear that you both had a fun time exploring" <- It's honestly just Rook. Always Rook until the end of time. He's the only one Vil would trust to either politely follow, or simply hang out with you. You're familiar with him, Vil knows there are no ulterior motives, and he's got a sharper eye than most.

Cuddling (Developed): It's scientifically proven that cuddling improves the quality of one's sleep, did ya know? Get in the bed. Now. Don't you want his affection? Hmph.

"Now, I know fully well that you have no intention to spend the night on the couch. I suggest you join me in the next five minutes, or I will take matters into my own hands."

Video Games (Inherited): Vil isn’t a stranger to them. Enjoys them from time to time but never too much because he’s so busy - but you introduced him to Dress to Impress and now he’s addicted. Not just that but he absolutely loves a good rpg. He does like to play with you - like in a co-op platformer, cozy game, or service - when able because it’s bonding time. Vil gets so invested in story lore and actively starts seeking roles in Live Action Adaptation films. Vil as Astarion when???

Thrifting (Inherited): There’s something magical about not knowing what you’re going to get. At first he was against it. You don't have to do that anymore, y'know. He can buy you new clothes if you need them. That is - until you take him through an upcycling market. Vil is used to his designer brands and high fashion - but when you’re able to see potential in something? Make it sparkle? He’s just a big slut for creativity, and I think he would love upcycling.

"My radiance touches all fronts - including my darling. How bold of you to insinuate anything but - No. How daring of you to suggest that adhering to anyone else's standards is worth my time." == Vil is happy to discuss your relationship if the topic is breeched politely during an interview. He isn't shy, neither does he approach anything with less than his best. That includes romance...but oh, hell hath no fury than a smitten Shoenheit scorned by an uncouth reporter. He can sense their attempts to doctor an interview for petty gossip a mile away. He is PROUD that you are learning from him, and views the changes you've brought to his life as improvements. Not lovelorn imperfections.

Habits You Steal

Locks (Developed): Rook is? Oh...okay, so your love's a bit of a prankster - or perhaps a thrill-seeker is more like it? He doesn't let life get too boring, that's for certain. Rook knows Ramshackle through and through. It's not uncommon to look out the window and see his feathered hat zip by in the woods, or through the garden. He does love playing his own version of 'where's waldo' - flickering about to and fro, weaving between the garden trellis and ducking behind trees. Just waiting for his amour to spot him from afar. He knows the layout too intimately - you fear. His habit of breaking and entering instills an anxiety over how unsecure Ramshackle truly is.

“BOO! Aha - desolé, mon coeur - I didn’t mean to startle you so. Consider this a lesson in spacial awareness! Mon dieu, there is a blatant gap in your dorm’s fencing just near the east! Wild beasts can break through and have you for supper. My poor heart will be shattered!” <- So yeah. He's all to happy to set up padlocks on the weak point windows, your fence, etc. He even encourages you to set up some traps yourself. It'll make those 'where's waldo' games more fun for him with new obstacles hehe.

The Nearest Exit (Inherited): Huntsman through and through - he's trained you well. You always sit by the nearest exit in class, closest to the door wherever you are.

Research (Inherited): While Rook is très passionné about fine arts, he's also fascinated with the unknowns in this world. What better club for the truly curious, than the science club? He adores bringing you in to join experiments, always questioning your perspective and letting you take the lead (when safe). It makes a routine procedure all the more interesting, watching what is familiar to him become novel through your eyes. It's like planting a rare seed for the first time, not knowing what will bloom. Akin to venturing within the barred sections of NRC's greenhouse, a thrilling adventure in the pursuit of knowledge. Alchemy becomes your best subject, you can recite the periodic table without need for mnemonics, and you breech the top five in your academic year. Crewel is thoroughly impressed. Good pup.

“Hm? Ah, how curious…there are 123 elements for study in this world, my dear assistant. Would you like to learn the song we teach young mages to memorize them? I will happily serenade you as we work. <- Yup. Twisted Wonderland has more elements than we do, since they’ve got magic resources. Sadly singing the Periodic Table Song won’t be useful. Well, it’s mostly useful still? Trey will actually kill you for teaching it to Rook though. Their mnemonic is much less fast paced and…less annoying. Yeah.

Fleurien (Inherited) : Is this truly shock to anyone? It's french in our world - so props if you already speak the language. Rook isn't fluent but he'd love to learn more. So ... either you use it more with him, or pick up a phrase or two here and there. It's scary as shit - by the way. Now Epel's got not one head popping up screeching "BONJOUR" but two. Don't get comfy because he's small - Rook might be quick enough to dodge a punch but you're one to many outbursts away from a broken nose.

Talking To Yourself (Developed) : Alright. Ace is officially convinced you're off your rocker and need to go visit the nurse. There's no way you know when Rook's skulking about - and if you did, why the heck are you talking to thin air? Just tell him to come out?...yeah, it's not uncommon to have a conversation with your 'boyfriend' when said man isn't visible to the naked eye. There are rumors you finally snapped, just so y'know. Rook physically had to go clear it up with Kalim before the sunshine child sent you on an all-paid tropical vacation to destress (Dammit Rook we were so close -)

“Mon cherie! You look positively radiant in the afternoon light! - ah. The answer is 27, adieu!” <- Call out any question on your Maths or Science homework to the barren sky, and an answer will sound from proximity unknown. The gods have answered your academic dilemma in the form of fleurian embellishments. No. Grim. You can’t just ask every problem - okay you might want to only do this when alone.

Compliments (Developed// Inherited) : Rook is a sweetheart. Maybe a bit of an acquired taste - but he always has something wonderful to say about everyone. No matter their faults...it's almost instinctual, the way you flip from boxed caution to returning his zeal with a genuine compliment. Each and every one. His reaction remains unique as well, he never grows accustomed to it. People groan at the 'shameless flirting' - only to blanch when Rook compliments them in turn, and you are so quick to back him up.

“Oh…mon amour, you never cease to surprise me.” <- Spoken with the most tender affection. Tips his hat to cover his blushing cheeks.

Habits he steals:

Surprises (Inherited): Rook often leaves little gifts and surprises for you to find - in a way he's testing himself, gauging your reactions and getting a spin of glee when you show him a new expression. A bouquet of fresh flowers (their meanings spelling a love letter), sweets from a far corner in the Shaftlands, poems hidden throughout your home in places he predicts you'll check, polaroids of sites across the Isle (urging you to find where for a surprise) etc. This actually started with you - knowing his love for the unknown, you wooed his heart by making little games for him. Not so much snooping into his affairs, but it was fun being under someone else's watchful eye. A bit clumsy but charming to have someone wanting to get the jump on him. Could he be considered prey, if he wanted to be caught?

Decor (Developed) : We've...we've all seen his bedroom, right? Now it isn't going to be the extent of Neige of Vil. Be this a concern or comfort to you? - it's subjective. He will preserve every little thing in regards to your relationship. That middle space above his bed? Cut a square right down the room's center, taking equal parts away from the Neige and Vil spitdown. Add some shelving, a few boxes under his bed and new linens...yup. Polaroids, mementos, paintings, love letters, mayhaps not a plush but if you consent to him having a tiny crochet doll or tsum of you then he will be thrilled. It's all there, right at the center of his organized chaos. He doesn't harbor the same feelings towards you as he does his idols, but that doesn't mean you're any less important.

Organization (Inherited): On that note, since Vil's your friend and the space can be a bit much? Rook will politely tone it down when you're over - flipping the posters and dolls if he's expecting a visit. It is wonderful that you accept his bonified fanboy behavior, but he concedes this much for your comfort.

“Ah…my limited edition Appleblossom-Vil sheets. I understand your discomfort my love, so I have graciously turned them into the perfect couch-cushion cover! Come and see how magnifique they match the drapes!” <-Again…compromise. You can’t even be put off with that level of creativity and excitement.

Freckles and Gloves (Developed): Stop. Covering. Your. Damn. Freckles !!!! This isn't about the hair. Believe it or not, his hair is cute and anyone who says otherwise can stfu because he likes it. If it's what he likes then it's what he likes. The freckles? You're slapping that damn bottle of concealer out of his hands. He'll wake up early to try and reapply it before you wake up. Nope. Nada. He cannot go preaching about the beauty of imperfections while still covering up what triggers the most extreme cute aggression known to man. You compliment every nick on his hands and forearms and wherever else, praise all the little freckles on his nose and cheeks until this man physically is sent to the moon and back from your passion.

“Aha! I am being assaulted by a ticklish foe! If my face is enough to elicit such sweetness from you, then I will certainly die the happiest man in this lifetime” <- He's never seen you so passionate about anything. it's enough to overwhelm him, in all honesty. Stops wearing the concealer most casual days, but won't concede his gloves. Might wear it on occasion to see if you notice (and get a bit of that fire in your eyes to come back).

Scrap Booking (Developed): Rook documents everything, why not keep a scrap book? You suggest the idea to him as a way to immortalize his findings without always needing some kind of trophy. Now he has a scrap book dedicated to literally everyone. Vil and Neige might have multiple…and at some point you have to wonder when it breeches scrap book criteria and just becomes a full detailing of his observations. It depends on how you feel about candid photos.

Newspaper Club (Inherited) : Oh yeah. Rook becomes an honorary member of the Newspaper club. He finds great thrill in trying to get those candid shots without being spotted by his targets <3. If he can help out his amour on his little escapades, then say no more. He's honored to be the only one allowed to use your ghost camera.

“Oh just look at that sunrise! It is the true embodiment of what our students stand for! To press through the darkness through tireless hours of study and labor - all to emerge in new dawn as promising mages! I must get the perfect shot for my darling’s club…non. A ground view will not do - to the skies!” <- He proceeds to break six rules, pilfer a broom from the Spelldrive team, get the photo and return to class without any evidence

-

“Oh mon dieu - how my heart soars! To be loved is to be seen, no? Ah, I could as for no greater compliment. Merci Beaucoup, mon amie!” == Others might make the comparison with scorn. Most find Rook’s mannerisms to be peculiar, some find him distasteful. He is merely an appreciator of beauty, and you are one of the most marvelous creatures he has ever set eyes on. In body and mind. It is an honor to be mimicked. To be loved is to be changed. If anyone holds a true appreciation for sharing habits, it is Rook Hunt. He detests others prying into his personal affairs…and yet, he finds himself willingly giving hints to you. Oho?

Habits you steal:

Dialect and Slang (Inherited) : The most obvious. You don’t spend hours upon hours with someone and not walk away without some of their lingo. Do you REALLY think he has the energy to maintain that primmed facade all the time? The moment it’s closed doors Epel lets loose like no one else on campus. The personality flip is insane. It’s like when you spend time in a foreign country and pick up a bit of their accent - but that southern drawl.

"I don' sound like that! Wait..." <- Slams his palm over Deuce's mouth when he and Ace were mimicking you who 'apparently' started to sound like a bumpkin. Doesn't help that Epel calls you a 'pumpkin' either....oh yeah, the teasing is relentless.

Survival (Inherited): Epel could get you off a stranded island with just a coconut, three sticks, and a rock. Not even exaggerating, he’s just that resourceful. Navigating through woodlands through any kind of weather, making deliveries across towns and encountering any spectacle the mind can trudge up? Yeah. Teaches a guy somethin’. He makes sure you don’t walk off the farm without a survival pack and even shows you how to tell time using the sky. If only he realized how attractive this sort of thing is.

Apples (Developed) : I sincerely hope you have a taste for apples and everything apple related. Epel will be carving away, picking the dud chunks with toothpicks and handing them off without a second thought. Who eats them? You. Also his family sends a care package at least once a month. Cider, pie, tarts, hell they somehow got apples in kugel? The others in your little possé help polish it off, but Epel’s family is so stoked that he has a partner. That Harveston event was a doozy, let me tell ya. A village full of elderly folks asking after you means you will never go hungry. Well…so long as you can survive on apples.

"You know...you kind of remind me of a McIntosh apple. Pretty sweet but also nice an' refreshing...a-ah? That was romantic? I was just thinking out loud but if you say so..."

Cold Tolerance (Developed) : Speaking of Harveston, did you know you got thirty-minutes? Oh yes, thirty minutes to run my friend. Just kidding. Don’t run. Not unless you want to see a sled coming at you in the distance at breakneck speed. Now that his family has a face to match their Epel’s sweetheart, you will always be expected to join him on trips home. They want pictures, updates, your measurements for new clothes and he better be sending notice so the guest room is made up. Epel will be sent right back to NRC if he ever comes back without you in tow. Congrats, you’ve been adopted. It’s chilly there but you get some hand-knitted mittens out of it. Epel is mortified but also so thankful he has someone to buffer the welcome-wagon with.

"Hey uhh...do you mind if we take a picture together? It's just for my mom's scrapbook. She's been asking for one 'a us together and I don' want to disappoint her....h-huh? What'ddya mean you already sent some?! When?!" <- You're writing to his family. Alright. He's totally not running through every embarrassing story his Meemaw or parents have in their arsenal...ah crap.

Cowboy Hat Rule (Developed) : One-hundred percent true across dimensions. You are NOT allowed to wear anyone else’s hat, ya got that? No one. Especially not no-one from the shaft-lands or the Savannah. Rook once offered you his brimmed-hat on a rainy day and Epel completely lost his mask for a moment. He quite literally yanked his jacket off and smothered your head with it, meeting Rook’s amused mirth with narrowed eyes. He didn’t care if Vil scolded him. That Hunt knew exactly what he was doing, ain’t Epel’s fault. Not this time, no way.

"A-a little water won't kill anyone! Let's just run for it!" <- Shoots a poorly-controlled glare as you both book-it to the nearest shelter. Rook's laughter was as boisterous as ever, always happy to push Epel's buttons.

Cat-Calls (Developed) : Assholes love to hit on Epel. The amount of times other students mistake him for a girl - man. Poor guy. It really peeves him off when it happens in front of you too. We’re talking veins popping out of his neck and red enough to rival Riddle on his worst days. What makes it worse is that you defend him. Ain’t it supposed to be the other way ‘round? On one hand he’s smug because you’re parading him like a prized trophy - hah! Look at that, ain’t he a catch? The high dies down a bit when the pursuer leaves. Then he gets sulky.

Heating Pack (Inherited) : Dear god farmlife is kicking your ass. Epel cackles and jokes at your suffering, but hauling those crates is no joke. Thank god he knows a remedy and lends you his heating pack every night. Some icy-hot on the joints, a foot bath for the ankles, and he might rub your shoulders if you ask nicely. He won’t admit to using the remedies himself, claiming they’re for his parents. He just wants to seem tough but you know better. Seven have mercy on your aching knees…there’s got to be a way to worm out of this.

There isn’t. You don’t work, you don’t eat. Haul ass dimension traveler.

"Howdy pumpkin, how're you holding up? Jeez, I warned you about lifting with your legs...nah, forget about it. Vil must be rubbing off on me with his scolding. Here's some hot chocolate to tide ya over until supper. Meemaw's got some herbal remedies lying around, want to give them a try?"

Habits he steals:

Thievery (Inherited): Goes in-hand with the care packages he's getting from home. Those are suppose to be FOR HIM, but you're sneaking all the good bits and leaving him with the barrels of apples. Get your own mail man...just kidding(-ish). He honestly is so glad to have some of the heat taken off his shoulders. Plus, you writing them means he gets a bit more freedom...but seriously. He has to keep stealing back the stuff you've pilfered. Sure he's getting an allowance, but c'mon. Half the stuff that gets sent are things from his room that he already owns, like clothes and his whittle knives...it was cool showing off his best stuff, until his parents sent over his baby album without saying nothing. He had to pry that out of your mitts and bury it under lock-and-key in his room.

"Son of a- Hey! The heck did I tell ya about stealin' my socks?! I know yous ain't that desperate! Go an' get et yer own already dammit!" <- Doesn't matter if he sends a letter back to his Meemaw, asking her to send some extra pairs of those fluffy slipper-socks. Maybe some stationary and a couple jars of jam that Grim'll just run through in a day. You're always fighting over stuff.

Delinquency (Inherited): You are literally Vil's worst enemy - undoing everything he's sought to instill. When Epel is with you, he reverts back to his most basic form. Aka. hunched over his carvings like a gremlin crescent, doing contortionist moves through the halls, sneaking cup-ramen at 2am just 'cause he's bored (Rook plays Hide 'n' Seek those nights, chasing ya through Pomefiore until you're back in Epel's room. Wanna eat? Gotta work for it) , and really the most unmannered bullshit possible. Spell Drive was his go-to outlet where he could get muddy and talk hot shit. Still is - what? You think the Savanaclaw students (70% of the team) are going to sit there and paint their nails? Nah, he's been initiated and all that. Had to show his muscle...but this is different. Vil's considered banning you from the dorm during important times like exams, parties, assemblies, etc. just to get some grounding. Doesn't work, since Epel will just sneak out. Riddle isn't the only one with crafty first-years looking to couch surf.

Malipulation (Inherited): Epel learns how you've managed to last this long in Twisted Wonderland with nothing but that pretty little brain under your belt. People are so quick to expect nothing from the Ramshackle prefect...and instead of proving them wrong, or getting heated? You let them think that way, because bad press was good press at NRC. Let them think you were a conniving, brown nosed kiss-ass who was getting it in with the dorm leaders. Let them think you were a walking sack of bad karma. Let them think whatever else - because those stereotypes are what's keeping you afloat.

"Ah - pardon me...I'll take that challenge on their behalf, if it's all right with you? Don't hold back on me now!.....ya pea-brained fucknugget." <- Epel twists this in his own way- aka. he starts using his pretty looks to his advantage. Let people think he's a weakling, so that when the time comes to prove himself he'll make a 180 change and give a big ol' can of whoopass. Your 'normie-ness' as Idia puts it, is your biggest weapon. Same for Epel's disarming visage.

Cologne (Developed): In an effort to be seen as more 'manly' in your eyes, Epel went down to the Isle shopping district and bought the most putrid smelling drugstore musk you can imagine. One whiff near-singed your nostril hairs off from how much he packed on...Vil did not approve, and gifted him a higher quality scent with notes of peppercorn and jasmine. You personally went and thanked Vil in secret - unable to tell Epel just how bad he smelled since he did it trying to impress you.

Lint Roller (Developed): Vil runs a tight ship - Epel's needs to get Grim's fur off of his uniform for every inspection or else he'll get his head chewed off. Especially if his dorm uniform gets dirtied.

Confidence (Developed): Stops masking his accent when with friends. Never had anyone cheering for him before. Like, really cheering for him. So you coming to his Spelldrive games is such a boost. Wears Ramshackle colors (bandanna and waist-flags) on his club uniform - Vil not mad bc Rook wouldn’t shut up about it being in the name of love -

"Woooo! Score! Blue must be my lucky color! Hahaha!" <- Epel always looks for you in the crowd. Luck isn't nothin' to do with it, but if wearing blue and white gets him playing better? The team isn't complaining.

Protective (Developed): Part insecurity, part him being a bit old-fashioned, part being sick of stereotypes against the underdog (aka. ya both), and part pure country-boy lovin'. He's not a raised gentleman like Riddle, doesn't know the ins and outs of 'romance' like Rook, honestly bro is fumbling half the time...but ain't no one seen Epel flair up like he does in your defense. No one can talk him down. On the protectiveness scale he would get 15/10, because there ain't many friends to make back at Harveston. Surely not anyone to love. He's got some good examples for how to treat a life-partner, and knows 13 different moves to dislocate different joints across the human body.

"Sure ya want ta go there, huh? Huh? Say that again to mah face. I'll put ya nose to the dirt so fast that filthy mouth'll o' yers will taste nothin' but soil fer weeks!" <- He'll do it too. His Meemaw trained him for more than just the Sledathon...nah, years of hauling crates built muscle. Back when he was still a first-year on the Spelldrive team, he'd get shit from his teammates while they 'tested' him. The worst mistake they made was coming for you though, even if it was a bit. Epel was full on ready to clobber a Cheetah-beastman twice his size, and if Jack hadn't stepped in...he probably would've, no mercy.

-

“That’s….that’s somethin’ else, ain’t it? Heh. Heheheh,” == Epel had to excuse himself to go giggle on his lonesome. Can’t have anyone see how happy that small comment just made him. You really love him that much? You respect him that much? He can’t begin to put two and two together - his heart was pounding like some lovesick ninny…oh. Oh hells. He is a lovesick ninny. Needless to say that Epel is absolutely riding a high for the rest of the day.

[fangdokja]

"You didn’t just break my heart; you shattered it. And now I’ll make you pay for it."

❤︎ Synopsis. When you pushed them too far, you didn’t just break their heart—you unleashed a darkness that will haunt you forever.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Genshin Impact Males (Alhaitham, Diluc, Zhongli, Dainsleif, Ayato, Childe, Scaramouche, Kaeya, Baizhu, Itto, Kazuha, Lyney, Pantalone, Heizou, Venti, Xiao) x Fem. Reader (separate)

♡ Headcanons. Heart's Sins - Part 2.9

♡ Word Count. 1,539

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, general manipulation, forced relationship

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

♡ Alhaitham.

"Logic dictates I should let you go. And, you once asked if I could live without you. The truth is, I’ve already calculated the answer. But I also know that the only number that matters now is the one I will sacrifice to ensure you stay in my grasp. Your defiance only makes me more certain. You will not leave me. Not while I still breathe."

His voice is cold, but the undercurrent is suffocating—a sharp intellect twisted by obsession. The air around him is heavy with oppressive silence, a scholar’s sanctuary transformed into a prison of precision.

♡ Diluc Ragnvindr.

"I swore to shield Mondstadt from all darkness, yet I never foresaw the abyss you would leave in me. If the light I fought for cannot keep you by my side, then let it burn. Is it selfish? Perhaps. But justice, like love, is cruel and blind—and I will see it served. If I must become the very shadow I despise to protect you, so be it—I'll sink into the flames gladly."

His gloved hands tremble, not from weakness, but from restraint. The soft flicker of a candle becomes a roaring blaze in his crimson gaze, a quiet promise of destruction should you defy him.

♡ Zhongli (Rex Lapis / Morax).

"I have seen empires crumble and gods fall, yet your insolence surpasses even the passage of aeons. Contracts are sacred, but you... you shattered ours, like brittle jade. How pitiful that even gods can be betrayed. What worth does eternity hold if you would spit upon it? Tell me, mortal, will your cries echo longer than your sins?"

He looms over you like a monument to vengeance, golden eyes glinting like cracked amber as the tectonic weight of his fury bears down, heavy enough to crush.

♡ Dainsleif.

"I am the last remnant of a broken kingdom, and yet you have chosen to break me further... I have endured the decay of nations, but your betrayal wounds me deeper than Khaenri’ah’s fall... Do you not see? You are the last fragment of a world I can’t let fall. If I must bear this curse forever, you shall bear it beside me. You will not leave, not while I still draw breath… or while you still do."

The abyss whispers through him, tendrils of despair coiling around his words. His eyes are hollow, yet the depth of his obsession is infinite, a void that consumes all light.

♡ Kamisato Ayato.

"Power is a tool to guide others, yet you sought to wield mine against me. Was it not enough to break my trust? Did you have to shatter my pride as well? Very well. I shall show you the strength of a Kamisato betrayed. Now, kneel, and perhaps I’ll allow you the mercy of living as my possession rather than my victim."

A deadly calm wraps around his words, as serene and suffocating as the moment before a storm. The fan in his hand snaps closed, and his calculating gaze holds you prisoner in its cold, elegant fury.

♡ Childe (Tartaglia).

"You were my calm in the storm, yet you dared to leave me drowning. Fine. Let me show you the abyss I clawed my way out of—let me drag you into the endless nothing that I embraced for you. You will never escape me, not when I’ve already given you all of me. Run if you like—it’s been too long since I had a proper hunt."

His grin is wild, feral, a harbinger of chaos. The scent of blood lingers in the air as his dual blades hum with anticipation, his playful demeanor masking the predator beneath.

♡ Scaramouche.

"You are cruel—crueler than the Archons who forsook me. You mocked me as a puppet with no heart, yet I offered you mine. And now you’ve torn it apart. You take and take, but I refuse to be abandoned again. Fine—if I am to be heartless, then so be it. You wanted to see the puppet’s strings—let me tighten them around your throat instead."

His bitterness festers, a storm swirling in the empty void of his heart. Thunder roars as his emotions boil over, each crackle of lightning a reminder of the suffocating cage he is building around you.

♡ Kaeya Alberich.

"So this is how betrayal tastes… sweet, isn’t it? I warned you once—don’t play games with me. Now, it’s my turn to move, and you will not survive the checkmate. You see, I’ve spent my life spinning lies, yet you saw the truth and turned away. You should have known better than to toy with someone already teetering on the edge. Now, let me show you what real deception looks like—when I make sure you never leave. You wanted the truth? You’ll live with it, chained to me."

Kaeya’s easy charm hardens, his words laced with a venom that strikes without warning. The cold calculation in his eyes freezes over, and beneath the glint of his smile is a predator unmasking himself.

♡ Baizhu.

"Every dose, every cure, every touch of my hand—it was all for you. Yet here you stand, looking at me like I am the disease. If my care frightens you, then perhaps you misunderstand what devotion truly means... Fine. If you won’t let me heal you, I’ll ensure that no one else ever gets the chance."

The healer’s gentle tone now carries a macabre edge, his obsession with preserving life bleeding into a dark, suffocating fixation. His serpentine companion coils tighter, mirroring his intentions.

♡ Arataki Itto.

"I thought love was supposed to be fun, but this—this hurts, you know? And if I hurt, then so do you. Simple as that. The great Arataki Itto doesn’t lose, not even to you, babe. So, guess what? You’re mine now, whether you like it or not."

His boisterous energy turns suffocating, his larger-than-life presence filling the space like a looming storm cloud. His crimson horns gleam in the dim light, a warrior’s promise of unyielding devotion.

♡ Kaedehara Kazuha.

"The wind once carried me to freedom, but now it whispers your name, haunting me with every breath. If I must tether you to this earth to stop you from drifting, then forgive me. I never wanted to clip your wings... But, better caged than lost to the wind."

The poet’s voice is filled with sorrow, his words soft yet heavy with veiled threats. The calm serenity of the wandering samurai turns into a storm that swirls with quiet desperation.

♡ Lyney.

"I’ve always been good at sleight of hand, but your escape act? That’s a trick I’ll never let you master. I’ll bind you to me with threads so tight, not even magic can set you free. Tell me, mon cher, will you still applaud if I make you the star of my darkest trick? For you are my masterpiece, and I’ll never let the curtain fall."

The magician’s enchanting smile hides a desperation that twists like smoke, his illusions now designed to ensnare rather than entertain.

♡ Pantalone.

"Profit, power, control—I gave it all to you, yet you squandered it for fleeting, foolish desires. You have stolen from me, but I will take something priceless in return. If I cannot own your heart, I’ll purchase every moment of your existence. You’ll be mine in life—or death."

The veneer of his politeness cracks, revealing a bottomless greed that consumes even his warmth. His calculating gaze hardens into something predatory, the cold glint of a predator sizing up its prey.

♡ Shikanoin Heizou.

"I’ve solved countless cases, but this… this obsession you’ve planted in me is the only mystery I can’t unravel. So, I’ll keep you close, where I can study every detail until there’s nothing left to uncover. You’ll confess to me, whether through words or screams—it doesn’t matter. The truth will be mine."

His lighthearted wit becomes razor-sharp, his boyish charm twisting into something dangerously obsessive. The brilliant mind that solves mysteries now works only to ensnare you.

♡ Venti.

"I’ve sung songs of freedom for centuries, but you—you’ve turned my melody into a dirge. I have been nothing but free, yet you cage me with your indifference. If you will not sing with me, then I will silence all other voices—until only mine remains. My bard’s soul will shatter, but at least you’ll remain."

The carefree lilt of his voice turns haunting, the winds swirling around you with an unnatural chill. The Archon of Freedom reveals that even freedom can become a prison.

♡ Xiao.

"You knew what I was—a weapon, a shadow of destruction. Yet you chose to wound me? Fine. Let me become the monster you feared. You were my peace, my fleeting solace in this karmic storm. Leave, and I’ll bring down the heavens themselves to drag you back to me. You cannot leave me—I won’t allow it. I’ve lived too long in the shadows to lose the only light I’ve ever known. Do not make me hunt you, mortal. I cannot guarantee your safety—not even from myself.”

His golden eyes glow with a terrifying intensity, his usually stoic words heavy with despair. The protector of Liyue becomes your tormentor, his devotion turning into an unrelenting curse.

♡ A/N. A prelude to the NSFW Jealousy Yandere! Genshin Impact stories... Also, low-key tempted to make an actual Villain! Reader for Genshin. Genshin is too happy for me, wahaha.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

[persicipen-archive]

𑑛 “OLIVE GARDENS” ﾉ DR. RATIO. HONKAI STAR RAIL. ANTIQUITY AU

fem reader ﾉ words 3.5k ᯽ unspecified romantic relationship. mentions of playful ancient gods lol. oral — character receiving. shamelessly doing it outside and lots of touching (grass). riding him. lotus position (?). cumming inside. protection used in ancient times — silphium (quite valid) and pomegranates (barely valid) ﾉ rewritten ᯽ ADULT CONTENT ﾉ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ᯽

as the priestess of the temple, your task is to ensure that the gods are praised with gifts. what if there is a scholar that prefers to worship you instead?

The warm breeze tickles your nose as you lie on the soft grass, pleasantly cold compared to the early noon weather. The shade of a large olive tree helps ease you into relaxation after hours spent in the blazing morning sun tending to your everyday tasks around the temple.

You feel him approach the hill long before you actually see him, like a ghost creeping up on you through the golden light shining upon your eyes through the leaves.

It’s expected of him to be here at this hour, next to you. There’s no one else to disturb you two, just lazy birds and the zephyrs dancing in the wind; little spirits weave and swing their arms around your form, ruffling his hair with fresh air, cool against the dew gathered on your forehead.

Veritas Ratio has nothing in his hands to offer, but his presence alone is enough to make the gods jealous; he’s beautiful, matching the divine statues holding the nearby temple tall and mighty on its columns. As if one of said sculptures escaped and turned human, with violet hair like the sweetest grapes and amber eyes like the finest quality copper coins.

With all that adorns him — from jewellery to elegant sandals — his skin glistens more than your own in the sun, the liquid gold of his being that he can offer instead. The sweat shines on the tips of his ears, nose, and cheeks, highlighting each crease with a perfect precision you’d swear is unnatural. Godsent.

“I welcome you again on these sacred grounds,” you whisper with a smile, glancing at him as you finally decide to take your arm from your forehead. The look you exchange makes something stir deep inside you, right between the navel and pubic bone. “Have you come back for some more wine?”

The question doesn’t catch him off guard; you can see in those pretty eyes that he anticipated it. When he doesn’t answer immediately, however, your sight trails down to the lush curve of his lips.

“Indubitably, the wine would be pleasant,” he mutters thoughtfully, already pulling closer. The jangling of metal pieces connecting to his ankles rings along with the crunchy sound of dry grass under his feet. “But I’m sure the gods already have more than enough wine to indulge themselves throughout the entire afternoon.”

“Perhaps. What are you here for, then?”

It’s fun to tease him; it always ends with you having a great time playing around with the words. This also isn’t an exception when he answers with another question.

“And you? Shouldn’t you be waiting in the temple instead of dozing off in the gardens, waiting for some stranger to stir a conversation?”

A weak exhale of laughter leaves your chest at that, prompting him to tilt his head inquisitively. “That depends if the stranger is you or someone else.”

You raise a hand, allowing him to close the last gap between you and bring it to his face to kiss your knuckles softly.

“If it’s you, maybe I wanted to see you sooner,” you add, stretching your neck upwards slightly in search of more touch.

It comes quickly as a brief peck on the lips, chaste and careful — just a greeting as well as a promise of what’s coming. The peachy colour of his cheeks only emphasises his sharp features further when he leans back, though you doubt anyone could ever forget how gorgeous this man is. One of the wonders of the world, with or without the blush.

His clothes slide from his shoulders effortlessly, the flowing linen clinging to the curves of his muscles like second skin as he exposes himself to the world. That beautiful hair spreads messily on the ground once he lies down next to you and pats his chest with one arm.

It takes neither hesitation nor further words for you to lay your head in his open embrace, pillowed by his heart beating steadily right under your ear. A pair of strong arms embraces your shoulder soon after, but most importantly, a new shade joins your rest beneath the tree.

Even without having to look at the sky, you know the clouds gathered to dim the sun. The rustling of olive branches in the wind almost completely replaces the sounds of cicadas, gales soaring high in the sky to travel above the hill.

In such peace, the silence feels warm and welcome — as much as his skin brushing against yours does. You sigh deeply when his lips press down onto the top of your head, his breath tickling the roots of your hair, gentle fingers threading through it.

The tone of his humming is content. His hands exploring your back, petting and stroking each little bump of your spine, are the reasons for which you squirm lightly from time to time.

Would be nice to continue and deepen the pleasure, but just resting like that was lovely on its own. Sometimes you simply cannot decide — the kindness of the day enveloping you both is quite compelling too, and you wish to never get up from the lush grass.

That is until you feel his erection stirring, pulsing under your thigh that accidentally landed on top of his robes around the hips. Must be enjoying himself, if you can assume this much, from the hardness growing between your bodies.

Without delay, your lips turn to graze over his neck, where his scent is stronger and fills your nostrils with its sweetness. It’s as if he just dipped in wine and ate some honey; that’s how rich it is — an intoxicating combination to inhale when you let your teeth nibble on the collarbone.

“Are you sure you’re not coming here with different intentions than just offering your praise to the gods?” You purr against his skin, sliding down his torso, taking the folds of his robes with you to uncover more of his muscular body.

His chest is pale compared to the legs he shows during his public appearances, tinted with a golden tan that gradually disappears under loose layers of fabric.

“Depends. If I can praise the gods through my actions, I will gladly show it all to you,” he replies, his voice sultry.

Oh, those gods have definitely been playing with your heart this year, giggling every time they send him here, probably watching from the clouds as the two lovers meet again under the tree.

“As always, I would be pleased to receive the worship in their stead.”

Lazily, you rut your lower body against his leg while your fingers wander under his robes, smoothing up his inner thigh with a light brush, barely ghosting above the skin. He doesn’t let out even the slightest sound of acknowledgement, yet he doesn’t need to — you see his cock twitching.

The moment the pad of your finger touches it, his arms around your shoulder tighten. He shifts, grinding against the sole of your palm.

With a soft laugh, you lean forward to kiss him on the mouth. The groan of excitement you swallow sounds wonderful in your ears, full of longing for fulfilment, yet he couldn’t force you to move any faster, still too deep in his complicated thoughts.

As you feel the slippery tear of precum slide between your fingers, you want to pull the foreskin down, slowly teasing the ridge under the tip. So many possibilities, so many desires.

One more peck lands on your cheekbone as he puts one of his hands down between your legs, parting them carefully; fingertips stroke at your sensitive thighs, barely reaching for your private parts, too shallow to satisfy either of you.

“It’s okay, I can wait. No need to do it at the same time…” You smile at him when he pauses in his motion to study your face, frowning lightly, almost apologetically. “We have lots of time ahead, don’t worry. I’ve been waiting this whole morning, I can spare you another moment or two.”

He hums in agreement, though not without a bitter note of disappointment, probably having more than one idea of how to actually make it work. He could even fuck you right away, with those vast arms keeping your waist in place and those powerful thighs putting all that strength to work. Or turn you around, with your face near his pelvis and your pretty ass above his face, grinding your wetness against his chin. He has said once that he wants to taste you like that, after all.

His hold around your waist is gentle, firm, and tempting — if you were standing, your knees would have given in long ago just from imagining such treatment.

Nonetheless, as you finally unwrap his shaft to see it standing proudly, flushed and hot, glistening at the very tip, you take your chance to play with the foreskin, moving it back and forth with one hand and circling the glans with another.

Losing your head, you place a gentle kiss on the exposed ridge, feeling the slit tremble when more pre slides out and tickles your lip. It tastes slightly salty, sweet on your tongue, and it makes your hunger only worse, eager to open your mouth and lick up the underside.

A hitched breath follows right after when your tongue swipes across the entire length from the balls to the crown; then another, with more power, to let the head rub against the palate and savour the taste that was left there.

Obvious to notice that he enjoys it so much when he reaches for your midsection and grips at it so eagerly, thumbs stroking your tummy.

But before you could lose your mind and ride his thigh again, you feel something pushing your loincloth aside, cold air hitting your intimate parts; the fresh breeze combined with the sweat cooling your skin sends chills down your back. The difference in temperature is enough to make your skin prickle.

He may not reach your pussy, a bit too far away, but his large hand caresses the curve of your ass languidly, drawing patterns of worship all over the skin, massaging it every time your movements falter.

He knows all the right ways to make you melt; even a mere touch like that leaves you purring happily against his shaft. Your thighs tremble when you imagine yourself in some other position — any of those you two have already experienced together.

He must have thought about them too when his other hand presses on the back of your neck, leading your head down again to lick over his cock.

If that’s the direction he wishes to go, then who are you to decline? Especially when your cunt clenches with emptiness, dripping onto the grass already just from this little gesture.

When you take him in your mouth, you hear his low moans, short and satisfied, followed by the thuds of his head hitting the soft ground. Your hands work to cup his balls, tugging lightly to bring the first surge of pleasure to his body, rewarded with a warm shiver rocking his thighs.

He’s so generous today with the sounds of enjoyment, little gasps escaping his pretty lips, mixing with the wet slurping of your tongue; that makes it nearly impossible to contain the blissful laugh building in your chest.

Finally, you can feel his hands travelling back to your legs, spreading your folds, and rubbing in just the right way — longing for more.

“It’s enough. Come here.”

Without a word, you oblige, although it doesn’t keep you from whining loudly, desperately trying to give him the final push. Your kisses trail up his abs to his pecs, then his shoulders and neck, his body rolling beneath you like waves in the ocean.

All the way, his palms stay on your sides, guiding you with a careful but confident grip onto his lap, holding you steady at a good angle when your lips lock again with passion and impatience.

Your cheeks burn at the accidental sight of his cock nestled perfectly between your folds, ready to take in when you roll your hips — so warm against your clit that the heat pooling in your stomach spreads through your limbs, warming them from the inside.

“Look at you, beautiful. Be so generous and sit on me already. I will repay you the other time,” he whispers, leaning for another kiss; the way he bites into your bottom lip tells you he is impatient.

With your hands on his chest for balance, you straddle him comfortably, locking your ankles behind his thighs. He watches, panting and groaning in sync with the movements, eyes hazed and cheeks flustered as you rise on your knees, hissing from the drag of skin against skin.

Slowly, with a measured pace, you sink onto him with a delightful sting, feeling every little detail of his shape as you hold your breath in anticipation.

He doesn’t close his eyes; he doesn’t look anywhere else but at you. The intense gaze on your face makes your insides clench involuntarily, and it takes a moment for you to regain control and continue your progress.

When you’re finally sitting flat on top of him, your head is spinning. Just being connected makes your walls pulsate, and it takes an enormous amount of effort to not succumb to your needs. Your aching core just wants to rut down until the climax.

There’s still so much you want to do before that happens, so much you wish to share, but the syrupy whines just keep spilling from your throat, and the pleasure takes away the control over your muscles.

You have to cling to his wide shoulders when he wraps his fingers around your waist, trailing the sides with the back of his knuckles. The tender caresses send waves of delight up your nape.

“Be still a little longer,” he coos, but his own breath is so laboured that it trembles in his ribcage as well. “You’re enjoying yourself too much just by sitting on me. How will you manage to continue?”

“Please, don’t say anything… mmh—!” You respond, mouth slack to allow the long moan to slip off your tongue.

The high-pitched keens resonate with your hammering heart. You’re the cause for the shameful noises in the gardens, but you couldn’t care less — just as the man beneath you, you know the gods will have no issue with those. They aren’t easily offended, quite the opposite.

Just thinking that they might be watching makes you hiccup, shattering the rhythm of your breaths.

And then the sound changes when he moves. Hips rising off the ground, slamming your ass down hard enough for your spine to arch, yet you find the perfect position and squeeze around his shaft, receiving a hiss for a reward. His cock pulsates as you grind against it, fucking yourself at last — with a tad more pressure and patience, it wouldn’t matter if he moves or not; it could be just as satisfying.

“Oh, if you only knew how it feels when you clench like this,” he groans as you watch his Adam’s apple move with the heavy swallow. “To feel how my seed gathers in my loins, ready to release into your womb.”

“I didn’t take you for a man like that.”

“Only with you.”

It takes an immense effort to tear your eyes from his handsome face, flushed, shiny with sweat, and with a pleasured grimace twisting the corners of his mouth. But the throbbing is too urgent; your orgasm right at the edge.

“Ah! Hmm… I still prefer to eat too many pomegranates, you know.”

“Don’t you store silphium at the temple?”

“if we haven’t used it all by now before getting a new batch.” You laugh briefly at that.

Your legs open further to lean backwards, hand clasping on his thighs behind your back, giving you better access, and from that view alone, it would be so easy for him to cum on the spot. The pearly sheen of slick running down your thighs makes you quiver and pull away again, no more than an inch, though it leaves your whole body twitching in search of stimulation.

As he realises what you want, one hand lets go of your hips to put itself on the swell of your pussy, right above where your petals spread to embrace him. The delicate touches there, massaging in circles and applying a soft pressure over the protruding pearl hidden among your folds, send the sharp bolts of bliss through your gut.

“Ahh, gods,” you mewl, knees shaking when you try your best not to fall over. His other hand holds your side with strength, securing your trembling figure as you roll yourself against both his fingers and his cock.

Even with all the care to move your hips to get the right angle, your bodies collide forcefully, making your inner walls wail in joy as the nerves in the soft skin catch the last sparks before it all fades. You buckle under the wave of euphoria crashing against you, everything coming at once — the rhythmic contraction, the heat igniting your whole body, and the tears of overstimulation burning your eyes.

Without even trying to open them, you let out a whine, feeling you tighten over him, and legs struggle to not give in, still rocking against his shaft, dragging every second of this godly ecstasy.

Noises of him speaking die down, though, and the pleasure turns sour at the thought you accidentally upset him; maybe your hips jerked too hard against his erection, or you hit his chest a little too harsh.

Then you open your eyes.

He sits up to hold you by your arms, with his length still lodged deep in you, hefty as ever. Yet his features are not scrunched up nor furrowed, not even in the slightest.

He just looks dazed.

“Apologies if I interrupted your preferred rhythm. I lost myself in the pleasure…” His voice is honeyed and so lovely to hear that it seems unreal to experience it just once, even if you’ve already heard it so many times when you embrace together like that, skin to skin. “Come closer. I want you like that… here.”

Your lips find each other in another kiss, slow and sloppy, interspersed with tired licks. It’s such a blessing to see him like that, glowing with peachy blush and with the mix of both yours and his sweat — it’s the thrill of excitement bubbling in your heart that you are the reason behind his satisfaction.

Slightly embarrassed by your previous reaction, you let him move your own body as he wants to, making it feel as if you were one, swaying in a dance of love under the canopy of branches and olives in the warm light of day, basking in the glory of their gifts.

He seems to be thoroughly enjoying the situation, playing with your senses so mercilessly that you have to bite onto your lower lip to suppress another bout of moans — not when you can hear the quiet ones of his own, breaking out with every other breath.

His movements are a tad clumsy and awkward in their attempt to fulfil two roles at the same time. Yet you couldn’t mind the pace, his girth rubbing just the right places and forcing another squelch out of your cunt, drooling shamelessly all over his pelvis.

Still sensitive from the previous peak, it doesn’t take much time before you feel another one building in your lower abdomen. Your legs hug his waist tighter, and you lean your whole body weight against his.

But it’s not your job to move. It’s his, and he does it wonderfully.

Heavens, it feels so good that your throat closes, all your attempts at breathing completely unsuccessful, and he probably sees how your eyes glaze over. Even when your back arches away from him, the intensity of his stare never falters, bringing you the utmost joy, but now his expression changes too.

The words get caught somewhere along the way when your walls spasm and milk him without warning. With the brief gasp, he can’t even tell whether it was intentional or not. His mouth hangs slightly open, letting out silent huffs while his body continues its thrusts, shivering in tandem for the last seconds.

Not once does he tear his gaze away from you as the ecstasy in his stomach snaps — a rush of warmth coating your insides — and slows his pace into shallow rolls. There is something magical in those moments of conclusion — seeing him still holding your frame as if he didn’t just spill all that thick cum into your core.

Gathering strength in your muscles, you straighten up enough to playfully take the tip of his nose between your teeth with a giggle; it doesn’t take long for him to push it up slightly, catching your mouth for a long kiss. With a sigh of satisfaction, he falls back on the grass, taking you with him, still embracing, still connected.

You follow the path his thumb traced down the curve of your cheek, nestling against his chest, and your heart beats alongside his. It’s tempting to let your eyelids close and let the pleasant post-orgasmic sleep claim you.

“Tell me,” he hums, fingers reaching for your head to skim through your hair, untangling sweaty strands. “Is the priestess elated with our leisure? Have I done what I had to do?”

“Perhaps.” You grin at him. “The gods are thankful for your devotion.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE — i say ‘lowkey’ antiquity au because the setting is only vaguely described and could work if we get dr. ratio’s planet at some point in hsr (i wonder if it is amphoreus??) :3 until then, just imagine it as loosely inspired by ancient greece or rome ﾉ as usual, i’m sorry if i overlooked any mistakes, but i can only endure this much of proofreading before giving up ﾉ also, please don’t believe in ancient protection methods even if they could work lmao — the joke there was that reader and dr. ratio get together so often that they have no more silphium to use and need to resort to other temporary methods before acquiring more for future use hehe

[magicaldestinyharmony]

When The Stars Align

regressed!duke x wife!female!reader oneshot (? it could be more idk)

Duke Ercan Revaz only ever loved one woman but she no longer exists. And it’s his fault. Well, if he wasn’t the only reason then he surely was a reason. He still remembers the first day he saw you. Standing under the moonlight in a garden looking like a goddess straight out of the founding myths of the empire. He stood, not far behind you, watching. Staring. You stood there in an elegant red dress with a champagne flute in your hand leaving the chaos and noise of the ball behind you. A sad sigh escapes your lips and, for some reason, he longed to hear your voice. At the thought, he freezes. He doesn’t understand the feelings flowing through him. He’s new to this sort of thing. Having spent countless years from one battlefield to another, he has zero experience with women. Another sigh from your alluring lips brings him out of his thoughts. He wonders, What is causing you to sigh so much? He then realizes that you were the woman who just publicly dumped her fiance. Your ex-fiance was a complete bastard. He was expecting orders to eradicate this nuisance to high society but you beat him to it and did a great job of ensuring he would never show his face again. He sees a woman approaching you which he recognizes as Countess Labelle. Countess Labelle calls you and you turn to face her. She must be your mother. he thinks. You leave with the countess. As he stares at your retreating back he feels that he must have you and he will make sure that once he does, you won’t be able to leave him.

Ercan now realizes that he went about making you his wife all wrong. Instead of trying to woo you, he did something that he still regrets. Using his power as a duke, he indirectly places your father in debt and demands that if he gets you as a bride, he will pay the debt off himself. Your father, bless his heart, tried to find other means to pay back the money but you stopped him and accepted the marriage. At the start of your marriage, things were fine. He never embraced you and always kept a distance, thinking that you might not have favourable feelings towards him. Still, you had a nice marriage. Things went downhill when he got sent to battle. You discovered papers with orders to place your father in debt in his study. Without him there to at least try to salvage the situation, your thoughts went wild. He came back to the report that you had tried to escape. He was frantic. Why would you try to leave him? He might indeed have placed you in debt, but he paid them off and also made sure that your family was well off. He found you bound to bed rest by the family doctor. You looked terrible. Pale and bags under your eyes. He got into an argument with you which ended with him confining you to your room. You resisted and your health took a hit. The day you died, Ercan regrets that the last thing he told you was a “Good night” and not “I love you” or anything similar. He woke to the balcony doors being opened. His blood ran cold. He ran outside only to see your disappearing smile over the railings. Ercan went mad. He lost you. He lost you. After the funeral was over, Ercan wished that he wouldn’t wake up again. He would rather die than face a world without you in it. He was surprised to wake up and find out that his wish had come true. Well, kind of. Ercan clenches his fist while he stares out the window of what used to be your shared bedroom. What will become your shared bedroom. I promise, this time I’ll never make the same mistakes again. I'll show you just how much you mean to me. This time, you won’t die in vain.

[kaira-diaries]

Nocturne: Part 2

warning: || SMUT - mildly descriptive || Violence || non-con touching || mentions of death || non-cannon violence & lore)

pairing: Frontman x fem!reader

wc: 15k+

Summary: none, cause I didn’t feel like writing one out

a/n: Okay so here's part 2 of nocturne and I'm gonna be so honest this turned into a WHOLE ass thing with lore and heavy heavy plot. To avoid an extremely long read, a third part will be written. idek what happened that led up to this point of needing a third part but here we are (sorrows, prayers). happy reading !

->Masterlist <-

->Part One <-

________________

2 Years Later:

Staring into the gilded mirror, you couldn’t help but admire the way the gown sculpted your frame. The rich maroon fabric clung to every curve, the shimmer of its silk catching the soft light and giving you an air of effortless elegance. It reminded you of the dress you’d worn the night you first met In-ho—a memory that sent a ripple of warmth through your chest. The neckline plunged just enough to command attention without screaming for it, while the delicate slit along the side offered a glimpse of your leg, teasing but tasteful.

Your hair had been styled to perfection, pinned loosely back with a cascade of soft curls framing your face. Each strand looked as if it had been meticulously placed, yet still carried an air of natural allure. You applied a few swipes of deep crimson lipstick, the bold color tying your look together and accentuating the soft glow of your complexion. The faint scent of your perfume—a seductive blend of jasmine and amber—lingered in the air, leaving a trace of you wherever you passed.

This wasn’t your first time at a lavish party, but tonight felt different. The room buzzed with energy, a blend of laughter and whispered conversations mixing with the clink of crystal glasses. The event marked the 20th anniversary of the Squid Games—a macabre milestone commemorated by only the most elite and influential. The space was grand, with towering ceilings adorned in gold leaf and intricate chandeliers spilling warm light across the opulent ballroom. Legends of the games—former creators, VIPs, and those who had helped shape its legacy—moved through the crowd like phantoms of the past, their age barely dimming their commanding presence.

You’d been glued to In-ho’s side most of the night, your arm lightly draped through his as you navigated the throngs of the powerful and the wealthy. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you at times, the quiet pride he seemed to take in having you at his side. But the endless small talk, the veiled barbs of rival VIPs, and the oppressive grandeur of it all began to wear on you. The need for air—or at least a moment alone—became too much to ignore.

Slipping through the sea of extravagantly dressed guests, you had made your way to the bathroom to where you stood now, finally breaking away from the suffocating intensity of the crowd. The heavy oak door was closed behind you, muffling the noise and leaving you in a blissful pocket of silence. The cool, polished marble of the sink greeted your fingertips as you had set your clutch down, exhaling softly.

You glanced at your reflection again, this time allowing a small, private smile to cross your lips. The faint hum of the music beyond the door barely reached you as you pulled your lipstick from the clutch. Holding the tube, you applied one last swipe of the rich shade with careful precision, ensuring every line was flawless.

And then your thoughts drifted—inevitably—to him. In-ho. You couldn’t help it. Even in the quiet sanctuary of the bathroom, his presence lingered in your mind. The way he moved through the crowd with calm authority, his sharp suit a perfect complement to his commanding demeanor. The way guests bowed and crumbled under his authority. He was magnetic, and you found yourself drawn to him like gravity itself. He wasn’t just the Front Man tonight; he was yours.

You capped the lipstick and tucked it back into your clutch, your fingers brushing the smooth leather as you let out a breathy laugh at yourself. Admiration? Maybe that was putting it lightly. He consumed your thoughts, even when he wasn’t near. Even your dreams hadn’t been safe from him lately, his face haunting the edges of your mind like a phantom you welcomed with open arms.

You took one last glance at your reflection, the faint glint of determination in your eyes, and smoothed the fabric of your gown. For all the chaos outside this room, you would meet it head-on, poised and unshaken. After all, tonight wasn’t just any party.

It was your world now, and you intended to own it.

Clicking the bathroom door shut behind you, you let out a soft sigh, the hum of the party no longer muffled by the thick walls. But before you could fully collect yourself, a deep, velvet voice cut through the racket, rich and teasing.

"If it isn’t the queen herself."

You turned sharply, your gaze falling on a tall, striking man leaning casually against the wall just a few feet away. His presence was impossible to ignore. The soft glow of the chandelier overhead caught his fawn-colored hair, perfectly styled to look effortless, and his piercing blue eyes sparkled with mischief as they locked onto yours. He was dressed in a crisp white suit that seemed tailored to perfection, the snowy fabric contrasting beautifully with the warm undertones of his skin.

Your brows knitted together in confusion, your expression guarded as he pushed off the wall with an easy, confident stride. His lips curled into a dashing smile, the kind that hinted he was used to getting his way, and his voice carried the faintest hint of amusement as he spoke again.

“Apologies,” he said, his tone low and smooth, like a slow pour of fine whiskey. “I’m just a fan of your work.”

You straightened your posture instinctively, your shoulders rolling back as you appraised him. “Is that so?”

He nodded, his smile widening just enough to reveal a flash of perfect teeth. There was something about him—his demeanor, the way he carried himself—that made you feel both intrigued and wary.

“Very much so,” he replied, holding out a hand with the kind of charm that felt practiced but still disarmingly genuine. “Hiram.”

You hesitated, your eyes scanning his outstretched palm before finally offering your hand to him. His touch was warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and when he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your knuckles, it sent a faint shiver up your spine. His lips lingered just a second too long, and when he straightened, his eyes held yours as if daring you to look away.

“Y/N,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. You withdrew your hand slowly, letting your fingers slip from his grasp, and tilted your head slightly. “Don’t think me rude, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

He shrugged, the movement graceful, almost feline, as he tucked one hand into his pocket. “That’s not surprising,” he said with a soft chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m new blood, as they say. My family never jumped at the opportunity to let me out of my room.”

A surprised laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, the unexpected humor catching you off guard. “Where’s the fun in that?” you asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Exactly,” he said, his own laugh following yours, low and rich. There was something magnetic about him, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, drawing you in like gravity itself.

His gaze flickered over you briefly, taking in the deep maroon gown and the confident way you carried yourself. “I must admit,” he said, his tone dropping slightly, softer now, as if the words were meant just for you. “Seeing you in person is... quite the experience. Pictures don’t do you justice.”

The compliment hung in the air between you, and though it was bold, there was no arrogance in his delivery—just pure, unfiltered charm. You couldn’t help but feel the faint heat of a blush creeping up your neck, though you masked it quickly with a small, polite smile.

“Well,” you said, lifting your chin slightly, “it’s good to know I can make such an impression.”

His grin widened, and he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Oh, you do more than that, Y/N.”

For a moment, the air between you felt thick, the weight of his words lingering as he straightened again, his expression still lighthearted but with an edge of something deeper. “I won’t keep you,” he said smoothly, taking a step back, though his eyes lingered on yours a beat longer than necessary. “But I do hope we’ll cross paths again before the night is through.”

He gave you a small nod, the corners of his mouth quirking upward in that same dashing smile, before turning to leave. As he disappeared into the crowd, you found yourself momentarily frozen, the faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and warm—still lingering in the air around you.

You slipped back into the crowd, weaving through clusters of opulent guests whose laughter and conversation rose like smoke, thick and suffocating. The golden chandeliers cast warm, glittering light over the ballroom, illuminating every polished surface and shimmering gown. But your attention wasn’t on the decadence surrounding you—it was locked on the figure at the far end of the room, near the bar.

There he was, standing tall and composed, his presence commanding despite the sea of wealth and power surrounding him. In-ho’s hair was slicked back with precision, each strand gleaming under the light. His face was unreadable, that familiar stoic expression giving away nothing, though you could sense the weight he carried in his posture.

Breathtakingly handsome and untouchable, he seemed carved from stone—a monument to control and authority.

Your gaze flicked to the man standing across from him, and your chest tightened. Even in a room filled with the most powerful and dangerous individuals alive, this man stood out. The original Game Maker. His presence was understated, yet it radiated an aura that set him apart—a blend of quiet confidence and palpable danger.

His hair was streaked with silver, but his sharp features and piercing eyes betrayed a mind still razor-sharp. He looked remarkably young for someone whose legacy was steeped in brutality, and that realization unsettled you. It meant that when he had first orchestrated the games, he must have been terrifyingly young—just a man, barely more than a boy, with the intelligence and ruthlessness to reshape human desperation into a blood-soaked spectacle.

The sight of him brought back the stories In-ho had told you late at night, his voice low and careful, as though uttering the words aloud might summon ghosts. But one story had always stuck with you—the two-day games.

You swallowed hard at the memory, your footsteps faltering for just a moment as the weight of it crept over you. In those games, 456 players had been wiped out in just two rounds. No victor. No home for the prize money. You could hardly fathom it: the sheer scale of the slaughter, the precision required to make it happen, the lack of regard for even the illusion of fairness.

The remaining four games had been rendered pointless—there weren't any survivors to justify continuing. That level of efficiency, of calculated cruelty, had never been replicated. It was as if the man standing before In-ho had reached the zenith of brutality and left an unshakable legacy in his wake.

A chill crawled up your spine as you moved closer, your eyes darting between In-ho’s impassive face and the Game Maker’s calm, almost casual demeanor. In-ho once told you that those games had left an indelible mark on the system's history. They’d been both a triumph and a warning, a standard so high in its carnage that no one dared attempt to replicate it. The Game Maker had been both feared and revered, his name spoken in hushed tones even now, decades later. In simpler terms, he' done his job a little too well.

You couldn’t help but wonder what the man was saying to In-ho. From the subtle tension in In-ho’s shoulders and the way his jaw tightened, it was clear this wasn’t a casual conversation. The Game Maker’s lips moved with measured precision, and though you couldn’t hear his words over the din of the ballroom, you could feel the weight of them in the air.

What would a man like that say to In-ho? Was it praise, criticism, or something darker? Did he see In-ho as a worthy successor or a pale imitation of the ruthlessness that had made him legendary?

Your heartbeat quickened as you approached the bar, the stories swirling in your mind like smoke. The memory of those games—the brilliance, the carnage, the terror—felt alive in this moment, standing there between them like an unspoken shadow.

The Game Maker turned slightly, his sharp eyes flicking toward you for a brief moment, and a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The kind of smile made your blood run cold, like he’d already sized you up, dissected you, and found your weaknesses.

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze for that fleeting moment before he turned his attention back to In-ho. The stories had given you chills before, but now, standing in the presence of the man who had written them, the weight of history—and the danger it carried—felt all too real.

And as In-ho glanced your way, his stoic mask momentarily cracking to reveal a flicker of something—was it reassurance? Warning?—you realized just how high the stakes were tonight. Whatever this conversation was, it wasn’t just small talk. And if you weren’t careful, you might find yourself caught in the crossfire of two men who had shaped the games with blood, brilliance, and cruelty.

"This must be your partner, if I'm not mistaken," the man said, his voice smooth and measured, each word laced with subtle curiosity. His piercing green eyes studied you with unnerving precision, as though he was already peeling back your layers, exposing every secret.

You nodded politely, but before you could speak, In-ho's hand slid firmly to the small of your back. The weight of his touch was both grounding and possessive, and his voice, calm and authoritative, carried over the din of the ballroom. "Yes," he replied, his answer as much a confirmation as it was a claim.

In-ho nudged you forward slightly, his gentle but insistent push urging you to engage. You bowed your head respectfully, your voice soft but steady as you spoke. "It’s an honor, sir."

The Game Maker’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those sharp green eyes gleamed like polished glass, reflecting the flickering lights of the chandelier above. The man radiated power—not the loud, boisterous kind, but the quiet, suffocating weight of someone who didn’t need to prove himself.

As the frenetic pace of the music slowed, the brassy tones melting into a smooth, languid melody, he placed his drink down with deliberate precision, his attention turning fully to In-ho.

“May I?” he asked, his meaning clear as his eyes flicked toward you, a sly glint in their depths.

For a moment, silence hung between the three of you. In-ho’s hand on your back stiffened, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your gown. You could feel the tension radiating off him, subtle but unmistakable, as though the request had struck a nerve.

Then, with a faint nod, In-ho’s hand fell away. “Please,” he said evenly, his tone betraying none of the hesitation you knew he must feel. The word was polite, but the weight behind it made it feel more like permission than encouragement.

The Game Maker extended his hand toward you, his smile widening just enough to reveal a flash of teeth. His presence was magnetic, his movements fluid as though every step he took was choreographed. You hesitated, glancing back at In-ho, whose expression remained stoic, his dark eyes meeting yours with an unreadable intensity.

Taking a steadying breath, you placed your hand in the Game Maker’s. His grip was firm, his skin cool against yours as he led you onto the dance floor. The soft melody filled the air, and the crowd seemed to blur around you as he guided you into a slow, measured waltz.

“I must admit,” he began, his voice low and velvety as he steered you effortlessly, his steps smooth and deliberate, “I’ve been curious about the woman who caught In-ho’s eye.”

You arched a brow, keeping your tone neutral. “Curious, sir?”

He chuckled, a rich, quiet sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “It’s not every day my Front Man shows such… attachment.” His eyes bore into yours, sharp and probing. “It’s intriguing.”

You resisted the urge to stiffen under his scrutiny, forcing a polite smile. “I would hope to be more than just intriguing.”

His smile widened, and the grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. “Oh, you are,” he said, his words carrying a weight that felt almost dangerous. “You’re a fascinating piece on this chessboard. But tell me…” His voice dropped, barely audible over the music. “How much do you truly know about the man you’re dancing around this world with?”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, your carefully constructed composure faltered. His words weren’t idle curiosity—they were a calculated strike, designed to unsettle you.

“I know enough,” you replied evenly, regaining your footing, though the slight edge in your voice betrayed you.

“Hmm,” he mused, his expression unreadable as he twirled you effortlessly, the lights of the chandelier spinning above. “Enough to trust him?”

You hesitated, just long enough for his smile to sharpen. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Trust is a fragile thing, my dear. I would tread carefully if I were you.”

The music swelled, the melody stretching out like a thread about to snap, and as he pulled you closer, "you seem... unfazed by this world," he moved on, his voice soft but layered with meaning. There was a gleam of something more in his eyes. "Many would be rattled by the games, by what they demand from people. But you... you seem like you understand."

You tilted your head slightly, sensing the direction of his conversation. His words weren’t just casual chatter—there was something deeper, something he was about to reveal. Something he wanted you to hear.

"I’ve seen things that would break most," he continued, his tone lowering, the dance now a distant memory between you both as you only swayed. "I’ve lived through things that have reshaped me in ways that can’t be undone."

Your pulse quickened, curiosity gnawing at you. The night had already been full of tension, but now the Game Maker was pulling you into his past—a place few, if any, had access to.

He took a step back abandoning the dance, glancing over his shoulder at the shadows of the ballroom as if weighing whether to speak. Finally, he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry decades of experience with it.

"The two-day games..." he started, and the words seemed to hang in the air between you like a curse. "There’s nothing quite like them in the history of the games. Nothing that compares to what happened during those two days."

You felt a chill run down your spine as he spoke. The stories you had heard—whispers of what had occurred during that brutal event—were always fragmented, vague. But now, you had the chance to hear it from the mouth of the man who had made it happen. The man who had orchestrated it all.

His gaze locked with yours, intense and unyielding. "I was younger then, perhaps too young, but the potential for control… the power to shape chaos—it called to me." His voice lowered, growing colder with each word. "The games were never meant to be easy. They were meant to expose the worst of people. Push them to the edge and watch them either rise or fall."

You shifted slightly, instinctively pulling away, but he seemed to read the motion as curiosity, not discomfort. He continued, almost as though speaking to himself.

"I gave them two days. Just two. 456 players entered the arena. 456 lives—each one filled with desperation, greed, fear. By the end of the second day, 456 of them were dead." His voice was smooth, but beneath the calm was a trace of something darker.

"The thing is," he added, almost as an afterthought, his expression hardening, "it didn’t take much to break them. It wasn’t about weapons or traps. It was about fear. The fear of what they were becoming. And when the first 50 fell, the rest of them—every last one—knew their time was numbered. That fear, that panic—it spread like wildfire."

You couldn’t tear your gaze away, your heart pounding in your chest as you listened to his words. The Game Maker’s voice was chilling, detached, as if recounting a story of someone else’s nightmare. But the deeper you listened, the more you realized how deeply he was tied to that moment. How much it had shaped him into the man he was today.

"In the end," he said, his eyes darkening, "the other four games were pointless. The players had already given up. There were barely enough survivors left to keep going. The horror of it, the inevitability of their deaths—it was already in the air. The remaining games were just a formality."

You shuddered, the horror of his words sinking in like a weight in your chest. The sheer scale of the violence—the cruelty of the decision to make it last three days—left you speechless for a moment. You hadn’t imagined the extent of what had transpired.

"But..." You started, voice barely above a whisper, "Why did it stop after that? Why didn’t you keep going? Why not make it a standard?"

"Because there’s only so much humanity can take," he said softly, the words carrying a weight you could almost taste. "After that, I realized something. You can break people, destroy them—but if you push them too far, you lose control. And then the game becomes something else. A rebellion perhaps."

His eyes flicked to In-ho, who had watched the conversation from the sidelines, his gaze unreadable.

"You lose the control. And control, my dear," the Game Maker whispered, his voice a thread of a warning, "is most precious in our line of work."

For a long moment, the air between you both was thick with tension. The soft music continued to play in the background, but in your mind, it was drowned out by the image of what the Game Maker had described—the bloodshed, the terror, the total breakdown of human decency in a span of just two days.

Finally, the silence was broken by the soft clink of glass. The Game Maker picked up a drink from a server, as if snapping back to reality, the weight of his story fading from his expression. "But that’s all behind me now," he added with a thin smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "The games have evolved. And I, too, have evolved with them."

You swallowed, unsure of how to respond, the sheer gravity of what he had just shared leaving you momentarily speechless.

And as he turned to leave, his hand brushing against yours once more, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his past pressing down on you, like a shadow that would never truly lift.

"You’ll understand," he said softly, looking back over his shoulder with that same glint in his eyes, "one day, when you’re forced to see the games from the inside. It’s the only way to truly know."

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing amidst the glittering crowd, the echo of his words lingering in the air like a dark omen.

________

The ride back to the island stretched on, the distant hum of the yacht's engines muffled by the heavy silence between you and In-ho. The sea stretched endlessly outside the cabin windows, dark and vast, mirroring the weight pressing down on the both of you. In-ho sat beside you, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly elsewhere, swirling with thoughts he would never voice. His third glass of whiskey sat half-empty in his hand, the liquid catching the dim light.

Your eyes softened as you turned to him, noting the faint lines of tension at the corners of his mouth and the way his shoulders carried the invisible burden of leadership. Reaching out, you placed a hand on his thigh, your touch gentle but grounding.

“You don’t have to do this alone, In-ho,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the oppressive quiet like a breeze.

He looked at you then, his dark eyes meeting yours. For a fleeting moment, his guarded expression melted, replaced by something warmer, softer. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t erase the shadows in his gaze.

“I know,” he murmured, though the way he said it felt more like an attempt to reassure you than himself.

The thought of tomorrow hung between you both. The games would begin at dawn, and everything was ready, every gruesome detail in place. The guards had their orders, the players were already in their quarters, and all that remained were the final preparations for the VIPs.

You leaned back against the leather seat, your mind wandering as you stared out at the endless black horizon. News had reached you earlier in the evening—there would be a new VIP attending this round of games. The announcement hadn’t surprised you, but it had stirred something in you.

For a brief moment, your mind slipped back to when that title belonged to you. The memory of your first arrival as a VIP, dressed in extravagant finery and wrapped in the naivety of someone who thought they understood the games, drifted through your thoughts. How wrong you had been then.

But those thoughts were quickly overtaken by a new unease, one that gnawed at you from the edges of your mind.

"How much do you truly know about the man you’re dancing around this world with?"

The Game Maker’s words echoed in your head, their weight heavier now than when he’d first spoken them. The way his sharp green eyes had lingered on you, the knowing smile that had curled at his lips—it was as though he had planted a seed of doubt that was only now beginning to take root.

You glanced at In-ho again, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the faint glint of his mask resting on the table beside him, and the way his fingers idly swirled the whiskey in his glass. He seemed calm, composed, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was keeping something from you.

The silence stretched between you, thick with the unspoken, until In-ho’s voice broke through it.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked, his tone gentle but firm, his gaze sharp as it flicked to your face.

You hesitated, your brows knitting together as you forced a small smile and shook your head. “Nothing,” you lied, though your voice lacked conviction.

He didn’t press further, but his eyes searched yours, as if trying to read the thoughts you were so carefully keeping hidden. The weight of his scrutiny made your chest tighten, and you acted on instinct, leaning in and pressing your lips to his.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, and it carried with it the unspoken words you couldn’t bring yourself to say. His fingers, warm and strong, wrapped around yours, holding you steady as the world seemed to fall away for just a moment.

When you finally pulled back, his expression softened further, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Your heart sank at the question, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. “Of course,” you said, forcing another smile, though the Game Maker’s words lingered like a shadow in the back of your thoughts.

In-ho smiled faintly and raised his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, but his hand never left yours. The silence returned, though this time it felt heavier, as though the weight of your thoughts was tangible in the air between you.

You turned your gaze back to the window, the dark sea stretching endlessly ahead. Somewhere out there, on the island you were quickly approaching, the games waited to begin. But it wasn’t just the games that loomed—it was the feeling of a growing divide between you and the man sitting beside you.

And as the Game Maker’s haunting words replayed in your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder: how much did you really know about In-ho? And when the truth finally surfaced, would you still be able to call him yours?

_______

The quarters you shared with In-ho were cold when you returned, the chill of the air pressing against your skin as the soft hum of the elevator faded behind you. Your heels clicked sharply against the polished floors of the hallway, each step echoing faintly in the silence. In-ho followed close behind, his presence a steady weight at your back. Yet, while your body moved forward, your mind still remained trapped in the lingering echoes of the Game Maker’s words.

His question gnawed at you, digging deeper than you cared to admit. It looped in your thoughts like a broken record, each repetition leaving you more unsettled than the last. You didn’t want to believe there was truth to it, but the doubt had rooted itself, and no amount of rationalizing could make it go away.

Your steps faltered, the weight of your thoughts pulling you down like lead. It must have shown, because before you could recover, In-ho’s hand shot out, gripping your arm firmly and pulling you to him.

“Tell me. Now,” he demanded, his tone low but sharp as his dark eyes bore into yours. His face was mere inches from yours, the weight of his presence nearly suffocating as his chest brushed against yours.

For a moment, you stared up at him, startled by the intensity in his voice, the way his grip anchored you. Then, despite the knot tightening in your chest, a faint smile tugged at your lips.

“Well, this is familiar,” you said lightly, your voice carrying a teasing edge as you referred back to the night you met—when his grip on your wrist had been accompanied by a gun to your head instead of concern.

His expression didn’t soften. If anything, the lines of tension in his jaw deepened, and his hand fell away from your arm, letting it drop back to your side. There was no hint of amusement in his face, no trace of the man who often found quiet joy in your quips.

You sighed, the playfulness draining from your tone as you tilted your head back slightly, meeting his unrelenting gaze. “It’s the Game Maker,” you admitted finally. “He said something...”

“What did he say?” In-ho cut in, his voice sharper now, the words almost snapping out of him.

You hesitated, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as you debated how much to reveal. But there was no use in hiding it; In-ho would press until you gave him the truth.

“He asked how much I truly knew about you,” you said carefully, the words coming slower now, each one measured. “He questioned my trust in you.”

The air between you shifted instantly. In-ho straightened, his posture rigid, and his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the flicker of movement beneath his skin. His dark eyes darkened further, and for a moment, he was utterly still—too still.

You threw your arms up in frustration, breaking the silence before it could grow heavier. “It’s stupid, I know,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with exasperation. “I shouldn’t let it get to me, but... it did.”

In-ho’s gaze never left yours, his silence unnerving as the seconds stretched on. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” you admitted, your voice softening. “I thought... I don’t know, I thought it was just a game.”

“And now?” he pressed, his tone still firm but laced with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated, unsure how to put your swirling thoughts into words. “And now, I don’t know,” you admitted, your shoulders slumping slightly. “He got into my head.”

In-ho took a step back, his hand raking through his slicked-back hair as he exhaled sharply. The tension radiating off him was palpable, the weight of it filling the space between you.

“He’s trying to divide us,” In-ho said finally, his voice steady but cold.

“That’s what he does. He finds cracks and widens them. He knows exactly where to push. Its entertainment for him.”

You nodded slowly, understanding the truth in his words but unable to completely shake the lingering doubt. “I know,” you said softly. “But that question...”

“Forget it,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through your thoughts. “You know everything you need to know about me.”

“Do I?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out like a whisper.

He froze, his eyes narrowing slightly as they locked onto yours. The silence stretched between you again, and you immediately regretted asking.

“You do,” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less firm.

You searched his face, looking for cracks in the mask he always wore, but there were none. Whatever secrets In-ho carried, he had buried them deep, and he wasn’t about to let you dig them up.

With a sigh, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss. His lips were warm against yours, his hands finding your waist instinctively as he kissed you back. The tension between you eased, if only slightly, and for a moment, the world outside the quarters faded away.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you, In-ho. Don’t let him make me doubt that.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his gaze steady as he nodded. “I won’t,” he promised.

____

The VIP room you knew all too well was cloaked in dim, golden light, the shadows pooling in the corners like secrets waiting to be uncovered. The faint scent of polished wood and aged leather hung in the air, mingling with the warmth of the velvet couches arranged strategically around the room. It was quiet, the stillness almost oppressive, but it wouldn’t be for long. In less than ten minutes, the masked men—the VIPs—would arrive, and the space would come alive with laughter, conversation, and veiled threats disguised as casual remarks.

You and In-ho had worked yourselves to the bone ensuring every detail was flawless. The perfection demanded by the VIPs wasn’t just expected—it was required. Smoothing a gloved hand over the rich burgundy velvet of one of the couches, you allowed yourself a small, private smile. A memory flickered to life, unbidden—the image of your father reclining comfortably in that very spot, a drink in hand, his mask gleaming under the chandelier light. The memory warmed you, though only for a moment. You made a mental note to check on him later, to ensure he was still enjoying himself in his travels.

The sound of the door opening snapped you back to the present, and you turned to see the masked servants filing in. Their uniforms were pristine, their movements perfectly coordinated, and their masks—a blend of gold and black—reflected the room’s soft light. They waited silently for your direction, and you moved into action, gesturing toward the tables and stations.

“Ensure every glass is filled to the brim, not a drop less,” you instructed, your voice calm but firm. “And check your uniforms again—there’s no room for error tonight.”

The servants moved with precision, adjusting glasses, smoothing tablecloths, and arranging decanters of fine liquor in neat, symmetrical rows. You moved among them, inspecting every detail, every corner, ensuring nothing was out of place. Each glass glinted like crystal fire under the soft glow of the chandelier, and every surface gleamed as though it had been polished a thousand times over.

You were so engrossed in the process, so focused on achieving perfection, that you didn’t hear the faint creak of footsteps descending the grand staircase just outside the room. Nor did you register the growing presence behind you until a voice—a voice you recognized all too well—cut through the quiet like a blade.

“If it isn’t the queen herself,” the voice drawled, smooth and laced with a dangerous edge.

Your heart jolted, the sound sending a shiver down your spine and freezing you in place for half a beat. The blood in your veins turned cold, yet heat rushed to your face at the same time. Slowly, you turned, your gaze landing on the source of the voice.

Hiram.

He stood at the base of the staircase, dressed in an immaculate suit that seemed to glow under the dim light. The white fabric hugged his tall, built frame perfectly, and his familiar, disarming smile stretched across his face. His fawn-colored hair gleamed, every strand meticulously styled, but it was his piercing blue eyes that held your attention from beneath the mask. They sparkled with a dangerous kind of amusement, as though he already knew every thought running through your mind.

Behind him, the remaining VIPs entered the room, their masks gleaming in the light as they took in the space with quiet approval. Each of them exuded an aura of power and wealth, their silence more imposing than any words they might speak. And there, at the edge of the group, stood In-ho, his familiar mask hiding any hint of emotion. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid, but you knew him well enough to sense the tension in the way he held himself.

“Ah, there you are,” Hiram said, stepping closer, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the floor. “You’ve outdone yourself, truly. This room is a masterpiece.” His voice was honeyed, charming, but there was a sharpness beneath it that made you uneasy.

“Thank you,” you replied evenly, forcing your voice to remain steady. You kept your expression composed, your hands clasped in front of you as he approached. “We aim to please.”

Hiram’s smile widened, his gaze flicking briefly to In-ho before returning to you. “And please, you certainly do.”

You resisted the urge to bristle under his stare, the weight of it lingering on you longer than it should have. Behind Hiram, one of the other VIPs chuckled quietly, their masked face tilted slightly toward you as though sharing in some unspoken joke.

In-ho stepped forward then, his imposing presence cutting through the tension like a knife. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. The evening will begin shortly.”

The VIPs nodded, moving toward the velvet couches, their conversation low and indistinct as they settled into their seats. Hiram, however, lingered, his sharp blue eyes studying you as if he were trying to unravel a mystery.

“Relax,” he said softly, his voice dropping just enough so only you could hear. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on those lovely shoulders.”

You met his gaze, your own eyes narrowing slightly as you replied, “Someone has to ensure things run smoothly.”

Hiram chuckled, the sound rich and deep, as he took a deliberate step back. “Of course. But don’t forget to enjoy the fruits of your labor."

The words dripped with something you couldn’t quite place—mockery, admiration, or perhaps a mix of both. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel, joining the others on the couches.

In-ho was beside you in an instant, his hand brushing yours briefly before falling to his side. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, his voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded, though the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased. “I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a small smile.

In-ho’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he straightened, his attention shifting back to the VIPs. The room was filling with quiet chatter and the faint clink of glasses, but your mind was elsewhere, stuck on the unnerving familiarity of Hiram’s words.

"You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world."

Perhaps, in some ways, he wasn’t wrong.

_________________

The first two games had gone off without a hitch, leaving the VIPs exceptionally entertained. Their laughter, applause, and murmurs of satisfaction still echoed faintly in your mind as you lay in bed. It had been a long, grueling day of keeping up appearances—avoiding Hiram’s pointed stares, catering to the demands of the VIPs, and maintaining your composure as the deadly spectacle unfolded before their masked faces.

Now, in the quiet sanctuary of your quarters, the exhaustion weighed heavily on you. Your freshly showered skin was cool against the soft sheets, and the faint scent of In-ho’s cologne lingered in the oversized shirt of his you’d slipped into. The fabric draped loosely over your body, the hem brushing against your thighs as you lay on your side, your back to the door.

The faint click of the door opening startled you, making your heart leap. You sat up quickly, the sheets pooling at your waist, only to relax when your eyes met In-ho’s. His dark eyes held a tired warmth, his posture slightly slouched as he closed the door behind him.

“How’d today go?” you asked softly, watching as he moved toward the bed. His black mask was gone now, leaving his sharp, handsome features fully exposed. He didn’t answer right away, instead sitting at the edge of the bed beside you.

His fingers reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before his palm rested gently against your cheek. The touch was grounding, comforting, and his thumb brushed your skin in a slow, deliberate motion.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” he said, his voice low, tinged with concern.

You angled your head, your brows knitting slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he murmured, his tone dropping further as his gaze fixed on you, “is Hiram going to be a problem?”

The question caught you off guard, though it shouldn’t have. You knew In-ho had noticed Hiram’s lingering glances and overly familiar tone earlier in the day. His attention to detail rarely missed anything.

You shook your head quickly, offering a small, reassuring smile. “He’s just a flirt, nothing more,” you said lightly, though the faint tension in your voice didn’t go unnoticed.

In-ho didn’t look convinced. He sighed deeply, leaning into your shoulder and pressing his forehead against it. The weight of him was grounding, though you could feel the tension radiating from his body.

“Flirt or not,” he said, his voice muffled against your shoulder, “If he says anything to you, anything at all, you tell me," he said, his voice low but filled with unmistakable authority. “I don’t care if it seems harmless. I need to know.”

You snorted softly, your lips curving into a small smile as you reached up to run your fingers through his hair. “You worry too much,” you teased, though your heart fluttered at the protective edge in his voice.

He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours as a faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Take a shower with me,” he said suddenly, his tone lighter now but still carrying that low, intimate warmth that always seemed to pull you in.

You laughed softly, leaning back slightly and giving him a playful look. “You’re about 15 minutes too late, baby,” you said, that name rarely used by either of you, gesturing to your damp hair as proof.

His grin widened, the weariness in his expression giving way to something more mischievous. “Take another one,” he countered, his tone smooth, laced with that teasing charm he rarely let others see.

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping your lips as he leaned closer, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. His fingers curled gently against your skin as his forehead brushed yours, the warmth of him filling the small space between you.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured, your voice soft but tinged with affection as your lips hovered just shy of his.

“For you?” he replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his breath warm against your skin. “Always.”

Before you could respond, he pressed his lips to yours in a slow kiss. It deepened quickly, his hand tightening against the nape of your neck as he pulled you closer. The stress of the day melted away in his touch, replaced by the warmth and safety you always felt in his presence.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So? Another shower?”

You let out a breathy laugh, playfully nudging him. “Fine, but only if you carry me there,” you teased, though the sparkle in your eyes betrayed how much you loved the idea of spending just a little more time wrapped up in him.

He grinned fully now, the rare sight lighting up his face as he stood, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. You gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carried you toward the bathroom, the sound of your laughter filling the once-quiet room.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, his tone softer now, as though the words were meant only for you.

Making it through the door, In-ho carries you in the shower, slamming you against the marble wall of the shower. You moan from the pain radiating in your back and fumble for the nozzle, turning on the water. As it pours down, In-ho holds you to him.

Pulling his soaked black shirt off, you blindly throw it. "God I've missed these," In-ho says with need, cupping your breasts and squeezing. You arch into the sensation as he kisses every square inch of you.

Your breaths are cut short, "this..is this our stress relief?" You moan the question. It was pathetic, but you didn't care as the warm water dripped down your bare body. His tongue slips into your mouth, dominating with control. You break from him, "God, fuck me," you pleaded, as you removed his belt, pushing his jeans to the wet floor.

Lost in the embrace, in the all-consuming passion that bound you together, the world outside ceased to exist. Every kiss was a firebrand against your skin, every touch igniting nerves you didn’t know could spark. Time seemed to slow, the rhythm of your movements the only measure of its passing, as if the universe itself had paused to witness your union.

The warmth of his breath fanned against your neck, mingling with the heat between your bodies. His hands gripped you with a reverence that bordered on desperation, fingers pressing into your skin as though he were afraid to let go, afraid you might slip away. The steady, powerful rhythm of each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your senses heightening until every sound, every sensation, became sharper, more vivid.

The soft gasps and murmurs escaping your lips seemed to echo in the room, blending with the faint trickle of water from the showerhead above. Droplets clung to your skin, sliding slowly over the curve of your back, over the ridges of his muscles, before pooling in the space between your entwined bodies. Each droplet caught the faint golden light of the room, glistening like tiny stars before being lost in the heat of your connection.

Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer, and he obliged, his lips trailing along your jaw before capturing yours again in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. The taste of him, the heat of his body against yours, was intoxicating. You couldn’t get enough.

But beyond the veil of your bliss, the door to your quarters eased open, silent and deliberate, the faintest shift of air the only sign of intrusion. Footsteps, so soft they barely disturbed the stillness, crept closer, slow and calculated, each one measured to avoid detection.

In the shadows, just beyond the faint pool of golden light spilling from the bedside lamp, he stood.

Hiram’s figure was a ghost against the darkness, his white suit blending almost unnaturally into the muted glow. His sharp blue eyes gleamed, watching you with a cold, predatory focus that made the air seem heavier. His expression wasn’t one of embarrassment or even intrigue—it was something far more sinister. His lips curled into a faint smirk, his head tilting slightly as he took in the scene before him with unnerving calm, as if committing every detail to memory.

Your laughter, your whispered name on In-ho’s lips, the vulnerable intimacy you thought was private—it all played out before Hiram like a stage performance crafted solely for his amusement.

But this wasn’t idle curiosity.

As his piercing gaze flicked between you and In-ho, something darker flickered in his eyes—disorder, malice, and the unmistakable spark of opportunity. He stood motionless, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, as though savoring the power of his invisible presence, feeding off the unknowing vulnerability of the two of you.

He leaned slightly against the doorframe, his smirk widening as his thoughts grew darker. Plans began to unfurl in his mind—delicate threads of manipulation, sabotage, and ruin. He could already see the cracks he could exploit, the fault lines he could widen until everything you’d built together came crashing down.

This wasn’t just about jealousy or lust. It was about power. Hiram wasn’t simply watching—he was plotting. He would take this moment, this private, unguarded act, and twist it into a weapon. A scandal. A weakness. A game.

The soft rustle of fabric, the faint creak of a floorboard—it all went unnoticed by you as you clung to In-ho, lost in the safety and warmth of each other.

Hiram’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, his smirk hardening into something far more chilling. His blue eyes burned with quiet intent as he silently turned and slipped back into the darkness of the hallway, the door closing behind him with the faintest click.

You didn’t notice.

And that was the most unsettling part. You didn’t feel the weight of his presence, the cold void left in his wake. You didn’t hear the quiet whisper of a plan already forming.

But you would. Soon enough.

__________

The third game was well underway, the tension in the air palpable as you stood near the edge of the VIP room, surveying the space with sharp eyes. Each masked guest lounged on the velvet couches, their low murmurs punctuated by bursts of laughter or clinks of crystal glasses. On the wide screen across the room, the game unfolded with brutal precision, but your focus wasn’t on the chaos playing out there—it was on the subtle undercurrents within this room.

In-ho had left an hour ago, his presence a void you felt acutely. Before he went, he’d reminded you, in no uncertain terms, to tell him if Hiram stepped out of line. You’d nodded, trying to ignore the growing knot in your chest. Now, as you scanned the room, your eyes occasionally drifted to where he had been, wishing you could reach out and touch his mask for reassurance, to feel connected to him, even from afar.

But Hiram’s gaze was a far more suffocating presence. You could feel it, sharp and invasive, like a cold knife against your skin. It followed you relentlessly, even when you weren’t looking. His attention wasn’t subtle or casual—it was deliberate, calculated, and infuriating.

You swallowed the anger threatening to bubble over. By now, the thought of him made your blood boil, and if you were being honest with yourself, the idea of sinking a blade into his throat was becoming alarmingly tempting.

The need to escape the room became overwhelming. Grabbing an empty decanter from a nearby table, you excused yourself, slipping through the side door toward the supply closet.

The closet was dimly lit, shelves lined with bottles of every expensive liquor imaginable. The faint scent of aged whiskey and cleaning supplies hung in the air, and for a fleeting moment, you wished you weren’t working. A shot—or two—might have eased the tension twisting in your chest.

You reached for a bottle of vodka, the smooth glass cool against your gloved fingers, when a voice broke the silence.

“Thinking of taking a break?”

The words came from behind you, startling you so badly you slammed into the shelf behind you, bottles rattling ominously at the impact.

You spun around to find Hiram standing in the doorway, his white suit glowing faintly under the dim light. He let out a deep, belly laugh, his voice rich with amusement at your discomfort.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, though the gleam in his sharp blue eyes suggested otherwise.

Your pulse quickened, and you fought to keep your composure as you smoothed out your uniform. “You should get back to the game,” you said curtly, your voice steady despite the tension curling in your stomach.

Hiram shrugged nonchalantly, stepping further into the cramped space. “I’ve grown bored,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something darker. “I’d much rather spend my time with you.”

He moved closer, and instinctively, you straightened your spine, forcing yourself to stand tall. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said, his voice lowering as he loomed over you.

You stiffened as your back pressed against the cold metal of the shelf. The tight quarters made it impossible to step away. “Whatever it is, I can’t accept,” you said quickly, turning to grab the bottle of vodka and making to leave.

Before you could take a step, his hand clamped down on your shoulder, his grip rough and unyielding as he spun you back around to face him.

Pain shot through your shoulder, and your heart jumped to your throat as you fought to keep the yelp threatening to escape locked behind your lips. “Please let go of me,” you said, your voice measured but trembling slightly at the edges.

Instead of releasing you, his other hand shot out, gripping your jaw tightly. His fingers dug into your skin, and in one swift motion, he ripped your mask off, letting it fall to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Your breath hitched, your wide, eyes now fully exposed to him. The faint sheen of fear in them must have pleased him because he scoffed, his lips curling into a twisted smirk.

“Don’t be so afraid,” he said mockingly, his voice dripping with condescension. His thumb brushed along your cheek, a touch that was slow and deliberate, as if savoring your discomfort.

You flinched, your body stiffening under his touch, but he didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting over your face as his sharp blue eyes bore into yours.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he murmured, his tone soft but laced with something predatory. His finger traced the line of your jaw, trailing down to your chin as though he were studying a prize. “A shame someone like you is wasted on someone like him.”

The implication in his words made your stomach churn, and you clenched your fists at your sides, fighting the urge to lash out.

“Hiram,” you said sharply, your voice stronger now despite the fear gripping your chest. “Let. Me. Go.”

You clenched your jaw, your hand curling into a fist at your side, trying to retain any shred of composure. “This isn’t professional,” you barked, the words coming out sharper than you intended, the slight tremor in your voice betraying your rising unease.

Hiram’s grin widened, his expression darkening as he leaned in closer. His breath was warm against your face, almost too close. “You know what isn’t professional, Y/N?” His voice dropped lower, laced with venom.

“Fucking your boss in front of a VIP. You don’t think I saw that little show? How wet you were, how you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your blood running cold as the reality of what he was saying sank in. The realization hit you like a slap across the face, and you swallowed, the bile in your throat rising. “What are you implying?” you asked, though you already knew.

His grin flashed wider, sharper now, like a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, I think you already know, sweetheart.” He leaned back, taking in your reaction with the kind of satisfaction that made your stomach turn. “So, here’s my proposition.”

You blinked, frozen in place as he reached for a bottle of whiskey on the shelf beside him, his movements slow and deliberate as he took a long swig. The harsh liquid seemed to ignite something in his eyes, the edges of his grin curling with malice.

“The Original Game Maker isn’t happy,” Hiram continued, his voice dripping with sweet, poisonous calm. “He thinks the games have gotten too soft. Too... predictable. He thinks loyalties are getting a little too murky. And we can’t have that, can we?” He stepped closer again, his eyes locked onto yours with a predatory intensity. “No, no, no. We need to shake things up.”

Your breath caught in your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily between you. You could feel the air thickening, suffocating you as his words began to sink deeper into your mind, wrapping around your thoughts like a vice.

He took another swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth casually with the back of his hand before setting it down on the shelf with a soft clink. “In my opinion, In-ho’s loyalties have drifted,” he said, his voice carrying an unsettling edge. “To you, Y/N. And while that’s... charming, I think it’s time he’s reminded of the consequences of that kind of weakness.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the realization of what he was suggesting sending a chill through your entire body. “What are you talking about?” you whispered, but even as the words left your mouth, you already knew the answer.

Hiram’s eyes gleamed as he straightened, the playful malice in his expression growing more serious, more calculating. “So here’s whats going to happen. On behalf of the original game maker's wish,” he said, the weight of his words pressing against you like a physical force. “You will enter the games as a player. And In-ho will finally show his true colors. If he interferes with the game for you? His life will come to a tragic end. But if you allow fate to decide…” His voice trailed off, but the dark promise hung in the air, suffocating, undeniable.

The words were poison, each syllable crawling under your skin like an infection, burning through your chest. Your mind raced, trying to piece together what he was saying, what he was offering—and you hated yourself for feeling a flicker of hesitation, as if the very idea of it wasn’t completely out of reach.

Hiram’s grin deepened, his eyes glinting with amusement as he read the shock and fear in your face. “You both come out alive, or... you know the rest. Think of it as a test for In-ho. Will he be loyal to the games, or loyal to you?” His voice was thick with implication, like a contract being signed in blood.

The room felt smaller now. The air, once thick with the hum of tension, now felt suffocating, as if the walls were closing in around you. You could feel the weight of Hiram’s gaze on you, each word landing like a hammer to your chest, each suggestion a chain tightening around your throat.

Hiram took a final sip from the bottle, his eyes never leaving yours as he tilted his head. “Think hard in your remaining time with him” he said softly, his voice almost a purr. “Let’s see how far you’re willing to go for him and him...for you.”

Your mind reeled. The idea of willingly stepping into the game—becoming a part of it, in it—was a nightmare, but the alternative... The alternative was more terrifying than you could bear. The question was no longer just about survival, it was about loyalty, power, betrayal. And worst of all, the deadly twist of fate that Hiram was dangling in front of you.

______

The conference room was cloaked in an overbearing darkness, the only sound the relentless ticking of the clock mounted on the wall behind you. The air was thick, weighted by a silence that felt intentional, like a predator stalking its prey. You sat at the head of the long, polished table, your gloved fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the arm of the chair. The day was crawling toward its end, but every second felt like an eternity. All you could think about was her—y/n—waiting for you. The ache to return to her side burned like a brand, her presence the only thing that kept you grounded amidst the chaos.

But you couldn’t leave. Not yet. The Original Game Maker had summoned you here without warning, his message sparse and cryptic. No explanation. No agenda. Just an order—a command you couldn’t refuse. Not from him. The mere fact that he had decided to step out of his self-imposed obscurity and into the shadows of the games again was unsettling enough. He’d spent years distancing himself from this bloodstained spectacle, content to let others pull the strings. But now, his sudden interest in this season felt like a storm gathering on the horizon—quiet but ominous.

You shifted in your chair, stifling the urge to scoff aloud. The memory of his past actions clawed at the edges of your mind: the slaughter of 456 lives. Brutal. Senseless. A massacre that spat in the face of the games’ twisted purpose. You could still sense the blood-soaked floors, feel the echoes of screams that lingered long after the last body fell. No one had dared to replicate his methods since—how could they? It was chaos for the sake of chaos, devoid of strategy or control.

You’d told y/n that story once, not to frighten her but to warn her. To keep her as far from him as possible. The man was a powder keg, volatile and devoid of humanity. He lacked empathy. He lacked reason. And yet, here he was, demanding your presence like some dark god who had finally grown bored of his own indifference.

Your jaw tightened beneath the mask as you glanced at the door. He was late—of course, he was late—but the weight of his impending arrival pressed down on you like an iron shroud. You couldn’t ignore the unease simmering beneath your skin, a faint prickle of suspicion that refused to be silenced. Still, you reminded yourself: I am in control. I am in charge.

But it wasn’t just about you. It never was. Y/n was your equal, your partner in your blood-drenched kingdom. You trusted her implicitly, would bow to her without hesitation if she asked. She gave you purpose, kept you tethered. The thought of her—her strength, her clarity—gave you the resolve to face whatever bombardment was about to walk through that door.

And yet, as the ticking clock marked each passing second, the unease lingered.

The Original Game Maker had returned, and whatever he wanted, you knew it wasn’t good.

The door clicked shut behind his towering figure, the sound reverberating through the room like a judge’s gavel. He stood there for a moment, letting the oppressive silence weigh heavier, his presence filling the darkened space. A slow, chilling grin crept across his face, a predatory curve that set your nerves on edge. In his hands, he clutched a thick binder, pressed against his chest like a weapon he was ready to unsheathe. Without a word, he flung it onto the table with a loud thud, the pages splaying slightly from the force.

He moved toward the chair beside you, the leather groaning as he sank into it, every motion deliberate and oozing authority. “Lose the mask, In-ho,” he said, his voice a low, rasping command that carried an edge of disdain. “We’re far beyond formalities.”

You hesitated for only a moment before obeying, reaching up to remove the mask that had become a part of you, placing it carefully on the table’s cold surface. The air felt sharper against your face, the weight of his gaze cutting deeper now that your shield was gone.

“I’m not happy, In-ho.” His words were clipped, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. He jabbed a finger toward the binder, his meaning clear.

You flipped open the cover, the faint warmth of freshly printed pages brushing against your fingertips. One by one, you turned the sheets, each page a detailed report of the previous games you had overseen. Numbers, outcomes, summaries of lives lost in your carefully constructed arenas. The data stared back at you like an accusation, but you refused to flinch.

Finally, you looked up at him, unshaken but curious. “Sir?”

He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as if you had already failed some unspoken test. “Your games are too feeble,” he spat, his lips curling into a sneer. “Too slow. The players… they aren’t drowning in fear. They aren’t desperate enough, In-ho. They aren’t pushed to the brink, clawing at each other like animals, fighting for their very existence.”

You folded your gloved hands atop the table, your voice calm but laced with steel. “I oversee and operate games with order, games that have purpose. Every death is calculated. Every sacrifice has meaning.”

He scoffed, the sound cutting through the room like a blade. “And that, In-ho, is precisely the problem.” He leaned forward now, his elbows resting on the table as his dark, piercing eyes bore into yours. “I created these games to strip humanity down to its raw, ugly core. To show the world what we truly are when the veneer of civility is ripped away. People will kill, not because they need to, but because they want to. For the thrill. For dominance. For the sake of blood itself.”

His words hung in the air, a festering poison that seeped into the room. You felt the tension coil tighter in your chest, but your expression remained unreadable.

“These aren’t just games to you,” you said slowly, the weight of realization settling like a stone in your stomach. “They’re a mirror. A reflection of your own madness.”

His grin widened, a twisted caricature of delight. “Perhaps, In-ho. But madness, after all, is the truest form of humanity.”

The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in as his words lingered, daring you to challenge him further. But this was a game of its own, and you couldn’t afford to lose.

"Anyway," he said, his voice dripping with mock casualness, "that’s not my only problem. Flip to page 457."

Your fingers moved instinctively, even as dread clawed at the edges of your mind. The crisp sound of pages turning echoed in the silent room, the numbers blurring until you stopped at the specified page. Your breath caught, the blood in your veins turning cold as you stared at the glossy photographs staring back at you.

It was you. With her. Y/n. Captured in the most vulnerable, intimate moments of your life, taken just nights ago. Her smile, your hand tangled in her hair, the undeniable tenderness etched into both your faces—it was all there, exposed. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but outwardly, you forced your body to remain still, to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The Game Maker leaned back, a predator savoring his prey. “Your loyalties are slipping,” he said, his tone eerily calm. “Although, deep down, in different circumstances, I wouldn’t blame you. She truly is lovely.” His gaze flicked to the photographs as if admiring a piece of art. “I had no issue with her presence here. Not at first. But then I saw it—this... softness. That flickering humanity in your eyes. The same brutality I once admired in you, the kind that reminded me of myself when I was younger—it’s fading.”

You leaned back in your chair, fingers curling into fists beneath the table. “Get to the point,” you said, your voice even but cold.

The Game Maker chuckled, a low, sinister sound that filled the room like smoke. “Ah, yes, the point.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his grin widening. “She’s your purpose, isn’t she? The reason you’re clawing your way back to humanity. The key to unlocking the man you used to be before your wife passed.”

Your jaw clenched at the mention of her, a sharp, invisible blade twisting deep in your chest. But you didn’t speak. You wouldn’t give him the joy of seeing how deeply his words cut.

“And you can see how that is... problematic for me, can’t you?” he continued, his voice softening, almost feigning sympathy. “Because while y/n may be important to you, these games are important to me. More so, I’d argue.” He tilted his head, studying you like a specimen under glass. “I need you to prove where your loyalty truly lies. With her? Or with the games I built you to lead.”

Your voice was steady, though each word felt like pushing against a rising tide. “How?”

The grin that spread across his face was sharp and wicked, a hunter reveling in its kill. “You’ll craft your own two day games,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Similar to mine. You will design them yourself, and you will not interfere. No leniency. No hesitation. No mercy. Only barbarity. If you succeed—if you prove to me that the In-ho I molded hasn’t been lost—I’ll bite my tongue. I’ll let you and her continue this... whatever this is.”

He paused, his grin darkening. “But if you fail?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Then you can kiss everything you know and love goodbye. Including her.”

Your silence was the only response, though your teeth clenched so hard you thought they might crack.

The Game Maker stood, his movements languid, confident. He adjusted his coat as he moved toward the door, his boots thudding against the floor with an almost mocking rhythm. With one hand on the door, he turned back, his shadow stretching across the room.

“And, In-ho?” His voice carried a sharp edge of finality. “If you think this doesn’t hurt me, you’re wrong. I made you what you are, molded you into something extraordinary. Watching you falter now is like watching a masterpiece crack and crumble.” His eyes narrowed. “So I suggest you take my words with caution and do exactly what you’re told.”

The door closed behind him with a deafening noise, leaving you alone with the photos, the order hanging over your head like a guillotine, and the faint echo of his parting words sinking into your chest like a weight you could hardly bear.

_____________

You’d intended to march straight to In-ho’s office, fury blazing in your chest like an inferno. Hiram had crossed the line, and you were done letting his smarmy arrogance slide. You were going to tell In-ho everything, let him deal with the fool, and watch Hiram’s smirk turn to panic when he realized he wouldn’t see sunrise.

But the third game had ended, leaving the viewing room steeped in gloaming and silence, the air thick with the weight of death. The tension followed you as you ascended the winding staircase, each step bringing you closer to your quarters—and to In-ho.

Then, hands gripped your waist from behind, yanking you backward into a broad chest. The move was quick, practiced. Adrenaline surged, and before you could even think, your hand shot to your blade. With a fluid motion, you drove the weapon into your attacker’s hip, twisting it for good measure.

A sharp grunt of pain followed as the hands released you, and you spun on your heel, ready to strike again. The dim hallway lights revealed Hiram staggering back, clutching his side where blood was already staining his suit. Behind him, three of his VIP cronies loomed, their expensive outfits hiding bulky frames and concealed weapons.

You gripped the blade tighter, your other hand slipping behind your back to retrieve your second knife. “Really, Hiram?” you spat, your voice low and venomous. “You need your little gang to take down one woman? That’s just pathetic.”

Hiram straightened, his breath coming in short, pained bursts as he yanked the knife from his hip with a hiss. He tossed it to the floor with a metallic clang, his lip curling into a humorless smile. “Does In-ho not trust you enough to give you a gun? Or does he like to keep his little pet on a leash?”

The insult barely registered. You were already stepping into a defensive stance, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension building in your muscles. The blade in your hand glinted as you twirled it with ease, keeping your focus sharp. “Whatever it is you think you’re trying to do,” you said, your tone laced with poison, “why don’t you stop wasting my time and get on with it?”

Hiram’s grin twisted into something darker as he took a step forward. The other VIPs followed his lead, spreading out to form a circle around you, their movements slow and deliberate. They were armed, you could see the outlines of holsters under their tailored suits, but none of them drew yet. No, they wanted to play with their prey first.

You pivoted slowly, keeping your head on a swivel, your eyes darting between each man as they tightened the circle. Your heart hammered in your chest, but your grip remained steady. If they thought cornering you would make you crumble, they were in for a rude awakening.

“You’re feisty,” Hiram said, his tone dripping with condescension as he gestured to his men. “But that’s going to be a problem, y/n. You see, In-ho might tolerate your little antics, but I don’t. And after tonight, you’ll wish you had kept that knife to yourself.”

“You talk too much,” you shot back, your lips curling into a defiant smirk. Your pulse roared in your ears, but outwardly, you stayed calm, shifting your weight subtly to prepare for the first strike. “All this bluster, and yet here you are, bleeding like a stuck pig. So, which one of you is going to make the first move? Or do you need to huddle and decide?”

The taunt worked. One of the VIPs lunged, his hand reaching for your arm. You ducked low, sidestepping with practiced ease and slicing at his side as you went. Blood splattered on your face, in your hair and on your suit. He let out a guttural cry, stumbling to the floor, dead, and the circle tightened as the others moved in.

The fight had begun, and you knew this wasn’t going to be clean. But you weren’t about to go down without a fight.

One down, you thought as another stepped forward to grab you. A small doubt in your mind clanged through you. It made you wonder why they hadn't used their guns to subdue you at this point, until you remembered Hiram's proposition. They weren't trying to kill you. They were trying to capture you and you'd be damned if they were to succeed.

A rough hand shot out, tangling in your hair and yanking you backward with brutal force. Pain radiated from your scalp as your body arched against the pull, and another set of hands clamped down on your arms like iron shackles, trying to restrain you.

You weren’t about to fail.

Not here.

Not now.

With a feral growl, you twisted against the grip, sinking your teeth into the thick forearm of the larger man restraining you. His flesh tore under the pressure, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood flooded your mouth. He roared in pain, his grip faltering as he stumbled back, clutching his arm. You spit the torn skin and blood back in his face, your eyes blazing as you drove a powerful kick to the side of his head. The blow landed with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling to the floor in a heap.

But there was no time to celebrate. The second man still had your arms, his grip relentless. You twisted violently, your muscles screaming with the effort, but he held firm. Desperation flared, and you did the only thing you could—threw your head back with everything you had.

Your skull connected with his nose in a sickening crunch, and his grip loosened just enough. A guttural curse escaped him as he staggered, blood pouring from his shattered nose. You turned sharply, your fist already swinging toward him, but you didn’t get the chance to finish.

A sudden, blinding pain exploded across your cheek, cutting through your focus like a blade. The force of the impact sent you crumpling to your knees, the world tilting as you gasped for breath. A searing, numbing ache spread from your face to your jaw, and you tasted blood pooling in your mouth. Spitting it onto the cold floor, you tried to steady yourself, blinking to clear the haze of pain.

When your vision sharpened, your gaze locked onto Hiram standing over you, his chest heaving with exertion, a pair of brass knuckles glinting in the dim light. Blood from his earlier wound had soaked through his suit, but it didn’t seem to slow him. He tilted his head, a breathless, wicked laugh spilling from his lips as he took in your state.

"Look at you," he sneered, flexing his fingers in the brass knuckles. "All that fire... and yet here you are. On your knees. Just where you belong."

Your jaw clenched, the copper tang of your own blood still thick in your mouth. Pain radiated from your cheek, but you refused to look defeated. Instead, you raised your head, locking eyes with him, your fury burning brighter than ever.

With that, you took a hit to the head from the bottom of his shoe, no doubt filled with steel and slipped into darkness. The final thing you heard...

Shes under.  

Bringing her to you now.

______

The pain hit like a lightning strike the moment you tried to rub your eyes, a sharp, blinding agony that tore a raw scream from your throat. Your eyelids snapped open, and the world around you blurred in streaks of dim light and shadow.

"Try not to move," a worn, weathered voice suggested, calm but firm.

Your gaze darted to the side, your breath hitching as you took in the figure beside you. An elderly woman sat hunched over, her face lined with the etchings of time and hardship. In her gnarled hands, she held a water bottle and strips of frayed fabric, soaked in blood and grime. Her touch was careful but insistent as she dabbed at the stinging wound above your brow, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the sour tang of sweat.

You pushed her hand away abruptly, the surge of adrenaline drowning out the pain. Ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in your muscles, you forced yourself upright, the threadbare blanket sliding from your shoulders to the cold, unforgiving floor.

Fragments of memory surged forward, crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Hiram.

The proposition.

In-ho.

Your chest tightened as reality snapped into focus. The events blurred, but one thing was certain—you were in danger, and so was he.

Your eyes darted around, taking in the unfamiliar room. The space was cavernous, yet suffocating, the air damp and heavy with despair. Rows of narrow, metal bunk beds stretched into the shadows, their frames rusted and creaking. The dim lighting overhead cast flickering pools of orange light that barely pierced the darkness. This wasn't the player's quarters you knew—this was something else. Something worse.

The uniforms confirmed it. You looked down at yourself, the tight black fabric clinging to your legs, a stark contrast to the garish jumpsuits the players usually wore. A sleek, fitted black jacket covered your upper body, the material sturdy yet restrictive. It felt like a shroud, as if someone had stripped you of your identity and replaced it with this ominous second skin.

The cold metal of the platform under your feet sent a shiver up your spine, but rage burned hotter. Without hesitation, you leapt from the upper level, landing with a thud on the grated floor below. Your knees buckled slightly at the impact, but you straightened, the fury in your veins propelling you forward.

Your target was clear: the iron door at the far end of the dormitory. It loomed like a fortress wall, a cold, unyielding barrier between you and freedom. You surged toward it, your fists slamming against the surface with all the force you could muster.

"Hiram!" you bellowed, your voice raw and echoing through the empty dormitory. "You motherfucker, let me out!"

Your knuckles burned as you pounded the door, the metal refusing to give even the faintest hint of weakness. Desperation clawed at your throat as you turned your gaze upward, scanning the shadows until your eyes locked onto the cold, unfeeling lens of a surveillance camera.

"You hear me, Hiram? Let me out!" you roared, your voice cracking under the weight of your panic. The silence that followed was deafening, a void that only heightened your racing thoughts.

Where was In-ho? Was he all right? Did he even know what had happened? Or was he—

No. You couldn't finish the thought. Your fists fell to your sides, trembling as rage and fear churned in your chest.

The camera blinked once, its small red light a cruel reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching—and enjoying—your descent into chaos.

If Hiram and the Game Maker wanted you to play, then fine. Game on.

Your fists dropped from the iron door, bloodied and raw, but you didn't care. The sting in your knuckles, the ache in your muscles—none of it mattered now. The fear that had momentarily threatened to consume you hardened into something sharper, deadlier. It wasn't panic anymore. It was resolve.

Your chest rose and fell with measured breaths as you locked eyes with the blinking red light of the surveillance camera. You knew they were watching. You wanted them to watch. Let them see what they'd done.

The corners of your lips curled into a dangerous smirk, blood staining your teeth. "You want a player?" you growled, your voice low and venomous, dripping with challenge. "You've got one."

__________

You cursed her name under your breath, the syllables bitter as they scraped against your tongue. On the screen, she pounded on the iron door, relentless, her voice cutting through the static with raw determination. She wouldn't back down. You knew her better than that. The sound of his name spilling from her lips was a dagger in your chest. It was enough.

With a flick of your wrist, the glass of liquor left your hand, shattering against the sink with a piercing crash. You barely registered the shards as they scattered across the counter, your focus already shifting. Your movements were sharp, deliberate, as you descended the staircase, each step a promise of retribution.

He didn't hear you coming. Hiram was sprawled across his lavish couch, a smug picture of decadence. You didn't bother with pleasantries. Your gloved hand clenched his fawn-colored hair, yanking him off the cushions with a violent pull. The startled yelp he let out was satisfying, but it wasn't enough. You flung him to the floor like garbage, the thud of his body echoing through the room.

Hiram laughed—low, guttural, unhinged. The sound coiled around your nerves, igniting your fury. You drew your pistol, the weight of it steady in your grasp, and aimed it directly at his smirking face.

"Ah, ah," he rasped, blood already pooling at his split lip. "You pull that trigger, and the game maker will have her head on a silver platter." His smile widened, grotesque and mocking, and it churned your stomach.

Your boot connected with his nose before he could say another word. The sickening crunch was music to your ears. Hiram's howl was guttural, primal, as he clutched his face, blood streaming between his fingers. You crouched down beside him, your shadow engulfing his trembling frame.

The pistol pressed hard beneath his chin, the cold metal biting into his skin. His ragged breaths came in sharp, shallow bursts as his gaze darted between your eyes and the barrel.

"You fucking touch her?" Your voice was low, venomous, a deadly promise wrapped in steel.

Hiram gasped, his chest heaving. Despite the blood and pain contorting his features, he managed to smirk. "Oh, come on, In-ho. You think so little of me?"

The pistol dug deeper, forcing his head back against the floor.

"Maybe," Hiram hissed, his teeth bared. "Maybe I had my way with her before I put her under."

White-hot rage exploded in your veins. Your fist crashed into his face again, another brutal blow to his already mangled nose. His scream ripped through the room as his head snapped back, blood splattering the floor like a grotesque painting.

"Enough."

The voice thundered from above, cutting through the room like a blade. Your head snapped up, the adrenaline in your veins freezing for a moment as you caught sight of the Game Maker. He stood at the top of the staircase, his silhouette sharp against the dim light behind him, one hand lazily resting on the railing. His expression was unreadable, but his commanding presence demanded obedience.

"Get off him, In-ho," he ordered, his tone icy, yet calm. "He only obeyed orders."

Your jaw clenched, teeth grinding as you glanced down at Hiram's bloodied, quivering form. His chest rose and fell in erratic gasps, his face a grotesque mess of swelling and crimson streaks. You tightened your grip on the pistol for a fraction of a second before exhaling sharply through your nose. Slowly, you pulled the barrel away from his clammy forehead, the imprint of the muzzle leaving a faint, circular mark on his skin.

Straightening, you forced the anger to settle, though your voice betrayed the simmering fury within. "This wasn't part of the deal."

The Game Maker shrugged nonchalantly, his expression impassive as he began descending the staircase. Each step was deliberate, the sound of his polished shoes echoing through the room. "No," he admitted, tilting his head slightly. "But doesn't it make for a far more... interesting show?"

Your stomach twisted at his words, the casual sadism in his tone igniting a spark of panic deep within you. You shoved it down, burying it beneath a veneer of cold resolve. Now wasn't the time to crack.

Behind you, Hiram struggled to his knees, his blood-slick hands slipping against the floor. He barely managed to stagger upright before his legs gave out, sending him stumbling back down. A low, wicked chuckle escaped your lips as you watched him flounder, your satisfaction bubbling just beneath the surface. Serves him right.

The Game Maker reached the bottom of the staircase, his gaze sharp and assessing as he approached. His eyes flicked to Hiram briefly before landing on you, calculating and piercing.

"The question now," he said, his voice low and cutting, "is whether you did what you were told."

A heavy sigh escaped your lips as the weight of the moment pressed down on you. Without a word, you reached into your jacket, fingers brushing against the edges of the file you had kept close since last night. Pulling it free, you held it out.

The Game Maker didn't hesitate. He snatched it from your hand with a brisk motion, his eyes already scanning the contents as he flipped through the pages. The sharp rustle of paper filled the silence.

A nasty grin curled at the edges of his mouth, predatory and pleased. "Ah," he murmured, the amusement thick in his voice. "You've certainly outdone yourself, haven't you?"

His voice was fuzzy as you only thought about one thing.

You wondered how she'd survive, praying your training was enough to protect her from the gruesome scenes to come. You looked at the large men that stood in the room with her, watched her size them up as she stalked back to her bunk.

She's smart, quick, agile.

She will fight her way out.

You repeated it like an omen, unable to even consider the other probability. You couldn't interfere, couldn't help her or reach out to comfort her. She was on her own and your hands squeezed into fists as the group of you watched the guards lead parties of players into the game hall, into the first match you had created.

His voice was a distant murmur, muffled and indistinct, drowned out by the storm raging in your mind. You couldn’t focus on his words, not when your thoughts were consumed by a singular, agonizing concern.

Her.

Your hands curled into fists, the leather of your gloves creaking under the strain. Frustration and helplessness coiled tightly in your chest, threatening to choke you.

Around you, the others watched in grim silence as the guards began herding players into lines. The sound of heavy boots echoed through the game hall as they were marched toward their fates, toward the first deadly match. Your match.

Your gaze darted back to the screen, locking on her once more. She stood at the edge of the group now, her jaw tight, her body taut like a coiled spring. You could see it in her posture—the readiness, the determination.

Still, doubt whispered in the back of your mind, cruel and persistent. The first match was murderous, designed to break spirits and shatter bodies. It had been crafted with precision, every gruesome detail meant to test their limits. You had crafted it.

And now, as you stood there watching, you prayed—silently, desperately—that your training would be enough to see her through.

to be continued...

[vivwritescrappythings]

meum cor

marcus acacius x fem!reader

part 2

Your father had raised you for one purpose: to be a very rich man's wife someday. As it turns out, that man is Marcus Acacius, the renowned general himself.

a/n: Thank you for this lovely request! Instead of a princess I made reader the daughter of a rich merchant in Rome, but I hope you like it! I am on the fence about a part 2 right now.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has long hair, social norms of ancient rome, vague description of a chariot crash, your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written.

word count: 5.1k

masterlist

--

Being born a woman in Rome was being born shackled. Your life depended on being a mother, a wife. The servitude of others would be your shining opus, the symbol of a life well-lived. It was hard to imagine, your mother passed away when you were just a babe. 

In the privacy of your mind, you imagined growing up to become a soldier or a scholar like your brothers. The desire for independence itched beneath your skin. But that would not be your fate. You were committed to your loom and learning to run a household and being a good wife someday. 

After years agonizing over who to marry you off to, your father had finally found a man suitable enough: General Marcus Acacius. 

His decision was twofold: help your brothers get better positions in the Roman army and increase his influence by tying you to one of the most powerful generals in the empire. 

It was no matter that he was nearly twenty years your senior–your father assured you it was a common match. There was nothing for you to worry about, it would be a great honor for your family for you to marry General Acacius. No use in arguing, or pouting, or fighting against it.

Your father’s word was law.

You ruminated over the mysterious General Acacius for weeks. All you could consider was what your future husband was like, agonizing about any scrap of information you could learn about him. He had spent most of the past few years fighting in battles: the conquest of Armenia, of Parthia, of Germania. A man obsessed with legacy. You could only imagine the amount of blood on his hands–how many people had he killed to aid the sprawling Roman Empire? 

At his age he had never been married before. You had expected to be his second wife, men his age looking to marry were widowers more often than not. Perhaps he had been too dedicated to his military career to consider marriage… or you had heard stories of men who preferred the company of other men. 

If anything, that could make him an amicable husband. Simply marrying you for your dowry and allegiance to a merchant, but otherwise left you to your own devices?

You could live a life that way.

The walk to Palatine Hill did not take you and your father long, the fall weather just starting to cool after a long summer. In truth, you had never even spoken to anyone that lived on Palatine Hill, let alone visited a domus there. Each one was more elegant than the last, elegant homes that exuded affluence with beautiful entryways and manicured grounds. 

The amount your father was offering for your dowry must have been staggering. 

Being a merchant had its benefits. You were sure your father offered access to the best imports and potential to take over a few ships if he wished to step down from his post as general. 

Marcus’s domus was mixed in with the rest, your father nodding to the guards and stating his business. They let you pass without issue. Marcus had invited you and your father to visit his home and they would attend the chariot race that afternoon. It was the final step to securing his agreement to your marriage, ensuring that he deemed you suitable enough to take as his wife.

Your father had been frantically preparing you, training you in proper topics of discussion and how to answer any questions Marcus had. The strategy simply turned into allowing your father to answer any and all questions and smiling demurely in the background. Better seen, not heard.

The autumnal sun slanted into the atrium, shining off the impluvium and illuminating the space. It was sparsely decorated: reception benches positioned strategically around the space, a few tapestries hung on the walls. The most intriguing part of the room was the mosaic in the impluvium, an intricate scene of a gold octopus and colorful fish embedded in the tile. You stared at it for a long time while a servant ran to fetch Marcus from deeper within the household.

Before you realized, he stood before you.

You were surprised to see him dressed so simply—he did not look like the decorated general you had expected. The only indication of his status was the deep burgundy cape clasped over his chest, the clasp and embroidery shining gold. He was broad and tall, his head full of dark curls that were starting to go gray at the temples. His beard was going gray at the jowls. But his gaze was focused on you and your father, his deep umber eyes taking you in. There were a few scars on the tanned skin you could see, the permanent furrows of a scowl above his curved nose.

But he was handsome. 

The thought caught you so off-guard that you nearly tripped on air, heeding your father’s beckoning hand to stand near him. You did not realize that you could find a man twice your age to be handsome, or even pleasing to the eye.

“Justus Acacius,” your father began, his voice booming through the atrium as he put on a show of joviality that he did not feel, “I am pleased to see you once more, and for you to finally meet my daughter.”

Your father gestured to you with a sweeping hand. You inclined your head politely, eyes downcast. “I am honored, Justus Acacius,” you murmured, keeping your gaze on the polished stone. The name felt unfamiliar on your tongue: it was the first time you spoke it aloud.

The weight of his appraising stare was palpable, you did all you could to stay still beneath it. The last thing you wanted was for Marcus to think you weak-willed. You forced yourself to stay calm, your breaths slow and even.

Then came approval in the form of a slight nod–nothing more than a partial lift of his chin. You glanced up, finding his expression unreadable. “Welcome to my domus, I trust the way here was not too taxing,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. You understood how soldiers could fall into line at his shout—it commanded attention.

Marcus turned to your father, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip that spoke of their familiarity. “Your daughter is a beautiful maiden, Tiberius. You did not over exaggerate.” You glanced at your father, eyebrows ticking up in question. You did not realize that he had bragged about your appearance–in your list of accomplishments he tended to leave it off. 

“Come, let us retire to the triclinium. I have refreshments waiting.”

You followed dutifully, taking in the extravagance of his home. The build of it spoke of opulence, prim white stone forming the walls and meticulously carved columns. For all its grandeur it lacked the details, there were a few busts placed in alcoves and the odd tapestry on the wall. They looked old, the fibers slightly frayed–passed down from mother to son, most likely.

“It requires a feminine touch,” Marcus said, noticing how you were looking around. “Something I am certain my future wife will be able to supplement.”

Your father bristled at the way his statement was open-ended, no guarantee in sight that you would be that future wife in question. It seemed that your supposed beauty was not enough to secure a betrothal.

The triclinium was furnished with three low couches around a dark table, your father claiming the couch in the center and forcing you and Marcus to sit apart from one another. The table was littered with fruits, cured meats, and pastries, but you did not have the stomach for any of it. You took a fig to be polite, taking miniscule bites of it.

Your father and Marcus ate seemingly without concern, grazing as they spoke idly of politics and distant lands the Emperors wished to conquer. It all sounded frivolous to you, the impending doom of your marriage looming over your head like an executioner’s axe. You were so preoccupied in your thoughts that you did not realize Marcus had spoken to you until your father had cleared his throat.

“Tell me,” Marcus said, turning to face you as he handed your father a goblet of wine before pouring one for himself, “what are your interests? Your skills? I would like to know more about the woman I am to wed.”

He leaned against the cushions, the embodiment of relaxation as he drank. His arms crossed over his broad chest, the muscle moving beneath his tanned skin like snakes. 

You took a breath, opening your mouth to answer before your father interrupted you.

“She is excellent with a loom,” your father proudly offered, the metal cup hanging from his fingers as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “She took over the duties of my late wife when she was just a girl, and, dare I say, the fabrics she weaves are even more fine than her mother’s.”

Your father did not even allow Marcus time to respond, launching into his next point with gusto. “She also is proficient with the flute and knows how to dance. My wife and I had wanted her to become a Vestal, but the goddess did not call upon her.”

“I assure you, Justus Acacius, she is well prepared to run a household in your absence,” he promised, wetting his lips with the wine to hide the anxious set of your mouth.

Marcus listened intently to your father’s praise of your skills, one eyebrow slightly arched. He took a sip of his own wine, the ruby liquid leaving a faint stain on his full lower lip. 

“Raised modestly as well,” Marcus remarked, glancing at you with a hint of a smirk. The touch of humor surprised you, your cheeks warming as you hid your smile. You took a larger bite of the fig so you did not have to school your expression, the ripe fruit sweet on your tongue.

He set his metal cup down on the wooden table with a soft clink. There was a moment of pensive silence before Marcus cleared his throat, fixing your father beneath his penetrating stare. “I am pleased to hear of your daughter’s talents. They will serve her well as a Roman matron.” He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. “However, I would like to hear it from her. Tell me, how would you intend to manage a household in your husband’s absence?”

His cool gaze drifted back to you, dark eyes glinting with curiosity and a hint of a challenge. The pregnant silence held the expectation of your response.

It was unusual. Most men were comfortable to allow your father to speak for you, preferring women seen rather than heard. It was the first time a man had asked you for your own words. You found the image of him that you created in your mind rewriting itself. 

“As for running a household–I am literate,” that simple fact already put you a step ahead of many women you knew, “my father went through the additional effort of hiring tutors to teach me grammar and how to use an abacus. Now that I am of age I have handled my father’s affairs a few times when he left on trading expeditions–both of my brothers are serving in the army so it fell upon me to manage the responsibilities.”

You paused for a moment, taking a breath as you looked up at Marcus. He was watching intently, holding a terrifyingly neutral expression. “As for running your household, I would study your previous ledgers and discuss your strategy of managing your assets before you were to leave.”

The silence of the room was deafening–you could hardly stand it. “If anything, I rather enjoy calculations with the abacus,” you said, babbling to fill the dead air. You could feel your father’s glare without needing to look at it. “At times I have done them simply to pass the time, seeing how much I can challenge myself.”

Marcus nodded slowly, dark eyes glinting with amusement as the corner of his lip threatened to turn up. He downed the rest of his cup of wine, clasping his hands together in front of him for a moment as his gaze dragged over your form.

“I find your honesty refreshing. It is clear you are well-equipped to be a devoted wife and manage a household of this size,” he said as he stood, towering over you and your father. You were holding your breath, waiting for the verdict as though you would receive your death sentence. “I believe this match will be beneficial for all of us.”

And you could breathe once more. 

You looked up at Marcus, trying to reconcile that the man would be your husband. It had not felt real until he acknowledged the match. Part of you had assumed that he would change his mind upon meeting you, opting to marry some Senator’s daughter instead of the daughter of a merchant.

But he would have you as his bride. His wife. 

Marcus turned to your father, broad shoulders squared. “Tiberius, have you ever sat trackside at the chariot races? I was planning for us to use my seats,” he said, taking a step back to leave the room. You knew your father would be pleased by his offer, sitting with Senators and dignitaries had always been his aspiration.

The sun was shining in through the arches leading to the courtyard, high in the clear sky. The races would surely start soon.

Your father accepted readily, the two of you standing quickly. He arranged for your cousin to meet you at Circus Maximus to escort you home–it was inappropriate for a woman of your social class to walk by herself through the streets of Rome. 

“Tell me, my lady, would you care to join us? I have found that a touch of excitement and spectacle can be invigorating for the soul,” Marcus said, his words an open invitation.

You could not help but glance at your father for his approval–he had always considered the races too aggressive for the fairer sex. They had always intrigued you, the sheer size of Circus Maximus always caught your gaze when you were near. Sometimes you could hear the crowds cheering.

After a moment of deliberation your father nodded, albeit less enthusiastically than he could have. “It will be good for the two of you to spend time together in public, it will serve to announce the union prior to the ceremony.”

“Excellent,” Marcus murmured, holding his hand out palm up for you to take. There were callouses on his palm and fingers that spoke of training long hours with a sword and shield. The spread between his fingers was wide, your hand disappearing in his hold as he pulled you up to your feet. “Let us be off.”

–

Circus Maximus was a buzz as you took your seats, your breath stolen by the enormity of the track and the stadium surrounding it. 

You had never seen so many people in one place, the stands roaring. Marcus’s seats were in the first row. Senators filled in the space around you, your gaze drawn to the broad purple stripes on their tunics. If you had known you would be meeting Senators you would have dressed differently. 

It had already taken you far too long to weave the palla you were wearing over your crisp ivory tunic–a band of yellow following the hemline of the rich crimson fabric. Your father had insisted you wear the jewelry your mother had passed down to you, gold bracelets adorning both wrists and a matching choker clasped at your throat. But you still felt underdressed–you would have braided your hair more intricately or added a band over your bicep. 

“My lady, are you alright?” Marcus asked, pulling you from your thoughts as you blinked at him for a moment. You could feel your cheeks warming, sheepish that you were caught in your reverie.

“Yes, General Acacius,” you breathed, a self-conscious smile twisting the corners of your lips. You did not want him to worry about your comfort. “I was simply gathering my surroundings–this is my first time inside Circus Maximus.I hope you do not take offense to my naivety.”

His surprise was palpable, dark eyebrows lifting toward his hairline and eyes rounding. Then his expression melted into a smirk, his head bending toward yours. “Well, I will find great enjoyment explaining the sport to you if you are willing to listen,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

He was close enough that it felt like a secret between the two of you, a chill running up your spine despite the warm autumnal sun. You found yourself enjoying it.

“Of course, if it is not too much trouble.” Your entire life was dedicated to taking up as little space as possible, your father’s devastation over having a daughter known to you as soon as you were old enough to understand what his rebukes meant.

Marcus’s brow furrowed, his gaze tracking to where your father was speaking with some Senator before coming back to you. “My lady,” he murmured, voice a tick lower as his fingers brushed a loose piece of hair from your face, “you will soon be my wife. I intend to bring you to these events, and they will be more enjoyable if you understand the rules.” His hand cupped the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

You tried not to shy away from his touch, his skin rough against yours. A man had never touched you so intimately before. The frantic beat of your heart filled your ears for a moment, you were sure he could feel the hammer of your pulse against his hand.  

“Alright, explain it to me,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek for a moment as you folded your hands in your lap. You twisted the fabric of your palla over your fingers, not sure if he expected you to return the touch or simply accept it. Perhaps you were thinking about it too hard–too worried about misstepping and causing Marcus to change his mind.

But he seemed pleased, releasing you to turn and face the track fully. “Those gates down there are where the chariots start,” you followed the sweep of his arm with your eyes, “they run around the center barrier, the spina, to reach seven laps around the track first.”

You listened intently, bracing one hand on the carved stone rail as you leaned forward. The spina surprised you with its intricacy, obelisks and statues decorating the center of it. There were water features mixed in with the artwork, gilded columns on each end of the barrier indicating turning points.

“Are there teams?” you asked, glancing at Marcus before looking at the track again. 

He nodded, eyes seemingly lighting up at your questions. “Yes, today the Red and White teams will race,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees as his gaze drifted to your palla. “You are dressed aptly, for I support the Reds.”

“It must have been the goddess Fortuna guiding me this morning,” you said with a grin, almost looking smug. 

Your father pulled Marcus’s attention from you, asking questions about which team he supported and if he had placed any wagers. It was hard to hear his reply, their voices getting lost in the din of the stadium. 

Solitude amongst a crowd was something you were taught to be used to, your mind occupying itself with silly games. You counted the number of obelisks in the spina, the number of stadium sections you could see, the number of people in the lowest section across from you. 

The thoughts of your upcoming wedding ceremony drifted into your mind–would your aunt take the place of your mother? Would she dress you the morning of the ceremony? Tie the Herculean knot at your waist in wool? You could hardly imagine Marcus taking you from her arms during the wedding procession–you and your aunt were little more than strangers. But she was the only woman in your family, the responsibility would fall to her. 

“My lady?” You felt a nudge to your side. Marcus and your father were looking at you, you noticed a vendor standing in the aisle. 

“Yes? My apologies, I was lost in thought,” you said amiably, crossing your legs at the knee.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, so conscientious of you that it was almost frightening. You were thankful it was loud enough that the sound of your stomach growling was audible. 

Despite your hunger you shook your head, waving off his concern with a polite smile. “No, I am alright.” you said softly. You could see your father’s satisfied expression and nod over Marcus’s shoulder. Refusing was the right answer. “Thank you, General Acacius.”

“Nonsense, you hardly touched the food before we left,” Marcus said, turning to the vendor and shouting a few orders. He had a keen eye… you were not used to scrutiny. He took two clay pots from the vendor, handing you one of marinated green olives so he could pay the vendor. “Eat, and do not be afraid to ask for anything you see that entices you.”

“You are far too generous, Justus,” your father said, squinting in the sunlight as he looked at you. His disappointment was clear. But Marcus did not seem to notice or mind, simply placing both bowls into your hands. The other bowl had toasted hazelnuts and walnuts, the clay pot pleasantly warm in your hands. You placed both bowls on the carved stone step between yourself and Marcus, picking from them idly.  

It was enough to satiate your stomach, staving off the dregs of your hunger until you made it home.

Then your gaze was drawn by a magistrate walking onto the track, a white flag held aloft and shining in the sun. Marcus caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, sitting up straighter. “Once he drops the flag, the race will begin,” he said to you with a glance to make sure you were paying attention.

It was quick. As soon as the flag dropped the gates opened, each chariot being pulled by four horses. The thunder of their hooves almost rivaled the cheers of the crowd as all twelve chariots flew down the track.

You watched with rapt attention, studying the way the charioteers had the reigns of the horses tied around their waists. The first two laps seemed to only be used for gaining speed, the chariots staying in their designated lanes before chaos broke loose.

The gasp that pulled from your throat when you watched a charioteer whip another one that got too close caught Marcus’s attention, making him bark out a deep laugh. You had lurched to your feet with the rest of the crowd, the adrenaline getting to you. “They will try to make one another crash as they vie for a position closest to the spina,” he said to you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back. The press of his palm on your spine brought you a step closer to him.

You watched with wide eyes, the red and white robed charioteers careening around the track without abandon. The horses kicked up clods of dirt with every hoofbeat, spraying anyone that dared be behind them. You understood why they had been spraying so much water over the track–an attempt to keep down the dust. 

The first crash was brutal, two sets of horses tangling with one another. One charioteer cut himself free of the reins with a curved knife, jumping from the chariot and into the greenery that adorned the spina. The other one was not so lucky, the sound of wood splintering and cracking reaching your ears as you clapped a hand over your mouth. The other racers had to dodge the mess, narrow misses of the pileup making you wince.

“It is alright, the charioteers are alright, my lady,” Marcus said, his nose brushing against your hair as he spoke into your ear. You looked up, seeing the other man pull himself from the wreckage to safety. It helped you breathe easier, a nod coming from you.

There was one more crash during the race, a chariot clipped one of the columns and spun out of control. Marcus had pulled you to his side as the laps went on, you could feel his excitement through the way his fist clenched in the loose, draping fabric of your palla. You pressed your fingertips to your lips, brow furrowed as you watched the final stretch. 

The teams were neck and neck, the entire stadium tense until the Reds pulled forward at the last moment. You let out a sigh of relief, your eyes slipping closed for a beat. Then you could hear Marcus laugh, loud and raucous. “Why I believe you must be a priestess of Fortuna herself, my lady, for the Reds have not come out victorious in the past fifteen races,” he said to you, crushing you to his side in a way that made you chuckle. 

You had not expected ease at his side, and certainly not praise. Warmth covered your cheeks and neck as a genuine smile found its way to your face, your gaze casting up through your lashes to meet his. He released you after a moment, clapping your father on the back as they animatedly discussed the race.

There were a few more races that day, each one as chaotic as the last–but they were all Red wins.

–

Marcus had insisted on escorting you and your father back to your father’s domus as the sun began to set on the horizon. Your father’s property was grand in comparison to that of your neighbors, but with respect to Marcus’s estate it was a simple home. 

Your favorite part were the orange and lemon trees growing on the property, filling the air with the scent of citrus as the sky turned pink. Marcus had accompanied you up to the atrium, a soft smile on his face as he looked down at you. Your father had sent a servant to fetch wine, anxious to continue impressing Marcus.

“I must bring you with me to all the chariot races, my lady,” Marcus said, his dark eyes raking from your head to your toes. “It seems that your presence bodes well for my luck.”

You shook your head, flattered as you covered your smile with your fingertips. “I believe you are too kind to me, General Acacius,” you murmured, unable to hide your grin from your voice. 

You felt giddy, your father and Marcus had spent the entire journey to your father’s domus discussing dates for the ceremony. It was set for three weeks from that day, it would give you just enough time to alter your mother’s wedding gown to your tastes and to set a menu for the feast.

“Tiberius,” Marcus started, deep voice booming throughout the atrium, “would it be alright if I had a moment of privacy with your daughter? I would like to give her a gift so she does not forget me within the next three weeks.”

He hesitated for a moment before obliging, saying he would be just down the hall if you needed anything. You knew he would be standing just beyond the door.

“You have pleasantly surprised me,” he said, a hand running down the bare skin of your left arm until he held your wrist. Goosebumps lifted on your flesh, a shiver running down your spine as your breath caught in your throat. “I had expected this to be a marriage of necessity, but it seems to me that it has the potential to be much more.”

He pulled something from the folds of his tunic, the gold catching the light of the setting sun as he brought your left hand toward him. You realized that it was a ring–an engagement ring. 

“I wanted to see before I gave this to you, just to be sure,” he murmured, his dark eyes focused on your hand as he threaded the ring onto the third finger on your left hand. “Ah, perfect fit. I should not have expected any less from my priestess of Fortuna.” 

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you looked down at the ring. It was not as heavy as you had expected, sitting snug on your finger. It was believed that a vein connected your heart to the ring finger–but for some reason you had never imagined a ring occupying that space. It was simple, a design of two hands clasping on the center of the band. But the gold alone must have cost far too much.

“It is beautiful,” you breathed, a bit mystified.

Marcus’s hand clasped your chin, tilting your head up toward his. “It suits you,” he mumbled, dark eyes partially-lidded as he looked over your face.

His hand shifted, clasping the back of your neck. You were stretched onto your toes, leaning toward him with such fervor that you would fall forward if he stepped away. The air between you was warm, smelling of wine and roasted hazelnuts.

The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, so cautious. It seemed like he was just testing, treating you like glass. 

You should have pulled away, bashful and flustered and told him that you would have time to continue on your wedding day. That three weeks was not a long time to wait–a mere twenty four days away. 

But you did not, hesitantly placing a hand upon his chest for stability as you stretched further into the kiss. Marcus let out a soft groan, the kiss deepening as his mouth slanted against yours. His beard and mustache tickled your delicate skin, but you found yourself enjoying the sensation. The broad stretch of his hands cradled your jaw, guiding you through the clumsiness of naivety into the kiss.

Your hand fisted in his tunic, pulling him toward you with some urgency. He let out a muffled grunt, a hand finding the curve of your hip. 

He then pulled away, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he took in air. You could feel his chest move beneath your hand with each heavy breath. A smile curved his lips, genuine in a way you already found yourself cherishing.

“I will see you soon,” he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before untangling himself from you. “But I believe if I keep you any longer, your father will be suspicious.”

You let go of his tunic, nodding as you let go of him. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb running over your cheekbone before he bid you farewell, stamping another kiss upon your brow before leaving your father’s domus altogether.

The girlish giggle came from you before you could stop it, your hand covering your mouth as you looked down at the ring on your finger. 

Bless the goddess Fortuna for your fate that day.

[pomefioredove]

omomg i love ur writing!! <33

if this works can i request 3rd years + ruggie epel and silver with a GN reader thats very elegant, like duchess from the aristocats?

if possible i’d like reader to not be yuu 🎀

like the reader is the oldest sibling and has a very gentle and elegant aura, making then very loveable by everyone? reader is very smart, attractive, and especially sweet and gentle.

everyone would first assume that theyre spoiled bc theyre an aristocrat but they shock everyone w their personality

I have been writing nothing but fics for months now,, so I'm taking a break by going through the headcanon requests that were sent when I wasn't writing

summary: elegant reader type of post: headcanons characters: third years + ruggie, epel, silver additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu

Trey is your best friend, your platonic soulmate. he's... wary, at first, not really knowing what to expect from you; but he's also the first to warm up. as the designated Heartslabyul mediator and an eldest sibling himself, you two have a lot to bond over. maybe your refined and elegant tastes influence his baking, even; he definitely spoils you

oddly enough, social butterfly Cater has a hard time approaching you. not because you're popular, not because you're an aristocrat, just because you're so... genuine. it's uncommon for a student of Night Raven to be anything even remotely close to nice or sweet, and it throws him off

but he warms up to you eventually; expect to be all over his Magicam within a few months

...he may or may not still be trying to figure out what you're hiding, though

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona has had enough of the nobility to last him a lifetime. expect an eye-roll or a sharp rebuff any time you try to get close, he's never in the mood to deal with "spoiled, silver-spoon sucking little kids" (in his own words). persistence is key, here; much like a housecat, it takes him a long time to get comfortable with new people

now, Ruggie will never miss a chance to take advantage of your kindness. this doesn't mean that he doesn't like you, he's just a man of opportunity! plus, you're an aristocrat; hence, money! eventually, though, he starts feeling kinda bad for you, and he tries to toughen you up a little so you don't get swindled. results are varied

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

oh, Rook is absolutely smitten with you. your elegance, your gentleness, you are the absolute picture of beauty to him!

he's been keeping a close eye on you since orientation, both to ensure your safety, and just because he likes looking at you. everything you do is so delicate, he would put you on a shelf if he could

...not unlike Leona, Epel avoids you. the very last thing he needs is another pampered, elegant noble breathing down his neck, and... being seen with you would hurt his image

after all, he's already struggling to be taken seriously, so befriending the goody-two-shoes lovable sweetheart of NRC is completely out of the question

it takes him some time, but if you let him feel like he's protecting you (somehow), he'll stick to you like glue

you are just like Neige and Vil dislikes you for it. he knows it's unfair, but he can't force himself to get along with someone that reminds him so much of his worst enemy. so perfect, so sweet, pretty, and loved by everyone...

he's not an animal, though; he's civil when you cross paths. he even lets Rook gush about you. just don't expect him to be as easy to befriend as the others

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Idia is not a fan.

first of all, you're way out of his league.

second of all... no, actually, that's it.

he knows from the start that someone so lovable and popular wouldn't be caught dead with someone like him, and he leaves it at that. unfortunately for him, you're also the curious type, and are drawn to him like a moth to a flame. your patience has no end, and eventually, you wear him down. now he can speak to you in full sentences!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Silver likes you, perhaps more than anyone else, though he doesn't really show it. he's not so great at expressing himself in words, but you can be sure he'll be there if you need something. he's nothing if not loyal, after all

you are so nice to Malleus and he likes it so much :) he's not used to anyone being so gentle with him, and it's a feeling he could easily get addicted to

he maaaay be a little overprotective and wary about your interactions with the other students, but he trusts you, too. just as long as you stay your sweet and endearing self, he's happy

Lilia thinks you're just great. it's not easy staying so kind in a place like this, but he always sees you with a smile on your face and a spring in your step... albeit, a more dignified and elegant one

[jhyoos]

Of Roses And Steel

chapter three : stay in your place

knight sevika x princess reader

mentions : royalty au, medieval au, romance, vi was mentioned for a reason, jealous sevika, annoying mel, light smut, silco being a ally, drama filled, vi being the 3 fs: flirty, funny and fuckable, another long chapter

notes: wrote this right after chapter two 🤭

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You woke up to the soft, warm sensation of your cub’s tongue gently licking your face. Groaning slightly, you opened your eyes to find his fluffy form hovering over you, his bright eyes watching you expectantly. “Good morning,” you murmured, reaching up to scratch his head. “I really need to name you,” you added with a small laugh. He leaned into your touch before curling up against your chest, a soft purr rumbling from him as his warmth enveloped you.

Last night lingered in your mind like a fever dream—vivid and inescapable. You replayed every moment over and over, wondering what might have happened if things had escalated further, or if Sevika had uttered those three words you so desperately longed to hear: I love you. Closing your eyes again, you tried to let sleep claim you once more, but your thoughts betrayed you, pulling you deeper into the haze of unanswered questions.

Your moment of reprieve was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by a voice announcing the arrival of your maids, perfectly punctual as always. With a tired sigh, you sat up in bed and called out, “Come in…”

The door opened, and a flurry of activity followed as your maids bustled in. “Can we bring my pet his breakfast?” you asked, gesturing toward the cub, who now sprawled lazily on the bed. “Just bring a few cuts of raw meat—any kind will do.” One maid nodded and quickly exited the room, while the others began attending to your morning routine.

As you stood, the maids gently guided you toward the vanity. They worked quickly, their hands deftly brushing through your unraveled hair and preparing you for the day ahead. One of them hesitated, her gaze catching on the faint bite mark adorning your neck. “Are you all right, my lady?” she asked carefully, her tone laced with genuine concern.

You touched the spot instinctively, your cheeks warming as you hastily replied, “Oh, yes, I’m fine. He likes to bite a lot,” referring to the cub as you fabricated the excuse. The maid raised an eyebrow ever so slightly but said nothing, though you could sense her curiosity lingering.

Finally, the maids brought out the gown for the day—a breathtaking creation that sparkled like the morning dew. The dress was a masterpiece of intricate detail, its halter neckline plunging gracefully to highlight the delicate curves of your frame. The bodice was adorned with elaborate silver filigree, curling like vines in an enchanted forest, with an ornate key-like centerpiece resting elegantly between your collarbones.

The skirt of the gown cascaded like a shimmering waterfall, its sheer fabric embroidered with glistening beads and sequins that caught the light with every movement. Tiny floral appliqués adorned the train, adding a touch of whimsy to the regal elegance of the design. As the maids secured the gown in place, its ethereal beauty made you feel like you had stepped out of a dream.

Standing before the mirror, you couldn’t help but admire the way the dress hugged your figure, the light playing off its embellishments and giving you an otherworldly glow. The maids adjusted the final details, their hands brushing against the delicate fabric as they ensured every part of the ensemble was perfect.

As you gazed at your reflection in the mirror, a look of confusion crossed your face. This wasn’t the kind of gown you usually wore—ornate and dazzling, designed to captivate. You turned toward your maids, your brows furrowed. “What’s the occasion?” you asked, your voice laced with curiosity.

One of the maids stepped forward with a gentle smile. “The kingdom of Piltover is coming, my lady. The king wanted you to shine,” she explained, her tone full of reverence.

You blinked, taking in her words and glancing back at your reflection. The gown’s intricate silver detailing and sparkling embellishments made you look radiant, almost celestial. It was a deliberate choice, meant to make an impression.

Satisfied with their work, the maids gathered their things and began to file out of the room, their movements quiet and efficient. One, however, returned shortly after, carrying a small bowl filled with cuts of raw meat. She placed it carefully in front of your cub, who immediately perked up at the sight of his breakfast.

“Thank you,” you said softly, offering her a kind smile. The maid bowed low before retreating, leaving you alone with your cub, who was now happily devouring his meal.

You watched him for a moment, his small frame hunched over the bowl, his soft fur glowing faintly in the morning light. As you observed him, a thought struck you—a name, simple yet fitting.

“Eros,” you said aloud, your lips curving into a smile. The cub paused briefly, his ears twitching at the sound of your voice, before returning to his meal. “That will be your name,” you decided, feeling a sense of satisfaction at finally giving him an identity.

The name lingered in the air as you watched him eat, your mind momentarily at ease despite the day’s looming responsibilities.

A sharp knock echoed through your chambers, drawing your attention to the door. You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “Come in,” you called out, your tone neutral. The door creaked open, and standing there was Mel.

You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes at the sight of her. Whatever she wanted, it couldn’t possibly improve your mood.

“I apologize for last night,” she said, her tone soft but hesitant. Her eyes roamed over your gown before she added, “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“I always do,” you replied coolly, adjusting the fabric of your gown. Your words were sharp and dismissive, but there was a faint air of satisfaction at her acknowledgment. “And I forgive you—only for Sevika’s sake. And so I don’t have to go through explaining to my father why I would have to send you back to Noxus.”

Mel’s lips pressed into a thin line before she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Follow me out of my chambers, please,” you instructed, turning toward the door without another glance at her. “We have to meet the King of Piltover.”

Mel nodded, silently falling into step behind you as you strode toward the door. The two guards stationed there straightened at your approach, their armor gleaming in the light. They fell into formation as you exited, shadowing your every step.

Pausing briefly in the hallway, you glanced at one of the servants waiting nearby. “Please have someone check on my cub every hour and ensure he’s all right,” you instructed.

“Yes, ma’am,” the servant said with a respectful bow before hurrying off.

With that, you straightened your posture, your chin lifted with regal grace. The day was far from over, and there was much to do—but as always, you intended to handle it with the poise expected of you. With Mel trailing behind and your guards flanking you, you made your way toward the grand hall where the King of Piltover awaited.

The grand doors to the throne room creaked open, revealing a scene of splendor and familiarity. King Vander sat on a gilded chair at the head of the room, his presence commanding yet warm. Around him were his sons and daughters, their faces lighting up as they caught sight of you. These were friends you’d grown up with, companions from childhood whose bonds you still cherished despite the years apart.

Your eyes swept across the room, noting that your father was not yet present. Instead, Sevika’s unmistakable figure caught your attention. She was lounging in a chair near the corner, her legs man-spread with that air of casual dominance she always exuded. Her relaxed posture made her look untouchable, her sharp gaze scanning the room before briefly landing on you.

You didn’t linger on her for long, but it seemed Mel had. Before you could speak, Mel veered off toward Sevika, her footsteps quick and purposeful. You noticed the way her lips curled into a smile as she approached, but you chose not to acknowledge them. Instead, you continued further into the room, your attention shifting when a hand gently rested on your arm.

You turned your head, finding yourself face to face with Vi. Her short pink hair was tousled as always, and her confident smile brought an instant wave of nostalgia.

“Good morning,” you said, offering her a warm nod. “I didn’t see you at the tournament.”

Vi grinned, a little sheepishly, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I was out taking care of some things,” she replied before her expression softened. “Gosh, you look even more beautiful than you did all those years ago.”

Her words made your lips curl into a soft smile. “I would say the same about you,” you said, meeting her gaze. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other—since we were children.”

Vi chuckled softly, her hand on your arm lingering before she moved it to your cheek. Her touch was light, almost hesitant, and her thumb brushed against your skin gently. “I’m glad to see you again,” she said, her voice lower now, more intimate.

Her closeness and sincerity brought a flutter of warmth to your chest, but before you could respond, the sound of a loud laugh from one of Vander’s sons broke the moment, drawing both your attentions back to the room. You smiled, grateful for the distraction as you slipped away from Vi’s touch, though her presence remained close, a reminder of the bonds that never truly faded with time.

Your father entered the room with a warm smile, his face lighting up as he spotted Vander. The two men shared a hearty laugh before pulling each other into a bear hug, the kind that only old friends exchanged.

"My brother," Silco greeted, his voice filled with genuine warmth.

“It’s been far too long,” Vander replied, his tone just as affectionate.

“I’ve arranged an outdoor gathering in the garden,” Silco said, gesturing toward the sprawling grounds outside. “You’ll have to see it—it’s stunning this time of year. And, well, I thought it might spare you all from the misery of the cold you have back in Piltover.”

���Sounds perfect,” Vander agreed with a grin.

The garden was breathtaking, illuminated by soft golden string lights that cast a warm glow against the night sky. Tables adorned with delicate floral arrangements and elegant snacks were set up, inviting guests to indulge. The scent of fresh blossoms mingled with the crisp evening air, creating a serene yet lively atmosphere.

You wandered through the garden, a drink in your hand, observing the festivities around you. Laughter and chatter filled the air as nobles and their families mingled, their faces alight with joy. Even Mel and Sevika, who were deep in conversation by the fountain, seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Deciding to keep your distance from your ladies-in-waiting, you gravitated toward quieter corners of the party. Noblewomen and gentlemen approached you now and then, offering compliments and pleasantries that you returned with practiced politeness. But as the evening wore on, the constant interactions began to drain you.

Eventually, you slipped away, finding solace in the hallway just outside the garden. The dim lighting and gentle hum of the distant festivities provided a peaceful reprieve. You leaned against the flower-covered wall, letting out a soft sigh as you closed your eyes.

Your moment of solitude was interrupted by the familiar sound of boots on the stone path. Opening your eyes, you saw Vi approaching, a bottle of alcohol in hand. Her pink hair was slightly tousled, and her grin was as mischievous as ever.

“What’s this for?” you asked, eyeing the bottle she held out to you.

“To drink, beautiful,” Vi replied with a playful smirk, popping the bottle open. She poured a generous amount into your glass before taking a swig straight from the bottle herself.

You raised the glass to your lips, taking a cautious sip. The sharp taste made your face scrunch in displeasure, earning a hearty laugh from Vi. She was clearly used to drinking—her lack of reaction to the alcohol proved it.

“You’re not funny,” you said, though a small smile tugged at your lips as her laughter continued.

An hour later, the bottle was empty, and the two of you were sitting by the lake, far from the noise of the party. The gentle lapping of water against the shore served as the perfect backdrop for your conversation. You both laughed as you reminisced about childhood memories, the weight of adulthood momentarily lifted.

“I still remember the time we kissed,” Vi said suddenly, her tone softer now.

You smiled at the memory, the warmth of it spreading through you. “I remember it too. You were my first kiss…and my first girl kiss,” you admitted with a shy laugh.

Vi leaned in slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’d love to kiss you again.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words, but you smiled, meeting her gaze. “I’d love to kiss you too.”

She cupped your cheek gently, her touch warm and steady as she leaned in. Her lips met yours in a passionate kiss that sent a thrill through you. You responded in kind, placing a hand on her shoulder as the kiss deepened.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, but smiles lingered on your faces. “Gods, how I’ve missed you,” Vi murmured, her voice full of emotion.

Before you could respond, she leaned in again, this time pushing you gently onto the grass. Her kisses grew more fervent, and you found yourself lost in the moment, your hands tangling in her hair.

The moment shattered as the sound of someone clearing their throat cut through the air. You and Vi pulled away from each other quickly, your heart sinking as you looked up to see Sevika standing there. Her expression was unreadable, her sharp eyes flicking between you and Vi before she finally spoke.

“Your father is asking for you,” she said, her voice calm but firm as her gaze settled on you.

“Right…” you mumbled, quickly standing and brushing off your dress to compose yourself. “I’ll see you later, Vi.”

Vi nodded, her mischievous grin softening as she looked up at you. “Later, beautiful,” she said, her voice low and playful.

As you walked away, Sevika fell into step behind you. The tension between you was palpable, and it didn’t take long before Sevika’s voice broke the silence.

“Is this your way of moving on? Kissing some random girl?” she said, her tone laced with irritation.

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face her with a glare. “Vi isn’t just some random girl. She was my first kiss, and she’s a princess. If I wanted to, I could marry her,” you said firmly. “And what business is it of yours? You seemed perfectly content with Mel today.”

Sevika scoffed, crossing her arms. “Mel and I were just talking. Don’t turn this on me.”

Your jaw tightened, but you said nothing more. The weight of her words hung heavily between you as the two of you reached the garden party.

Silco spotted you almost immediately, his piercing gaze softening as he extended a hand to you. You stepped forward, taking it with a small smile. “What’s wrong, Father?” you asked.

“Nothing, my dear,” he replied, his tone warm and reassuring. “I just wanted to see you. How are you enjoying the party? Have you had a chance to speak with Vi and Powder yet?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, keeping your voice measured.

Silco studied you for a moment before asking, “And what do you think of Vi? Would she make a good suitor for you?”

Your heart skipped a beat at his question, though you tried to keep your expression neutral. “Oh… so that’s what this is about,” you said softly, glancing away. “I don’t know, Father. I’ve talked to her, but I haven’t seen her in years. I’d need time to get to know her again.”

Silco nodded thoughtfully, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Of course, that’s only fair. But you have all night to spend with her before she has to leave.”

“That’s not enough time,” you said honestly. “But… I could write to her after, if that would make you happy.”

Silco’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Of course, my child. That would be a fine start.”

You nodded, your mind still swirling with thoughts of Vi, Sevika, and the complex feelings tangled up between them. The night was far from over, but you could already feel its weight pressing on you.

The pounding in your head and the haze of alcohol clouding your thoughts made the decision impossible to face right now. You needed to return to your chambers and clear your mind. Without the usual accompaniment of guards, you made your way back alone, your steps unsteady but purposeful.

When you entered your room, the soft glow of candlelight illuminated a maid tending to Eros, who lay fast asleep in his bed. The cub was on his back, paws in the air, his round belly exposed—a clear sign he’d been well-fed and was completely content. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Thank you,” you murmured to the maid. She nodded, gathered her things, and left quietly, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the rhythmic sound of Eros’s gentle breathing.

You sat down at your vanity, resting your head in your hands as you tried to sober up, your mind racing with conflicting emotions. The quiet didn’t last long, though, as your door suddenly creaked open.

“Gods, what’s with people barging into my r—” you began, lifting your head, but your words caught in your throat when you saw Sevika standing in the doorway.

Her gaze was intense, her shoulders squared as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Did you do that on purpose? Trying to make me jealous?” she asked, her voice low and cutting straight to the point.

You stood up, gripping the back of your chair as you stared at her in frustration and confusion. “What?” you asked, your tone sharp.

But before you could say more, Sevika crossed the space between you in a heartbeat, her hand sliding to the back of your neck as she pulled you into a fierce, passionate kiss. Her lips were commanding, her touch electric, and you couldn’t help but melt into the moment. Your hands instinctively pressed against her chest as you kissed her back, your body responding to her closeness.

Sevika’s grip on you didn’t waver as she lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the edge of your vanity. Her hands moved to your dress, lifting it slightly, but before things could go any further, you reached out and stopped her.

“Sevika…you’re confusing me,” you said, breathless, your hands trembling slightly as you met her gaze.

She let out a deep sigh, pulling back and settling into the chair in front of you. She leaned back, her legs spread wide, her elbows resting on her knees. Her usual confidence seemed to falter as she looked up at you. “I know…I’m confused myself,” she admitted, her voice quieter now.

You swallowed hard, trying to gather your thoughts. “My father asked me to consider marrying Vi,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t know what to do. I can’t marry someone I don’t know if I love yet…but I know I love you, Sevika.”

Her jaw tightened at your words, her brows furrowing as she leaned forward slightly. “Then why were you kissing Vi if you love me?” she asked, her tone edged with hurt.

Your chest tightened at the question, guilt flashing across your face. “You were with Mel,” you replied defensively. “You still are. She asked, and I accepted it. What was I supposed to do?”

Sevika sighed, leaning back and placing a hand on your thigh. Her touch was warm, grounding, but her words cut deep. “You know me and you can’t get married,” she said, her tone steady but filled with a painful truth. “I belong to you, to your father, to this kingdom. I can’t promise I’ll always be here. What happens when I leave for good? What happens when I don’t come back? You’re too fragile…too weak to handle that.”

Her words struck you like a blow, but you said nothing, knowing deep down she was right. The thought of her leaving—of never returning—was unbearable.

“So,” she continued, her voice softening just slightly, “you should marry Vi. She seems to like you, even if she is…a drunk.”

“She’s not a drunk,” you said quickly, frowning. “She’s just…way too carefree.”

“Right…” Sevika muttered, pushing herself to her feet. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “From now on, I won’t bother you. I apologize for barging in and kissing you like that.”

Before you could say anything, before you could process her words, Sevika turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind her. The room felt emptier without her, the silence heavy as you sat there, torn between the choices laid before you and the ache in your chest Sevika’s absence left behind.

The next morning began like any other. The maids were already bustling around your chambers, preparing your dress and accessories as you sat quietly, letting them do their work. Eros, your beloved cub, had his breakfast first as always, his tiny paws clutching his food with delight. You smiled softly at the sight, though it didn’t fully reach your eyes. Once he was done, you picked him up in your arms. His soft fur and warm presence were a small comfort as you made your way to the throne room.

You were informed earlier that Vander and his children had departed at dawn to begin their long journey back. You were a little sad about Vi going so early. Not getting to say goodbye. The memories of last night were still raw, and it was something you couldn’t get out of your head.

The guards opened the doors to the throne room, revealing its usual lively atmosphere. Voices carried across the grand hall as nobles and servants alike mingled, sharing news and gossip. You walked with poise, nodding politely at those who greeted you, until you reached your ladies-in-waiting.

“Good morning,” you said to them, settling into your lounge chair with Eros nestled comfortably on your lap. His soft purring helped ease the tension in your chest as you listened to the chatter around you.

The gossip was lively today, full of intrigue and speculation about recent guests and political alliances. You smiled faintly, losing yourself in the distraction until something—or other someone—caught your attention.

Mel.

She strode into the room with a radiant smile, her golden complexion glowing as she approached your group. You stiffened, your grip tightening slightly on Eros as her eyes met yours briefly before turning to the others.

“Good morning, ladies,” Mel said cheerfully. Then, without hesitation, she dropped the bombshell. “Unfortunately, I am no longer a lady-in-waiting.”

There was a collective gasp, followed by murmurs of curiosity and confusion.

“Why?” one of the ladies asked, her voice laced with intrigue.

Mel’s smile widened as she held up her hand, revealing a sparkling ring. “Because I am now engaged to my beloved Sevika!”

The room erupted into cheers and congratulations, the ladies fawning over her and admiring the ring. Mel basked in their attention, her joy radiating in every gesture and word. But all you could do was sit there, frozen.

Your heart plummeted to the pit of your stomach as her words echoed in your mind. Engaged to Sevika. The air felt heavy, and the edges of your vision blurred as the pain settled in your chest.

Mel’s happiness was unbearable to witness, her grin brighter than the sun as she recounted the details of Sevika’s proposal. It was too much. Your legs moved on their own as you stood abruptly, Eros startled by the sudden motion.

“Excuse me,” you muttered, your voice barely audible over the commotion. You didn’t wait for a response. You turned on your heel and left the throne room as quickly as you could, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

She had Sevika.

Your feet carried you to the nearest empty room, and once inside, you slammed the door shut and leaned against it, sliding down until you sat on the cold floor. The tears came fast, streaming down your cheeks as sobs wracked your body.

It felt as though your heart had been ripped out and torn apart piece by piece. The weight of it all crushed you—Sevika’s rejection and now Mel’s victory. You buried your face in your hands, the pain too much to bear.

When you finally mustered the strength to leave the room, the sight before you stopped you in your tracks. Standing in the hallway was your father, flanked by two guards. His sharp, observant eyes softened immediately when he saw the tears streaking your face.

“Angel,” he said gently, his voice filled with concern as he stepped closer. He reached out and used his thumb to wipe the tears still falling down your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated, your heart aching from all the emotions you were trying to suppress. “I’m just… stressed,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it cracked slightly. “Everything that’s happened this past week… I just had to let it out.” It was only a half-truth, but it was all you could manage.

Silco’s expression remained tender as he opened his arms. “Come here,” he murmured.

You didn’t hesitate, stepping into his embrace. The moment his arms wrapped around you, his hand cradling the back of your head, the dam broke again. You sobbed against his chest, your shoulders shaking as the week’s events overwhelmed you all over again.

“We’ll find who put that bear head in your room,” he said softly, his voice low and comforting as his hand stroked your hair. “I promise you, Angel. They’ll pay for it.”

His words, though meant to reassure you, only made you cry harder. The mention of the bear head—the harrowing reminder of the fear and violation you had felt—added another layer to your emotional turmoil.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs, clutching the fabric of his coat as if it were the only thing grounding you.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said, his voice unwavering as he held you tighter. “You don’t have to apologize.”

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his embrace soothed you, though the tears didn’t stop. For a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into his strength, feeling like a child again in the protective arms of your father.

You pulled away from your father’s embrace, sniffling softly as you tried to compose yourself. “I’m okay now,” you said, offering him a small, forced smile.

Silco cupped your face with both hands, his sharp gaze meeting yours with an intensity that made you feel both safe and vulnerable. “Emotions are normal, Angel. Tears are meant to be shed,” he said firmly, his voice low but steady. “You’ll be a strong Queen. I taught you well.”

His words, laced with pride, soothed you. He let go of your face and adjusted his coat before turning on his heel, walking down the hall with his usual commanding presence. You stood there for a moment, watching him disappear, letting his words settle in your chest before taking a deep breath.

Turning back toward the throne room, you braced yourself and pushed open the doors. The lively buzz of conversation filled the air again, but it was quickly drowned out by the sound of Mel’s voice as she intercepted you, her lips pulled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I hope you’ll be happy for us, your highness,” she said in a sickly sweet tone. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you not allowing it.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly at her emphasis on the word "bear," and your stomach twisted. “You put the bear head in my room?” you asked sharply, keeping your voice low but laced with venom.

Mel tilted her head, her expression smug. “Took you long enough to notice,” she replied, feigning innocence while the mocking tone in her voice was undeniable.

You glared at her, letting your gaze sweep her up and down with barely veiled contempt. “I find it amusing,” you started, your tone calm but cutting, “that you’re trying to use Sevika against me. Especially since we’ve already had a very fun night together just a night ago.”

Mel’s smile faltered for a split second, her confidence momentarily shaken.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice but letting every word drip with malice. “Enjoy your little broken marriage while it lasts. Because soon enough, you’ll be back in Noxus with your mother, who’ll no doubt be disappointed in your whorish ways. And as for Sevika?” You smiled, leaning in slightly. “She’ll stay here. Because Sevika puts Zaun, and this kingdom, before someone like you. Take that to heart before you go flashing that ring around like it means something.”

Not giving her a chance to respond, you brushed past her, your head held high as you returned to your ladies. They quickly quieted as you approached, sensing the tension radiating off you.

“From now on,” you said firmly, turning to face them, “do not speak to Mel. She’s not one of us anymore.”

They nodded in unison, not daring to question you. You settled back into your seat with Eros on your lap, focusing on the gossip of your ladies once again, doing your best to ignore the knot of satisfaction and lingering anger that twisted in your chest.

Sevika soon entered the throne room, her tall figure commanding attention even in the lively atmosphere. Her sharp eyes immediately found Mel sitting alone in a corner, away from the ladies, who were now avoiding her. Sevika’s gaze shifted, landing on you. The two of you locked eyes for a moment, and you felt your stomach churn at the intensity of her expression.

She approached you with measured steps, bowing slightly as she stopped before you. “May I speak to you, your highness?” she asked, her tone formal and respectful, mindful of the public setting.

You hesitated but rose from your chair, gently placing Eros back on the couch before nodding. “Very well,” you replied curtly, following her as she led you out of the throne room.

The heavy doors closed behind you, but Sevika didn’t stop there. Her hand lightly grasped your arm as she guided you down the hall and into the nearby garden. Once she was sure no one else was around, she finally turned to face you.

“You need to let me explain,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

You crossed your arms, keeping your expression neutral. “You marrying Mel is none of my business,” you replied, your tone cold.

Her jaw clenched, and she ran a hand through her short hair in frustration. “I don’t want to marry her,” she admitted, her voice laced with bitterness. “Look at me—I’m not the marriage type of woman.”

“Then why are you doing it?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

She sighed, her broad shoulders slumping slightly. “Because I was pushed into it,” she said. “Mel came up to your father in front of the court this morning. She asked for his blessing, and he granted it right there. I had no choice but to put a damn ring on her finger.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. “I could’ve told you myself that she’s crazy. She’s the one who hung that dead bear in my room,” you said, your voice rising slightly in frustration.

Sevika’s eyes widened slightly, the information clearly catching her off guard. “Mel did that?” she muttered, more to herself than to you.

“Yes,” you confirmed firmly. “You figure this out, Sevika. Her mother is an important ally, and if you mess this up, it won’t end well—for either of us,” you added, your tone softening slightly but still carrying a sharp edge.

Sevika bit her lip, her usual confidence visibly wavering as she stared at the ground. For the first time, you saw her look vulnerable, conflicted in a way that felt foreign for someone so composed.

After a long pause, she straightened her posture and gave a short, resigned nod. “Fine,” she said curtly before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving you alone in the quiet garden.

You stood there, the weight of her vulnerability and the tension between you both lingering in the air. The garden felt colder without her presence, but you refused to let it show as you took a deep breath, straightened your dress, and prepared to return to the throne room.

taglist (my shaylas ♡): @tinycherry0 @thesecondhandwoman @abbysleftbicepp @artfairyyyyy @bunninel @furrytaesss @savedforlaterr @veladeangl @5t4r1i9ht @imheadintothemountains @adora-moonshine @sevikasrightboob @80saturn @littlerainsprite @runawaybaby3 @rhian88 @athena-winters13

[mostlycompetentwriter]

Thunderous

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Bang Chan

Word Count: 11K

Genre: Werewolf AU! Royalty AU!

Warnings: There are some elements of non-con in this fanfic. Please don’t read if you don’t like those elements. Mentions of knotting and rough sex. There’s also a lot of explicit smut and language throughout.

Summary: The Wolf King’s name seared your heart. You had been chosen as the youngest and most expendable daughter to be his mate. But you were terrified of the legends surrounding his bloody campaigns. How were you going to survive?

Tag List: @armystay89 @captainchrisstan @starseekersworld @melsunshine @kibs-and-bits

The Wolf King’s name whispered through the trees and hummed between the villages like the ancient stories of the gods.

Some of the villagers claimed that he could transform—bones cracking and teeth elongating until there was no man left. They said his claws could cut through trees and that his howl silenced the instincts of the mountain lions who cowered in their dens. In place of human skin, fur sprouted thick and rough, darkening until it matched the color of the shadows.

The myth and lore had been passed down for years, and you found yourself on the receiving end of all those stories. As the Wolf King’s future mate, you had also become something of an enigma around the kingdom. People looked at you with a glint of respect, bowing their heads and moving out of your way whenever you made your rounds. 

The attention that you hated. Especially when the marriage had been arranged without your willing compliance. Young girl fantasies of handsome princes and distant lands vanquished in an instant. But even if you couldn’t indulge in happiness anymore, there had been a time when you allowed yourself to dream about your wedding. 

Bubbling colors of red and green—like your kingdom’s annual yuletide celebrations—and a long, flowing white gown extending across the floor like an elegant brush of paint. Pure as you had always been. There was beautiful music in your dream, and a gorgeous prince to take you into his arms and glide you across the floor like the clouds moving in the sky.

Fantasies, indeed.

Instead, of merriment and goodwill, you found yourself trembling from head to toe, holding tight to the sleeve of your handmaiden’s gown as she escorted you through the recital hall, down the aisle to where you recognized the Wolf King waiting.

You had only met him twice before. Once, when you had just turned twelve, on the day your families agreed to meet over the prospect of securing peace between your rival kingdoms.

When you were both little children, the Wolf King had no reputation. He was just a boy, and you greeted him with a smile—ignorant of the true purpose of your first meeting. While your parents talked about the future, you showed the Wolf King your favorite flowers, handing him individual stems while your mother bargained your life away:

“A union is our commitment to peace,” your mother had once proclaimed, reaching out to softly pat your curls. “We think they’ll do well together.”

“Yes.” But Chan’s mother didn’t seem convinced. She was an elegant and beautiful woman with long black hair and bright red eyes to match his defining features. “Chan will decide who he wants to marry,” his mother said.

“Y/N will make a good wife when she comes of age,” your mother insisted. “We’ll hire the best teachers to ensure that she is prepared for her duties.”

“That matters little to us,” Chan’s father spoke, and he regarded you like one might grimace at an annoying ant to step on.

You shied away from his intimidating stare, looking instead at Chan as he designed a flower crown for you, placing it on top of your head with a proud smile.

It was the last time he would ever show such kindness.

Over the years proceding your first meeting, Chan became a man, and his reputation for ruthlessness and fury ignited a storm of gossip. 

“The Wolf King stands taller than the gods!”

“The Wolf King slaughtered a village because they refused to bow down to him!”

“He’s a monster! Have mercy on us all!”

You became terrified at any mention of the Wolf King, wondering if your parents were still serious about a union. You found out the hard way when your mother invited the Wolf King and his generals to your kingdom. But you didn’t stick around for very long.

The next time you met, you were sixteen, and you ran away to the gardens in a rare show of rebellion against your parents who had expected you to dress pretty and show off for Chan.

But that wasn’t in your nature, and your instincts screamed at you to avoid the Wolf King. And you thought that you were alone in the forest. Surrounded by the quiet of the thick foliage. But then you heard the bushes move, and you noticed a large black head peering at you with piercing red eyes.

You relaxed when you realized that it was just a common wolf—probably one from the mountain packs, and you weren’t frightened. Animals had always held a special place in your heart, and you approached the wolf with palms upturned to show your peaceful intentions. The wolf never moved, and you stroked your fingers through the coarse fur on his head. 

You returned home that evening thinking your father would scold you for running off like that. But you were instead warmly greeted by your parents who were both ecstatic. “He agreed to marry you, Y/N!” your mother exclaimed. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

It wasn’t.

Not at all.

And you had never experienced real fear in your entire life. But walking down the aisle in the chapel to where the fearless Wolf King waited for you, there was a bone-chilling tremble aching down your spine.

“So beautiful,” you heard faint whispers join together, urging you closer and closer to the Wolf King who gazed at you with the most intense stare you had ever received.

When you were within earshot, the Wolf King snatched your hand from the poor handmaiden who had been helping you walk down the aisle.

The girl quickly jumped to the side, bowing her head as the Wolf King forced you to stand in front of him, reaching down for your other hand. You reluctantly gave it to him, still looking at everything except for the Wolf King’s eyes, even if the little growl he gave showed that he disapproved.

You could hear your mother’s chastising voice in your head, scolding you for not pleasing the King. But you didn’t care anymore. Wasn’t it enough that you were standing there, giving your life away to a monster?

In the distant background, you could hear the priest delivering his lines, and when it was your turn, you gave your vow of allegiance, even if the words fell hot like acid from your unwilling tongue.

Thankfully, the ceremony did not require you to kiss him, dodging his wayward lips when they fell too close to yours. 

There was a rush when the proceedings concluded, the firm ushering of hands leading you out of the chapel. You stumbled in your heels, bringing yourself inadvertently closer to the Wolf King who held tighter to your waist. You did not enjoy the closeness, swallowing down your nerves as you tried not to think about what came next.

The crowd eventually parted, giving you enough space to walk down the steps in the open air, briefly acknowledging the cheering crowd spread through the streets. There was a distinct awe in the noise from the people around you, clambering over one another to get a good like at yourself and the predator who would soon claim you for his own. Wanting to acquaint themselves with your kingdom’s bargaining chip—a small sacrifice to ensure an alliance between your people and the ones who fought under Chan’s domain.

On paper, it seemed like a worthy solution to helping your kingdom protect its borders and fight off invaders. The problem was that you felt the weight of pleasing a man you had no interest in—someone who frightened you to your core. A sick knot tightened in your guts and your stomach clenched tighter as Chan led you to Castle Miroh—the notorious landmark of his territory symbolizing the power of the ruling family.

As the main doors parted, you winced at the sensation of the cold and harsh air inside, and a shiver passed down your spine as you forced yourself to keep up with Chan’s incessant pace, footsteps clacking against marble. It was dark in the corridors, and the only lighting came from the flames ensconced along the walls, casting everything in shadows. Ahead in the distance, you could see the outline of a grand staircase, and your eyes worked tirelessly to mark each step on your darkened path.

It turned out that Chan kept his quarters on the highest floor, latching your fingers together the entire time, even as you forced down the bile permanently hitched at the back of your throat at the thought of all the blood that had stained those hands. 

At the top of the staircase, you were pulled to the left, marching down an impressive corridor with a soft, velvet carpet beneath your soles. Eventually, you found yourself in front of a large, wooden door, and Chan ushered you through the frame, a hand to your lower back as your eyes paused on the King-sized bed waiting beneath an unholy painting of a bloody battle scene.

You will present yourself to the Wolf King, you recalled the words of your tutor. He will expect obedience from his mate.

You blinked away tears, knowing what you were expected to do next, and deciding to push through your nerves before you lost the contents of your stomach on the floor. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, but you ignored your instincts, loosening the straps of your dress to allow it to pool into a mess on the floor at your feet, and kicking it aside as you eliminated the remaining distance to the bed. 

You didn’t want to show him that you were weak. That he had any sort of influence that might condemn you a coward. You could not be seen as pathetic in the eyes of a monster, crawling on hands and knees to the center of the bed, head ducked down between your trembling arms and waiting.

Your breath caught when the bed dipped beneath his weight, and you gritted your teeth, feeling his hands take your hips with a powerful grip, nails digging into the soft skin.

The Wolf King will fuck you, your tutor had said, Then he will bite you to complete the mating ritual.

You had seen the Wolf King’s teeth. Sharp like razors and pointed at the ends. You would be a bloody mess at the end of this, but no one could ever accuse you of shirking your responsibilities. You had done everything expected of you, holding on to this thought of solace as you waited for him to take his fill.

“Don’t,” he abruptly whispered, startling you as he laid down on the mattress at your side, closing his eyes and letting out a grumble, completely unbothered with his own nakedness. 

It must’ve happened while you were turned away, but it was still jarring to see so much pale skin on display, marred with jagged scars and scarlet bruises. Eyes trailing over the swell of his chest, over the ridges of his abs, and down to this impressive cock. 

You swallowed hard. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?”

“No,” Chan said, chest deflating. “You do not want that.”

His response surprised you, and you wanted nothing more than to hurriedly tuck the sheet around your body to hide you from him. “I thought you were meant to-”

“We are equals,” Chan interrupted with a much firmer tone. “And you are afraid.”

Equals? The word didn’t seem right coming from him, but you weren’t about to question what was seemingly amounting to an act of mercy. Quick as a flash, you had the sheet bundled against your chest, eyes wide as you looked him over. “The mating-”

“We can do the bite,” Chan continued as if he didn’t care that he wasn’t fulfilling the only purpose you had been given. “But in the morning. The celebrations earlier exhausted me. Such frivolous trivialities.”

“Won’t they notice-”

“Who are they?” Chan barked with a hint of a growl that had you flinching. “There is no one who orders the King around.”

His dark pupils met yours in the dark, searching for something. You swallowed hard, unsure what he was looking for, but focusing on the calming sensation of relief flooding your system at his unexpected mercy. “Thank you.”

He gave a curt nod, dipping his head to the space next to him. “Sleep.”

You obeyed, wondering if you could sleep next to him, even if he had shown you some degree of kindness. It still didn’t erase his bloody reputation, and it worried you to no end that you would be sleeping next to a killer. Born to fight his way to power and rule over his kind. 

You took a deep breath, holding tight to the sheet, and closing your eyes. Perhaps it was the roller coaster of emotions weighing down on you from the day’s events, but you did manage to find sleep, even if it was troubled. Nightmares of wolves following you through the woods, red irises piercing you from the shelter of the trees, and claws slicing through flesh. 

You gasped when your eyes sprung open against an onslaught of bright, morning light, heart palpitating in your chest when you met those same eyes looking down at you from above. Chan was a step ahead of you as if he could predict your movements, grabbing your hands in one of his own to hold them above your head. One of his powerful thighs slung across your lower body, holding you in place with a strength that ignited a fire of burning adrenaline. 

“Hold still,” he said, giving you no other warning before teeth sank into the side of your neck, and your body panicked, fighting against him. Like he might take a chunk out of your neck and leave you on the bed to bleed out. Crimson against the cream-colored sheets. 

Immediately, a pulsating shock erupted from the site of the wound, forcing a scream from between your lips at the overwhelming pain. “I know,” he said, and it was barely discernible over the sounds of your cries, unashamed to lose all inhibitions at the sensation of a pain you had never experienced before.

The Wolf King moved over top of you, and you flinched when you felt his tongue start to lap at the painful bite mark on your shoulder. “The pain will stop soon,” he said. “I’m sorry you have to suffer.”

You held back a whine, digging your nails into the soft flesh of your palms. You supposed he had helped the sting, but it still felt like a piece of glass was being sliced across your skin. Even if the guilt and remorse in his gaze were almost enough to distract you.

“Relax,” he soothed, releasing your hands which instinctively went to wipe at your eyes, drying the salty wetness that had accumulated. 

“I- I can’t...”

“You can because you are mine now,” he declared in a tone that had a different flame sparking in your chest. 

You nodded against the pain, focusing on taking deep breaths, and letting darkness take you under once more.

When you woke again, the King was ready for you. He explained that you were needed in the Throne Room to meet some important people. It turned out that the King had three brothers. They were all younger than him. Or so you had been told.

Their names were Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin. Feared and revered for their triumphs in battle.

Your Wolf King seemed proud to show them off, standing before you in an organized line: from oldest to youngest.

Felix reminded you of your own cousins, with his lithe figure, so much different from the King’s own bulk, and a head of flaming orange-red hair. 

Next to him, in the middle, stood Seungmin. Dressed in dark clothes that only made his already dark hair even more onyx-black. Bright green eyes appraising you slowly.

Finally, there was Jeongin. The tallest of the three. And sporting the same dark-colored hair as his middle brother. He seemed to be the most innocent, eyes wide with wonder.

“They are here to support you,” Chan went on after introductions had passed. “Call on them if you need any help.”

Unlikely, but you forced a nod nonetheless.

“You are dismissed,” Chan informed them after you gave your acquiescence, and you watched them retreat in the same formation down the hall.

In their stead approached a shorter man, dressed in full battle attire. Well-muscled to stretch the fabric of his shirt and pants, with serious dark eyes. “My King,” the man said, bowing once. “You are needed on the training fields.”

You flinched when the man’s eyes found your neck, likely noting the swollen mess that Chan had left behind. “I’ll be there shortly, Changbin,” Chan said, and he waited until the man was gone before looking at you. “The Castle is yours, my Queen. Feel free to look around and acquaint yourself with your new home.”

“I will,” you whispered, forcing yourself to stay still when he leaned in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. 

“Tonight, we can eat together,” came his parting words, and you grimaced at the idea of sharing a meal with him. 

But the concept of sharing a meal with him was nowhere near as horrible as the idea that this place could ever be considered your home. What a nasty thought! This place was nothing more than a prison forced upon you because your parents were desperate for Chan’s allegiance.

“Why did he agree?” you huffed to yourself, spinning on your heel to start the trek back to your room—as much as you could remember. “Leaving me here as if I know where anything is!”

For months leading up to your shared nuptials, you had pondered the reason why the powerful Wolf King had even agreed to marry you in the first place. Neither of your meetings had been particularly impactful, and your Kingdom had nothing to benefit his own; in fact, your alliance was more of a detriment to Chan and his people—a burden that he willingly took on.

You turned the corner to the last corridor, grateful that you had managed to retrace your steps, faltering when you noticed something on the floor outside of your door. You kneeled to retrieve it, glancing at the writing and noting with a happy hum that it was addressed from the Northern Highlands!

“Grace!” you exclaimed, clutching the envelope to your chest as you quickly rushed inside your room, glancing back to ensure the door was locked before hopping onto the bed to rip the contents open.

Dear Y/N,

Congratulations on your marriage to Bang Chan - it will be a strong alliance for our parents and their Kingdom. 

I apologize for my absence - Hyunjin was unable to make the accommodations.

As you know, snowfall comes to the Highlands in the upcoming months. It will soon be impossible for me to journey to you, or for you to make the journey here. I’d love to see you and your new husband before it is difficult to do so.

Please write to me when you can to arrange a visit.

Lovingly,

Grace

You read over the letter twice before releasing a deep sigh. Would your Wolf King even indulge in such a trip? Perhaps it wasn’t even necessary for him to go. You could make the trip on your own.

You held fast to that thought, of getting away from your prison even if only for a few days, as you lounged around in your room for the remainder of the day. There was little to entertain yourself with, re-reading Grace’s letter over and over again, and sitting outside on the little veranda attached to your room to watch the clouds moving in the sky.

It would be another mercy to escape Chan’s presence if you were to head North alone, but you were afraid that you were pushing your luck, wincing when you heard the door to your chambers opening again, returning inside from your observation of the grounds to greet Chan as you were expected to do.

“My queen,” he rumbled, reaching out to hold your shoulders between both hands, a grip that was impossible to mistake. “Were you able to see more of the Castle?”

“Yes,” you lied through clenched teeth, only breathing a little easier when he released you, eyes dropping to the letter in your hands.

“What is that?”

“It is from my sister,” you explained. 

“I see.”

“She wasn’t able to attend the wedding,” you went on, saving yourself a bit of time as you scrambled for the best way to drop the news to him. Maybe it would just be best to try a blunt approach, giving him your demands since he insisted on calling you an equal. “I wish to see my sister,” you said, refusing to meet his gaze. “Before it is too dangerous to make the trip to the Northern Highlands.”

Chan grunted at your request, and you weren’t well-versed in his language to know what that meant. “She invited you?”

“I can go alone,” you said. “If it is too much for you.”

“I would love to come with you,” he said, disregarding the determination in your tone. “It will give us more time to spend together on our own.”

“Oh.” Your gaze remained trained on the floor, hopes dashed that you could leave him behind. 

“It will be nice to visit there,” he said. “I will make the arrangements. You may write her back to expect us very soon.”

“As you wish,” you sighed, trying to keep the disappointment from your tone, flinching when he grabbed one of your wrists. He didn’t seem perturbed by your reaction, and you watched as he pulled a delicate piece of jewelry from his pocket.

“Well?” he smiled, something that made you shiver. “What do you think?”

“What is it?” you asked in return, resisting the urge to pull back the wrist clasped between his scarred fingers. Even if you did manage to finally meet his gaze.

“It is a gift for you,” Chan said with a smile you were not expecting—blinding and warm. “I made it myself.”

“You made this?”

“As our traditions dictate,” he agreed, keeping a firm hold on your wrist to clasp the little bracelet around your delicate flesh. “It is meant to show our bond to the world.”

You studied it curiously, noting the simple design and the small wolf-shaped carvings engraved in the metal. It was cold against your skin, even as the heat from his body balanced it out.

“Shall we eat?”

He dropped your wrist, and you were able to gather your bearings. “Of course.” You managed a nod, watching as he opened the door wide, allowing a small servant girl to enter the room.

The girl offered you both a respectful bow before she started to set the table, laying out silverware and fine china plates. Behind her, another girl rolled in a cart, wheels squealing on the floor, with prepared food steaming from beneath metal lids. 

“Here, sit with me,” Chan said, patting the space on the bed next to him. “Until they are ready.”

You obeyed, sitting down next to him. Your gaze remained trained on the servant girls, moving about in a well-rehearsed manner as if they had done this too many times to count. 

He reached for your hand, and you did your best not to flinch. “Look,” he whispered, urging you to follow his gaze. “This line on your hand, do you see the way it moves?”

You shivered as he traced the mark he referred to, following it up and down the length of your palm. “Yes,” you whispered, struck by the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.

Goosebumps followed the trail he left on your wrist, and you held your breath when he brought it to his lips. “The same as mine,” he said, almost reverently. Your eyes widened, breath hitching as he aligned your hands together. “A perfect match.”

You could hardly believe it, eyes searching back and forth, but seeing the same line digging into both of your skin. Like it belonged there. 

“There are reasons for everything,” he said, and you felt a small flicker of shame when you read his knowing gaze as if he could sense those dark thoughts that you sheltered about him—wondering why you out of everyone in the world had been chosen to stand at his side. “I wouldn’t question so much,” he continued. “The things that fall into place so perfectly.”

He offered you a wink, surprisingly playful for a man of his reputation. “Let’s eat.”

You nodded, the most you could, and followed him to the table. He was polite as always, allowing you to pick first, waiting until your first bite before claiming his own. You were content, at that moment, to answer the questions he threw your way, increasingly aware of the way the place he had touched warming and the mark on your neck drummed in a gentle pulse.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, and there was less trepidation in your soul when you lay with Chan to sleep. 

You journeyed to the Highlands the next morning, riding behind Chan on horseback, leaving the Wolves’ imposing Castle behind. There was a lightness about you as distance added more miles to your ride, growing brighter and brighter the further you traveled. Even with light conversation petering between you and Chan, you had never been freer in your entire life, the wind blowing back your hair as you soared across the plains.

Despite his repeated requests for you to take a break, you were determined to make it to your sister’s palace before nightfall. You wanted to see her outside, in the meadows that spread invitingly across the Highlands, and walk together just the two of you as you did as children.

There was excitement spiking hot adrenaline in your veins when the hills opened up in the distance, revealing a gorgeous mountain Castle with imposing towers and the familiar flags of your sister’s powerful family. She belonged to Hyunjin, taking his name and crest, and it made you sad to realize that there was a greater distance between you both. You loosened your grip on Chan’s waist, not realizing your grip on him.

You had grown tired of being around him, constantly blinded by the weight of his shadow. At least out here, with the sun beaming down from above, you could feel great relief from the pressure lightening. Perhaps there should be shame associated with your actions, but as soon as you could identify a familiar shape up ahead, you were already leaping from the horse despite Chan’s protests.

Thankfully, your sister was there to greet you, surrounded by two guards. Immediately, you jumped from your steed, falling into her arms and inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. “Grace,” you squealed, keeping her held tight to you as if it would be the last time you could ever do so. 

“Y/N,” she sing-songed back, and you smiled at her playful attitude, only growing a little despondent when you detected Chan’s approach from behind.

“Hello,” she greeted Chan with a polite bow. “It is an honor to welcome you to the Northern Highlands.”

“Your palace is beautiful,” Chan complimented, and you shivered when he drew fingers down the length of your spine—a show of affection that you would never get used to experiencing.

“Thank you,” she said, turning around to gaze back at it as if she were seeing it for the first time. “It has centuries of history.”

“I have heard the tales,” Chan remarked. “From when I was a boy.”

You tried not to snort, not wanting to relive any memories of Chan from his boyhood. Grace’s careful eyes, however, seemed to detect something, and she looked at you with a curious gaze. “Well, I can show you to your quarters.”

“No need, I’m sure one of your guards will know the way. I think Y/N has been waiting for some time with you. I’ll leave you both alone,” he said, even without your prompting, and your sister gave you a familiar smile.

“As you wish,” she said with a little curtsy, beckoning a guard forward with stern orders to help the Wolf King settle in while you and Grace took a stroll of the grounds.

You held your breath, not wanting your impatience to show as the arrangements were made. Only once Chan had started in the direction of the Castle, guards following him closely, did you exhale. Reaching for Grace’s hand, and tugging her forward.

“No need to drag me!” Grace chuckled at your actions, and she linked your arms together, steering you toward the familiar meadows.

You both settled into easy conversation as it always seemed to happen, topics flowing from one to another. There was a lot to catch up on, things left unsaid from your sad exchange of letters. Rumors swirling around the highlands, and stories from your own homeland that you consumed greedily, excited for any mention of your little Kingdom.

Even if you didn’t really belong to it anymore.

You wanted to walk forever, to keep going beyond the highlands. Escaping to a distant land with just you and Grace. A place where you could both live in peace and go about your days just chatting and reading together by the fireplace as you did when you were children.

She laughed at your complaints, forcing you to return to the Castle when the sun had started to set. Thankfully, you didn’t go all the way inside just yet, and the two of you sat down at one of the picnic tables in the gardens. As you settled next to Grace, bowing politely to the maids who brought you both a cup of tea, you frowned as you recognized Chan between the hedges, strolling along with Hyunjin, Grace’s King, down the trodden paths between the mazes. 

You did your best to ignore him, focusing instead on the moment you had with your sister. The setting sun was warm as you reclined your head, eyes closed as you accepted the gracious touch—burning just as hot as your sister’s intense stare.

“Do you have something to say?” you huffed. “I can feel you looking at me.”

Her smile was clear in her tone. “You just seem...different.”

“How so?”

“Like you’ve been tamed.”

Your eyes flew open at the comment, glaring at her. “Stuck in an arranged marriage, you mean?”

“Mine was arranged as well, but you can rest assured that I don’t take the same comfort from my particular suitor.”

“I hardly take comfort from the Wolf King,” you argued, but Grace simply shrugged.

“You’ve never seen things as I do.”

“What’s so bad about Hyunjin anyway?” you asked instead, to direct the conversation away from Chan,

Her smile curdled. “He keeps busy with his whores,” she said, shocking you with such an accusation.

“Grace-”

“Don’t.” Your sister sighed. “There’s nothing you can do.”

She attempted to restore her previous smile, looking back over your shoulder with a sigh. “I like your Wolf King,” she eventually said. “He cares about you a lot. I haven’t seen him take his eyes away from you once.”

Grace must be imagining things. “He’s tolerable at best,” you decided, earning yourself a sigh from your sister.

“My how your perspective has changed,” she remarked, finally turning her attention to the lukewarm tea in front of her. “You were kicking and screaming when you first learned of the marriage.”

“It is something that was forced on me!”

“But you’re not the only one, Y/N,” Grace said with a tone filled with sadness.

Suddenly, you felt chastened and guilty for even protesting her. “For us both, it has created nothing but discomfort.”

“I think there is potential in your match,” Grace argued. “You resist because you are stubborn in nature, but I think there could be good things for you if you just tried to make it work. Wouldn’t it be better, sister, to live with him as lovers than as cold strangers?”

“He is too wild for marriage,” you weakly protested. But your argument held no merit, and you hated the logic in her words, turning away to glare into the distance.

Night passed before your eyes, like the dimmest flicker, and you had never been more unhappy to greet the rising sun. 

It seemed that all good things inevitably came to an end, and you were holding back tears when you parted from Grace the next morning, holding the embrace for far too long. Even as you allowed Chan to help you back onto the horse, positioned directly behind him on the saddle, you kept your gaze trained behind you, watching Grace grow smaller and smaller.

Until she was gone.

Your heart was heavy when you returned to Chan’s castle that same afternoon, but your foul mood didn’t last for long. Distracted as you were, surprised by the bustling activities throughout the grounds, everyone scrambling for something you couldn’t identify. “Our moon festival,” Chan explained. “We will be shifting tonight.”

Oh, right. You had forgotten about that part, too distraught reminiscing on your brief moment of freedom with Grace. “I almost forgot.”

“There will be a feast tonight,” he explained. “We will both join as King and Queen.”

You scowled at the idea. “As you wish.”

Chan frowned at the comment. “You must be tired from the journey,” he continued, choosing not to react to your passive comment. “Feel free to rest in our quarters. I will come get you later.”

You agreed with a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment. Sleep did sound like a much-needed relief from the exhaustion threatening each unsteady step you took up the stairs. It was what you blamed your disorientation on, barely noticing when Chan leaned in to give you a chaste kiss on your cheek.

That same spot burned under the barely-there attention. But you chose to ignore it, instead focusing on how your feet were throbbing when you landed on top of your bed with a huff, allowing tears to escape as you gave yourself a moment to purge the nasty emotions that had built after leaving the Highlands. Unable to do so as you rode behind Chan.

There were too many different emotions piled on throughout the day, mixing with a heady combination of your exhaustion from traveling. Countless thoughts also swirled through your head, and it was inevitable that you would fall under, losing yourself to the easy promise of sleep. An easier task than grappling with your conflicted feelings. 

Darkness greeted you like an old friend, and your dreams were wild. One moment you were back with Grace, strolling through the meadows. The next, you found yourself in an empty forest, shadows chasing each breath evaporating on cold air, ensnared by a pair of red eyes in the thick foliage.

You stumbled on the undergrowth, falling backward ungracefully. You only had the wherewithal to put a hand over your face, trying to block everything out, as those eyes descended on you. Fear caught in your throat, and it was the lasting image that haunted you as you jerked upright in bed, barely withholding a scream when those same eyes met you in the real world.

“Y/N.”

Chan’s voice was deep, guttural in its intensity, and filled with concern. You flinched when fingers came out to gently remove sweaty bangs from your eyes, heart thunderous inside your chest. His hand paused in its motions, and for a fleeting second, you thought you might drown in his stare.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “Bad dreams.”

“I see.”

There was a question in his tone, but you didn’t know how to provide an answer, choosing instead to gently push his hand away. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

He nodded, lower lip caught between his teeth. “If you’re certain...”

You studied him for a moment, wishing that you could confide in him. But there was still a great distance between you, perhaps put there by your own accord, but heavy in its existence. “I shall get ready.”

Chan allowed you the space, agreeing to meet you in the hallway as you rose to get dressed, finding the dress that had been laid out for you by the maids. You slipped the fabric over your body, shivering as the silkiness slid across your skin like a lover’s caress.

True to his word, Chan was waiting patiently on the other side of the door, and you hesitated before taking the outstretched hand offered to you. Unprepared for when it pulled you in closer, under the scrutiny of his affectionate gaze. “Beautiful,” he declared, nostrils flaring as if taking in the scent of the perfume you sprayed. 

“Thank you,” you offered in return, choosing to keep silent as he led the way, helping you down the stairs in your heels. 

For once, you willingly stayed close to Chan, especially as you approached the Great Hall where the festivities would take place. Chan led you into the dining room, perhaps a bit too hastily, uneasy with the weight of his people’s stares boring down upon your figure. Dressed simply in that white gown—pure, as you had always remained—and looking entirely out of place amongst battle-hardened soldiers. 

You caught Changbin’s stare from across the room as you sat at the head of the table next to the King. There was lust in his gaze. And it deeply unsettled you, to the point that even Chan caught your shiver.

He followed your gaze to Changbin who looked away at once. “Tradition says that the King can share his mate,” Chan whispered. “But I will not share you with him. So he can only look.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything in return. “I didn’t know.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Chan stood, addressing the room. “Let’s feast together, comrades! We run together at the moon’s highest cycle!”

A chorus of cheers and howls greeted his words, and everyone started to fill their plates, easy conversation flowing between the wolves like the smell of the delicious-looking platters laid out before you. Still, your stomach revolted, swimming in circles as you picked at the helping Chan had served you. You wrinkled your nose when his grease-stained fingers brought a piece of chicken to your lips, and you forced yourself to take it from him. 

Chan sighed as you chewed, forcing the morsel down your throat as it stung. “I won’t be with you tonight, of course. We will likely stay out in the moonlight until dawn. But I will return in the morning.”

“Okay.” You shrugged, seemingly indifferent. Some time to yourself seemed nice. And you weren’t keen on being outside when they were no longer human. 

“You don’t have to be miserable here, my Queen,” Chan suddenly said, tone taking on a hardened edge. Perhaps the first time he had ever sounded stern with you. “Wolves mate for life, and they choose their partners seriously”

You contemplated his words, chosen ever so carefully. “I - I will try,” you managed, recalling Grace’s advice from the previous day.

To live as lovers rather than strangers. 

He hummed at your agreement, eyes glued to your form as he appraised you with something akin to curiosity. “Don’t roam so far from the castle tonight. It isn’t dangerous, but it is your first time. Of course, there’s usually nothing to fear in the gardens.”

There was a layered hint in his words, but you chose not to think about it too much, simply nodding your head as you resumed your task of picking at your food. There was nothing wrong with the offering in front of you, but your newfound uneasiness mixed with your emotional charge from earlier—it had not yet completely dispelled itself from your system—left an unpleasant ache in your chest.

As if something was missing…

Later that night, long after the wolves left the castle, you realized you couldn’t sleep even if you tried, listening to the chorus of howls from outside the castle walls. They rang through the night, loud and clear, and harmonized with one another as if perfectly in sync. Perhaps they were since Chan and his wolves shared a tight bond, and you wondered what it must be like to be so perfectly in tune with one another.

It was these thoughts that plagued you, and even as midnight came and went, you grew more restless. You resolved to walk through the castle, to quell your thoughts and ease your mind. Even as your footsteps echoed through the halls, you found yourself becoming more awake instead of the opposite effect.

Fresh air would be nice, you thought until you remembered the wolves outside. But then again, Chan did promise you that the gardens would be safe. You could trust him, right? Or was that the problem? Your lack of trust in someone meant to be your partner. 

You resolved yourself in that moment to try. And if that meant venturing out into the gardens, then no one could accuse you of being silent and passive. This was your attempt at trying, and if it ended badly, then you would have all the more leverage to ignore him.

However, despite your attempts to steel your resolve, you found your heart beating impossibly fast when you greeted the moonlight outside. Each lungful of air that you forced down your lungs felt like sharp knives attacking your flesh. Gaze swimming in front of you, footsteps unsteady as you entered the hedge maze surrounding the gardens.

You inhaled deeply, trying to find comfort in the familiar smell of the foliage. There was a strange air of peace surrounding you, and that was all the solace you needed to keep going, admiring the way the colors of the blooming flowers bled in a different light. It was easy to grow distracted by the sight, as beautiful as it was, and perhaps you could blame your wandering eye for failing to adequately identify the rustling of something large in the undergrowth of the forest. 

You hummed to yourself, leaning down to run your fingers over the soft petals of a rose. Its usual red was subdued somehow, under the moon’s glow, and you smiled at the effect, completely ignorant of a different red seeping through the hedges near your right.

It wasn’t until a gentle whimper sounded that you jerked to a stop, hand fluttering to cover your chest as you whipped around to locate the source of the sound. And what stood before you, as powerful as the looming mountains above the castle, nearly had you falling to your knees.

Except, you realized upon a second cursory glance, that there was something uncannily familiar about the beast in front of you, and it only took you another moment to make the connection. A gasp fell from your lips when you realized that it was the wolf from your childhood—the one you had found that day Chan visited your home for the second time. The one you played with in the gardens. The one you spent time with just talking and believing it was nothing more than a common wolf.

You stumbled then, recognizing the now familiar crimson eyes looking back at you—the same ones that belonged to your husband. The wolf, your Wolf King, butted his giant head against your outstretched hand, giving an affectionate lick to your fingertips.

“I understand,” you whispered, unable to decipher the emotion in your voice, but one thing that you knew for certain—there was a clear absence of fear. Because you had never feared this wolf, always approaching it with happiness, completely ignorant of its true state. 

The wolf gave you a meaningful look, and you were struck by the humanness of the gesture. Understanding dawned on you—Chan had always known. He had always known it was you—the one his wolf had chosen. The girl who had never shown fear to a beast that others considered a monster. 

You had known Chan for your entire life without even realizing it, and your eyes welled with tears, watching him toss back his head and release a spine-curdling howl. One that was joined by a chorus of beautiful melodic cries, merging and joining together, and reaching down to your very bones.

You dropped to your knees then—a mere speck before the Wolf. You cried without fear, and this time, the tension between you and your King vanished like the stars in the night sky when dawn cracked across the horizon.

Three Months Later

On most mornings, Chan was gone before you woke up, and that left you with a disconcerting feeling of disappointment. You supposed there was much to do for the King of the Castle, but lately, it made you ache for something you couldn’t quite discern.

For the past several months, you found yourself opening up to the Wolf King in ways you would’ve never imagined. The truth of who he was, the Wolf from your childhood, along with Grace’s well-intentioned advice, had managed to crack through the stoic guard you had raised from the moment you bound yourself to him.

He taught you about the bond—how, even if you weren’t a Wolf and couldn’t experience the same emotions, he could feel each flicker of happiness or stroke of sadness as it moved through you. 

You had not known of this connection before—because of your stubborn nature—and you would always regret resisting it. But things were better, and you could see the beauty in the bond and how truly spectacular it was to feel and understand another person so intimately. It made you wonder—for longer and longer periods of time—just how deep you could make that bond.

Curiosity weighed heavy on you, and your eyes cracked open at a gentle knocking on the door—an opportunity presenting itself when you recognized a familiar servant girl entering your room. “Good morning, Y/N,” she said, and you nodded in return.

At first, you had kept yourself closed off to the other maids, but this one in particular, Ivy, had been insistent. It was hard to deny her, especially when she became your best teacher, indulging you in learning everything related to the wolves and their way of life.

She was also quite willing and open to help you with anything, even if it involved the more intimate parts of your relationship with the Wolf King. You brought it up again that morning, growing more and more confident, especially since Ivy was completely shameless when it came to that sort of thing.

“I thought about your words from the other night,” you opened the conversation, watching as she put your breakfast down onto the table.

“You’ll have to remind me.” There was a teasing note in her tone, and you glowered at the playful look she shot in your direction.

“We spoke about the King,” you said. “You told me things…what I can do to please him.”

“I remember.” She took a step closer, and you were wary of the look in her eyes. “Does he not fuck you well?” Ivy asked, and her tone was absent of the same filter that would stop your tongue.

Still, you were embarrassed, looking down at your feet, wondering how to disguise the truth. “It doesn’t feel good when it seems like he just uses me to get himself off.”

That much was true as you had heard Chan masturbating next to you on countless nights, and your name often fell free from his lips.

“I see.” Ivy nodded. “He doesn’t know better. He was taught that a good alpha fucks his mate and makes sure that she is pregnant for him.”

You winced at her blunt explanation. “Is that all...wolves need?”

“Not necessarily,” Ivy said with a bright smile. “I can teach you...if you want.”

“Teach me?” you asked, gasping when Ivy placed a hand on your chest, forcing you to fall back on the bed.

She was all smiles when she crawled into your lap, grabbing your hands and securing them to her waist. You gasped when she started rocking her hips into your own, feeling the pleasant ache resonate up and down your spine. “The most important lesson of them all,” Ivy said with a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “The art of seduction.”

“I - Ivy...”

“Tell me, Y/N,” Ivy interrupted your ramblings, leaning down so that the tips of your noses brushed together. “Would you like that? Seducing your wolf? Driving him to the point where he can’t resist taking you?”

You moaned around your response. “Yes! Please show me.”

Her hips rocked harder into yours, and you could see white forming at the edges of your vision. “Leave it to me.”

And you did, surrendering to her touches, and the wicked way she showed you all the ways to drive a King mad. 

The following night, you bravely waited for your Wolf King to return from patrol, wearing nothing but a sheer robe that left little to the imagination. Sitting on the edge of your shared bed, you caught each breath as it rattled between your lungs. Nervousness eating away at your resolve and leaving the poor skin around your cuticles abused by your touch. 

Ivy’s advice rang clear in your mind as if she were there with you, holding your hands between her own as she taught you how to please the King. You blushed at the memory, hands covering the bare skin beneath your robe, caressing the delicate flesh as she had done the night before. Demonstrating to you the best ways to please a man, and to make him beg for you. 

That kind of power held its curious appeal, and you thought about it constantly. Wondering what it would be like to make Chan lose his mind to the sin of your smell and touch. You could hardly wait, bouncing your leg and jostling the flimsy material of your coverings. 

Thankfully, your Wolf King didn’t make you wait for very long, punctual as always in these recent times of peace in joining you during the evenings. The easy smile he always offered you vanished as soon as he closed the door behind him, eyes locked on your figure clad in so very little.

“Be assertive.” You recalled Ivy’s words, and you stood on shaky legs to take a few tentative steps towards him. The implication was not lost in translation. You could barely get out a greeting before Chan was on you in seconds, gently pushing you back against the wall. He pressed his forehead against yours and you closed your eyes. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, initiating the first indulgent kiss that lit a fire that you felt down to the tips of your toes.

“Then have me,” you said against the purse of his mouth, tongue tracing that full bottom lip. His gaze widened perceptibly, holding you at arm's length.

“What do you mean?”

“Take me the way you want,” you replied. “I’m ready. You love me, don’t you?”

The intensity in that gaze you had started to yearn for burned even brighter. “You know that I love you Y/N, and I understand why it would be hard for you to believe. I’m more than willing to take this chance to show you.”

He pulled away despite the tight grip you kept on his powerful bicep. Even so, you kept your eyes open as wide as possible to enjoy the scene playing out in front of you when he kissed you again. You curled your fingers into his thick black hair, remembering Ivy’s advice, and pulled his mouth against yours, crushing your lips to his. Chan’s chest rumbled as he kissed you fiercely in return, grabbing onto your arms as his tongue plundered the hot cavern of your mouth.   

Your lungs screamed in protest, and you pulled away suddenly, shivering at his resounding whimper. You opened your eyes, keeping your hands in his hair to hold it back from his crimson orbs. You found the lust there, making his eyes appear darker.  “It’s so hard for me to do this,” you said softly. “I- I want to please you…”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Chan replied. He pressed his hips into yours and you felt something hard against your stomach. “Y/N,” Chan murmured, leaning into your neck to inhale deeply. “I want you more than anything else.”

You shivered as you felt his other hand come to the sleeve of your gown, slowly sliding it down your shoulder. His fingertips slid across your skin, weakening your resolve. His lips followed his touch, peppering soft kisses along the exposed skin. He tugged on the fabric more and you felt the fabric at your right breast start to fall, slowly exposing the flesh to him. His blazing eyes looked down at what he had uncovered, as his hand moved up to hold your breast in his palm. You moaned when his thumb started to rub against your nipple, growing alarmed at the sudden ache between your legs. Like before, his lips soon replaced his fingers and you cried out when he gently nipped the sensitive skin.  

He suddenly tugged the fabric back up, releasing your wrists so that he could have both hands when he grabbed the sides of your robe and tugged it aside to reveal your bare skin to him. Your hands fell to your sides as your chest heaved up and down to match each of your panting breaths. Clad in the lingerie Ivy had helped you pick out the previous night. 

Chan’s eyes were glued to your bare torso. With a moan of his own, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips before he trailed his mouth down, over the soft skin of your throat, down your chest, and between the valley of your breasts, over your smooth stomach down to the top of your lace panties. Looking up at you with hungry, lust-filled eyes, Chan started to tug the fabric down your legs.

Clenching your fists against the wall, you couldn’t begin to describe what you felt when he pressed a kiss against the front of your panties, holding your thighs in his strong hands. Standing back up to his full height, he pulled his shirt off next, tossing it onto the floor. You breathed out deeply as your eyes greedily took in the sight of his muscled torso. Timidly, you reached out a hand, aware of his eyes watching your movements as you hovered your palm over his firm abdomen. “Touch him with your fingertips,” Ivy’s words whispered against your ear. He groaned, bracing his arms on either side of you, moving his head against the wall next to your ear. You heard Chan’s husky voice whisper: “Baby, please touch me.”

Your eyes fluttered at his request, and you placed both palms on his hard stomach, moving them up and feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. Your hands danced across his pectorals, rising along with the muscles. You moved your palms over his shoulders and then back down, pausing when you hit the top of his pants. Before you could muster up the courage to move any lower, Chan’s lips were back on yours, kissing you senseless. You wrapped your arms around his neck, working your mouth against his, feeling your lips become swollen from his kisses. As your tongues touched, you felt Chan’s hands return to your thighs, lifting them so that you had no choice but to wrap your legs around his trim waist. Holding you against him, he carried you into over to the bed to deposit you on top. You missed his warmth as soon as he was gone and opened your eyes to meet his black gaze.

This was your chance. You remembered Ivy’s words and scrambled to get in position. Present. The command burned its way through your whole being as if you had no control over it. Instead, you turned on your hands and knees, arching your back and keeping your ass held high in the air.

You had never done this before, and you felt so exposed, but at the same time so good, so right, and you restrained yourself from trying to cover up against the shameless crimson stare watching you.

Suddenly, all went quiet, prompting you to glance over your shoulder. The Wolf King was staring at your ass, his mouth slightly agape. “Good girl,” was all you heard before Chan dove down abruptly to taste your dripping cunt, dragging his tongue all the way up to the source of the wetness leaking from you with a single, hot swipe, before latching on and sucking eagerly at the sensitive skin around your opening. 

You keened at the sensation and shivered at his satisfied grunts and moans as he took his fill of your taste. It made you want to please him. To do whatever it took to make him completely lose his mind.

“Chan!” You moaned out, reaching beneath him to flick at your neglected clit. “More!” 

Your demand did not go unanswered. With a grunt, Chan yanked your ass up higher for a better angle, digging his hands into the plush flesh of your hips. His touch was rough, and strong, undoubtedly leaving marks behind, but you absolutely loved it. And when the wiggling muscle of his tongue finally pushed inside, you cried out in absolute bliss and pleasure. Time itself seemed to slow down as that tongue relentlessly moved inside you, searching for that spot that could make you see stars and, once found, pressing down hard. Again and again, Chan dipped inside with his tongue, and each time you moaned for him. It didn’t take you long until your body tensed and shuddered, squeezing around the intrusion as you rode out your orgasm. 

With a satisfied groan, Chan released your hips, and you collapsed on your stomach, still aching for him.

You attempted to look back at Chan, groaning when you realized he was pushing down his pants and underwear, freeing his stiffening cock before crawling back over you. You were met with a flurry of kisses, on your lips, your cheeks, and your neck, before his tongue trailed lazily over your chest and down to the delicate curls damp from your release. 

You squirmed under him as he held himself up on his arms, dragging his eyes unbearably slow from your face and down to your toes. He moved one finger down over your stomach, and you watched it enter the forest of blonde curls around your center. Panting, and nearing combustion, you found yourself instinctively thrusting your hips up, begging him for more than just touches. Growling, he practically shoved your hips back to the bed, reaching down and jerking his thick cock with rough strokes. He abruptly flipped you over onto your back, craning his neck to look down into your eyes. “Let me make love to you, Y/N.”

His words sent a flurry of heat straight to your core. You had never had sex before, but you wanted it desperately. You told him as much and could see him visibly shaking. “I’ll go slow,” he promised, kissing your lips tenderly, before reaching down to line himself up at your entrance. You closed your eyes and winced as he pushed into you. Pliant and soft from his earlier ministrations, the bulbous head found little resistance as it breached your cunt.

You could feel his face bury itself into your shoulder, his knuckles turning white as they gripped the bedding, as if it was taking everything he had to go this slow. Once he was buried inside of you completely, you groaned, adjusting to the sudden intrusion. You could feel him still above you, and his teeth teased the skin at your shoulder. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. “It’s taking every ounce of control I have not to flip you over and fuck you senseless.”

His words, as crude as they were, only served to heighten your arousal. “Move,” you said, grabbing his black hair and pulling his face to yours. You kissed him quickly. “I’m fine.”

He needed no further encouragement, as he slowly pulled out before pushing back in. You could see the sweat breaking out across his forehead from the exertion, causing strands of his hair to stick to his forehead. His right hand moved behind you to grip the headboard as his hips slowly rocked against your own. As good as it felt, you could see he was about to lose it. “Faster,” you told him, and he complied, speeding up his thrusts and allowing some of the tension to escape his body. It was a little painful, especially when he let out a low growl and really started grinding his hips.

You could feel it building inside, the pleasure of his rough movements far outweighing the discomfort. You let out another moan as he moved in and out, feeling the smooth friction all the way to the tips of your toes. The Wolf King chose this moment to draw his hips back, dragging his length out to the tip, before slamming it back inside with a powerful thrust, rocking your body to the point that you felt your vision turn white for a moment. Without giving you time to recover, Chan repeated the motion over and over again, speeding up and adjusting the angle to relentlessly hit deep inside, hips bumping your clit with every smooth grind.

He grunted from his efforts, one hand on the headboard while the other came to grab your breast, his lips sucking at your neck. For your part, you arched your back against him, allowing your hips to come up a little to meet his movements as he hit even deeper inside of you, just barely kissing your cervix. Your fingernails scraped down the smooth skin of his back at this new angle. He moaned when your nails dug into his flesh, bringing his lips up to yours and you kissed him feverishly, tasting him like your life depended on it. One of your hands curled into his smooth black hair while the other gripped his bicep tightly, sighing happily as you felt the muscles move.  

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to not feel overwhelmed by all of the things he was making you feel. Buried deep inside of you, you could feel him hit all the right spots, sending waves of pleasure to your tight center. Meanwhile, his lips were working magic against yours, leaving you breathless.  

You could feel an intimate warmth building inside of you the longer he snapped his hips against yours. Groaning, you let out a cry as you felt something inside of you break open, releasing wave after wave of heat through your core, leaving your body drowning in pleasure.  

There was a haze of lightheadedness clogging your senses, and you almost didn’t even realize the swell pushing against your ass, until it breached your core. “Chan!” you hissed at the combination of pain and overwhelming pressure, retreating and then swelling again as he ground that hot mass against you.

“My knot,” he groaned, and you could feel the heat from his chest against your breasts as he pressed even closer. 

You vaguely recalled Ivy warning you about this, telling you that it would be hard to prepare for the massive instrution. You felt a spike of fear as it stretched you even further, and you worried that your virgin body would suffer. All you could do was grit your teeth and bury your head into the blankets beneath you, feeling the swell of his knot pressed against the cleft of your ass. You fisted the sheets between your hands. He would split you in half, and then you would be nothing.

“Y/N!” he growled, slowing his hips to a timid roll as his knot locked between you both, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you felt his release flood your insides, filling you to the point that your lower stomach had started to swell from his cum. 

He groaned as you both came down from your highs, and you gently petted your finger through his unruly curls. He experimentally rolled his hips to test how firmly the knot was locking him inside and it wouldn’t budge. Your cunt squeezed the knot, eliciting another grunt from Chan, another twitch, and another spurt of hot cum inside of you.

The pop didn’t swell until Chan was fully seated, his thick cock barely able to seat itself fully between your pulsating walls. It was a painful stretch, of course, but you were hardly focused on it.

Chan continued to hump against you, long after his release and teetering on the cusp of oversensitivity, but those seductive hips had lost their rhythm. It was only moments later, as Chan pulled away from your lips and buried his face into your chest, that he growled when something warm filled your center. You let your hand wander down his spine, stroking along the individuals knots. You could feel him breathing hard above you, and you tried to soothe him back to normal.

You were locked together for a long time, and you were almost asleep when Chan was finally able to pull out, collapsing onto the mattress next to you, looking up at the ceiling. You watched as his chest rose and fell quickly until you could barely see it move at all, signifying his return from his high. Your own breaths came out much shorter, and you were aware of the sweat that coated your skin. 

You watched as Chan ran his hand through his dark hair, moving it out of his face. Looking over at you, he turned on his side and used one hand to bring you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your waist. You hummed in delight as your chests pressed together, moving in sync with each other. Chan’s eyes scanned over your face as he leaned in and kissed your forehead. “I love you Y/N,” he said. voice rumbling. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you.”

You were barely coherent, collapsed against the sheets with a line of drool pooling out from your mouth. Closing your eyes, you let your head fall against his chest, savoring his warmth.  “I trust you,” you said softly, and you could feel him sigh in relief. Simply holding you against him, surrounded by his warmth, you suddenly felt very much like you belonged.

“You and I have always been destined,” Chan whispered, and for the first time since you had taken your place as his Wolf Queen, you weren’t afraid.

Instead, you were irrevocably alive.

[whiterosesforher]

𓍼 ⋮ FALLING FOR THE RUSE ( S.JY )

𝒾 : may i present to you dearest reader, Sebastian Hastings, Duke of Hastings, a man of charm and wit, your biggest mystery to uncover. 【 ˚⊱☁️⊰˚ 】 ♯ 𝓳𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 | 𝓌 : 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐟 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞), 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐝𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢.

disclaimer ‣ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🩷 this is a fanfiction inspired by the duke and i, originally from the bridgerton series book and show. most elements are purposely altered.

𝓌𝒸 : 33.3k

( ‧˚꒰🦪꒱༘⋆ ) write to lady whistledown ✒️៹

You stand before the large mirror in the drawing room, your soft blue gown hugging your figure perfectly, the delicate flowers woven into your curls sitting like a crown atop your head. The maids bustle around you, smoothing the fabric, adjusting every last detail, ensuring you look flawless.

To anyone else, you might appear to be the perfect picture of grace and beauty. Yet, as you catch your own reflection, doubt lingers in your eyes.

Your mother, Violet, sits quietly in a chair nearby. She offers you a small, kind smile, the kind that would usually soothe you. But today, it doesn’t. It is the start of your second season, and you still haven't found a match yet. Unsuccessful to marry a respectable man at the age of nineteen.

“You look radiant, my dear,” she says softly, her voice warm but tinged with something deeper, something that mirrors the unease in your chest. You let out a long, shaky sigh and run your fingers over the edge of your gown. “Radiant,” you echo, the word falling flat on your tongue. “Radiant for what purpose, Mama? I’ve already endured one season, one dreadful season of rejection. What’s to say this one will be any different?”

Her smile falters, her hand rests on your arm, soothing you in a way only she can. “This is not rejection, my dear. It is simply that what you’re searching for is rare. A love match is no simple thing to find, especially when many are willing to settle for less. What you want is extraordinary, and that takes time.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you look at her. You know what she's saying is true, but you can't help but envy the kind love that your parents had. “You and Father had that. Everyone saw it. They envied it. And I—” You pause, the lump in your throat growing. “I want that, too. I cannot imagine settling for anything less. But what if...” The words taste bitter on your tongue. “What if it’s impossible for me?”

Your mother’s hand squeezes your arm gently, she chuckled lightly, “Oh, my darling, it is not impossible. It is simply uncommon. Your father was one of a kind, and men like him do not come around often. But I promise you, when the right gentleman does come along, you will feel it deep in your heart.”

You bite down on your lip, trying to hold back the frustration bubbling within you. “Last season, I felt like some prized horse on display, Mama. All they saw was my title, my dowry, our family’s reputation. None of them truly saw me.” Your voice breaks slightly. “How am I supposed to find love when all they care about is what I represent, not who I am?”

Her eyes glisten as she listens, her heart breaking alongside yours. “You are right to want more,” she says softly. “And while the process may be painful, it is worth enduring for the chance at true happiness. I know it feels unbearable at times, but do not lose hope.”

Your mother stood beside you, her hands gentle as she fastens the final pin in your hair. Your dark locks now gleamed, swept into an elegant updo that frames your face so well. You look absolutely beautiful, you thought to yourself.

She glanced at you through the mirror, “Now you look completely flawless, my dear,” she complimented while smoothing a strand of hair that dared to fall out of place. “Today is your day. I just know it.”

Dorothea turned to you, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mama. I truly hope this season will finally bring what I’m looking for.”

“You will find it, Dorothea,” your mother's words never fail to comfort you, “I have no doubt.”

The peaceful moment was interrupted when the door to the room burst open with a dramatic thud. “Dorothea!! You. Must. Make. Haste!” Elisa's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative, as she stormed in, punctuating every word with an exaggerated stomp of her foot, glaring at you. Both you and your mother flinched at the sudden intrusion, but when Elisa came into view—her cheeks flushed with urgency, her hands on her hips like a soldier commanding an army—you couldn’t help but break into a fit of laughter.

“Elisa!” you exclaimed in shock and amusement. “What?” Elisa shot back at you, her tone exasperated. “You’re going to make us late! Again! Do you want everyone in the ton to think we Bridgertons have no sense of time?” Her mock scolding sent you into an even severe fit of laughter, shaking your head fondly at your sister’s theatrics.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” you replied with a teasing grin, fixing your gloves before walking beside her. Elisa crossed her arms, satisfied, though a playful smirk tugged at her lips. “Good. You’ll thank me later when we're not late to the ball and the ton won't stare and silently judge us.” As you and Elisa moved past the door, you heard your mother's soft call, stopping you on your tracks for just a moment. She walked with two of you, her hands on you and Elisa’s arm.

“Good luck, my darling,” she whispered to you, “May this season bring you everything your heart desires.” Oh yeah you hope so too, in fact you hope so hard you're willing to waste all the pennies you have at this point to throw them all in a wishing well. “Thank you, Mama.”

As you descend down the stairs, the others are already there looking at you in admiration, especially your brothers. Though as annoying as they can get, they are your biggest supporters. Benjamin held your hand as you walked down the last few steps of the stairs, and then offered his arm to you that you gladly accepted, linking your arm with his.

The first ball of the season was a whirlwind of sparkling chandeliers, lively music, and the subtle hum of whispered conversations. You entered with grace alongside your family. This time, your brother, Atticus, is the one escorting you. It was your second season, and while you tried to focus on optimism, the sting of last year’s failure still lingered.

You’d heard all the murmurs about you, on how you were far too clever, far too independent, and, most frustratingly, far too overshadowed by your brothers. But tonight was going to be different. It had to be.

As soon as you enter, it's like all eyes are on you. Gentlemen from left and right setting their eyes on you, giving you hope that you might find someone tonight who would interest you. You were instantly entertained as you watched the pairs dancing on the ball dance floor.

“They’re all staring, mother,” Atticus said as he watched each staring gentleman with a stern gaze. There's his protective nature again, you internally sighed. You could only hope your brother won't ruin this for you again.

Your mother, Violet, had whispered from behind you “Allow them to come to you, dearest.” And you smiled, eyes twinkling as your beauty didn't fail to attract attention once again.

It started off well enough. A gentleman approached with a tentative bow. You recognized him for you had already encountered him before, he's Lord Ambrose, a Baron. He has a smile on his lips, and you appreciate the sincerity in his eyes.

“Lady Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton,” he greeted, addressing you and your mother with a polite nod of his head. But when he turned to your brother, you can see him swallow awkwardly, “Lord Bridgerton,” he nodded at Atticus.

Your mother chimed in from behind you, her tone joyous as she offered a smile to the man, “I believe you have already been introduced to my daughter Dorothea, Lord Ambrose.”

The man nodded at your mother once again, “Uh yes, we met at your brother's levee,” he specified, pertaining to Atticus who's right beside you now with a cold stare.

You started up a conversation, wanting to be approachable for tonight to open opportunities, “If I recall, my lord, you had just won your first race at Newmarket.” You said with a soft chuckle, and you were about to congratulate him.

But your nuisance of a brother interrupted, “His first and only, I believe,” Atticus said in a passively rude tone while wearing a fake smile, that made your smile falter as you turned to him. Your eyes shooting up to silently tell him “You’re unbelievable.”

You immediately saved the awkward tension and turned your head once again to Lord Ambrose, “Well, in that case let us hope his lordship has found himself a new horse.” Ambrose chuckled, appreciating your warm and kind personality.

And here goes this evil maggot ruining your chance for a match once again, oh how you want to rip Atticus’ hair at this point when he interrupts once again, looking at him in disbelief as he run his mouth while staring intensely at Ambrose.

“I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you at our club lately, Ambrose,” he paused and you were about to open your mouth to say something but he beat you to it, “Should it have anything to do with the unpaid balance you left on our betting books last winter?”

He jabbed in a passive aggressive way, airing out Ambrose’s dirty laundry regarding his history of debts and gambling that ruined your mood altogether.

Even your mother Violet who's just behind the two of you witnessing this was so taken aback her eyes widened and her head snapped to Atticus, her eyebrow raising so high.

Ambrose fell silent, and with a tight lipped smile and one last polite bow, he walked away.

“Ambrose is a cheat. A man of any honor ensures his debts are fully paid.” Atticus remarked while scanning the whole room for anyone who dares to come approach you.

You let out a dismayed sigh, “I didn't realize–”

“Well, how could you have done that? It is the very reason I am here, sister.” He said in a convincing manner, “Let us take a turn about the room.” Your brother escorted you to roam the room, your hand securely linked to his arm as you observe every gentleman there is.

A gentleman dancing with someone on the dancefloor nodded at you, acknowledging your presence. “He is rather pleasing,” you commented to which your brother scoffed, “That’s Mr. Lewis, he is rather here to shuffle about hunting fortunes. Trust Lewis knows of your sizable dowry. Leave him be.”

You nod your head to a gentleman from a distance talking to a lady, “I presume you know of him too?” he smirked, “Mr. Worthington. Second son. We shall find better.”

A gentleman walked past the two of you, bowing his head a little to you as he passed, “He is of dubious parentage.” Atticus commented.

A familiar voice called the two of you, “Atticus! Thea!” it was Benjamin, with Caleb following him as they joined you.

“Did Mother tell you yet? About my tour? I am to begin in Greece,” Caleb announced excitedly. Ah of course, your brother Caleb has always been the wanderlust, always wanting to be free and to explore.

Maybe it is the reason why he's still unmarried. Although to be fair, all your brothers are unmarried. And if you're to secure a match this season then you would be the first one to get married among your siblings.

Your mouth fell open in happiness and surprise, “Greece? How adventurous, Caleb!”

“On guard!” Atticus hurriedly said to Benjamin and Caleb as they all scattered to turn and walk away in different directions.

But they are stopped in their tracks as the Lady Danbury approaches, her cane making thud noises on the floor with each step, “Too late. I already noted you.”

Your brothers turned around with a sheepish smile, like young boys getting caught by their mom after doing something reckless.

“Lady Danbury.”

“Good evening!”

“Lovely to see you, Lady Danbury.”

They all said in chorus while bowing. Lady Danbury is a close friend to the current Queen and to your mother, Violet. She has acted like a godmother and helped you and your siblings when your father passed too early.

You bowed to her too with a genuine smile, “Miss Bridgerton, you look rather lovely this evening. Is there a reason why I've yet to see you on the dance floor?”

“All in good time, Lady Danbury,” Atticus answered for you, making the woman frown, almost rolling her eyes before leaning to you to whisper, “You poor thing,” before walking away.

The night falls deeper and you still haven't been asked out to dance, your brother whose arm you are holding to, successful in warding off interested men.

You looked around the room, your feet sore from doing nothing but standing. You turned to him, “I am quite parched, Atti.”

“Then I shall fetch you a glass of lemonade,” he tried to move but you stopped him, “No. You have already done so much for me tonight. I shall return in a mere moment.” You assured him and he let you go alone.

Walking to the refreshments table and grabbing yourself a glass of lemonade. You sipped from the tiny glass they came to serve the lemonade with.

When all of a sudden, an agitating voice disturbed your only alone time tonight. “Small glasses,” he simply said with a grin. You bowed your head to acknowledge him with a forced smile, “Lord Berbrooke.”

“Tiny little things, are they not?” He continued as you awkwardly chuckled before answering, “The glasses? I suppose.”

“Then the matter is settled,” he said with an even bigger smile that made you confused, eyebrows furrowing with a confused smile, “Pardon? I'm not entirely sure which matter are we discussing, my lord.”

He took a step closer but still maintained a distance, “You’ve always been so attractive to me, Miss Bridgerton. Ever since I was a twenty year old boy and you were…”

Your eyes widened, your whole body weirded out by this man, and you couldn't help the hint of disgust on your face as you continued his sentence for him, “When you were twenty and I was just… five?”

He only chuckled in response and slurped on his lemonade loudly while creepily staring at you. What the hell is wrong with this old man? You thought to yourself before thinking of an excuse to get yourself out of this situation.

“My brother, he summons me. Adieu.” You hurriedly squeeze yourself past the crowd, heartbeat quickening as you heard Berbrooke’s voice call out behind you, “Miss Bridgerton?” He repeated as you continued to walk fast and he slowly followed you, “A moment please! Miss Bridgerton?”

You turned your head to him, seeing he's following you, you quickened your pace even more. Not noticing you'd bump hard into an unfamiliar gentleman. You yelped, and your eyes widened.

“Pardon me” “Forgive me” you both said in chorus. You looked back at Berbrooke who's trying to approach you again but is getting swarmed with the other guests greeting him and trying to converse with him.

You held the arms of the gentleman you just bumped into, “Tell me your name,” you eagerly said with a panicked smile, the only thing that can ward off Berbrooke this time is if you're entertaining another man. If only your brother Atticus was here. Now you want to slap yourself for not letting him come with you.

The man gave you a smirk, almost scoffing at you, “Am I honestly to believe you do not already know my name?” You glanced at Berbrooke again and saw him getting closer so you faked a really loud laugh and hit the man's arm, pretending you're talking to him and he just said something funny to you.

The man squinted his eyes at your weird behavior and sighed, “If you desire an introduction, madam, I do believe accosting me to be the least civilized of ways.” You look at him in disbelief at his attitude, “Me? Accosting you?” He cut you off, still annoyed and cocky, “Truly you ladies will try anything to get my attention including bumping into me and pretending not to know me.”

This man. He thinks this is all a plan just to speak to him? You've only spoken to him for a minute yet he's already making your eyes twitch in annoyance, you want to take your heels off and use it to slap his face. Who does he think he is? You're a respectable lady, surely you will not try such thing just to get the attention of whoever this babbling baboon is. Does he think himself so handsome that you'd get desperate for him? He wish!

“Sir wha– who do you think you are?! What is your name?” You challenged, ready to report this man to your brothers. “Hastings!” Your head snapped to your brother jogging towards your direction, seemingly calling the man with you.

“Bridgerton!” The man responded with a joyful tone. They shook hands in a boyish way and pat each other's back, “Come here, old friend!” Old friend?! This baboon is your brother's friend?!

“I heard news of your father's passing– You're no longer just Sebastian Hastings, you're the Duke of Hastings!” Your eyebrow raised, ah so he's a duke, no wonder he's cocky and arrogant with that pretentious smile he has. “The Duke of Hastings, is it?” You said sarcastically, still glaring at Hastings.

“Right, Hastings, this is my sister.”

“Your sister?”

Atticus turned to you with a smile, “Dorothea, Hastings and I know each other from our days at Oxford. He is the nephew of Lady Danbury, who came to visit London for some business. Well I expect to see you at our club some time.”

“Indeed, Lord Bridgerton. Evening. Miss Bridgerton.” He bowed at you and your brother which you returned only out of politeness. You walked away with Atticus, leaving to retire for the night as your feet are already exhausted.

The rising sun came into view from your window signifying an early morning and you were already wide awake, lying on your back and staring at the ceiling, anticipation buzzing through you. Today would be different, you are a hundred percent confident.

A soft knock on the door broke your thoughts. “Miss, you’re awake!” Your maid, Rose, stepped inside with a bright smile.

You shot up immediately, a grin already forming on your lips. “Yes, yes, I am! Go to the kitchen at once and have the cook prepare plenty of biscuits. I’ll need enough for...” You paused, imagining the footmen overwhelmed by an army of callers at the door. “For a dozen callers today!”

The maid nodded and rushed out as you stood, quickly readying yourself for what you hoped would be a triumphant day. By mid-morning, you sat in the drawing room, perfectly poised in one of your favorite gowns, excitement shimmering beneath your practiced expression. Violet sat across from you with little Heather, and Elisa is seated next to you.

And yet... nothing. No carriage wheels on the gravel. No eager footsteps on the stairs. No callers. It's like your brother has successfully insulted every man that set their eyes on you.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to let your disappointment show. But your mother noticed, of course, and offered a reassuring smile. “I’m sure someone will call later, dearest. These things sometimes take time.”

You nodded and kept your smile in place, but the disappointment was becoming harder to ignore. Until finally, the sound of the door opening reached your ears. The footman entered with perfect posture, announcing, “There’s a caller for Miss Dorothea Bridgerton.” Your heart soared, and you couldn’t stop the eager smile that bloomed across your face. But the next words shattered it instantly.

“Lord Nigel Berbrooke.” The room fell silent.

Nigel stepped in, his usual clumsy gait and overeager grin making you instantly regret all the optimism you’d felt this morning. Your mother, always a gracious hostess, quickly covered for your stunned reaction with a polite smile. “How lovely of you to call, Lord Berbrooke,” Violet said smoothly. “We have freshly prepared biscuits and refreshments. Please, do sit.” She rose from her seat, gesturing for Elisa and Heather to move. “Elisa, perhaps you’d allow some room for his lordship?”

You tightened your grip on Elisa’s arm without thinking, silently pleading her not to go. You didn’t even have to look at her to know she understood you. Elisa smiled coyly, tilting her head. “I believe I should like to stay, Mother.” Violet’s gaze sharpened, her voice carrying an edge of authority as she replied, “I believe you should like to go.” Elisa froze for a moment before reluctantly standing, shooting you a look that screamed ‘good luck, dear sister.’

“Well then… I believe I should go,” Elisa said with exaggerated sweetness, though her eyes twinkled with mischief as she made her way to the other side of the room along Heather and Violet. And now, with nowhere left to hide, you were forced to face the worst caller imaginable. “Miss Dorothea,” Nigel began as soon as he took the empty seat beside you. That ridiculous, self-satisfied grin stretched across his face as if he thought this was his moment of triumph. “I just know, you and I were destined for each other.”

You stared at him, your mind blank with disbelief. How could one person be so staggeringly delusional? You said nothing, too stunned to form a response. From across the room, Heather failed spectacularly at stifling a laugh. The sound broke free, loud and unladylike, earning her an immediate look from Violet. Heather’s lips pursed tightly, and she sank back into the couch, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. Meanwhile, you remained trapped beside Nigel, who was oblivious to the fact that his mere presence was a form of torture.

You started to talk to yourself in your thoughts instead, why is there no one else here? Why is this... whatever creature this is, sitting beside you, thinking he has a chance? What did you do to deserve this punishment?

Nigel continued to ramble on, but you barely heard him. You were too busy questioning every decision that had brought you to this moment, stuck in your own personal nightmare.

Over the following days, the Bridgerton drawing room became emptier than a ballroom during the last dance of the night. It wasn’t due to any lack of biscuits or refreshments, nor because you lacked charm or beauty.

No, the blame for the desolation lay entirely with your older brother, Atticus, who had taken it upon himself to supervise all callers. The result? A wave of men leaving before they even stepped foot into the drawing room, their nervous apologies echoing through the halls before the footmen escorted them out.

By the end of the week, even your Mother's well-practiced optimism began to falter. The grand doors to the drawing room remained frustratingly still, while you sat in a perfectly poised manner, clutching a book you’d read far too many times to actually be reading anymore. You glanced out the window for the hundredth time, the sight of the empty drive confirming your fears.

Your heart began to weigh heavier each day, especially as the whispers of society reached your ears.

On one such morning, you stayed in bed long after you had awoken, lying still beneath the covers and staring at the ceiling as your thoughts swirled like a storm cloud.

The damning words of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers rang in your head:

“Of the many young ladies making their second appearances this season, Miss Dorothea Bridgerton remains among the loveliest. And yet, one cannot help but notice her distinct lack of callers. Is it mere bad luck or perhaps a trend that will lead to yet another unsuccessful season for her?”

You knew of this, of course, because Elisa had gleefully barged into your room the day before, holding up the latest paper as though it were some treasured artifact. Elisa adored Lady Whistledown, practically worshipped her, and her enthusiasm made the sting of the remarks all the more painful.

“What nonsense,” you muttered to yourself, replaying the words over and over in your mind despite your protests. A distinct lack of callers. Unsuccessful season. Failure.

A sharp knock on your door interrupted your downward spiral. “Miss?” You recognized your maid’s voice but couldn’t summon the energy to respond. Another knock, gentler this time. “Miss Dorothea, are you well? Shall I bring you something?” You sighed and forced yourself to sit up. “No, no. I’ll be down soon. Thank you.” The maid’s retreating footsteps gave you a moment to compose yourself, though the weight on your chest remained.

Your future seemed uncertain—hopeless, even. Atticus’s overprotective interference, the whispers of society, and the damning words of Lady Whistledown were too much to ignore. You wanted a love match, a marriage like your parents had shared, but how could you hope for that when it seemed no one was even willing to call on you?

Shaking your head, you pushed the covers back and swung your legs over the side of the bed. If there was one thing you’d learned from your mother, it was that Bridgertons didn’t give up easily, no matter how bleak things seemed.

Still, as you began to dress for the day, you couldn’t help but wonder: How on earth am I to change this?

You descended the staircase, the weight of your earlier thoughts still lingering as you entered the drawing room. Unsurprisingly, it was empty once again. The silence of the grand room was almost deafening, and your steps echoed faintly against the polished floor as you paced back and forth.

Finally, unable to keep the thoughts to yourself any longer, you turned to your mother, who sat near the window, embroidering with an air of serenity that only she could maintain in such dire circumstances. “Mama,” you began, your voice slightly hesitant but growing with determination, “perhaps we should attend the upcoming Salisbury ball by ourselves. And the Merriweather tea as well.”

Your mother glanced up at you, her expression both curious and sympathetic. “You know, without Atticus,” you added pointedly, your hands gesturing in frustration. Violet sighed softly and set her embroidery aside, giving you her full attention. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, dearest.”

“And why not?” you asked, already sensing that you wouldn’t like her answer. “Because Atticus has already replied on our behalf,” she explained, her tone gentle but firm. “He’s taken it upon himself to manage all of our social events for the season. Through June, at least.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean to say for the entire season?” Violet offered an apologetic smile, but it only made your frustration bubble over. “Great,” you said, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Guess I’m remaining unmarried!”

Without another word, you flopped down on the couch, crossing your arms and glaring at the door as if willing your overbearing brother to appear. And, as if on cue, Atticus strode in moments later, completely unaware of the storm brewing in your chest.

He looked from you to your mother, his brow furrowing slightly. “What’s the matter now?” You didn’t answer, only narrowed your eyes further at him.

Atticus raised a brow, clearly unimpressed by your silent protest. “If you’re so intent on sulking, perhaps a ride will cheer you up,” he suggested casually. You sighed, weighing your options. Stay here and fume in silence or begrudgingly agree to humor him? After a moment of tense silence, you rolled your eyes and stood.

“Fine,” you muttered, brushing past him. “But only because there’s absolutely nothing better to do.” Atticus smirked, clearly pleased with himself, and gestured for you to follow him outside.

The two of you rode side by side through the quiet, open park, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves steady and calm. It would’ve been a serene outing if not for the unmistakable tension that hung between you and your older brother. The gentle breeze did little to soothe your simmering frustrations, and as your horse trotted forward at a leisurely pace, you decided to address the elephant in the room.

“You know,” Atticus began, his tone conversational, as if he had no idea how livid you were. “Berbrooke is harmless. There’s no need to worry about him. I’m certain there will be others.” You rolled your eyes, the mention of Nigel Berbrooke only fueling your irritation. “Oh, Atti,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm, “thank you so much for your vote of confidence. But perhaps you’ve forgotten—Lady Whistledown has been writing about me.”

At this, Atticus cast you a sidelong glance. “And?”

“And,” you continued, your tone sharp, “she’s already spreading the word that I’m ineligible. That I failed to find a match last season, and that it looks like I’m failing again this season. From the looks of it, what man would want such damaged goods now?”

Atticus scoffed. “You speak of Lady Whistledown as if she’s the voice of the rest of the ton.” He waved a dismissive hand. “They’re just gossips, speculations. Hardly anything of substance, and certainly not true.” You sighed in frustration, gripping the reins tighter as your horse continued its steady walk. “But they are true,” you snapped. “And do you know why they’re true? Because of you, Atti!”

His brows furrowed, and he shot you a warning look. “I beg your pardon?” You didn’t back down. “You’ve managed to scare every single suitor away,” you said firmly, your words laced with equal parts anger and despair.

Atticus straightened in his saddle, clearly unimpressed by your accusation. “I’m protecting you,” he countered. “It’s my duty as the head of the house and as your older brother.” But you weren’t about to let him hide behind that excuse again. “And what of my duty?” you interrupted, your voice rising with the intensity of your emotions.

Atticus opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance. “You have no idea what marriage means to a woman,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly. “You have no idea how we live, what it feels like for your entire life to depend on one single moment. I was raised to do this, only to fail. Women are wives and that’s all they are. If they cannot find a husband, they are worthless. I am worthless.” You expressed the sad reality of being a woman in this society. A woman who's dreaming of a love match that seemed to look only more impossible to achieve now.

“Worthless?” he repeated incredulously, clearly taken aback by your words. “Dorothea, you are a Bridgerton! A member of one of the richest families in London. Impeccably rich, in fact. How could you possibly be worthless?” You turned your gaze ahead, refusing to look at him. Your tone grew quiet, the anger replaced by something far heavier. “Maybe it would be better if I were not.”

Before he could respond, you kicked your horse into a faster pace, pulling ahead and leaving him behind. The sound of the hooves striking the ground grew louder as you rode farther, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and your brother. Atticus called after you, but you ignored him, your mind racing with thoughts of frustration, despair, and a longing for something he simply couldn’t understand.

You loved your brother, truly. But his stubbornness, his refusal to see what he was doing to you, was more hurtful than protective. He thought he was shielding you, but in reality, he was only pushing you further into the shadows, away from the life you so desperately wanted to claim for yourself.

“Duke Hastings will be joining us for dinner tonight,” your mother informed you with an air of casual excitement.

Your brow shot up so high it nearly disappeared into your hairline. “The duke? Why?” you asked, skepticism laced in your tone.

Violet only grinned, an all-knowing glimmer in her eye. “Lady Danbury suggested it, I had the cook prepare a gooseberry pie for dessert specially for him. It's his favourite.” She replied simply before turning to oversee the evening preparations.

By the time the dinner commenced, you found herself seated beside Sebastian, much to your growing irritation. You picked up the knife with a bit more force than necessary, cutting into your meal with sharp, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, the conversation at the table swirled around the latest talk of the ton.

Giovann spoke up. “I still say Lady Whistledown must be one of the Fontaines. They’re too nosy for their own good.” Elisa scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s absurd. Lady Whistledown clearly has wit, and none of the Fontaines can spell wit, let alone embody it.”

Sebastian observed the lively debate with mild amusement as Violet interjected gracefully. “Forgive this unruly debate, Your Grace,” she said with a warm smile, gesturing toward your siblings. Sebastian waved off the comment with a charming grin. “Nonsense. I find it entertaining,” he replied, his deep voice carrying a note of humor.

Violet’s smile widened, pleased by his response. “In that case, you should join us for dinner more often, Your Grace. You are always welcome here.”

“Giovann, stop stealing my peas!” Heather exclaimed, her small voice rising sharply. “You cannot tell me what to do. I am older than you,” Giovann shot back mockingly, grinning at her indignant expression.

The table descended into playful chaos as the siblings bickered, while Violet and a few others carried on their own conversations, ignoring the commotion. Dreadfully, Sebastian has turned his attention to you even though you are focused on your meal.

“You look rather displeased,” Sebastian commented, his tone casual but edged with curiosity. Your hand halted, pausing your cutting to glance at him sharply with a raised brow. “Do I?” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sebastian smirked, leaning slightly closer. “Well, you are sitting beside me. I’d like to think that surely makes you happy,” he teased, his tone infuriating you.

You stared at him, utterly unimpressed. This man truly believed every woman was hopelessly taken by him simply because of his title.

Hah, what a thick faced scumbag, “Wow, of course,” you started sarcastically. “Because a lady is only allowed to smile when she’s seated beside a duke.” You tilted your head, gaze icy. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am anything but interested in you.”

Sebastian chuckled, raising his brows in mock surprise. “Good,” he said, his smirk deepening. “Good!” You echoed.

Your synchronized reply drew a few curious glances from the rest of the table, you didn't even notice your siblings got silent, too immersed in how annoyed you are.

You swear to God that no amount of charm or title would ever compensate for how insufferable this duke is. How is he even your brother's best friend?

The warm glow of the lanterns illuminated the grounds of Vauxhall. Music drifted on the breeze, mixing with the chatter and laughter of the ton. The lively energy filled you with wonder as you walked amidst the glowing lights, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you looked up the lights.

But that peace was short-lived.

“Lord Berbrooke’s baron lineage spans over 200 years,” Atticus’ familiar voice cut through the night, making you turn toward him. His expression was firm, his tone businesslike as he approached you. “He has no debts, and he’s quite skilled at hunting,” he continued, as if reciting from a list.

You blinked in confusion. “What are you talking about, Atti?”

Atticus didn’t give you the chance to fully process his words. He cut you off with a tone that brooked no argument. “Lord Berbrooke is legitimate. He will be good for you. You are to marry him.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a heavy fog, your breath hitching in disbelief. “What?” you managed to say, your voice laced with protest. “Atticus, no—”

“Enough,” Atticus snapped, his gaze unwavering. “It’s done. You should be grateful. I had to find you a husband, and it would be far easier for everyone if you simply fell in love with him.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in frustration and disbelief. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. Without waiting for his response, you turned and marched off, your thoughts swirling in a haze of anger and fear.

You sought refuge in a quieter part of the gardens, the cheerful music and laughter fading into the distance. Among the hedgerows and moonlit paths, you paced back and forth, your mind racing. How could Atticus do this to you? Marry Lord Berbrooke? The idea was unthinkable.

But your stolen peace didn’t last long.

“Miss Bridgerton,” a voice called, startling you. You turned sharply to see none other than Nigel Berbrooke emerging from the shadows, his awkward gait and smug expression unmistakable.

You sighed heavily, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Nigel, not now,” you said sharply, rubbing your temples in exasperation.

“Oh, dropping the honorifics so soon, are we?” Nigel said with a chuckle, his grin widening. “I don’t mind. After all, I’ll be your husband soon enough.”

You glared at him, your voice icy. “You are not my husband, and I will never marry you. My brother he– he made a mistake.”

The smugness in Nigel’s face darkened, his demeanor shifting in an instant. He took a step closer, his tone lowering dangerously. “You’d do well to thank me,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m your last hope. No one else wants you, Miss Bridgerton.”

The words hit you like a slap, but your anger quickly burned brighter than your pain. “Let me go,” you warned as his hand suddenly gripped your arm.

He ignored you, his fingers tightening. “You should—”

You didn’t let him finish. Instinctively, your hand shot up, pinching his face with such force that he yelped in pain. Before you knew it, Nigel’s legs wobbled, and with a dull thud, he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

You barely had time to catch your breath when a low chuckle broke the silence of the garden. “I must say, Miss Bridgerton, that was an impressive facer you planted on poor Berbrooke.”

Your head snapped up to see Sebastian, leaning casually against a nearby tree, his arms crossed as he regarded you with a smirk of amusement.

You froze in place, panic bubbling to the surface. “Your Grace, this isn’t what it looks like,” you stammered, your words rushing out in a flurry. “He—he wouldn’t let me go, and I didn’t mean—”

Sebastian waved a hand, dismissing your explanation. “No need to explain,” he said, still smirking. “From where I’m standing, he clearly deserved it. Though I have to admit,” he added with a playful glint in his eyes, “I didn’t think you had such a powerful right hook.”

You were silent, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, and Sebastian seemed to notice your unease. His smirk softened as he straightened up. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

The knot in your chest loosened slightly at the question, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. You told him everything: Atticus’ high-handed decision to marry you off to Berbrooke, his interference with all your suitors, and the cruel whispers of Lady Whistledown’s latest issue.

“She wrote about me being ineligible again,” you finished, your voice low and strained. “This is my second season. Atticus has scared away every single gentleman, and now no one will have me. I’m ruined.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment, his sharp eyes studying you. Finally, he said, “You deserve better than that.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t matter what I deserve. The entire ton sees me as damaged goods now. And thanks to Atticus, they might be right.”

Sebastian tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Not necessarily,” he said after a pause.

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I have an idea. A plan. A ruse, if you will. It would benefit us both. You see, I’ve been fending off overzealous mamas and their persistent daughters since I arrived in London. They’ve been throwing themselves at me like moths to a flame, and frankly, it’s exhausting. You, on the other hand, need to make yourself... unavailable. Make the men of the ton want you again. And what better way to accomplish both than a little pretend romance?”

Your brow furrowed, his suggestion catching you off guard. “You’re suggesting that we—what, pretend to be courting?”

“Precisely,” Sebastian said, his lips curling into a sly smile. “Think about it. If everyone believes you’ve caught the attention of a duke, it will raise your desirability tenfold. As for me, it will keep the determined mamas and their daughters at bay.”

He continued in a persuasive tone, “We’ll both get what we wanted. Me, unavailable, you, desirable.”

You hesitated, your heart racing at the prospect. It was a daring plan, and yet... there was a certain logic to it. “And you think this will work?”

Sebastian’s grin widened. “Oh, it will work. But we’ll need to sell it. Starting now.”

Before you could respond, he offered you his arm. “Shall we?”

You stared at him for a moment, your nerves bubbling to the surface. But then, with a deep breath, you placed your hand on his arm and allowed him to lead you back toward the lively Vauxhall scene.

The moment you stepped into view, the music and chatter seemed to dull as heads turned in your direction. The crowd’s gaze followed the two of you as Sebastian guided you onto the dance floor, his expression calm and confident.

Your heart pounded as he turned to face you, bowing slightly before taking your hand. “Just keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

You nodded, your gaze locking with his as the music began. The dance started slowly, your movements tentative as you adjusted to the attention of the room. But Sebastian leaned in slightly, his voice barely audible over the music. “Look at me as if you’re in love, Thea. And I’ll do the same. We need to make them believe it.”

You swallowed hard, your nerves still thrumming, but you followed his lead. The steps of the dance brought you closer together, your gazes locked as if the rest of the world had faded away. There was an unexpected intimacy in the way he looked at you, his eyes warm and reassuring.

“Good,” he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Now, imagine you’ve just heard the most wonderful compliment. Something that makes your heart flutter. Let it show on your face.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes slightly, but you did as he instructed, softening your expression as you gazed at him.

“There,” he said, his tone approving. “You’re a natural.”

The dance continued, and with each step, you felt your confidence grow. The room was watching, and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel daunting.

When the music ended, Sebastian bowed to you, and you curtsied in return. The applause of the crowd seemed to echo around you, and as you glanced around, you saw the intrigued and impressed faces of the ton.

Sebastian offered you his arm again, leaning in slightly as he said, “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

You couldn’t help but smile, your earlier worries momentarily forgotten. “It was... effective,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said, his voice low and amused. “Because this is only the beginning.”

The park was alive with the hum of conversation, the laughter of children, and the rustle of parasols as the ton gathered for an afternoon of leisure. You sat with your family on a neatly arranged picnic blanket, trying to feign interest in the endless chatter around you. The previous night’s events still loomed large in your mind, no matter how much you tried to push them away.

Then, as if the day couldn't get more taxing, a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

“Lady Bridgerton,” Sebastian greeted with his usual confident ease. His presence was impossible to ignore as he approached your family, his dark eyes locking on you. “Might I have the honor of promenading with Miss Bridgerton?”

You nearly groaned aloud but quickly masked it with a polite smile. Your mother, clearly pleased, didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied warmly, glancing at you. “Dorothea, dear, go on.”

You rose from your spot on the blanket, smoothing the front of your gown as you pasted on the brightest smile you could manage. “Your Grace,” you said, your voice level, though internally, you sighed.

Sebastian extended his arm, his smirk already in place. “Shall we?”

Taking his arm, you allowed him to lead you away from your family and the crowd of spectators, the two of you stepping into the designated promenade path. As soon as you were a safe distance away, the mask of propriety fell, and you glanced up at him with a knowing arch of your brow.

“Four balls,” he said abruptly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You scoffed, your brow furrowing. “Six,” you replied firmly. Sebastian’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he glanced down at you. “Four is plenty. I’ll not subject myself to more than that. Any more and it would look tedious.”

“Tedious?” you repeated indignantly. “You forget, Your Grace, that this arrangement isn’t just for your benefit. Six balls, and you’ll send flowers after each one. Expensive ones, mind you.”

“Expensive flowers?” he repeated, a laugh rumbling in his chest. You tilted your chin up, your tone sharp with sarcasm. “If you were truly courting me, you’d buy out every florist in town.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re relentless, Miss Bridgerton.” You gave him a pointed look. “And you’re insufferable, but I suppose we’re even.”

“Fine” he said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll agree to expensive flowers every day but we will only go to four balls together. Consider it my final offer.”

You rolled your eyes but reluctantly relented. “Fine. But this arrangement stays between us, especially after last night.”

His smirk faded, his expression softening. “You’re worried about Berbrooke?”

You nodded, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “If anyone finds out I was alone with two men last night, one of whom ended up unconscious, I’ll be completely ruined.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his tone steady as he replied, “No one will find out, Dorothea. I won’t allow it.”

Though his words were reassuring, you couldn’t shake the knot of worry in your chest. Still, as the promenade continued, you kept your focus on him. The eyes of the ton were on you both, whispers flitting through the air like the rustle of leaves.

“Keep your gaze on me,” Sebastian instructed under his breath. “Smile like you’ve just heard the most charming thing I’ve ever said.”

You arched a brow. “You’ve yet to say anything remotely charming.”

His grin widened, but he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Pretend, then. You’re quite good at that.”

Despite your nerves, you allowed yourself a soft laugh, your expression warming as you followed his lead. The whispers grew louder as the two of you returned to the center of the ton’s attention, a picture-perfect couple strolling with easy grace.

The drawing room was abuzz with the quiet activity of your family. You sat at the piano, letting your fingers glide over the keys as you played a light melody. Your brothers lounged on the sofas, and Heather sat poised with her embroidery in hand. Violet paced near the table, sharing her thoughts about last night’s events.

“Two dances? With the Duke?” Heather asked, her voice tinged with amusement and curiosity, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Your mother nodded, helping herself to a small snack. “He was quite taken with your sister, Heather. All eyes are on Dorothea.” She walked over to you, a plate of toast in hand, her expression warm and expectant.

You paused your playing just long enough to shake your head politely. “I’m not hungry, Mother.”

From behind you, Caleb’s teasing voice broke the moment. “Are you sure they’re not eyeing her because she dances funny?”

Before you could respond, Benjamin chimed in, his laughter low and mischievous. “Or perhaps a tear in her dress?”

Your fingers stilled on the keys as you turned sharply to glare at them, your patience wearing thin. “Very clever,” you said dryly, rolling your eyes before resuming your melody, determined to ignore them.

The peaceful atmosphere shattered moments later as Elisa burst into the drawing room, her face flushed with urgency. “How does a lady become with child?” she asked, her voice loud enough to make the entire room freeze.

Your hands stuttered over the keys, the abrupt question catching you completely off guard. Violet blinked, clearly startled, and stammered, “E-Elisa, what a question!”

You furrowed your brows, the question lingering in your mind. It was, admittedly, a good one.

Come to think of it, you actually have no idea what to do to have a child, or what the actual process is. All you know is it happens when you're married.

You turned toward your younger sister and, with genuine curiosity, said, “You need to be married, right?”

Elisa nodded vigorously. “Exactly! But what do you do to have a child?”

“Enough!” Violet interjected, her voice firm yet flustered. She quickly tried to redirect the conversation. “Elisa, that is more than enough. Dorothea, dear, you were playing so beautifully. Do continue.”

Reluctantly, you turned back to the piano, though the exchange was far from over. Elisa plopped herself onto the couch between Benjamin and Caleb, her questioning gaze now fixed on them. She nudged their arms, “I take it you two know the answer?”

Benjamin pressed his lips together, clearly suppressing a smile. “Do not look at me,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

Caleb, on the other hand, grinned mischievously. “Have you ever visited a farm, El?”

Benjamin immediately smacked the back of Caleb’s head, his laughter barely contained. Violet’s glare was swift and sharp. “I hope you two are not encouraging improper topics of conversation.”

Benjamin held up his hands, his expression feigning innocence. “Not at all, Mother.”

Caleb, however, stood with a sly smile. “In fact, Benjamin and I were just about to take our sticks out—”

“Caleb Bridgerton!” Violet exclaimed, her tone scandalized.

Caleb laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “A round of fencing, Mother. A perfectly proper activity.”

Benjamin chuckled as he stood to join his brother. “Of course, Mother. Nothing improper.”

Their laughter trailed behind them as they left the drawing room, leaving you shaking your head and Violet muttering under her breath about the impropriety of her sons.

A footman stepped in, bowing slightly. “Callers for Miss Dorothea, ma’am,” he announced, his tone polite but carrying a hint of surprise.

You immediately stood, your face lighting up as you let out a squeal of delight. The plan was working, and it's working better than you could have imagined.

Violet looked up, her expression both pleased and puzzled. “But the Duke– he is already calling on you, dearest,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged playfully, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Well, I suppose now I have more callers,” you replied, your voice light with amusement.

Curious, your family crowded by the window, peering out at the astonishing sight. The usually serene street in front of your house was now bustling with carriages, footmen, and gentlemen waiting to call on you.

The once-empty drawing room was rapidly filling with visitors, each gentleman carrying lavish bouquets, some of which were already being arranged in vases by the maids.

Your little sister Heather nudges you with a smirk. “You’ve created quite the stir, sister,” she teased, her tone a mix of pride and mischief.

The atmosphere turned lively, the room filled with polite conversation, though you couldn’t ignore the nervous energy building within you. It was everything you and Sebastian had planned, but you hadn’t quite expected it to be this overwhelming.

You were indulged in conversations of multiple gentlemen each waiting patiently to get a turn to talk to you.

You didn't even notice your brother and Berbrooke entering the busy scene, too emerged in your conversations.

Nigel’s face turned red with fury as he took in the crowd of gentlemen surrounding you, the extravagant bouquets scattered around the room.

“This is outrageous,” Nigel muttered under his breath before turning to Atticus. “You said you wanted this handled quickly! You gave me your word, Bridgerton!”

Atticus’ jaw tightened, his tone firm,“And I intend to keep it,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room. Atticus turned to him, his expression unreadable. “For now, you must leave as well, Berbrooke. Along with everyone else.”

Nigel’s face twisted in anger. “What are you playing at, Bridgerton? You said—”

“I said,” Atticus interrupted, his voice low and authoritative, “that you are the only one I would consider for my sister. That decision has not changed. Now go.”

The door slammed shut with a finality that made you flinch, your heart pounding in your chest. Atticus stood before you and your siblings, his face dark with irritation, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “I should like to know what’s going on,” he said, his tone sharp as his gaze swept across the room.

Violet, clearly unimpressed by his entrance, snapped back, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowing. “I would like to know the very same. Perhaps we might begin with why you chose to interrupt such an exquisite morning?”

Atticus ignored her retort, pointing directly at you. “Because she’s already engaged to someone,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your mother’s expression changed in an instant, her surprise evident. She turned to you with wide eyes. “The Duke has already asked for your hand?”

You stepped forward, meeting her gaze, your voice firm as you shook your head. “I am not engaged, Mama.”

Atticus turned to you, his glare sharp and his voice warning. “Do not be disrespectful, sister.”

That was it. You’d had enough. The frustration that had been building all morning finally spilled over. “Disrespectful?” you said, your tone laced with disbelief and fury. “I can’t imagine a greater disrespect than what you’ve done to me! Promising me to Nigel Berbrooke without my permission?!”

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Violet’s eyes widened, and she let out a horrified gasp. “Atticus, tell me you did not!”

“Oh, but he did, Mama!” you exclaimed, your voice rising with your anger.

Atticus cut you off, his tone defensive and resolute. “Nigel is a fine choice. I looked into him. He is well-connected, wealthy, and perfectly suitable.”

Violet’s voice rose, her disapproval evident as she addressed your brother. “You promised your sister to that man? Your sister has charmed a Duke, Atticus! You must know this changes everything.”

Atticus groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Do not tell me this little rebellion is because of Hastings,” he said dismissively.

“They are courting!” Violet shot back, her voice filled with certainty.

“They danced together!” Atticus countered, his voice rising with incredulity. “Caleb does the same with Pearl. That doesn’t mean they’re courting!”

“They promenaded together this morning,” Violet retorted, her tone sharp. “And he sent flowers—to both Dorothea and myself.”

“Expensive ones,” you interjected, crossing your arms as you met your brother’s glare.

Atticus sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as though trying to stave off a headache. “The Duke is not a serious suitor,” he said, his voice calmer but no less resolute. “I have known him since we were boys. He is my best friend, and I am well aware of him. The contract has already been drawn up. Dorothea is to marry Nigel.” His declaration was final, and without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the drawing room, leaving the door ajar behind him.

You stood frozen, your anger giving way to dread as you turned to your mother. “Mama…” you said, your voice trembling slightly.

Violet moved toward you, her expression softening as she enveloped you in a reassuring hug. “Don’t worry, dearest,” she said with a confidence that you couldn’t quite share. “The Duke will handle this.”

You rested your head against her shoulder, but guilt gnawed at you. The entire arrangement with Sebastian was nothing more than a ruse.

There was no reason for him to intervene on your behalf, and you sure knew deep down that he wouldn’t.

Your arm is locked in Atticus’ in a ball. What is even new in this situation? It has always been this way.

As you entered, you were greeted by the sight of Lady Danbury, the formidable woman’s eyes gleaming with mischief as you face her.

Standing beside her is her nephew, none other than Sebastian Hastings. When his gaze lands on you, something playful sparks in his expression.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he says, bowing slightly. “A dance?”

Before you can speak, Atticus stiffens at your side, his mouth about to open but Lady Danbury with her matchmaking habits, interrupted.

“Oh, Lord Bridgerton!” Lady Danbury interrupts, her tone as smooth as the finest silk. “I do believe I saw a footman bring in a tray of ratafia. Be a dear and escort me to fetch a glass, won’t you?”

Atticus falters, clearly torn between his protective instincts and the commanding presence of Lady Danbury. She doesn’t wait for him to decide, linking her arm through his and steering him toward the refreshment table. You bite back a grin as they disappear into the crowd, leaving you blessedly free for the first time tonight.

Sebastian steps forward, extending his hand to you. “Shall we?”

You nod, slipping your hand into his. As he leads you to the dance floor, the weight you’ve carried all evening seems to lift. The music swells around you, and for the first time in far too long, you feel light. Truly light.

“I think,” you murmur as you take your places, “that we should make Nigel Berbrooke believe you’re on the verge of proposing.”

Sebastian raises a brow, a teasing smile curving his lips. “On the verge, you say? I’ll have to ensure I don’t lose my balance during this dance, then.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, the sound startlingly genuine. As the music begins, Sebastian’s hand rests lightly at your waist, guiding you effortlessly through the steps.

The rhythm of the waltz carries you both, and for the first time, you’re not counting the movements in your head or worrying about your posture.

“Are you always this insistent?” he asks, his voice low and playful as he spins you. “Six balls, expensive flowers, and now a proposal?”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with mock seriousness. “I only insist on what’s necessary, Your Grace.”

His laughter is quiet but rich, a sound that feels like it was made just for you to hear. As the dance continues, you notice the way his eyes linger on you, not just as part of the ruse, but as if he’s truly looking at you. The thought sends a strange flutter through your chest, one that you had hastily push aside.

The world around you fades, the crowd and their prying gazes melting away until it feels like it’s just the two of you. You can’t remember the last time you felt this…happy.

The ballroom, so often a source of dread and obligation, feels almost magical tonight. You don’t even care if Lady Whistledown is scribbling furiously in the corner, let her write what she will. For once in your life you are actually happy.

As the music swells toward its final notes, Sebastian leans in slightly, his voice a soft murmur near your ear. “I must say, Miss Bridgerton, you do look rather convincing tonight. Almost like a lady truly in love.”

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze once more. His teasing smirk is there, of course, but beneath it, there’s something else. Something you don’t dare name. Your heart stirs, a traitorous thing, but you quickly force it back into submission.

“And you,” you reply with a lightness you don’t quite feel, “almost resemble a gentleman worth falling for.”

His grin widens, and as the final notes of the waltz play, he dips his head slightly, just enough to make it seem like a private moment. “Almost?”

The applause breaks out around you, and reality crashes back in. You step apart, but not before catching the amused glances of those watching. The dance has done its job. For now, you’ve ensured that the ruse will continue.

While Sebastian escorts you off the dance floor, you are wondering if it’s truly the ton you’re trying to convince… or yourself.

“Tell me, Hastings,” Atticus began, his voice low but sharp. He reached for a glass of wine, though his grip on the goblet betrayed his irritation. “Do you mean to embarrass my sister? Is this some elaborate jest at her expense?”

Sebastian leaned casually against the table, swirling his wine glass with deliberate ease. “Embarrass her? I wouldn’t dream of it, Bridgerton. In fact, I daresay I’ve done far less to harm her reputation than you have.” He tilted his head, his smirk biting. “Marrying her off to Berbrooke? That’s quite the choice.”

Atticus’ eyes narrowed, his shoulders tensing at the insinuation. Before he could respond, another voice joined the fray.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Nigel Berbrooke’s figure waddled into view, his face red with indignation. He gestured animatedly, his words dripping with frustration. “I must insist you handle this situation at once. We had an agreement!”

Atticus exhaled sharply, his patience visibly thinning. He turned to Berbrooke with a cold glare. “The matter is handled,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the din of the ballroom. “I’m just here to remind the Duke,” he added, casting a glance toward Sebastian, “that this is none of his concern.”

Sebastian arched a brow, clearly unfazed by the warning. His attention shifted to Berbrooke, the edges of his lips curling into a devilish grin. “None of my concern, you say? I beg to differ. After all, I find it rather curious that Lord Berbrooke here failed to mention the cause of his rather striking black eye.”

Berbrooke stiffened, his face paling as he instinctively reached to touch the faint purple bruise beneath his eye. “I… It’s nothing of consequence.”

Sebastian chuckled darkly, his gaze boring into Berbrooke. “Oh, but I think it is. Shall we tell Bridgerton how you earned it? Or shall we let him figure it out for himself?”

Atticus’ eyes darted between the two men, his suspicion growing. He stepped closer to Berbrooke, his voice a low growl. “What is he talking about, Berbrooke? What happened?”

Berbrooke faltered, his composure crumbling. “I—it was a misunderstanding,” he stammered.

Sebastian’s smirk deepened. “A misunderstanding? You mean the part where you attempted to force Dorothea to return your affections in the gardens at Vauxhall? Resulting to her punching you and giving you that black eye?”

Atticus froze, his breath hitching as the weight of his best friend’s words sunk in. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, and for a moment, the rage in his eyes was palpable.

He took a step toward Berbrooke, who immediately shrank back, “You—”

Sebastian moved swiftly, placing a firm hand on Atticus’ shoulder to restrain him. “Easy there, Bridgerton. Not here.”

Atticus’ jaw tightened, but he relented, stepping back with visible effort. His voice, however, remained icy and dangerous. “The agreement is nullified,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “I suggest you never show yourself again to my sister if you wish to avoid tasting the fists of me and my brothers. Is that clear?”

“I will bury you with my own hands if you so much as look in her direction, Berbrooke.” Atticus took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself, before turning to Sebastian. “You knew about this.”

Sebastian met his gaze evenly. “I did. And I’m surprised you didn’t.”

Atticus’ face darkened, but he said nothing further, striding away from the table with Sebastian following closely behind.

As they walked, Atticus ran into you. You gave him a smile, a smile that fell when you noticed the storm in his eyes.

Atticus stopped in front of her, his shoulders sagging slightly as he looked at you with something almost resembling guilt. “Dorothea,” he began, his voice intense but apologetic, “You do not need worry about Berbrooke, he is handled now. You will not marry him.”

And without waiting for your reply, he turned and walked away, his steps heavy as though burdened by his thoughts.

Sebastian lingered for a moment, his gaze meeting yours. There was something in his expression, a knowing look that sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed hard, realization dawning as you pieced together what had transpired.

He had protected you. Despite the charade, despite his reputation, Sebastian Hastings had stepped in to save you from ruin.

For the first time, you wondered if there was more to the Duke than you had originally thought of him.

Your hand rested delicately on Sebastian’s arm, your gloved fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve with every step.

The promenade was nothing out of the ordinary at first, a routine outing to keep appearances and escape the confines of the house.

You both are too engaged now in your conversation. “So your dream is to marry out of love and have children?” He asks to which you nodded in response, “I shall want to busy myself taking care of my husband, the house, and of course our children.”

Sebastian turned oddly silent, but you didn't press further.

“You know, my mama told me something curious the other day,” you began, glancing up at him, “that one should marry one’s best friend.”

Sebastian let out a hearty laugh, his deep voice vibrating through the air. “Your brother is my best friend. Am I to marry him, then?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as well, the corners of your lips lifting despite your usual composure. “No, but I do wonder… Is that truly what marriage is all about? Friendship?”

His expression softened, and he tilted his head thoughtfully. “I imagine it’s a good start. Although, realistically, most marriages are more like battlefields.”

You furrowed your brows, pondering his words. “What I mean is, there are other things—physical or perhaps intangible—that bring a couple together.”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow at you, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Well, of course, there’s more to marriage—physical and intangible. Both.”

“Both?” you asked, a flicker of confusion and curiosity crossing your face. “But how could those two things coexist when they’re the exact opposite?”

His silence stretched for a moment, his gaze turning skyward as if searching for an answer in the clouds. Then, he laughed—a low, rich sound that sent heat creeping up your neck.

You folded your arms, pretending to pout as you quickened your pace. “Never mind. You’re a bully.”

Sebastian’s laughter grew louder, and he caught up with you in a few swift strides. “No, no, I’m not laughing at you,” he said, amusement laced in his tone. “I’m laughing at the absurdity of how little mothers tell their daughters.”

“They tell us nothing,” you admitted, glancing at him with a mix of irritation and intrigue.

He smirked. “I certainly can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not my place,” he replied, his tone suddenly more serious, his eyes locked on yours.

“In real courtship, yes,” you pressed, “it’s scandalous to discuss such things with a lady. But you’re not a real suitor. And besides, no one tells me anything. So how am I to find a proper husband if I don’t even know what I’m searching for?”

Sebastian hesitated, his jaw tightening as though weighing his next words carefully. “I cannot tell you.”

You stopped walking and turned to him fully, your voice dropping to a soft but firm tone. “I thought we were friends.”

“Dorothea…”

“Sebastian,” you said, stepping closer, your heart pounding in your chest, “tell me.”

His gaze flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—hesitation, temptation, and perhaps even desire. “What happens between a husband and a wife continues at night,” he said finally, his voice low and measured.

“At night?” you echoed, your brows furrowing. “What happens at night?”

“When you are alone.”

You blinked, the meaning behind his words still eluding you. “When I am sleeping?”

Sebastian’s lips quirked into a small, almost predatory smile. “Not when you’re sleeping… When you touch yourself.”

The words sent a jolt through your entire body. Confusion and a strange sense of awareness rushed over you as you stared at him, your lips parting slightly.

“You do touch yourself, don’t you?” he asked, his voice soft yet undeniably suggestive. “When you’re alone, you can touch yourself anywhere on your body that gives you pleasure…” His eyes bore into yours, intense and unrelenting. “But especially between your legs.”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable, but the tension between you was undeniable. You quickly averted your eyes, unable to meet his as heat flushed your cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Shall we continue our walk?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual as if nothing had transpired.

Without a word, you nodded and resumed walking, your thoughts a whirlwind of confusion, curiosity, and something else entirely, something you can't name.

The bustling café was alive with the hum of morning conversation, you had stepped out early with your maid to enjoy a simple breakfast.

That was, until you saw him.

Sebastian sat by the window, a steaming cup in hand, his gaze distant and contemplative.

You hesitated for only a moment before making your way over, your maid lingering behind at a discreet distance.

“Sebastian,” you greeted, your voice carrying that soft, cheery lilt you always used only with him.

He looked up at you then, and the warmth you’d grown accustomed to in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, measured expression that made you falter.

He straightened in his chair, his posture stiff and formal, as though he were a stranger greeting an acquaintance.

“It is time for us to stop all of this,” he said abruptly, his voice low and devoid of emotion.

Your heart stuttered at his words, and for a moment, you were certain you had misheard him. “Stop all of what?” you asked, your brow furrowing in confusion.

Sebastian set his cup down with a deliberate clink, his gaze meeting yours with a sharpness that felt like a slap. “This… ruse. Whatever it is you think we have. It ends now.”

Your breath caught, and a lump formed in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. “Sebastian, I don’t understand,” you said quietly, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair as though the very sight of you exhausted him. “You’ve misunderstood everything, Dorothea. We were never friends. You were merely… a convenience.”

The words struck you harder than you thought possible, and you stared at him, your chest tight with disbelief and hurt. “A convenience?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he continued. “You are clever and amusing, yes, but I indulged you because it was easier than refusing. That is all.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the room around you blurring into nothingness as your mind tried to reconcile the man before you with the Sebastian you thought you knew.

The one who made you laugh, who danced with you, the man who was always sweet, warm, and adorable with you, who teased you with a charm so disarming you hadn’t realized how deeply he had crept into your heart.

“Why are you saying this?” you asked, your voice breaking as tears stung your eyes.

“Because it is the truth,” he said firmly, though his gaze flickered for just a moment, betraying the conflict beneath his icy exterior.

He averted his gaze, unable to meet your hurt stare. “You have the attention of a prince,” he said quietly, his voice softer now but no less cutting. “A future far beyond anyone could offer. You should embrace it.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. The betrayal, the confusion, the heartbreak. It was all too much to process. Finally, you swallowed hard and straightened, forcing yourself to stand tall despite the ache in your chest.

“If that is what you truly think of me,” you said, your voice wavering but resolute, “then I have nothing more to say to you.”

You turned on your heel and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last as the tears threatened to spill. Your maid followed quickly behind, casting a concerned glance at you but saying nothing.

His heart aching, he longed for you for every step you took. For a moment, he even considered going after you to take back everything he said. But he remained still, assuring himself that this was for the best.

He is doing you a favor. It had to be done.

But you are about to make sure he's to regret this decision.

Everyone's heads inside the ballroom collectively turned toward the grand staircase at the same time, where she was descending.

You.

Star of the night. The prettiest among the ton. Miss Dorothea Bridgerton.

The lady who stood out in pure confidence rather than the usual timid attitude.

Sebastian stood still, his eyes, sharp and focused, latched onto the figure moving down the stairs as if drawn by an invisible force.

You glided down each step, your white dress a vision of pure grace. The delicate adornments along the neckline framed your features perfectly.

Your hair, styled elegantly, exposed the curve of your neck, making his throat tighten.

It was unbearable how beautiful you looked.

Sebastian could feel the room holding its collective breath, the crowd parting like the sea to make way for you. But his chest ached as he noticed the Prince of Prussia among them, his face alight with wonder as he stepped forward.

Sebastian’s eyes darken, his mind racing. He could see the way your lips curled into a soft smile, your head inclining slightly as you accepted the prince’s offer to dance.

The sight of that smile, the one that used to belong only to him, struck like a blade.

You moved with the prince to the center of the ballroom, your posture poised and practiced, each step a testament to the elegance you’d grown into.

But it wasn’t just the way you moved, it was the way the entire room seemed to orbit around you and the prince. Even the faintest flicker of your fan as it slipped from your hand seemed intentional, a moment of quiet magic.

The prince caught it swiftly, his smile widening as he returned it to you, and the applause that followed was thunderous.

To Sebastian, it felt like a declaration of your beauty, your worth, your unattainability.

When the music began, you danced.

It wasn’t just the movement; it was the connection, the way you flowed together as though the world beyond that ballroom didn’t exist. To the others, it was mesmerizing. To Sebastian? It was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

His chest felt tight, his breath shallow as he tried to focus on anything but you. Yet his eyes betrayed him, constantly drawn back to the sight of you smiling, laughing, spinning in the arms of another man. A prince, no less.

He felt the longing rising in him like a tide, swallowing his resolve. Every curve of your movement, every flicker of emotion on your face. It was agony to behold.

He wanted to be the one guiding you, the one you looked at with such brightness in your eyes. But he knew he couldn’t. He had chosen this, hadn’t he? To step away, to give you to a world he thought he could never offer you.

But standing here now, watching you drift farther and farther from him, he could feel his decision breaking him.

His jaw clenched, even the hum of his own thoughts faded into silence as he turned away from the scene. He couldn’t bear to watch it any longer.

For the first time, Sebastian allowed himself to admit the truth that had been gnawing at him since the beginning.

He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted you. And now, he had to live with the knowledge that he would never have you.

But who's to blame? After all, it is his own decision that led him into this. His own decision to throw away what he had with you, because he let his fears from the past prevent him from ever imagining a marriage with you.

Could it be true? The failed Miss Bridgerton seems to be even more precious and rare a stone than previously thought due to her first season? For it now appears this treasure is set to join the likes of the queen's ever-so-cherished crown jewels themselves. The Duke of Hastings I heard was left looking rather tongue tied last night, as Miss Bridgerton seems to have finally grown tired of waiting for him to pose that all-important question. Or, perhaps, the young miss has simply traded up. Surprising? Quite. Unreasonable? Of course not. After all, why settle for a Duke when one can have a prince?

Sebastian wandered into the halls of his estate, his gaze scanning the assortment of items yet to be packed. His eyes halted on a canvas propped up against the wall.

It was a painting.

His mother's favorite painting.

He frowned, stepping closer. “What is that doing here?”

His right-hand man, Henry, appeared from behind a crate, a list in hand. “The painting, your grace?”

“Yes, Henry. The painting. I distinctly remember donating it to the gallery months ago.”

Henry hesitated before clearing his throat. “You did, your grace. But... you also ordered it to be returned to you not long after. It was no easy feat to retrieve it, I might add.”

Sebastian stared at the canvas, his brows furrowing. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall making such a request. But as he studied the painting, the memory came rushing back like a strong wave hitting him in the face.

The day Dorothea had stood by his side, her eyes alight with admiration.

“This one is beautiful,” she had said, her voice soft yet full of conviction.

Sebastian had tilted his head at the painting, unimpressed. “It’s my mother's favorite painting according to Lady Danbury. Not that I'd know, she was no longer around after giving birth to me.”

“It's empty,” he had replied. “There’s nothing there. Just a field, a tree, and a vague attempt at depicting the glow of sunlight amidst the sky. It’s boring.”

Dorothea had turned to him then, her brows arched in disbelief. “You see nothing?”

“I see what’s there. A field. A tree. Some paint trying to be sunlight.” He had smirked, expecting her to laugh at his cynicism.

But instead, Dorothea had shaken her head, stepping closer to the canvas, her eyes drinking in every brushstroke. “There’s more to it than what the eyes see, Sebastian. You have to feel the art.”

“Feel it?” he had echoed, amused. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to feel?”

She had smiled then, a wistful curve of her lips that had taken his breath away. “It’s the feeling of being free,” she had said, her voice quieter, as if confessing a secret. “Of living a peaceful life, far away from the judgment of the sun, from the crushing expectations of society. It’s just... being. Being yourself, at peace with the world.”

He had stared at her, the painting forgotten as her words settled over him like a balm he hadn’t realized he needed.

In that moment, it wasn’t the painting he envied. It was her. Her ability to see beauty in simplicity, to long for something as pure as freedom when all he could see was duty and expectation.

Now, his fingers absentmindedly grazed the edge of the frame, his chest tightening with something he didn’t want to name.

He swallowed hard. “Have it packed,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm within him.

Henry gave a short nod and returned to his task.

As the Prince Friedrich guided you through another perfect dance, with eyes brimming with intention, you felt trapped. Each step was a chain pulling tighter, each smile he gave was a reminder of the question you knew was coming.

And then, his gaze softened, tender yet sharp, as though he had already decided. “I know we've only known each other for a short period of time, but I feel something for you. And if you'd grant me the honor of–” Panic swelled in your chest like a rising tide as you realize he's about to propose.

“I— I need a drink,” you lied as you hurriedly removed your hands on him and took a step back, bowing politely with a tight trembling smile. “I am parched. Please excuse me.”

Before he could respond, you turned, walking briskly away from the glowing ballroom, away from the music and the eyes of the ton. And when the fresh air of the night hit your face, the tears came. Silent at first, then spilling over uncontrollably as you stumbled into the quietness of the night.

You tried to stifle the sobs, clutching the wrought-iron railing of the fountain as if it could anchor you. You didn’t want this. You couldn’t. A marriage built on wealth, duty, and pretense wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself. You wanted love, a love you grew up with, like your Mama's and Papa’s before.

But then, a voice broke through your haze.

“Dorothea,” came the soft, low timbre. Your body stiffened, recognizing it instantly. The voice you love so much.

You turned sharply to find Sebastian standing in the shadows, his face a mixture of regret and longing.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped, your voice trembling with anger, frustration, and the vulnerability you hated to show him.

“I wanted to apologize,” he began, his words measured yet heavy with meaning.

“For what?” you demanded. “What is the purpose of your apology? You already made it perfectly clear. We were never friends. That is what you said.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening to speak, but you shook your head fiercely, cutting him off.

“Do not bother me, Your Grace,” you said bitterly, wiping angrily at your tears. “I am to marry the Prince of Prussia. I am going to be a princess.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. “Really?” he said, his voice a low murmur, tinged with disbelief and something softer, aching.

You looked away, as though his gaze burned too bright. “Yes,” you answered. “He is perfect. A good, honest man of high status. He will be a good father. He will—”

“Is that the truth?” Sebastian interrupted, stepping closer. “Or the lie you’re forcing yourself to believe?”

His words shattered the fragile wall you’d tried to build, leaving you utterly exposed. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You spun around and rushed toward the garden, the tears blurring your vision again as you fled further into the night.

“Dorothea, stop,” he called after you, his voice pleading. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Go away!” you cried, refusing to look back. But you could hear his footsteps behind you, relentless.

“Dorothea, please,” he said again, closer now. “It’s unsafe. You shouldn’t—”

“Why do you care?” you shouted, whirling around to face him, your chest heaving. “You told me we were nothing. You—”

But you didn’t finish. Because Sebastian was standing so close now, his face inches from yours, and the intensity in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs. Before you could think, before either of you could think, he reached for you, his hands firm but tender as he spun you around and pulled you toward him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was desperate, aching, and all-consuming, like he was pouring every unsaid word, every unspoken feeling into you.

His lips moved against yours with a passion that left no room for doubt, no room for air, his hands wasted no time into pulling you closer and roaming on your beautiful curves underneath your dress.

Your hands found their way to his chest, not to push him away, but to anchor yourself, to feel the wild, erratic beat of his heart beneath your palm.

You felt your whole body becoming warmer as though it had been set on fire, you held the back of Sebastian's neck as he raised one of your leg and held it around his waist, your hips immediately grinding against his, the friction not even enough to satisfy the ache in your core.

You want him. You need him.

In ways that you imagined when you touch yourself every night at the thought of him ever since he taught you how to.

His kisses trailed down to your neck, sucking aggressively, as if he wants to mark you and ruin you for everyone else.

But there's a sound of hurried footsteps that cut through the hushed sounds you and him are making, and before either of you could react, Atticus’ voice thundered like a crack of lightning.

“Bastard!”

You barely had time to pull back from Sebastian’s arms when Atticus’ fist collided with Sebastian’s jaw, sending him stumbling to the ground. The sound of the impact echoed, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched in horror.

“Atticus, no!” you cried, rushing forward, but he's too deep in his fury, you can't pull him back.

“You dare lay a hand on my sister!” he roared, bringing another punch down on Sebastian, who did little to defend himself. The force of it sent him sprawling onto the gravel path, blood dripping from his split lip.

“Stop it! Please!” you pleaded, grabbing at Atticus’ arm, finally pulling him away. “It’s enough! Stop!”

Sebastian pushed himself up onto his elbows, and slowly stood back up, his face bloodied and bruised, yet somehow calm.

Too calm.

“You will marry her,” Atticus said, his voice deadly quiet now, every word laced with finality. “You will marry her and make this right.”

“Brother–” but before you could even protest, he silenced you, “He dishonored you, sister.”

You glanced at Sebastian, there was no anger in his expression, no defiance, only guilt. And something deeper, something hollow. And you can't figure out what it is.

“I cannot marry her,” Sebastian said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The world seemed to crumble as the words sank in. You stared at him, your heart twisting painfully.

“What?” Atticus said, his tone sharp with disbelief, “You defiled my sister's honor and now you refuse her hand?!”

“I can’t,” Sebastian repeated, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and filled with something you still can't name.

Atticus stepped forward, his hand twitching at his side as though he might strike him again. “Then you leave me no choice, we will settle this at dawn. A duel.”

“Atticus, no!” you cried, your voice breaking.

“It must be done,” Atticus said firmly, his gaze never leaving Sebastian’s.

Sebastian nodded once, silent. He didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He simply stood there, still as a statue, while your world fell apart around you.

You turned to him, your voice trembling with disbelief. “You’d rather die than to marry me?”

Sebastian flinched, the words cutting through him like a blade. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His chest burned with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, that he didn’t deserve you, that you deserved a life free of his demons, that his past haunted him too deeply to ever love you the way you should be loved.

“I see,” you whispered, your voice heavy with unshed tears.

Atticus grabbed your arm, his touch firm but not unkind, and began leading you away. You glanced back over your shoulder, hoping, praying that Sebastian would say something, do something to stop you.

But he didn’t. He simply stood there, watching as you were escorted away, his fists clenched at his sides, his face a mask of anguish.

As the garden fell silent, Sebastian’s legs buckled, and he sank back onto the ground, staring at the blood on his hands.

His past swirled around him like a storm, the shadows of every misery he went through whispering into his ears.

He thought of you, your laughter, your light, your touch. And he thought of the way you looked at him tonight, the way you kissed him back, as if he were your entire world.

He wanted to hold onto that moment forever. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Because he was not the man you deserved.

The ballroom lights felt blinding as Atticus led you back inside. Your legs felt unsteady, your heart still racing from the recent events. Tears clung stubbornly to your lashes, your mind a whirlwind of pain and disbelief.

You didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes, though you could feel their curious stares following you.

Atticus kept his composure, his face set in an expression of calmness, but you knew him well enough to sense the storm beneath.

When you reached your mother and siblings, Atticus spoke quickly, his tone polite but firm. “Dorothea is unwell,” he said, his words calculated and careful. “She has a headache, and I believe it’s best I escort her home.”

Your mother’s brow furrowed with concern, her hand reaching out to touch your arm. “A headache, dearest? Are you sure it’s not something more? You look pale.”

You could barely form the words, the lump in your throat growing heavier by the second. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice cracked. “I just need to rest.”

Your mother nodded, though worry lingered in her eyes. “Of course, darling. Let Atticus take you.”

Just as Atticus began to guide you toward the exit, a voice sliced through the din of the ballroom, low but sharp enough to catch your attention.

“Whatever happened to you in the garden, Miss Bridgerton?”

Your steps faltered, and your breath stopped for a moment as you turned. Cressida Cowper stood there, her lips curled in a smile that was far from friendly. Her gaze bore into yours with a cruel gleam, her words heavy with implication.

Your heart plummeted, and a cold dread seeped into your chest. She knew. Someone had seen you and Sebastian.

Atticus’ grip tightened slightly, his attention snapping toward Cressida with a glare, though he said nothing. He couldn’t say anything without drawing more attention.

Your breathing quickened, your hands trembling as you clutched the fabric of your dress. The walls seemed to close in around you, the vibrant music and laughter of the ball fading into a dull roar in your ears.

“Come,” Atticus said as he began to lead you away once more. But the damage was done. Someone had seen you and your reputation is about to be damaged if Cressida decides to run her mouth.

You became sleepless at night, turning and tossing on your bed until dawn came. Your mind reeled as you imagined the outcome. One of them is bound to die, and it's either your brother, or the love of your life. Either would shatter you nonetheless.

By the time the pale light of dawn started to sleep through your windows, you could no longer bear the agony. Your brother already warned you beforehand not to get in the middle of it, but you seriously cannot just sit there and wait for disaster to strike.

No, you have to disobey your brother. You have to interrupt.

Throwing on a coat over your nightgown, you quietly went out of your room and tiptoed hurriedly down the stairs.

The house was still quiet, the servants not yet up and about round the house. Perfect time to go out without being noticed.

There was no time for a carriage, so you ran straight for the stables, heart pounding in rhythm along with your footsteps. Your horse, a sleek white mare, whinnied softly as you approached.

“Steady, girl,” you whispered, fumbling with the reins. “We need to move quickly.” You wasted no time, mounting the horse and spurring it into a gallop. You prayed under her breath, over and over again: “Please let me get there in time.”

The moment you finally arrived, the scene before you made your blood run cold. Atticus stood a short distance away, his pistol already pointed to Sebastian, his expression one of anger. Sebastian on the other side, is armed but his gun is pointed upwards, standing tall, his face a mask of calm like he has accepted this fully.

Benedict and Giovann stood to the side, their expressions grave, while a man you didn’t recognize who is likely a friend of Sebastian, all watched in silence.

You were too late.

“No!” you yelled, urging your horse forward with reckless speed in between them.

Atticus’ arm jerked in surprise at your sudden appearance. His pistol was already mid-trigger, the shot ringing out like a thunderclap, but he managed to divert the direction of the gun upwards.

Your horse reared, startled by the sound, and you barely managed to cling on before you were harshly thrown to the ground with a painful thud.

Gasps echoed around you as the horse bolted, leaving you sprawled, your breath knocked from your lungs.

“Dorothea!” Atticus’ voice boomed as he ran to her side. Sebastian was there in an instant too, his face pale with panic as he knelt beside her.

“Are you all right?” Sebastian asked urgently, his hands hovering near her as though afraid to touch her.

“Perfectly fine,” you answered sarcastically, pushing yourself up with a wince. “All thanks to you idiots.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing in his eyes. Your brother, meanwhile, looked utterly exasperated, though there was an unmistakable relief in his expression as well.

“What do you think you're doing getting in the middle of a duel?” Atticus demanded, his tone sharp but his eyes displayed concern.

You shot him a look that could have melted steel. “I need a moment with the Duke,” you firmly said, brushing dirt from your coat.

“Absolutely not,” his tone brooking no argument. You turned to him, gaze fierce and voice steady. “I need a moment with the Duke.”

“Dorothea—”

“Atticus.” Your voice was cold, commanding in a way. You're to stand up to your brother now in order to save both of them from this madness. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Finally, with a growl of frustration, Atticus threw up his hands. “Fine. A moment,” he said, giving a warning look to Sebastian before stepping back to join the others.

Dorothea turned to Sebastian, her heart pounding not from fear, but from the weight of what she was about to say. He stood there, tense and quiet, his expression unreadable.

The tension between them crackled in the cold morning air as they stood face to face, the world around them fading into silence.

You walked away to create a distance away from the others while Sebastian follows you.

Now, it was just you and him.

“Someone saw us,” you began, your voice trembling but firm. Sebastian’s gaze snapped to yours, his expression guarded yet already tinged with a flicker of pain.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing, “Cressida Cowper. She knows.”

He stiffened, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.

“If she decides to tell anyone what she saw—” your voice cracked, and you forced yourself to push through, “—it will ruin me. My reputation, my life, my family’s honor. It will all be over.” You felt a tremor of desperation rising in your chest as you stepped closer to him, searching his face for a reaction. “You need to marry me.”

Sebastian’s face twisted with anguish, his lips parting to speak before he clenched his jaw shut. He looked away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“No,” he finally said, his voice barely audible.

The word hit you like a physical blow, and you took a step back, disbelief and hurt rippling through you. “No?” you repeated, your voice shaking.

Sebastian’s gaze fell to the ground, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. “I cannot,” he said softly, the words laced with sorrow.

“Why?” The question burst from you, your voice raw and desperate. Your heart felt as though it were splintering apart, piece by piece, as you stared at him. “Why are you so determined to refuse me? Have I been so intolerable to you? So unworthy of your affection? Tell me, Sebastian! What have I done wrong? I swear to you I will fix it! Why don't you love me?!”

He raised his head, and the look in his eyes, haunted, pained, yet filled with unspoken longing, his voice was quiet but heavy with emotion, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why?” you demanded, tears brimming in your eyes. “Why do you refuse me? Why do you push me away, knowing the cost?!”

Sebastian took a deep breath, “Because I cannot give you what you want,” he said finally, his voice thick with guilt.

You froze, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. “What I want?” you echoed faintly.

“You want marriage,” he said, his tone cracking with emotion. “You want a family—children. That is your dream, Dorothea. And it should be. You would be a wonderful mother, and I would never want to take that from you.” He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. “But I can’t give you that. I can’t give you children.”

His confession hung in the air in silence. You stood motionless, as you struggled to process what he had just admitted.

So that is the reason. That is why he's so adamant in keeping you so close yet so far.

Sebastian’s gaze fell to the ground again, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his shame. “This is why I can’t marry you,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “I won’t trap you in a life where your greatest dreams are denied.”

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The ache in your chest was unbearable, but it wasn’t from rejection. No, it was from the realization of just how deeply he cared for you, enough to deny himself the very thing he wanted most.

And yet, as his words sank in, so did your own truth. Maybe you don't care after all.

“Dorothea,” Atticus’ voice snapped you out of your thoughts, “Enough of this. It's getting brighter, we have to hurry or someone might see us.”

Sebastian turned away from you, his face once again closed off, as if retreating back into himself, still stubborn. He moved to follow Atticus.

But something inside you refused to let this moment end like this. If Sebastian is this stubborn and firm, then you will be too.

"There is no need," you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Atticus turned, frowning, while Sebastian froze in place, his back still to you.

"The Duke and I are to be married," you declared, your voice ringing out in the still morning air. Everyone froze, Atticus’ expression was one of utter shock, while Sebastian turned to you slowly, his face pale and stricken.

You met Sebastian’s gaze, your heart pounding, but you're not gonna back down. You knew what you were doing. You knew what you wanted. And you weren’t going to let fear or convention take it from you.

Even if it meant forcing Sebastian’s hand, you would fight for the love you knew was worth everything.

When you informed your mama about the news, she was overjoyed. She wished for nothing but your happiness and for you to find the true love you have always wanted, and now you're getting married to the Duke, the man she can clearly see that stares at you with a look of love.

This news spread faster than wildfire and it reached the Queen's ears in no time.

And when your license request to marry immediately came back denied, by no other than the Queen, you already know the reason why. She's upset with you for misleading her nephew.

So you found yourself standing before Queen Charlotte, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

The Queen sat perched on her throne, her piercing gaze fixed on you and Sebastian.

“It seems like your license to marry has been denied,” the Queen said, her tone sharp and impatient. She gestured with a flick of her hand, commanding attention. “Well, plead your case.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, curtsying with poise. “Your Majesty, while I appreciate the attention from your nephew, the Prince Friedrich of Prussia, I simply cannot ignore my long-standing affection for the Duke.”

The Queen’s eyes narrowed slightly, a look of utter boredom spreading across her face. She sighed deeply, clearly unconvinced by what she must have deemed an overly practiced excuse.

You felt the pressure mount, but you pushed forward. “You see, Your Majesty, it was love at first sight—”

Sebastian suddenly interrupted, his deep voice cutting through your words like a blade. “It is not!”

Startled, you turned to look at him, but his gaze was locked on the Queen. There was an intensity in his expression that both alarmed and captivated you.

“It was not love at first sight for either of us,” he admitted, his voice firm yet steady. “At first, we didn’t like each other. Miss Bridgerton finds me annoying, presumptuous, arrogant…fairly so. Not to mention she is the sister of my best friend, so romance was immediately out of the question.”

The Queen’s brow raised slightly, but she did not interrupt.

Sebastian continued, his words now softer, as if revealing a part of himself he had long kept hidden. “But we found something else instead. Friendship. We’ve been fooling everyone with the ruse of us courting to drive away eager debutants and to attract more suitors for her, but in reality, we simply enjoy each other’s company so much that it became difficult to stay away from one another. I was never a man fond of flirting, let alone talking. But with Dorothea—Miss Bridgerton—conversation has always been easy. Her laughter brings me joy.”

You felt your breath hitch as his words sank in, your shock mirrored in the way your eyes widened slightly.

“To meet a beautiful woman is one thing,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful woman is something entirely apart.”

The silence in the chamber was deafening. Even the Queen seemed to lean forward slightly, her skepticism fading.

“And it is with my sincerest apologies to Prince Friedrich,” Sebastian concluded, his voice resolute, “that I must say it took his arrival to make me realize I do not want Miss Bridgerton as my friend. I want her to be my wife. So now, I plead with you, Your Majesty, do not make us wait.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You stared at Sebastian, your heart both aching and soaring at his declaration. Never had you expected this flood of honesty, this raw admission from the man who had always seemed so guarded.

Queen Charlotte regarded you both for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she leaned back against her throne with a small, approving smile. “You are wise, and lucky enough to understand that friendship is the strongest foundation for marriage.”

Her voice was calm, but her words carried a finality that brought tears of relief to your eyes.

“I shall grant you your license,” she declared, her gaze sweeping over you both, “for an immediate wedding. In three days.”

The weight in your chest lifted as the Queen’s words settled over you, and you turned to Sebastian. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw no hesitation.

The wedding soon came in just a blink of an eye.

You stand in the small bridal room, your hands trembling slightly as your maid tightens the delicate lace of your gown. The reflection in the mirror reveals your radiant beauty, but your heart is not as steady as your outward appearance.

You glance at your brother, Atticus, standing to the side.

“You still have time to change your mind,” he says quietly, his voice softer than usual.

You shake your head. “I love him, Atticus. No matter what lies ahead, I know I would regret it forever if I didn’t marry him.”

Atticus looks at you, his jaw tightening slightly, but he nods. “Then let’s get you to the altar.”

The doors open, and the weight of every gaze in the church falls upon you. The sound of the organ swells, a melody of promise and solemnity. As you take your first step forward, your heart pounds, not from fear, but from the gravity of what this moment means. You look ahead, and there he is.

Sebastian stands at the altar, his face unreadable at first, though his lips press together as if trying to hold back his real emotions. His hair is perfectly combed, his tailored suit fitting him as if it were made by the hands of fate itself. Yet, what strikes you most is his eyes. They meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, his guard slips. In that single look, you see his vulnerability, his longing, and his unspoken fear.

As you move closer, each step feels heavier with the weight of your emotions, but also lighter, as if being drawn toward him by an invisible thread. When you finally reach him, Atticus gently places your hand into Sebastian’s. His hand is warm, though there’s a subtle tremble.

The ceremony begins, and the words of the officiant blend into a distant hum as your focus narrows only on him. When it comes time for the vows, Sebastian clears his throat, his voice lower than usual but steady.

“I take thee, Dorothea,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours, “to be my wife. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer… till death do us part.” His voice breaks slightly at the last words, and for a moment, you see the depth of his emotions laid bare.

Your voice wavers as you repeat your vows, but the conviction in your words carries through. “I take thee, Sebastian, to be my husband. To have and to hold… in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer… till death do us part.”

As the officiant pronounces you husband and wife, there is no hesitation. Sebastian lifts your veil with a gentleness that makes your breath catch. The moment his lips meet yours, the world seems to still, and all your fears and doubts were forgotten.

The reception was bustling with laughter, chatter, and the faint clinking of glasses as the Bridgerton household celebrated your marriage.

You stood near the edge of the room, silently nibbling on grapes. Your gaze kept drifting toward Sebastian, who remained at a distance, engaged in conversation with various guests.

He looked just as distant as you felt. Not a word had been exchanged between the two of you since the ceremony, and the weight of the silence gnawed at you.

You tried to focus on the sweetness of the fruit as Atticus approached you from behind, standing beside you.

“I spoke to the Duke,” he announced casually, taking a sip from his glass.

You let out a dry chuckle, barely hiding your frustration. “That makes one of us.”

Atticus raised a brow, his humor undeterred. “He refused your dowry.”

“Is this your attempt to raise my spirit?” you replied, your tone clipped, though you knew he meant well.

He smiled faintly. “He refused your benefit, sister. I shall put the money in trust, so you may use it how you see fit. For your children, perhaps. Certainly, you two will have a brood large enough to put Mother’s to shame.”

His jest should have brought some comfort, but instead, you felt a sharp tightening in your chest. Right, children. You struggled to breathe, your vision blurring as the room suddenly felt stifling.

Atticus noticed immediately, concern etching across his face. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I am... This is all...” Your words were halting, your lungs feeling as though they’d collapsed under the weight of it all. “I must take a moment. Excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and hurried toward the staircase, your legs carrying you upstairs as your mind raced.

When you reached the privacy of your room, you collapsed onto the couch at the foot of your bed, clutching the fabric as though it could anchor you. Your breaths were shallow, your hands trembling as you slowly composed yourself.

A soft knock interrupted you, and Rose, your maid, peeked inside with a smile. “Miss? It is time, they are bringing the carriages around.”

You took a deep breath, it is indeed time, you are to leave the house.

“Well, perhaps I can come with you,” Giovann suggested, his tone light and teasing as he walks alongside you, “I’ve always wanted to live in a castle.”

Before you could respond, Heather, who's walking on your other side, interjected. “If Dorothea is going to take anyone with her, Giovann, it will be me.”

Caleb rolled his eyes at their antics and pulled you into a tight hug. “The two of you are staying here until our dear sister allows us to visit.”

Benjamin stepped forward, his smile a mix of humor and sentiment. “You mean, if she allows us to visit. I’m quite sure you’ll enjoy the peace and quiet, sister.” He hugged you warmly, his words softened by genuine affection.

You smiled at them all, your heart swelling with love and sorrow. Although as chaotic as they can be, you'll miss them. “I’m going to miss all of you. Terribly.”

Atticus quirked a brow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Even me?” You laughed softly, pulling him into a hug. “Even you.” You kissed his cheek, and he chuckled.

Your gaze landed on Elisa, and you couldn’t help but joke through the emotion. “I’m going to miss my sister... and my enemy.” Elisa let out a laugh, shaking her head as she stepped into your embrace. “Goodbye, Dorothea.” You whispered, “Goodbye, Elisa,” holding her tightly.

Finally, your mother approached, she looks composed but the hint of sadness in her eyes betrays her as she embraces you. “Write to me as soon as you arrive, dear.” You nodded, hugging her back. “Of course, Mama.”

She reached out to cup your cheek gently. “You’re going to be a wonderful Duchess. You’re no longer Miss Dorothea Bridgerton, you’re now Duchess Dorothea of Hastings.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of the gate and walked toward the waiting carriage. Sebastian stood near it, his eyes fixed on you. He gave you a slight nod, waiting patiently as you approached.

You glanced back at your family one last time, offering a faint wave from the windows of the carriage.

Sebastian offered you his hand as you got off the carriage. You looked at the grand estate with wide eyes and a smile, completely amazed at the beautiful castle.

The grand doors of the castle opened to reveal the long line of servants, all standing neatly in formation to welcome their new Duchess.

One by one, they bowed and curtsied, their smiles warm and respectful. The butler at the front, an older gentleman, stepped forward and gave a courteous bow. “Welcome home, your majesties. It is an honor to serve you both.” You offered a polite smile, though your heart still felt heavy from the farewells earlier. “Thank you.”

“This is Fred, he's been a loyal servant to the family for years.” Sebastian introduced. “Please, this way,” the butler said, gesturing for you and Sebastian to follow him inside.

The interior of the estate was breathtaking, immaculate even. The sort of place that looks straight out of a painting. As the butler led you up the grand staircase, you couldn’t help but glance at Sebastian, who remained silent and unreadable. “Both rooms are cleaned and prepared, Your Grace,” the butler said over his shoulder, continuing up the corridor.

You furrowed your brows, confused, and leaned slightly closer to Sebastian as you walked. “Both rooms?” you whispered.

He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed ahead. “I forgot to inform you,” he said evenly, his tone detached. “We are to stay in separate rooms.”

You blinked, taken aback at what you just heard. Your mouth opened in disbelief. “On our wedding night?!”

Sebastian remained quiet, offering no explanation, no defense. The realization hit you like a cold splash of water, and you straightened your posture, forcing a small, bitter laugh. "Right... I don’t know why I did not expect this."

The butler stopped at a set of doors, each on opposite sides of the hall. He gestured first to the left. “This will be your room, Duchess,” he said, addressing you with a polite smile. He then gestured to the right. “And this will be yours, Duke,” he added, looking at Sebastian. “Thank you,” Sebastian said curtly, already moving toward his door.

You hesitated for a moment, glancing between the two rooms, the space making your heart ache. You forced a smile to the butler and nodded before stepping into your room, closing the door softly behind you. The lavish room was beautiful, every detail meticulously arranged to exude elegance and comfort. Yet you feel no excitement nor any ounce of happiness for it.

You let out a long, shaky breath, this is it. This is your new reality. A love marriage indeed, but a one-sided kind.

What a life, so much for happily ever after.

You sat on the edge of your bed when a soft knock at the door disturbed you. Rising reluctantly, you made way to the door and opened it, revealing Sebastian standing there.

“We should go down to dinner,” he said formally.

You turned away without answering, retreating back into the room, your frustration bubbling.

“Thea?” he called after you, his voice softer now. “You’re not hungry?”

You stopped in your tracks, your back still to him, your shoulders stiff as you fought to keep your emotions in check. “I do not want any dinner,” you replied, your voice sharper than intended.

Silence stretched between you, until you could no longer hold your thoughts inside. “I’ve spent the last three days wanting to be alone with you,” you began, your voice trembling.

You turned slowly to face him, meeting his gaze with a mix of anger and pain. “Wanting to talk to you. Wanting to know you.” You took a deep breath to steady yourself, your words spilling out like a dam breaking. “I understand that you do not wish to see me. That you would prefer to stay in your separate room and endure a wordless dinner together on our wedding night.”

“That is not what I prefer,” Sebastian said softly, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Sebastian,” you interrupted, your voice sharper now, laced with frustration.

“You are mistaken,” he said, his tone calm but firm.

You shook your head, disbelief flashing in your eyes. “You have avoided my presence,” you accused, your voice rising with the hurt you could no longer contain.

“In order to allow you your liberty,” he replied, his gaze steady.

“You’ve said all but a few words to me,” you pressed, stepping closer, anger overtaking your hurt.

“In order to keep myself from saying the wrong things,” he countered, his tone softening, as if he were pleading with you to understand.

“You’ve barely been able to look me in the eye,” you continued, your voice breaking slightly as the pain welled up inside you.

Sebastian’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, you saw something crack in his carefully constructed facade. “Because I could not bear witness to the misery I have caused you,” he admitted, his voice quiet, heavy with regret.

You froze, your breath catching. “You did not… I am the one who trapped you into this marriage,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I trapped you,” he replied, shaking his head slowly, his expression one of deep self-reproach. “I have spent the last three days in agony. Unable to talk to you. Unable to be alone with you. Because I knew you wanted nothing to do with me. And understandably so, after forcing you to make an unimaginable sacrifice.”

He took a slow breath, his dark eyes meeting yours with painful honesty. “You wanted a life with children. A family. You wanted a life with a man you truly knew. You wanted a love match. And yet—”

“And yet,” you interrupted, bitterness creeping into your tone as you turned away from him, your hands trembling as you began to fold the clothes from your travel trunk. “This could not be any more different. Is that what you hope to say?”

You kept your back to him, focusing on the task in front of you as the tension in the room grew unbearable. “I shall join you for dinner momentarily,” you said at last, your tone clipped, dismissing him to shield yourself from further hurt.

Sebastian didn’t move. The silence stretched between you until it was nearly suffocating.

“Everything I told the Queen was true,” he said. “I cannot stop thinking of you. From the mornings to the evenings. To the dreams you inhabit. My thoughts of you never end.”

Your movements halted. Slowly, you turned back to face him, your brows drawn together in confusion.

Sebastian stepped closer, “I am yours, Thea,” he said firmly, every word laced with sincerity. “I have always been yours.”

You turned to face him fully, your heart pounding in your chest, his words echoing in your ears. “I do not understand,” you whispered, your voice shaky, as if you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling with every passing second. His expression twisted with frustration, and his tone even turned harsh as he said, “I do not know how to be any clearer.”

You flinched slightly, your eyes softening as you took in his agitated state. “Do not get angry,” you said softly, your tone a quiet plea.

“I am not angry. I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply as if trying to steady himself.

You studied him, your gaze tracing the tension in his jaw, the flush spreading across his cheeks. “You look angry and bothered,” you said gently, tilting your head. “Look at you. You are downright flushed.”

“Yes, that is what happens—” he began, his voice rising slightly in exasperation.

“When one is angry,” you interjected, matter-of-factly, your tone almost teasing despite the heavy emotions hanging in the air.

“No!” Sebastian snapped but not in a mean way. “When one burns for someone who does not feel the same.”

His words hung between you, a revelation that stole your breath away. Your lips parted, but no sound came out as you stared at him, your chest tightening. “Y-you burn for me…?” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling with disbelief.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, the tension in his body visibly releasing as if he had been holding his breath. “Why do you think I followed you into that garden?” he asked, his tone softer now but still heavy with intensity.

Your pulse raced as you stepped closer to him, your eyes searching his for any trace of doubt. “Why do you think I went into that garden?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your words filled with urgency.

He faltered, his expression shifting to one of confusion and hope.

“If you would have only looked at me this week for longer than two seconds,” you continued, finding your courage, “you would have seen. It is you I cannot sacrifice.”

You took another step closer, the truth spilling out of you, uncontrolled. “I burn for you.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened, the weight of your words sinking in and finally made him snap.

You barely had time to breathe before he closed the space between you, his hand cupping the back of your neck as his lips crashed against yours.

He quickly picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to your bed not so far away without breaking the kiss.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was messy, unrestrained, like he’d been starving for you, and now there was no holding back.

His lips moved over yours with fierce urgency, parting them effortlessly. His tongue slid inside your mouth, tangling with yours that sent a jolt of fire through your veins.

Your back hit the soft mattress, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was him. His hands gripping your waist, his lips demanding, claiming, pulling every shred of air from your lungs.

His teeth caught your bottom lip, biting just hard enough to make you gasp before soothing the sting with a slow, deliberate lick that sent a shiver down your spine.

You clung to him, your hands threading into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, guttural sound from his throat. The sound ignited something primal in you, and you kissed him back just as hungrily, your lips bruising against his as your tongues clashed and tangled.

It was chaotic, desperate. His hand slid lower, gripping your hip to pull you closer, and your bodies molded together as though you were trying to erase every inch of space between you. His taste was warm and addictive, it filled your senses.

When he pulled back, his lips were slick and swollen, his breath ragged. He didn’t move far, his forehead resting against yours, his lips brushing yours in quick, teasing pecks as if he couldn’t bear to fully let you go.

“Still breathing?” he rasped, his voice rough and thick with need.

“Barely,” you managed to respond playfully in between pants.

His weight pinned you down, but there was no hesitation in the way his hands moved to your back, lifting you just enough to slide your dress upward. The fabric gathered between you as he tugged it over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

His eyes roamed over your fully naked form for a moment, dark and heavy with desire, before he dove back down.

His mouth found your neck, his lips trailing hungry, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate skin. Each kiss grew more urgent, more insistent, as his teeth grazed and nipped, leaving marks behind.

Your hands slid up his back, your nails digging into his shoulders as he devoured you, his breath hot against your skin. His tongue darted out, soothing the stings of his bites before returning with the same fiery hunger.

You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your neck when you let out a soft moan, his grip on your waist tightening in response.

His hands did not stop. They explored every curve of your body, gliding over your sides, your hips, the softness of your thighs, and then up again, tracing your skin with a touch that sent sparks racing through you.

His palms finally settled on your mounds, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, drawing a shuddering breath from you as his kisses trailed lower to your collarbone.

“Every inch of you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and tinged with awe. “I want all of it.”

“Then have me,” you whispered before his lips found yours again, claiming them in a bruising kiss that left you breathless. His hands continued their exploration, his touch deliberate and unrelenting as though he was determined to memorize every inch of you.

He paused, his weight braced on his forearms as his eyes searched yours. “Are you sure you are ready?” His voice was low, gentle, but his breathing was still uneven, and the hunger in his gaze made your pulse race.

You gave him a firm, reassuring nod, your fingers curling against his back. “I’m sure.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, and then his lips curved into a small, almost teasing smile.

He sat up, pulling away for just a moment to strip himself of the last barriers between you. With a quick motion, he discarded his clothes, leaving nothing but bare skin in front of you.

You couldn’t stop staring, your breath catching as you took in the sight of him. The lean lines of his body, the way his muscles moved under his skin, and his length. Oh his length, it all left you in awe.

He noticed, of course. His smile turned smug, and he tilted his head, his voice laced with amusement. “Enjoying the view?”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, but before you could respond, he leaned back down, catching your lips in a quick, playful kiss. It was softer than before, but no less electrifying, and it left you wanting more as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his words making your heart flutter even as his hands slid down your body once more.

He shifted slightly, his hand moving between the two of you as he spat into his palm. The sound sent a jolt of anticipation through you, and your breathing hitched as he used that on his manhood to slick himself, all while his eyes never leaving yours.

With one hand, he guided himself to you, the tip brushing against your entrance with a teasing pressure that made your body tense and heat flooded your core.

His other hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a tender contrast to the intensity of what was about to happen.

“Legs up, baby,” his gaze locked onto yours as he opened you wide for him, raising your hips off the mattress to wrap your legs around his waist, before slowly pressing forward, his movements deliberate and careful, scared to hurt you.

The stretch was overwhelming, the way his manhood entered and the veins on it grazed your soft gummy walls for the first time.

Your body instinctively tensed as you felt him inching deeper, stretching you more and more. A soft whimper escaped your lips, and his heart clenched at the sound.

“Shh,” he murmured softly, his lips pressing a series of tender kisses to your temple, then your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you. Just breathe for me.”

His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as he paused, letting you adjust.

You tried to focus on the comforting press of his lips against your skin, the gentle weight of his body, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your face. His whispers filled the silence, soft and soothing, each word meant to ease the sting.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “Just a little more. I’ll take care of you.”

He continued, inch by inch, his movements still slow and careful as he gave you time to adjust.

You couldn’t stop the small, pained noises that slipped from you, but he was relentless in his tenderness, his mouth trailing over your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, everywhere he could reach. Each kiss was him silently saying that he wouldn’t rush you.

You let out a particularly loud moan, throwing your head back into the soft pillows as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. He stayed still, his forehead pressing against yours as he released a shaky breath. “Good girl, baby,” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe and restraint.

You exhaled shakily, your body slowly relaxing as the initial discomfort began to subside. He didn’t move, his hands stroking soothing patterns along your sides as he watched you closely. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he said, his voice soft, his lips brushing over yours in a featherlight kiss.

After a few moments, you nodded softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m ready.”

His breath hitched, and he kissed you again, slow and tender, before pulling back just enough to start moving.

His hips rolled into you, slow but deliberate, each movement deep and precise. The stretch still lingered, but the sting had dulled, replaced by something else entirely.

Pleasure.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your neck between each soft praise. “So good. Taking me so well.”

Every inch of you felt like it was on fire, his voice only fanning the flames as his movements remained controlled, careful.

His mouth moved along your jaw, peppering kisses in a trail to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

The way he worshiped you with his touch and words made you cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as your breathing grew heavier.

But then you noticed it, the slight tremble in his arms, the way his muscles strained, his jaw clenched tight. His movements, though steady, were deliberate in a way that betrayed his restraint. The sounds he made were muffled, controlled, and you could feel the effort it took for him to hold back.

Reaching up, you cupped his face, your fingers brushing against the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t hold back.”

He stilled, his gaze snapping to yours as if he hadn’t expected your words. “What—”

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I want all of you. Don’t hold back.”

Something in him shattered.

His lips crashed onto yours in a fiery kiss, and before you could catch your breath, he pulled back and pushed inside you with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

His restraint was gone, replaced by something primal as his hips snapped against yours, again and again, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

You cried out, your back arching as the sudden shift sent waves of sensation coursing through you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and untamed, his mouth returning to your neck as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped, his voice ragged as his teeth grazed your shoulder. His pace was relentless, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, his hands gripping your hips to keep you anchored beneath him.

Every movement was wild, desperate, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long and now there was no stopping him. Your nails dug into his back, and he only growled in response, his lips finding yours again in a bruising kiss that left you breathless.

You were overwhelmed, consumed by him, by the way he claimed you so completely.

His head dipped lower, his lips leaving a heated trail down your neck and chest before capturing one of your mounds in his mouth. The warmth of his tongue swirling over the sensitive skin made your back arch into him more, a gasp spilling from your lips as he sucked with pleasure, toying with the bud using his tongue.

His arms wrapped around you, one sliding beneath your waist and the other gripping your backside. He held you close, hugging you tightly to him as his hips continued its merciless rhythm.

Every thrust was wild, untamed, each one pulling sounds from you that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried.

Then, suddenly, he shifted his angle. His hips tilted just slightly, and when he plunged into you again, he hit a spot so deep, so perfect, that your vision blurred.

“Hmp–Ahh Sebastian!” A cry tore from your throat so loud London could hear it.

“There,” he growled, his voice triumphant as he felt your reaction. “I’ve got you.”

He focused on that spot, his thrusts hard, each one sending shockwaves through you. He managed to fuck you so good the only thing you can see, feel, hear, is him.

The heat of his body, the way he filled you so completely, and his hips jerking you up pushing you higher and higher.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your nails dragging down his back leaving scratches as you clung to him, lost in the overwhelming sensation. “God baby you feel so good,” he murmured, his lips returning to your neck as he continued to praise you between breathless groans.

The coil inside you tightened impossibly, your body tensing as you clamped down around him. He groaned at the sensation, his thrusts faltering for a moment before he chuckled breathlessly, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Are you close?” he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded frantically, your body trembling as pleasure coursed through you. Tears pricked at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks at the intense pleasure.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice laced with encouragement. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust deeper and harder, making you feel him in places you didn’t know were possible. Deep in your womb. “Let go for me.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, and when his hand moved between your bodies, his fingers found your sensitive clit, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure before rubbing tight circles on it.

Your eyes shut tight, a loud cry tearing from your throat as his touch sent shockwaves through you.

The combined force of his deep, relentless thrusts and the skilled movements of his hand was too much, and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice thick and strained as he pounded into you, his hips driving with a force that turned your brain into mush. “Let me have all of you.”

The tension snapped, and a wave of euphoria crashed over you, drowning out everything else. Your walls fluttered and tightened around him as your release hit, “F-fuck fuck! Sebastian! I can't–ohh,” your babbled sobs filling the room as tears continued to spill from the sheer intensity.

“Yes, that's it,” he groaned, his fingers still working your sensitive nub to prolong your high.

He soon slowed his movements until he eventually stilled, his chest heaving above you. A soft, almost smug smile played on his lips as he leaned down to press a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“You were amazing,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, his hand brushing gently over your hair. “So perfect for me.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours with a mix of admiration and something deeper, something you couldn’t quite place.

Despite his own body tense with need, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he didn’t move to continue. Instead, he slowly eased himself out of you, his touch careful and considerate.

You sighed, your body relaxing into the mattress as he settled beside you, still catching his breath. He reached out, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your skin as he whispered more praises, his voice soft and honeyed.

What you didn’t know—what he had made sure you would never suspect—was that he had no intention of letting things go further. He’d lied to you once, telling you he couldn’t give you children, a story you’d accepted without question. It had been easy to take advantage of your innocence, your lack of understanding about what it truly meant to create a child.

And so, he let his desire linger, unfulfilled, content to keep the truth hidden. He watched you as you dozed off in his arms, a faint smile still on your lips, completely unaware of the secret he carried.

That was just the start of your honeymoon. Ever since you two got a taste of each other, there's no holding back anymore.

Every morning,

A sleepy groan escaped his lips, one hand tangling in your hair as you took him fully into your mouth. The warmth of you surrounded him, and he couldn’t help but let out a low, raspy “Good morning, baby,” his voice still thick with sleep.

“You’re gonna spoil me like this,” he murmured, his voice amused, though his grip in your hair tightened slightly, betraying how undone he was. “I won’t ever want to wake up any other way.”

In the Library,

The library was huge and full of spaces. You were perched on its edge, your breath hitching as Sebastian knelt before you, his hands gripping your thighs like a man starved while you try to push his head away, “Sebastian, not here!”

“You taste so sweet, how could I resist?” Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently as his mouth worked its magic. His tongue traced slow strokes on your folds. Each flick of his tongue and gentle nip of his teeth sent sparks through your body, making you arch against him.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he murmured against you, though the smirk on his lips betrayed his delight in unraveling you like this.

And even outdoors beside the pond at your castle,

The gentle hum of nature surrounded you as the two of you lay on a soft blanket near the pond. It is late in the afternoon and Sebastian was behind you, his chest pressed against your back as his arm draped over your waist, pulling you closer.

His lips brushed over your shoulder and up to your neck, leaving a trail of soft, lingering kisses, making love to you shamelessly outdoors.

Not that there's someone else around anyway.

“My pretty wife,” he whispered, while he moved slowly and passionately against you, taking you from behind.

“Sebastian,” you moaned out his name softly at how warm and big he feels inside you. It didn't take too long for you to finish.

“You feel incredible,” he murmured, slowly pulling his length out of you. “I could do this forever.”

All is well until...

The kitchen bustled with life as maids moved about, the aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering stew filled the air, accompanied by the soft clatter of pots and pans.

You stepped in quietly, curious about the lively chatter that echoed from within.

The maids were huddled near the counter, laughing amongst themselves. Your personal maid, Rose, was at the center of the group, her laughter ringing the loudest. None of them noticed you at first, too engrossed in their conversation.

“And then she said, ‘Is that really all it takes?’” one of the younger maids said, giggling as the others erupted into laughter.

Rose wiped her hands on her apron, grinning. “Well, it’s not as simple as that! You need to make sure he—” Her words stopped short when her gaze landed on you standing in the doorway.

“Your grace!” Rose quickly straightened, bowing her head with a warm smile. The other maids followed suit, their laughter replaced with nervous politeness.

You waved a hand dismissively, a gentle smile on your lips. “Please, don’t stop on my account. What were you all discussing so eagerly?”

The maids exchanged hesitant glances before one of them replied with a shy laugh, “Just silly things, my lady. Joking about... marital life.”

Rose stepped forward, her smile softening. “Is there something you need, your grace? Shall I prepare something for you?”

You shook your head, your curiosity piqued. “No, I don’t need anything. I was just wandering. But tell me, what exactly were you joking about?”

The younger maid from before blushed, glancing nervously at Rose. “Oh, um, just about... how to, uh, make a man finish faster to... you know, conceive children.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your head tilting slightly. “Finish? Whatever do you mean?”

The room fell silent for a moment. Rose’s smile faltered, her expression shifting to one of cautious confusion. “Finish, your grace. You know, the... the climax for men. When they release their... seed inside. It’s the essential part of bearing a child.”

Your confusion deepened, your lips parting slightly. “Seed? And this happens during the... marital act?”

Rose nodded slowly, her tone gentle as she continued, “Yes, my lady. When a man and woman are intimate, it’s important to continue until the man reaches his climax and, um, releases inside. That’s how children are conceived.”

A heavy silence settled over the kitchen as the weight of her words sank in. Your expression remained still, but realization dawned in your eyes. Pieces of information began to click together, forming a picture you hadn’t seen before.

Sebastian’s actions replayed in your mind, the way he always stopped, always pulled away immediately after you're done. You’d trusted him without question, never suspecting anything amiss.

Rose, noticing the shift in your demeanor, stepped closer. “Your grace, are you alright? Have I said something to upset you?”

You forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, Rose. Not at all. You’ve been... most helpful.”

The maids exchanged uncertain glances, sensing the change in your mood. You turned abruptly, excusing yourself from the kitchen.

As you walked away, you can't bring yourself to believe it. Sebastian had lied to you? No, you can't fathom. You have to find the truth out for yourself. You will try and see tonight if this is true.

The bed creaked as Sebastian sat up, his face pale and his jaw clenched. The intimacy you had shared just moments ago was now a distant memory, replaced by an overwhelming storm of betrayal and anger.

You finally did it, it was true. You rode him and did not stop until he accidentally finished inside you. Your world came crashing down, you didn't even know this was possible.

“Thea!” he exclaimed, his voice sharp and accusing.

You turned to him, your body still trembling, but this time not from passion. “What?” you snapped, your voice laced with confusion and defiance.

“What did you do?” he demanded, his tone teetering between disbelief and fury.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your suspicions were confirmed. “I’d hoped it was not true,” you said bitterly, your voice shaking. “I’d hoped they were mistaken, but clearly, they were not.”

Sebastian’s brows furrowed, his face etched with frustration. “How could you?” he asked, his voice rising.

“How could I?” you repeated, your voice growing louder with every word. “How could I? You lied to me!”

“I did not lie,” he countered firmly, his voice defensive.

You laughed, the sound humorless and sharp as a blade. “I trusted you,” you said, your voice breaking. “I trusted you more than anyone in this world, and you took advantage of that. You seized an opportunity, and so I did the very same.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words. “I told you I cannot give you children.”

You stepped forward, your fists clenched at your sides. “Cannot and will not are two entirely different things,” you retorted. “You chose this for yourself. You chose to lie to me.”

Sebastian stood, his hands running through his hair as if he were trying to ground himself. “I did not lie,” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought you were prepared. I thought you understood how a child came to be.”

Your chest heaved as tears pricked your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You took my future from me,” you said, your voice cracking. “The one thing I wanted more than anything. You knew that becoming a mother one day, to have a family of my own one day, you knew that was all I ever wanted. Why?!”

Sebastian's face crumpled in sadness, “My father… cared more about the continuation of the Hastings line than anything in the world. More than my mother. More than me. He knew my mother should not have a child, but he did not care—not even when my mother died after giving birth to me. So I made a vow that his efforts would be in vain. That this line would die with me. You said I was enough for you!”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. “That was before I knew you,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “I never asked for your betrayal.”

“Thea, I—” he began, his voice desperate.

“You what?” you interrupted, stepping closer as your voice rose. “You love me? No, you most certainly do not. You do not know the meaning of the word.”

Sebastian’s mouth opened, but no words came out as your accusations hit him like a blow.

“You do not lie to the one you love,” you continued, your voice breaking. “You do not trick the one you love. You do not humiliate the one you love.”

You paused, your chest heaving as tears finally spilled down your cheeks. “I may not know much, as you have made abundantly clear, but I do know one thing,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper now. “I know that is not love.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Sebastian stood frozen, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock and regret. But you couldn’t look at him anymore. The weight of his betrayal was too much to bear.

Turning away, you walked to the other side of the room, your shoulders trembling as you tried to compose yourself.

The man you thought you loved, the man you thought you could trust, had taken everything from you.

You are not certain if you can still forgive him.

Over the next few days, you busied yourself instead in being a great duchess to your people, checking over the town and actually attending to their concerns.

You were doing quite well already when all of a sudden, you received a letter from your mother. Requiring your presence back in the estate to settle the scandal that your brother, Caleb, got himself into.

The Bridgerton family name has been the talk of London again ever since Lady Whistledown wrote about Caleb Bridgerton being roped into an entrapment marriage planned by his supposed bride-to-be, Miss Karina Trusova. A young miss who Caleb was flirting with this season and insisted that Caleb marry her immediately.

The reason for the rushed need to marry someone of Caleb’s status? To have a husband and a father for her unborn child. She's pregnant and the man abandoned her, pushing her into a desperation of luring a young man into marriage.

Great. Another scandal that your family has to face after facing yours.

Although now with your status as a Duchess, it was definitely more simple to remedy your brother's problem. Having the power to divert the ton’s attention and the respect they have to put on the Bridgerton Family who has a Duchess as one of them.

That simple solution caused you to get back at the castle earlier than expected.

But someone did not came back home early.

You waited anxiously by the staircase, the sound of the clock as it ticked away the late hours.

The tension in your chest tightened when you heard the faint creak of the door opening, and your husband stepped inside.

"Where have you been?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

He paused, tilting his head slightly as if the question puzzled him. “I did not think you were concerned about my whereabouts.”

The casualness of his response stung, but you ignored the sharp pang in your heart and stepped closer to him. “Are we going to stay like this forever?” you asked softly, reaching out to cup his cheeks in your hands.

His skin was warm, but his gaze remained distant, his body tense beneath your touch. “I do not want to live like this,” you pleaded. “Let’s just... please forgive each other.”

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he gently pulled away from your hands. “No,” he said, his voice firm, almost cold.

Your breath hitched as you stared at him in disbelief. “No?” you repeated, the word hanging heavy between you both. “What is to become of us, then?” you demanded, your voice rising in frustration. “Sebastian!”

“If you are with child,” he said abruptly, “then I shall stay and do my duty to support you both.”

The finality in his words made your stomach twist. “And if I am not?” you whispered, dreading his answer.

“Then we shall remain married, in name only,” he replied, his expression unyielding. “You will be provided for, of course, in a manner befitting the Duchess. But I shall not darken your doorstep again. Our lives will be entirely separate. This…” He gestured between the two of you, his voice breaking slightly before he regained control. “This cannot happen. This will not happen. Do you understand me?”

You swallowed hard, his words cutting deeper than you could have imagined.

The man who once burned for you now seemed determined to extinguish whatever bond you shared.

“That we will never love each other the same way again?” you said, your voice quiet but filled with heartbreak. “Yes, your grace. I understand that quite well.”

Sebastian stood there for a moment longer, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes searching yours for something he could not seem to find.

Then, without another word, he turned and left, your heart heavy with the emptiness of his absence.

He no longer burn for you.

He now burns you.

The days that followed were a week of avoiding glances and sidestepping one another in the vast corridors of the castle.

It was in the late afternoon when your paths finally crossed again. From the opposite direction, Sebastian approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate, his gaze locking with yours for the first time in days.

Neither of you spoke at first, the air between you tense and uncertain. But as you stopped in front of one another, you drew in a deep breath, forcing yourself to break the silence.

“My monthly courses came,” you said, your voice steady, though the words themselves felt like a blade against your heart. “I am not with child.”

Sebastian’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Relief, perhaps, or resignation.

He gave a small nod, his voice quiet and devoid of emotion as he said, “That is for the best.”

You tilted your head, studying him, and for the first time in days, you found the courage to push the boundary of his guarded walls. “Why?” you asked, your voice soft but insistent. “What did your father do that made you so spiteful? What has he done to warrant such... vengeance from you?”

You did not miss how his jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He averted his gaze, the muscles in his neck taut. The question had struck a nerve. “You should not concern yourself with that,” he said in finality.

“Sebastian,” you pressed, stepping closer, refusing to let him brush it aside. “If this vow you made is to define our lives, if it has already destroyed what we could have had then don’t I at least deserve to understand why?”

His gaze snapped back to yours, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “You do not need to understand, Thea. You only need to trust me. Trust that it is for the better that you are not with child.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, you stood frozen, searching his face for answers he clearly wasn’t ready to give. “Trust?” you echoed bitterly, the word tasting sour on your tongue. “How can I trust a man who does not trust me with the truth?”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, and you thought he might finally let you in, might finally reveal the pain he kept buried so deeply. But then he took a step back, his expression hardening once more.

Ah there it is, the constant cycle of seeing a hint of vulnerability only for him to harden again.

“I cannot,” he said quietly. “Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone with unanswered questions.

But you are not one to give up on this. You're going to find the truth no matter what it takes.

The late duke’s office was cold and quiet, a ghost of the man who once inhabited it. Dust blanketed the furniture, white sheets thrown haphazardly over the grand desk and chairs, muting their presence. You hesitated as you stepped into the space, the air heavy with abandonment. The late Duke Hastings might have been gone for years, but the scars he left on Sebastian were still raw, still fresh, and you couldn’t help but feel that the answers you sought were buried here.

Pulling the sheet off the desk, you coughed as the dust clouded the air. You rummaged through the drawers, finding nothing but old quills, dried ink pots, and a few blank sheets of parchment. Frustration began to gnaw at you until you opened the bottom drawer.

Inside, you found something that took your breath away.

A stack of letters, bundled tightly with a frayed ribbon, lay untouched. The envelopes were yellowed with age, the Duke’s seal unbroken on each one. Your hands trembled as you untied the ribbon, curiosity outweighing hesitation. Carefully, you opened the first letter, the ink smudged in places but legible.

"Father, today I recited my lessons perfectly, without stumbling. Lady Danbury says I am improving. I hope you are proud of me. Please come home soon."

The letter was short, heartbreakingly simple, and heavy with yearning. You opened another.

"Father, I practiced for hours today, just as you told me. My tutor says I am doing well. When can I see you again?"

And another.

"Father, I said a full sentence today without stuttering. It was hard, but I did it. Are you proud of me? Will you write back?"

Tears pricked your eyes as you went through letter after letter, each one filled with hope, progress, and desperate longing for approval that never came. The final one you opened was the most poignant.

"Father, I will not trouble you with letters anymore. I will do as you wish and make you proud in silence. But I will still hope. I will always hope."

Your heart shattered. These letters were the voice of a child begging for love, a child who had been cast aside for not meeting impossible expectations.

You could only imagine your husband as a child, longing and begging for his father's attention and love only to be ignored and have his efforts not recognized.

Oh the thought made your heart ache so much you feel physically sick, you cannot bare the thought of it. It all makes sense now.

The sound of footsteps startled you, and you turned quickly, clutching the stack of letters against your chest. Lady Danbury stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable but her sharp gaze softened by understanding.

“Your Grace,” she greeted. You quickly placed the letters on the desk, brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized had spilled. “Lady Danbury.”

Her eyes flickered to the letters. “Did you forget we were to come and help with preparations for your ball? Your Mama is waiting in the parlor.” You nodded, your voice shaky. “I shall be there momentarily.”

But as she turned to leave, you called after her. “Lady Danbury,” you said hesitantly, gesturing toward the letters. “Did you know about these? The ones the Duke seems to have written to his father as a boy?”

She paused, then gave a small nod. “I did. And now, apparently, so do you.” You swallowed hard, glancing back at the letters. “I had no idea that Sebastian had trouble speaking as a child.”

Lady Danbury’s expression softened, though there was still a sharpness to her tone. “He worked very hard to eliminate that difficulty. He was so very proud. It is why he wrote those letters in the first place.”

“To keep his father informed of his progress,” you murmured, shaking your head. “The late Duke never even deigned to read them. How could... What kind of father—”

Lady Danbury’s tone turned steely. “One that demands perfection in his son. And when that was not achieved… Well, I shall leave it to you to imagine.” Your throat tightened with anger and sadness. “You helped him overcome his impediment,” you said softly.

She gave a small smile, her head tilting as though recalling those years. “I merely showed him what he was capable of all along. And if he needed some encouragement, a push from time to time, that was something I was happy to provide. But, at the end of the day, the Duke’s triumph was his and his alone. It had to be.”

You looked down at the letters again, your emotions were a mix of sadness for your husband, and hatred for his father. You hadn’t fully understood until now.

The first dance of the ball to honor the marriage of the Duke and Duchess had been perfect.

But as the second song began, the heavens opened, and a sudden downpour brought the evening to an abrupt end.

Guests scrambled for shelter, their gowns and suits quickly soaking through as the rain poured relentlessly.

You stood at the center of it all with Sebastian, watching everything unfold as people hurriedly retreated to their carriages.

Soon, it was just the two of you, soaked to the bone under the unrelenting rain.

“I am so sorry,” Sebastian said suddenly, his voice heavy with regret.

You turned to him, rain dripping from your hair and lashes, giving him a puzzled smile. “For what? Even a Duke cannot control the weather.”

“I know,” he sighed, his expression strained. “But I know this is not what you had envisioned for the evening.”

You paused, the rain mingling with the flush on your cheeks. “Certainly not.”

“And for that, I apologize—”

“It is better,” you interrupted gently, your voice soft yet firm.

Sebastian froze, his brow furrowing as he studied you, confusion flickering in his eyes.

You stepped closer, your heart racing as your trembling hands reached for his. Your voice wavered, but you held his gaze. “I know why you made that vow to your father. I found the letters you wrote to him as a child, and I read them.”

Sebastian stiffened, his body tense under your touch, but you refused to let him pull away.

“Just because it’s not perfect,” you continued, your voice breaking with emotion, “does not make it any less worthy of love.”

Sebastian’s breath hitched, his eyes wide with surprise, pain, and something you couldn’t quite place.

“Your father made you believe otherwise,” you said despite the tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “He made you believe that you needed to be without fault to be loved, but he was wrong. If you need any proof of the matter, then look just here.”

You released one of his hands and pressed your palm lightly to his chest, right over his heart.

“I am tired of pretending,” you admitted. “And I cannot continue acting as if I do not love you. Because I do”

“I love all of you. Even the parts you believe are too dark and too shameful. Every scar. Every flaw. Every imperfection. I love you.”

Sebastian’s face twisted with a mix of emotions, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came out. He cannot form a single sentence.

“You may think you are too damaged and too broken to ever allow yourself to be happy, but you can choose differently, Seb. You can choose to love me as much as I love you. That choice is not up to anyone else. It can only be up to you.”

The rain fell harder, soaking both of you, but you didn’t care. You smiled up at him, your heart laid bare to him.

Sebastian’s gaze searched yours, his walls crumbling with every word you spoke.

Slowly, he reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face, his hand lingering on your cheek. His touch was warm despite the cold rain, and his lips parted as he whispered, “Dorothea…”

Your smile widened, tears streaming down your face, indistinguishable from the rain. “It’s up to you,” you repeated softly, your voice trembling with hope.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. Though he didn’t speak further, the way he held you close said more than words ever could.

He stared into your eyes with happiness, love, and… lust.

His thrusts grew increasingly messy, each one harder and deeper but lacking the rhythm they once had.

His groans turned into desperate whimpers, his forehead pressing against yours as he fought to chase his high.

His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, his body trembling as his need completely consumed him.

You whimpered beneath him, your body still sensitive and overstimulated from your own orgasm, every thrust sending jolts of sensation that had your nails digging into his shoulders. “It’s too much,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He panted, his hips snapping into yours with a bruising grip on your waist. “Just a little bit more, baby,” he murmured, his voice strained and desperate. “You can do that for me, right? Just hold on for me.”

The sound of his voice, thick with need, made you shudder even as your body ached from the intensity.

He buried himself in you again and again, his pace erratic and unrelenting as his grip tightened on your hips, sure to leave marks, “I’m close… f-fuck gonna give you that baby you so wanted.”

Then you felt it—his cock twitching uncontrollably inside you, his breath hitching as he stilled for a brief moment before delivering one last, harsh thrust that sent the headboard slamming against the wall with a loud crash.

His hips pressed flush against yours as his body tensed, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. “Shit take it, take it all. Milk my cock out, just like that.” He groaned, his voice thick with pleasure as he threw his head back, eyes closed and lips parted, lost in the sensation.

You gasped at the feeling of him pulsing inside you, his release coming in hot, thick waves that filled you completely. His body shuddered against yours with each rope of his release, his grip digging into your skin as he rode out his high.

You felt it inside you, drowning your walls in his warm seed. He finally came inside you, and the feeling is incomparable. It made you blush and glow like no other.

He collapsed onto you gently, his weight comforting rather than overwhelming as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“I love you,” he murmured breathlessly, his lips brushing over your damp skin. “I love you so much.”

If there is to ever be a grander finish to a season than the one provided by the Duke and Duchess of Hastings this year, this author will need to feast upon her own words. For it was this couple's memorable affair that brought another scandalous London season to a close. As many now leave the city behind for greener pastures, some endings seem more happy than others.

The carriage came to a halt in front of the Bridgerton House, its familiar architecture as comforting as ever. It had been two years since you last visited, but the sight of your childhood home felt like stepping back into a world that had remained unchanged.

Sebastian stepped out first, holding little Amelia in his arms. The one-year-old giggled, tugging at the collar of her father's coat as he grinned down at her. Turning back, he extended a hand to help you down, his other hand instinctively resting on your arm to steady you.

Your pregnancy was beginning to show, the rounded swell of your stomach an obvious visible sign of another life growing within. As you stepped onto the stone pathway, the doors of the estate opened wide, and your mother, Violet, appeared, her face lighting up with joy.

“My darling!” Violet exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace you. Her arms wrapped around you carefully, mindful of your condition. “It’s been far too long.”

You smiled warmly, leaning into her embrace. “It’s good to be back, Mama.”

Amelia squirmed in Sebastian’s arms, her tiny hands reaching out to Violet. With a laugh, Violet took the child into her arms, cooing and pressing kisses to her rosy cheeks.

Behind her, your siblings began to spill out of the house one by one. Atticus, followed by Benjamin and Caleb, both of whom greeted you with teasing grins. Elisa, Giovann, and Heather trailed behind, their excitement evident as they called out.

Atticus stepped forward, “Welcome home, sister,” he said, his voice warm. His gaze flickered to your rounded belly, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “I see congratulations are in order again.”

You laughed softly, resting a hand on your stomach. “Thank you, Atticus. And how have you been? Still busy avoiding the marriage mart?”

For the first time, he hesitated, his expression softening. “Actually, I’ve been giving it some thought. I believe it’s time for me to settle down.”

Your brows lifted in surprise, a delighted smile breaking across your face. “Truly? That’s wonderful news!”

Atticus nodded, his composure unshaken. “I plan to participate in this upcoming season. It’s time I find a wife and start a family of my own.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you said sincerely, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “I’m sure you’ll find someone perfect.”

“And I’m proud of you as well,” he replied, his tone gentle. “You’ve always been strong, but seeing you now, with a family of your own,” he paused, observing you with a smile and proud eyes, “It suits you, sister.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and before you could respond, Amelia’s squeals of laughter filled the air. Turning, you saw Sebastian spinning her gently in his arms, her giggles echoing across the front lawn.

Atticus followed your gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He seems to adore her.”

“He does,” you said softly, watching your husband with a fondness that could not be contained. “And she adores him.”

“Congratulations, sister,” Caleb stepped into the conversation with a smile that you mirrored, “Thank you. And what of you, Caleb? What are your plans?”

Caleb's smile only widened as he informs you of a great news, “I am to leave London in a few days to explore and travel Greece.”

“Oh that is amazing! You better keep writing to us when you get there,” you exclaimed and hugged your brother.

The rest of your siblings crowded around you, showering you with hugs, questions, and congratulations.

Dear Readers,

My story was not without its trials. Some would say my husband and I weathered storms that would have capsized even the strongest of unions. There were moments of doubt, of tears shed in the dark, and of truths we were unprepared to face. Yet, through every challenge we faced, one constantly remained with us: love.

We now have been blessed with five lovely children that we so adore. Amelia, Bernadeth, Caroline, David, and our newborn, Eros. They are the final pieces of our puzzle, completing a family that, against all odds, found its happily ever after.

Looking back, it feels almost surreal to think of the hardships we endured. All the secrets, the misunderstandings, and the moments of despair. Yet, those very challenges are what forged the unbreakable bond we now share.

To any who may doubt the power of love and perseverance, let this be a testament: happiness is not something handed to you, but something earned through faith, effort, and a willingness to embrace imperfection.

As I pen these final words, I am reminded of how far we have come. From the innocence of our beginnings to the trials that tested our resolve, we have emerged stronger and wiser.

Anyhow, I shall get going, the house is a mess with my husband joining in on the chaos in the drawing room instead of making the children behave. And I can hear our little Eros starting to cry and being fuzzy once again in his nursery room. It is time for me to feed him.

But may this tale inspire you to face your own challenges with courage and hope. After all, dear reader, love is definitely worth every battle.

—From Dorothea, Duchess of Hastings, to you.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the feast)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to let go

- Next part: home

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a display of Lannister grandeur. Crimson and gold banners hung from the high ceilings, the sigil of the roaring lion emblazoned on every surface. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, spiced wine, and elaborate confections, their decadent aroma filling the air. Nobles from across the realm were gathered, their chatter and laughter echoing off the stone walls.

At the center of it all was the high table, where you sat beside Jaime, your expression a careful mask of indifference. You were dressed in a gown of deep blue, the Stark direwolf embroidered subtly on the sleeves as a quiet rebellion against the overwhelming Lannister colors that dominated the room.

Jaime sat close to you, his golden hand resting on the table as he sipped from a goblet of wine. His armor was gone, replaced by formal attire that, despite its elegance, seemed to sit awkwardly on him. He was watching you, his gaze keen, noting every flicker of movement, every subtle glance you cast toward the exit.

"You’re looking for a way out," Jaime murmured, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the two of you.

You turned your head slightly, fixing him with a glare. “And if I am?”

He smirked faintly, leaning in just enough for his words to reach you. “It’s better this than being Roose Bolton’s bride, don’t you think?”

You scoffed, your lips curling into a bitter smile. “You think you’ve saved me? Traded one prison for another, and I’m supposed to be grateful?”

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk faltering slightly. “I didn’t say that. But if you’re going to be chained, better it be to someone who doesn’t flay their enemies for sport.”

“Comforting,” you said dryly, turning your attention back to your untouched goblet.

As the evening progressed, Tywin presided over the feast with his usual cold precision, ensuring everything proceeded as planned. Servants moved efficiently, refilling goblets and replacing platters, while the musicians played a lively tune in the background.

Cersei’s absence was conspicuous, her seat at the high table left empty. Jaime had expected it—after their last argument, he doubted she would deign to attend. Still, her absence was a small relief, sparing him her glares and barbed comments for the night.

Jaime’s gaze drifted back to you, noting the way you picked at your food, your posture tense despite the façade of calm you projected. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the weight he could see pressing down on you. But every time he opened his mouth, the words seemed to die before they could form.

Finally, as the evening wound down and the laughter in the hall grew louder with drink, Jaime reached out. Slowly, he placed his left hand over yours, his touch warm and tentative.

You froze, your gaze snapping to him. The softness in his expression caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to react.

“This doesn’t have to be a war,” Jaime said quietly, his tone earnest. “It can be… something better.”

You pulled your hand back, your voice cutting as you replied. “Better? For who? You?”

“For both of us,” he said firmly.

You shook your head, standing abruptly. The movement drew the attention of a few nearby nobles, their whispers quickly rising.

Jaime stood as well, his expression tightening. “Y/N—”

“I’m done here,” you said sharply, your voice low but firm. “Enjoy the rest of your celebration, Jaime.”

Without another word, you turned and strode from the table, your steps brisk as you made your way toward the exit. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment before the hum of conversation resumed, though Jaime could feel the weight of curious eyes on him.

Tywin’s gaze bore into him from the far end of the table, a silent command to maintain control. But Jaime barely registered it, his thoughts consumed by the look in your eyes—the anger, the pain, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

He sighed, sinking back into his chair as the feast continued around him, the noise and laughter a hollow backdrop to the storm raging in his mind.

The air around Jaime felt heavy as he sat at the high table, his goblet untouched and his appetite long gone. The laughter and chatter of the guests seemed distant, almost muted, as his gaze lingered on the space where you had been sitting. He ran his thumb absentmindedly along the edge of the golden hand resting on the table, his thoughts too tangled to focus.

The sound of measured footsteps approaching drew his attention. Jaime didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Tywin’s presence was as commanding as ever, and when he stopped beside Jaime’s chair, the tension in the air became almost palpable.

“Stand up,” Tywin said curtly, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Jaime sighed, pushing his chair back and rising to face his father. Tywin’s expression was cold, his piercing gaze fixed on Jaime with unyielding intensity.

“What was that?” Tywin demanded, his tone cold and clipped. “Allowing her to walk out of the feast like that? Do you understand the optics of what you’ve just allowed to happen?”

Jaime met his father’s gaze, his jaw tightening. “She’s not a prisoner, Father. If she doesn’t want to stay, I’m not going to force her.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his disappointment evident. “You’re a fool if you think this is about what she wants. This isn’t a courtship, Jaime. This is politics. Every move you make reflects on this family. And tonight, you’ve made us look weak.”

Jaime bristled, his voice dropping to match Tywin’s. “So I’m supposed to drag her back to the table, make her sit and smile for the sake of appearances? She’s not a puppet, Tywin.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his tone growing colder. “She’s a Stark, Jaime. A piece on the board, just as you are. And if you’re too blinded by your sentiment to understand that, then perhaps I’ve overestimated you.”

Jaime clenched his fist as he struggled to maintain his composure. “I’m doing the best I can with this… arrangement. But you can’t expect her to play along willingly. I’ve taken everything from her.”

“Then give her something in return,” Tywin said sharply. “Make her believe this union can work. Because if you don’t, she’ll be a liability, and I won’t tolerate that.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Tywin’s tone shifted, taking on a faint note of triumph. “Fortunately, your blunders haven’t completely undone my work.”

Jaime frowned, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, his expression calm and calculated. “I’ve struck another deal with Roose Bolton. Despite your... interference, he remains a valuable ally. He has agreed to proceed with the marriage to the Freys and will continue to serve as future Warden of the North, provided certain concessions are met.”

Jaime’s stomach churned at the mention of Roose Bolton. The man’s name alone was enough to send a shiver down his spine, and the idea of Tywin dealing with him after all that had happened left a sour taste in his mouth.

“And what concessions did you promise him?” Jaime asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

Tywin raised an eyebrow, his tone measured. “That is my concern, not yours. Your only task is to ensure that your marriage proceeds without further incident.”

Jaime’s frown deepened, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You’ve already given Bolton too much power. Do you even care what he did to the Starks?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, his voice turning icy. “What I care about is ensuring the stability of the realm. The Starks are losing the war, Jaime. And in war, the losers do not dictate terms.”

Jaime stared at his father, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And what about her? What about Y/N? Do you care about what she’s lost? Or is she just another pawn to be sacrificed for your plans?”

Tywin’s expression remained cold, his voice steady. “She’s a Stark. She understands duty, even if she doesn’t accept it yet. In time, she will come to see that this marriage is what’s best for her house and for the realm.”

Jaime shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’ve never cared about people, have you? Just names, banners, and alliances. That’s all we are to you.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You are a Lannister, Jaime. And you will do your duty like you promised to me, whether you like it or not. I suggest you remember that before you make another mistake.”

With that, Tywin turned and walked away, his red cloak trailing behind him. Jaime watched him go, his chest tight with frustration and a gnawing sense of helplessness.

He turned back to the table, his thoughts swirling. The weight of his father’s expectations pressed down on him, but it was the thought of you—angry, defiant, and alone in a room somewhere in the Red Keep—that stayed with him.

Jaime sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know how to fix this, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t let Tywin’s schemes destroy what little hope either of you had left.

Jaime remained at the high table long after Tywin had left, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. The clamor of the feast around him felt distant, muted by his frustration and the weight of Tywin’s words that are a constant reminder of the man he was supposed to be now—the dutiful heir, the husband-to-be.

As he stared into his untouched goblet, Bronn approached, a confident swagger in his step. The sellsword dropped into the empty chair beside Jaime, his goblet sloshing with wine as he plopped it down on the table.

“You look like a man who’s either had too much to drink or not nearly enough,” Bronn remarked, leaning back in his chair with an easy grin.

Jaime sighed, glancing at him. “What do you want, Bronn?”

“To see how the happy groom is doing,” Bronn said, his tone dripping with mock cheer. “You know, I’ve seen more smiles at a hanging than I’ve seen from you tonight.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though there was no real amusement in it. “That obvious, is it?”

“About as subtle as a bear in a ballroom,” Bronn replied, taking a swig of his wine. “So, what’s got you sulking, Kingslayer? Daddy giving you a hard time about your Stark bride?”

Jaime’s expression darkened, and Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Ah,” he said knowingly. “It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

“She hates me,” Jaime admitted, his voice quieter now. “And I can’t blame her. If I were in her position, I’d hate me too.”

Bronn snorted, shaking his head. “Well, that’s your problem right there. You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Hate or no hate, she’s your bride-to-be, isn’t she? So, do something about it.”

Jaime gave him a skeptical look. “And what would you suggest, Bronn? Charm her with my golden hand? Pretend none of this is happening and hope she magically decides to like me?”

Bronn laughed, leaning forward and slapping the table with his palm. “No, you idiot. You’ve got to show her you’re not just some lion licking his wounds. You’ve got to make her see you’re worth her time.”

“And how do I do that?” Jaime asked, his tone edging on sarcasm. “Recite poetry? Shower her with gifts? She’s not the type to be wooed with trinkets.”

Bronn grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re right. She’s not. Stark women are tougher than that. What you need to do is prove yourself. Show her you’re not just Tywin’s lapdog or Cersei’s shadow.”

Jaime frowned, his good hand tapping absently against the table. “And how do you suggest I prove myself, exactly?”

“Start small,” Bronn said with a shrug. “Pay attention to what she cares about. Listen to her, even when she’s snapping at you. And for the gods’ sake, stop trying to make her like you all at once. You’re a knight, Jaime—treat this like a battle. Pick your moments, and strike when the time’s right.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “That’s your advice? Treat courting her like a battle?”

Bronn smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Worked for me plenty of times. Women like a man who knows what he’s doing, even if they don’t admit it. Besides, you’ve already got her attention—you’re just too busy moping to use it.”

Jaime sighed, rubbing his temple with his good hand. “It’s not that simple, Bronn. She’s not just some tavern girl I can charm with a smile and a bit of silver. She’s…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words.

“Different?” Bronn offered, his grin widening. “Special?”

Jaime shot him a glare, but Bronn only laughed. “Relax, Kingslayer. I’m just saying, if she’s worth all this trouble—and it looks like she is—you’ve got to step up your game. Be the man you want her to see, not the one Tywin keeps trying to make you into.”

For a moment, Jaime didn’t respond, his gaze distant as he considered Bronn’s words. Finally, he nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re surprisingly insightful for a man who spends most of his time drinking and killing.”

Bronn raised his goblet in a mock toast. “It’s a talent. Now, go on and stop brooding. You’ve got a Stark to win over.”

Jaime chuckled softly, shaking his head as he stood. “Thanks, Bronn. I’ll see what I can do.”

Bronn grinned, tipping his goblet toward Jaime. “That’s the spirit. And if all else fails, just remember—nothing wrong with a little persistence.”

Jaime rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile that lingered as he left the table. As much as he hated to admit it, Bronn had a point. If he wanted to bridge the chasm between him and you, he couldn’t wait for things to fix themselves.

It was time to act.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet, save for the faint murmur of distant voices and the soft echo of your footsteps on the stone floor. The feast had felt suffocating, the weight of your impending betrothal pressing down on you with every forced smile and whispered comment. You had needed air, space to think, and so you had left, wandering the labyrinthine halls of the castle.

As you rounded a corner, you nearly collided with Brienne, who stood with her new squire, Podrick Payne. Podrick scrambled to bow, his nervous energy palpable as he straightened his posture, looking to Brienne for guidance.

“Lady Y/N,” Brienne said, inclining her head respectfully. Her blue eyes softened slightly when she saw your face. “Are you well?”

You hesitated, glancing at Podrick before nodding faintly. “As well as one can be in my position.”

Brienne’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, then shifted to Podrick. “Go on ahead, Podrick. I’ll find you shortly.”

Podrick hesitated, glancing between you and Brienne, before nodding. “Yes, Ser,” he said, bowing again before scurrying off down the hall.

Once he was out of earshot, you turned to Brienne, your voice quieter now. “Have you heard anything? About Sansa? Or Arya?”

Brienne’s expression grew somber, and she shook her head. “No word of Sansa since she disappeared after the… after the wedding. The same for Arya, nothing yet has reached my ears.”

You sighed, the weight of their absence pressing heavily on your chest. “I can’t stop thinking about them. Sansa, alone out there somewhere, and Arya…” You trailed off, your voice breaking slightly. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

Brienne’s eyes softened further, and she placed a reassuring hand on your arm. “They are strong, both of them. More than people give them credit for. And I will not stop searching for them.”

“I know,” you said, your voice trembling. “But it doesn’t make this any easier.”

Brienne hesitated, her hand dropping back to her side. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

You frowned, confused. “Him?”

“Jaime,” Brienne said simply.

The name hung between you like a weight, and you looked away, your jaw tightening. “What about him?”

Brienne glanced down the hall, ensuring no one was listening, before stepping closer. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” she said quietly. “Even back in your brother’s camp, when I was trying to sneak him out on your mother's orders. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

You stared at her, disbelief flickering across your face. “He’s a Lannister, Brienne. A Kingslayer. You can’t expect me to believe there’s anything genuine in that.”

Brienne met your gaze steadily, her voice firm. “Jaime is many things, but he’s not a liar when it comes to matters of the heart. We both have seen him at his worst, and also at his best. Whatever his faults, his feelings for you… they’re not false.”

You crossed your arms, shaking your head. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter. I can’t do this. I can’t marry him, Brienne. Not after everything.”

Brienne’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve survived worse than this, my lady. I know it feels impossible now, but you’re stronger than you realize. And if anyone can match Jaime Lannister’s fire, it’s you.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t want to match his fire. I want to be free of all of this. Of him, of the Lannisters, of this cursed city.”

Brienne’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly, her voice steady. “Freedom will come. But until then, you have to endure. For your family. For Sansa and Arya.”

The mention of your sisters sent a fresh wave of determination through you, though it was laced with bitterness. “For them,” you repeated quietly.

Brienne nodded, stepping back. “And for yourself. You’ve already endured so much. What’s a Lannister wedding compared to that?”

You smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “A fate worse than death, perhaps.”

Brienne chuckled softly, the rare sound surprising you. “Perhaps. But you’ll survive it. Of that, I have no doubt.”

For the first time that evening, you felt a faint flicker of reassurance. Brienne’s unwavering strength was a balm, even if it couldn’t entirely ease the turmoil in your heart.

“Thank you, Brienne,” you said quietly.

She nodded, her expression calm but resolute. “Always, my lady.”

With that, she stepped away, disappearing down the hall in the direction Podrick had gone. You stood there for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you.

You would endure. For your sisters, for your family, and for yourself. But as you turned back toward your chambers, the thought of Jaime’s lingering gaze gnawed at the edges of your resolve, refusing to be ignored.

The feast carried on with its usual pomp and excess, though Jaime’s mind was elsewhere. The hall was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the occasional burst of laughter, but to Jaime, it all felt distant, muted. His gaze lingered for a moment on the empty seat where you had been, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away.

At Tywin’s end of the high table, a cluster of lords approached, their polished armor and fine cloaks reflecting the candlelight. Each man carried a goblet in one hand and a polite smile on their face as they greeted the head of House Lannister.

“Lord Tywin,” one of them began, his voice dripping with practiced cordiality. “Congratulations on this most auspicious union. Another match between Stark and a Lannister—who would have thought such a thing possible?”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, his expression composed. “The match serves the realm. Unity between our houses ensures stability in these uncertain times.”

The lord nodded, his smile widening. “Indeed, my lord. A brilliant stroke of strategy. The North is a prize worth any cost.”

Jaime bristled slightly at the casual reference to you as a "prize" but said nothing, forcing himself to sip his wine and keep his expression neutral.

Another lord, older and broader of frame, stepped forward, his tone more jovial. “And let us not forget the groom himself! Ser Jaime, you must be pleased. Lady Y/N is as fierce as she is lovely—quite the match for the Kingslayer, wouldn’t you say?”

Jaime’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose that depends on how you define ‘pleased.’”

The older lord chuckled, clapping Jaime on the shoulder with a force that made his golden hand shift slightly. “A man with a sense of humor. You’ll need it, my friend, if what they say about Stark women is true.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Jaime, his expression unreadable but clearly urging restraint. Jaime straightened slightly, his smirk fading into a more measured expression.

“Stark women are known for their loyalty and strength,” Jaime said evenly. “Qualities I can certainly appreciate.”

The older lord seemed satisfied with that answer, nodding before turning his attention back to Tywin. “Well, my lord, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with this match. I daresay the realm will be talking about it for years to come.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though he offered a faint nod. “The Lannisters have always understood the importance of alliances. This is no exception.”

As the lords moved on, offering similar congratulations and well-wishes, Jaime leaned toward his father, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the table. “Do you think anyone here actually cares about this union beyond what it can gain them?”

Tywin turned to Jaime, his gaze cold and calculating. “It doesn’t matter what they care about. What matters is what they see. A Stark and a Lannister united under one banner sends a message to every corner of the realm. Especially after Lady Sansa disappeared and Tyrion sits in the dungeons. They may whisper and scheme, but they will also remember who holds the North and the Westerlands in their grasp.”

Jaime frowned, his hand tapping absently against his goblet. “And what about her? Do you think she’ll ever see it that way?”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver. “That’s not your concern. Your concern is ensuring that she fulfills her role, just as you must fulfill yours. She will adapt, as all women in her position do.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his thoughts flashing to you storming out of the feast, the fire in your eyes as vivid in his memory as it had been in the moment. “She’s not like most women, Father. She won’t adapt just because you expect her to.”

“Then make her,” Tywin said curtly, his tone brooking no argument. “She’s your responsibility now, Jaime. Whatever it takes to ensure her loyalty, you will do it. I will not have this alliance jeopardized because you lack the resolve to handle her.”

Jaime’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, lifting his goblet to his lips to mask his frustration.

As the lords continued to offer their congratulations, Tywin rose from his seat, the room falling silent as he addressed the hall. “My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice carrying easily over the gathered crowd. “Tonight, we celebrate a union that will strengthen the realm and ensure peace in these uncertain times. Let us raise our goblets to Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Y/N Stark.”

The hall erupted in cheers and applause, goblets raised high as the guests toasted to the match. Jaime forced a smile, nodding politely as the eyes of the room turned toward him.

But as he looked out over the sea of faces, his thoughts drifted back to you—your defiance, your anger, and the walls you had built so carefully around yourself. Jaime wondered if he would ever be able to break through them, or if you would forever remain a Stark in chains.

He raised his goblet, the weight of the golden hand making the gesture feel heavier than it should have been. “To alliances,” he murmured under his breath, the words carrying more bitterness than hope.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quieter now, the echoes of the feast fading as the night deepened. Jaime walked with purpose, his golden hand occasionally brushing against the hilt of his sword, a faint rhythm to his steps. The memory of your abrupt departure from the feast lingered in his mind, the defiance in your eyes a stark contrast to the polite masks worn by the other nobles.

When he reached your chambers, the two guards stationed outside shifted uncomfortably at his approach, exchanging wary glances. Jaime’s reputation had always preceded him, but now, as Tywin’s heir, his presence carried an even greater weight.

“You can leave,” Jaime said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The guards hesitated before bowing and stepping aside, their boots echoing softly against the stone as they retreated. Jaime knocked lightly before opening the door without waiting for a response.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle on the desk casting a warm glow. You were seated by the window, your back to him, staring out over the city. The pale moonlight framed your silhouette, and for a moment, Jaime hesitated, struck by the quiet strength in your posture.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to come storming in here,” you said without turning, your tone sharp but weary.

Jaime smirked faintly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Storming? Hardly. I thought I’d try a more subtle approach for once.”

You turned then, your gaze cold as you studied him. “And to what do I owe this… visit? Come to scold me for embarrassing the great Tywin Lannister?”

“Not quite,” Jaime said, leaning casually against the wall. “Though he wasn’t thrilled, I’ll admit. But no, I came for a different reason.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “And what reason is that?”

“Margaery,” Jaime said simply, watching your reaction closely. “She asked about you after you left. Wanted to know where you’d gone and why you weren’t enjoying the feast.”

You frowned, your arms crossing over your chest. “And what did you tell her?”

“The truth,” Jaime replied. “That you needed some air. Though I imagine she saw through that.”

You shook your head, turning back to the window. “I don’t care what Margaery Tyrell thinks. She’s as much a pawn in this game as I am.”

Jaime stepped closer, his voice softening. “She seemed genuinely concerned. Or at least, as genuine as a Tyrell can be.”

You let out a bitter laugh, your fingers gripping the windowsill. “Concerned for her own plans, maybe. She’s already making moves to secure her place beside Tommen. I doubt she spares a thought for anyone but herself.”

“Perhaps,” Jaime conceded. “But she’s not wrong to notice your absence. It raised questions, Y/N. Questions neither of us need right now.”

You turned to face him again, your eyes narrowing. “If you came here to lecture me about duty and appearances, save your breath. I’ve heard it all before—from your father, from my own father. I won’t pretend to care about a feast when the people I love are scattered, imprisoned, or dead.”

Jaime flinched slightly at your words, but he held your gaze. “I didn’t come to lecture you,” he said quietly. “I came because… I don’t know. I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

You blinked, clearly taken aback by his admission. For a moment, the tension between you eased, though it didn’t entirely disappear.

“Talk?” you repeated, your tone softer but still guarded. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Anything,” Jaime said with a faint shrug. “The weather. How terrible the wine was tonight. Or how much you hate me. Take your pick.”

Despite yourself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Jaime said with a faint smirk. “But insufferable or not, I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you’ve at least considered the possibility that this—us—doesn’t have to be as unbearable as you think.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. “You’re a fool if you think you can convince me of that, Jaime.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But I’ve been called worse.”

The silence between you stretched, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Finally, you turned back to the window, your tone quieter but no less firm.

“Goodnight, Jaime,” you said, your back to him once more.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, though you couldn’t see it. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, his voice lingering in the quiet.

Jaime turned and left the room, the door clicking softly behind him. 

[literatureloverx]

N A K A H A R A C H U U Y A

Guns and Roses

“Out of all the others… you were the honest man…

…He loved guns and roses, guns and roses…”

Chuuya x fem!reader

NSFW content, mdni, suggestive themes, dom!Chuuya, sub!reader, swearing (I don’t usually include swearing—it’s outside my comfort zone—but since Chuuya canonically swears and someone encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone, I felt it was fitting to include it here).

Chuuya is utterly obsessed with his darling because, let’s be honest, no one can convince me he wouldn’t be. I hope this feels realistic! Also, some parts are more descriptive than usual for my writing, but I did some research to write it properly, so… I hope you appreciate it, lmao.

Consider this my Christmas present to you. 🧡

The sleek hum of the engine gradually fades as Chuuya pulls into the underground garage, his hand lingering on the wheel longer than necessary.

He lets the car idle for a moment, as if savoring the final seconds of silence before facing you. The yearning to see you forces a shaky breath from his lips. His gloved fingers tighten instinctively, the soft creak of leather breaking the stillness. The ache in his chest deepens, a gnawing emptiness that only you can soothe.

He parks the car, his fingers brushing against the bouquet of deep red roses on the passenger seat—perfect, elegant, a silent confession of emotions too intense to be spoken aloud. With a sigh, he tugs off his gloves with his teeth, runs a hand through his hair, and steps out. Each stride toward the elevator feels heavier than the last, drawing him closer to you—the only thing that truly matters.

When the elevator doors slide open, Chuuya crosses the penthouse lobby with single-minded determination. His heart begins to race as he steps into the kitchen, finding you there, moving with the grace that makes everything in the world feel right.

He is home.

He places the roses gently on the table. After that, without hesitation, he closes the distance, his body drawn to yours, as if the very air between you calls out to him. When you turn to meet his gaze, the breath catches in his throat. And then, he's reaching for you—his arms enveloping you, pulling you close. His face buries in your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of you like a lifeline, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"I’m back, doll,” Chuuya murmurs, his voice low and thick with the familiar ache of desire.

You pull away just enough to look up at him, but the concern in your eyes stops him in his tracks, an invisible weight settling between you.

"Chuuya..." you whisper, throwing your arms around him, burying your face in his neck.

His hand tangles gently in your hair, memorising the feel of it, before sliding to the small of your back. His heart pounds beneath your touch, a frantic beat that matches the ache in his chest.

You recognise the roses placed on the table, right behind Chuuya.

“Roses?”

“These are for you,” his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, looking up at him with a softness that made his chest ache.

“Thank you.”

“Figured I owed you something,” he said, his fingers gently tracing a pattern on your back. “I’ve been gone too long.”

Your lips, warm and soft, press against the pulse in his neck, sending a shiver through him. You linger there, your kiss gentle yet full of intent, and the weight of the world falls away, replaced only by the heat of your touch.

Oh, how you’ve missed him.

“You think flowers will make up for it?” you teased gently, though there was no bite to your words. You take his jacket, your eyes never leaving his. He gulps. You really can’t behave.

“No,” he admitted, “But it’s a start.”

You glance at the stove, ensuring it’s turned off. Nice. Perfect for what is about to come—you wouldn’t want to serve your love an overcooked meal, right?

“Where were you, my love?” you murmur against his skin, your voice a low whisper, laced with need.

His breath stutters, the sharpness of your words striking deep. A smirk tugs at his lips, but his eyes—those eyes—betray the depth of something more. He leans closer, voice rough with desire.

"Here and there. You know how it is. But I always come back to you, don't I?"

"You do..." you reply, but there's a smirk tugging at your lips, and the audacity in your tone doesn't go unnoticed.

Chuuya quirks a brow, a soft, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He pulls you closer, his thumb brushing lazy circles on your side. He's playing along, keeping his tone dangerously patient.

"What's wrong now, doll? Got something to say?"

You meet his gaze, shrugging with a nonchalant air that only fuels the tension. "I feel uneasy whenever you're away..." you admit, though your lips brushing his neck again feel more like a power move than an act of comfort. "But you already know that."

His grip tightens on your waist, not to control but to ground you, though there's a flicker of annoyance at your little game. "I know, doll. But I'm careful. Always. I'll come back to you, in one piece."

You scoff, leaning back just enough to shoot him a pointed look. "I don't care how many pieces. As long as you're alive and with me."

The words hit him hard, but instead of melting under their weight, he lets out a low, shaky laugh, his hands sliding possessively to your hips and pulling you flush against him. There's a raw intensity in the movement that leaves the air charged.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" His voice is thick with amusement and something darker. "What did I do to deserve you?"

You tilt your head, fingers teasing the hem of his breeches, your grin downright smug. "Probably something terrible. Lucky for you, l've got low standards."

His gaze drops to your hands, his pulse quickening at your boldness, and when his eyes snap back to yours, they're dark, dangerous, and hungry. "Keep it up, doll," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. "See what happens."

You trail your fingers up his chest, your lips curling into a wicked smile. “What happens if I don’t keep it up? You’d miss me too much, wouldn’t you?”

His laugh is low and almost predatory as he pulls you even closer. “You make it sound like you can’t live without me, doll.”

Your lips curl into a teasing smile, a glint of challenge in your eyes. "You misunderstand," you whisper, leaning in closer. "I depend on your existence.”

His lips curl into a smirk as he steps closer, the space between you evapora-ting. His breath brushes against your ear, warm and deliberate.

"Depend on me, huh? Does that mean I'm all you think about, darling?"

The metallic clink of his gun as he sets it down on the table punctuates his words, a subtle reminder of the control he so effortlessly wields. His eyes remain locked on yours, unyielding, daring you to say more. You hold his gaze, a playful defiance dancing in your eyes.

"Yes?"

The single word hangs in the air, laced with a challenge that only stokes the fire simmering beneath his composed exterior. His grip on your waist tightens, his fingers pressing into you as though grounding himself. His lips part, and his voice drops, carrying a low, dangerous edge.

"You're playing with fire, Princess. You know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you?"

You lean in, brushing your lips against his in a featherlight touch, your taunting reply barely above a whisper. "I do, my love. And I think you like it."

A quiet growl escapes his throat, his jaw tightening as he struggles to keep his composure. His hands slide up your sides, firm and commanding, each movement deliberate, as if daring you to test his limits further. The air between you is charged, every second stretching longer than the last.

When you smirk, so confident, so teasing, it shatters his resolve. He groans, low and guttural, as the tension finally snaps.

With one swift motion, he lifts you over his shoulder, your playful laugh melting into a startled gasp. The sharp smack of his hand against your backside echoes through the room, drawing a shocked cry from your lips.

"Behave," he growls, his voice thick with authority, dripping with unspoken promises.

"Y-yes, sir.." you manage, your breath hitching as he strides purposefully toward the bedroom.

The door slams shut behind him, the sound a declaration. He lowers you onto the bed with deliberate care, his darkened gaze tracing over you like a touch. The air shifts, heavy with intent, as his fingers move to unfasten the leather choker around his neck, each motion slow and purposeful.

"Wrists," he commands, his voice rough yet controlled, the single word sending a shiver down your spine.

Your pulse races as you offer them to him without hesitation, his thumb brushing over your skin, the gentleness in stark contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes. He leans closer, his lips ghosting over your ear, his voice a low, intimate rasp.

"Good girl.”

Your lips meet softly, a slow, lingering kiss that deepens as his hand cradles your face, drawing you closer. The world around you fades, leaving only the warmth of your breath mingling, the taste of longing and quiet affection.

Every touch, every movement, speaks of the unspoken desire between the two of you, tender yet consuming.

Chuuya pulls away, his lips leaving yours reluctantly, his breath shallow as his eyes flicker between hunger and something…darker, irresistible even. He studies you as though trying to imprint every inch of you in his mind, the way you look beneath his touch, the rise and fall of your chest. The heat between you both is undeniable, crackling in the air as if each breath could set everything ablaze.

He stands, towering over you, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver through your spine.

His hands move slowly, deliberately, as he tugs at his waistband, each motion calculated yet charged with a simmering energy that makes the air thick with anticipation. The restraint he's holding onto is evident, but it feels like a colled spring, poised to snap at any moment.

"Want me, Princess?" His voice is low, slow, and purposeful-heavy with need, dripping with authority. "Say it. Say you want me."

Your pulse spikes, the commanding tone of his voice vibrating through you.

His gaze doesn't waver, leaving no room for hesitation, and though part of you wants to resist, the other part is completely lost in him. His words, his presence-everything about him commands you, pulling you in like gravity.

"I want you, Chuuya," you breathe, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them. It feels almost like a confession, as if saying it aloud shatters whatever barrier you had left. "I want all of you..."

Chuuya's lips curl into a smirk, satisfaction glinting in his eyes as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. His hands grip the edge of the bed, leaning down to hover just above you. The heat of his stare makes your breath catch in your throat, his intensity bearing down on you like a physical weight.

"You're so fucking perfect for me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire, a subtle rasp in his words that makes your pulse quicken. His hands trail down your sides with slow, possessive touches that ignite every nerve in your body. "I can't wait to see how well you take me... you will, won't you, doll?"

A shiver runs down your spine, the rawness of his words leaving you trembling. You nod, almost impatient, the urgency building in your chest. You reach for him, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against yours. Chuuya doesn't hesitate—his shirt is off in an instant, and his hands are back on you, tracing your body with a hunger that makes your head spin.

His lips crash onto yours again, urgent, demanding, as if he's starved for you.

His hands slip beneath your clothes, the searing heat of his touch making you ache for more. You arch into him instinctively, pulled closer by his unrelenting force.

The world outside ceases to exist.

There's only the two of you, the tension, the need that pulses between you, thick and undeniable.

His fingers graze the lace of your underwear, sending a shudder through your body as he teases, barely brushing against you-just enough to drive you wild with longing.

"You feel that, Princess?" he growls, his lips brushing against yours, his voice low and rough."You're already so fucking wet for me."

A soft moan escapes you, your hands gripping his shoulders as your breath catches in your throat. You need him, you need more.

"Chuuya... please."

He chuckles, dark and seductive, his lips brushing your ear. "Patience, sweetheart," he whispers, his hands sliding down to free you from your pants completely, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll give you what you want, but you have to earn it."

A frustrated groan escapes you, but the thrill of his words sends a rush through your chest. The way he speaks, so sure of himself, makes the anticipation unbearable.

"How?" you ask, your voice shaky with both desire and defiance.

His smirk deepens, and he leans down to nip at your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin in a way that makes you tremble. "You need me to spell it out for you, pretty?"

Your heart races, a mix of longing and impatience building in your chest. Your hands move to his pants, undoing the buttons quickly, the urgency of the moment pulsing through you as you push them down, revealing the hard muscles of his body. His breath hitches slightly, and a feral grin spreads across his face, satisfaction mixing with raw desire.

"You really do want me, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "You're making it harder for me to resist you."

Your trembling body responds to his gaze, the tension between you so thick it feels almost suffocating. "I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, Chuuya," you admit, your voice unsteady but unwavering.

He rolls his eyes, chuckling cockily. "That's what you always say. Every single damn time."

The room feels heavy with the tension now, unbearable and all-consuming. Chuuya's lips crash back onto yours, urgent, demanding. His hands pull your legs around him, pressing his body fully against yours, the heat between you suffocating yet intoxicating.

His hands roam your body, caressing and exploring, each movement dragging you deeper into the desire that's consuming both of you. It's almost maddening, the way he moves, knowing exactly how to push every single button. But just as you think you might shatter, his voice cuts through the haze, his breath hot against your ear.

Your pulse quickens as he positions himself above you, his gaze locking with yours. His fingers trail along your thigh, deliberately slow, each touch igniting a spark that spreads through every nerve in your body. His gaze never leaves yours, dark and piercing, as his touch lingers with a teasing lightness, like he knows exactly how to make you come undone.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a mix of awe and desire.

"So desperate for me, doll. You don't even realise how much l've missed you like this."

The weight of his words crashes over you, leaving you breathless. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into his skin, grounding yourself in the intensity of the moment. But he doesn't let you settle. He leans in, pressing his lips to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, sending jolts of pleasure down your spine.

"Chuuya," you breathe, his name escaping your lips like a prayer.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your skin, before his voice turns commanding once more. "Say it again," he growls. "Let me hear you say my name like that."

You shiver, the sheer demand in his tone making your resolve falter. "Chuuya," you whisper again, softer this time, but no less desperate.

His response is immediate. His hands slide under the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down in a fluid motion. His movements are precise, almost painfully slow, but full of hunger, every touch making your body ache for more. His lips find yours once again, the kiss searing, possessive, all-consuming.

The heat radiating between you is unbearable now. Every touch, every movement draws you further into him, until all you can feel is his presence, his hands, his lips. He presses closer, his body melding with yours as his hands roam, exploring every curve, every inch of skin, mapping you out as if you're the only thing that matters.

"I've missed this," he whispers against your lips, his voice rough with emotion.

Your breath hitches at the weight of his words, the yearning in them making your heart race. "I've missed you too, Chuuya," you murmur, the confession spilling from your lips without hesita-tion. "I've missed you so much."

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there's something deeper in his gaze now— longing mingled with a hunger that matches your own. "Good," he says, his hands gripping your hips firmly as he pulls you closer.

The world outside fades into nothing-ness, leaving only the overwhelming heat between you, the sensation of him, and the way he makes you feel as though you're the center of his universe. In this moment, you are.

Nothing else exists but him, his touch, his whispered words, and the overwhelming desire that consumes you both.

Every movement, every sound, is electric, each second stretching into eternity as he takes his time with you, savoring every reaction, every shiver that runs through your body. He's careful yet relentless, knowing exactly how to draw out the deepest parts of you, the parts you didn't even know existed.

"Chuuya," you gasp again, your voice trembling as his forehead presses to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between.

"I've got you," he murmurs, softer now, but still intense, his gaze never leaving yours. "Let me take care of you, baby."

And as he moves, each touch and each word ignites something deeper within you. You realize that you're utterly and completely his, in a way that words could never fully convey.

The air is thick with anticipation, the promise of what's to come hanging between you, until his grip tightens once more. You gasp as the pressure around your limbs intensifies, the choker around your wrists-more than a restraint-tightens, pulling you deeper into his control. You can't move. Can't struggle. And yet, you don't want to.

"Fuck, baby... look at you," his voice slices through the haze, his eyes devouring you. The choker snaps, yanking your arms above your head with a sharp tug, pinning you to the bed beneath you. The straps dig into your skin, the pressure creating a delicious, raw sensation that leaves you breathless.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk, more taunt than genuine concern.

You shake your head, lips parting slightly as the pressure that holds you now moves lower, pulling your body closer. Your back arches into the window, your right leg dangling helplessly, the rest of you suspended in his unyielding grasp.

The air grows thick in your chest, as if the very space around you is closing in with the weight of his gaze. His fingers twitch, drifting toward your legs as though they've come alive with their own intent. Slowly, agonizingly, they hover just above your skin, the tension humming within your skin.

You can feel the heat of his stare, cataloging every reaction, every involuntary tremor of your body. "Every damn inch of you gets me harder than you can imagine," he growls, his hands finally landing on your thigh, ripping the fabric of your clothes effortlessly, fingers pressing down to trace your folds through your underwear before sliding up and down your inner thighs, worshiping every inch of you. "And yet... here you are, hiding from me. You said you missed me, didn't you, doll?"

Your breathing quickens, shallow, desperate, and you hate the way you tremble beneath him-not out of fear, not exactly, but from something deeper, more compromising.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt, lifting it off with maddening ease, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air.

"Wanna know what's so damn unique about your body, doll?" His palm slides over your lace bra, fingers curling possessively as he squeezes softly.

You gasp sharply, feeling his hot mouth against your skin, trailing open kisses down your collarbone, sharp teeth nipping before his tongue soothes the sting.

You can't move, can't think—only feel him, feel his possessive grip on you tightening as he groans low in his chest.

"Your soft skin drives me wild..."

"Ch-Chuuya, stop teasing, please." You whimper with a trembling breath as you arch into him, desperate for more.

More of his touch, more of his kisses, as if each fleeting moment only leaves you craving the next. He growls low in his throat-that sound that makes your heart race, pumping blood faster as he deftly undoes the buttons of his vest and dress shirt. Your hands ache to roam, to trace the hard lines of his body, to feel the muscles beneath your palms that have haunted your dreams during your time apart. Honestly, you can't deny it—not even for a second —how much you've missed him, how every inch of him feels like a need too urgent to ignore.

"Let me use every piece of you until you see what I see." Chuuya rasps, unbuttoning his belt urgently. He couldn't stop the way his length twitched the second it was freed from his uniform slacks. He moves closer, already palming it.

You swallow down the lump in your throat, instinctively parting your lips, thinking he'd claim your mouth, but he has other plans.

Chuuya leans down to kiss you, his mouth hot and eager, pressing against yours as his tongue slips inside, swirling with yours in a slow, deep rhythm.

He sucks harder than usual, his movements growing more deliberate as he aligns himself perfectly with the right spot. It feels like a fever dream-you can hardly remember how quickly he shifted positions, wrapping your legs around his slim waist and securing them with his ability. Then, you catch it - his gaze, half-lidded and full of that tenderness he only gives before pushing into you. It's not just lust; it's something deeper, something full of love and adoration, like he's already lost in you.

His jaw slackens as he sinks into you, the feel of your tight walls around him undoing him completely.

"Ah... Chuuya~...mmh~" Your desperate gasps are swallowed by his mouth, the kiss messy and urgent, his tongue and lips eager to claim you.

You feel his pace pick up, a shift from his usual slow, tender rhythm-he's insatiable tonight. His thick length fills you, and even though you've done this countless times, it always takes a moment to adjust to him, the stretch never quite losing its intensity.

He breaks the kiss, teeth gently grazing your collarbone, your breasts, your shoulders, leaving a trail of bruises that will bloom into shades of violet, soft grey, and deep green.

"Oh, fuck...~ you see what you do to me?

Look at you-perfect." He can hardly form a coherent thought, consumed entirely by the sensation of you. His words are rough, slipping out in a haze of desire. Every inch of you drives him wild, and as his mind fogs, all he can focus on is the way you make him feel - like he's drowning in pleasure. He was going to say something... but the weight of you, the way your body moves under his, has him reduced to nothing but soft, desperate moans.

A few beads of pre-cum roll down his shaft, making your soft skin slick, and the feeling of it only fuels his urgency.

His gravity manipulation keeps your wrists above your head, pinning you in place while his other hand grips your thighs tightly. The other traces over your body, making your breath catch. You arch against him, desperate for more.

"I'm so lost in you, baby," he groans, his words low and ragged as he pulls you even closer. The words are barely more than a whisper against your skin, but they sink deep inside you, fueling the fire in your chest. "You want me to show you just how much I adore you? Make love to you like you're mine?"

His voice shakes with the raw emotion he's trying to control. You feel every inch of him as he drives into you, deeper with each thrust. "Because you are... every part of you..." His breath is quick, labored, and his pace intensifies, pushing you to the edge.

You gasp in response, the intensity of his words, combined with his body's movements, filling you with an overwhelming sense of connection. "Yes, please... don't stop, Chuuya... I need you... more, please..." you whisper desperately. His body responds with a ferocity that matches your need, yet there's a tenderness in the way he holds you, in the way he moves. He's not just taking you; he's worshiping you, as though each thrust is a promise of devotion.

The bed shakes with each powerful thrust, the sound of your moans and the movement of your bodies filling the room. He's completely consumed by you, but even in the frenzy of it all, you can feel the tenderness in his touch, the quiet reverence with which he cherishes each moment. "You missed me, didn't you? This... it's driving me crazy.." he mutters, his voice strained with love and lust alike.

The room fills with breathless moans and the sound of skin on skin, a sweet, rhythmic symphony of desire and love. Everything outside the moment slips away as your bodies move together in perfect harmony.

He presses his forehead to yours, the weight of his breath matching the intensity of his feelings. You both breathe heavily, trying to steady yourselves, yet everything feels too overwhelming to hold back. He softly brushes his lips over yours, each kiss lingering like he's savoring every second.

When you murmur "I love you, Chuuya," your voice is tender, full of the raw emotion you've been holding back, and he smiles at you, his eyes softening as he traces his fingers over your cheek.

His lips curl into a playful grin, eyes shining with affection. "Say it again, baby," he whispers, his voice low and full of yearning. "I need to hear it."

You smile back at him, your heart full, and as you whisper "I love you," your words are like a promise between the two of you. A soft laugh escapes him, and he pulls you closer, holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

Neither of you notices that the hours have passed by, the world outside forgotten.

[sungbeam]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭

nonidol!wen junhui x f!reader

you don't have to love me; you just have to not hate me.

2.1k words, fluff/minor angst?, historical-adjacent romance (NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE), general!jun, arranged marriage au, mention of wine and food, est. relationship, it's like... kind of soft?, mentions of not consummating the marriage, barely proofread

a/n: this will prob be the last thing you see from me until i finish finals in the coming week or so :') wish me luck, and hope y'all enjoy this low-key self-indulgent drabble

You loathed pretense. It was partly why you dreaded any interaction at court, and why you abhorred your very purpose as a woman born into a world of men. Your purpose was to be sold to the highest seat at the table, and it just so happened to be the General of the North.  

There were plenty of daughters of noble families who looked upon you with envy; this promotion was the next best thing to becoming the consort or concubine to a royal. One of the five high generals of the empire was a score and should never be taken lightly. 

But it was dreadfully lonely. 

You should have been more grateful, you thought as your servants combed through your hair, soaked your body in rose petals ported from far west. You should have been more grateful, you thought as they dressed you in fine silks from the southern shores of the empire, embroidered in the most exquisite gold threading and crystal beads. You should have been more grateful, you thought as the doors to the dining hall slid open and you bowed in greeting to the man seated at the head of the table. 

“Husband,” you murmured politely, head dipped low as your mother ingrained into your spine until your waist hinged like second nature. 

“Wife,” he acknowledged. 

When you raised your head, you were met with General Wen Junhui's unreadable stare. His face and body were carved equally of a godlike form, something wickedly beautiful and cruelly detached. He had his dark hair pulled back with a ribbon, the shorter bangs hanging part way in his eyes. It wasn't terribly long—it barely brushed his shoulders, having been chopped off in a messy shag some point in battle months ago, before you were wed. It was unconventional, but still handsome on him. 

You took his greeting as permission to move to your seat, and you lowered yourself at the table across from him. The table was spread with a decadent array of dishes, seasoned and roasted to perfection in five different techniques. Here was another thing you should have been grateful for. 

You clasped your hands in your lap, waiting. 

General Wen continued looking at you, as if considering something. His lips rubbed back and forth against one another and his finger tapped silently against the table. 

When your name fell from his lips, you nearly jolted. 

“Yes, General?” you replied. 

There was a flicker in his gaze, followed by a sigh. “Nevermind. Please—” he gestured to the food, then picked up his chopsticks in a show of encouragement. 

You followed, your movements slow, but elegant. You allowed your actions to loiter behind him, watching with a sharp eye to ensure he took the first bite. It was what you were taught. 

Only once the piece of roast duck passed his lips did you bring your chosen bite up to your own mouth. 

The dining room descended into silence, filled only by the muffled sounds of chewing and the soft clicks of utensil against plate. It was painfully awkward, but you'd been through worse, such as political dinners with your parents, where they openly presented you like cattle to their counterparts’ sons as if you could not hear them. You were their perfect, little pawn, molded into their perfect, little noble wife. You were their ticket to the high table, but wasn't that the definition of a daughter?

Across the table from you, Junhui cleared his throat and reached for his wine cup. “Would you like to take a turn around the garden with me once we finish dinner?” he asked, and the question came with a quick flash of heat at the back of your neck. This was new. 

“If you would like me to join you, General, then I will—”

His face contorted into a brief grimace. “I am asking if you'd like to,” Junhui said. “I would like you to, but you may not agree, and if so, then you are not required to join me in the garden.”

Oh. 

The image of his home garden flickered in your mind's eye: the lotus pond filled with koi, moonlight glinting off its onyx surface; flora grown and nurtured with great care by the grounds staff. You had walked the path about the garden once or twice before in the evening, and enjoyed making it your reading spot during the day. A small smile flitted to your lips at the thought, a miniscule spark of hope. 

“Yes, I will join you.”

A nod, and perhaps even the ghost of a smile. “Good.”

Dinner resumed in peace. 

Though you had spent plenty of moments alone with the general, very few of them shared the air of walking in the garden at night side by side. On the night of your wedding, you both shared a bed for the sake of it, but did not consummate your marriage. He seemed more determined to get a good night's rest than fulfilling that marital duty. You didn't mind; you weren't sure you wished to bring children into this cruel world, and Junhui was awfully occupied with his own obligations and work as it was. 

The night air was a comfortable temperature, with the humidity sitting delicately on your skin through your silks. You kept your hands tucked into the folds of your sleeves as the two of you strolled side by side upon the cobbled path winding through the garden. The pond sat as still as a painting, reflecting tonight's half moon upon its glassy surface. Small lanterns dotted the garden's perimeter to illuminate the way, as well as to allow you to admire the beautiful arrangements around you. 

The man beside you let out a small exhale. “I hear that you spend most of your days here,” he said, casting you a glance. “I take it you like it?”

“Certainly,” you replied with a nod. You weren't surprised he was informed of your whereabouts; the servants here were more loyal to him than they would ever be to you. Perhaps with time that might change with your own personal maids. “It's beautiful. The gardeners are truly masters of their craft.”

“Agreed.” 

The two of you paused at the apex of the small, wooden bridge that spanned the widest portion of the pond to peer at the garden splayed before you. In the early summer nights, you could hear the grasshoppers chirping their sweet melodies, hidden away somewhere in the plants. 

“I,” Junhui began, “know that you did not choose to be wed to me.”

You fought the urge to whip your head up in surprise. Where was this coming from?

Junhui kept his eyes off in the distance, unable to look at you quite yet. The dim flow of the nearby lanterns casted a pretty shadow across his defined jawline and nose, his dark eyes gleaming like a jewel. “You were likely raised to be married off, I can understand that much,” he continued. “But this doesn't have to be painful for either of us.”

“I don't quite follow,” you said quietly. 

He turned toward you then, and his gaze pierced through your own, hooking you in and preventing you from looking anywhere else. “If you had a lover before we were married, then I apologize. I won't pretend to understand that kind of love, but I've felt love for others before. You don't have to love me—all I'm asking is that you do not hate me.”

Something clutched at your heart. You did not hate the general; he likely married you to get the sharks off his back who were hounding him to wed. The only thing was that you could not force yourself to pretend around him—pretend that you loved him and were in awe of him, like any 'good’ wife would. It was especially difficult when he was away for most of the day and hardly spoke to you. After your wedding night, you both slept in your own chambers, retiring as soon as dinner was cleared. 

But… you couldn't ignore the look in his eyes. You'd never seen them reflect light in such a way, so pleadingly. You would wager the general hardly ever needed to beg, but there was a quality to his expression now that was close to it. 

“I don't hate you,” you murmured, facing him. “I simply—dislike this situation.”

“Being married to me?”

“Being married at all,” you replied frankly. “This was all I was bred for, all that I've been told to look forward to. I wish it weren't.”

Were you drunk? You should not have been speaking so freely to this man, husband or not. To be so outwardly contemptuous about marriage to one's own husband was instinctually forbidden. Were you praying for punishment?

Yet punishment did not come; he only bowed his head. “I see.”

“You will not reprimand me?” you blurted. Perhaps you really were inebriated. 

Junhui's brows creased considerably. “Of course not. You're only speaking the truth, and…” his voice trailed off as his eyes flickered upward. You followed his gaze—a blur of dark blush pink wafted down from the night sky, a plum blossom. The errant bloom drifted down into Junhui's outstretched palm. “This is the longest conversation we've ever had.”

He was right, as pathetic as that was. Even dinner was eaten in silence. If you didn't share that meal with one another, you would likely never see him. 

General Junhui, in this light, became a different man. Though he shared the same features as the man you married, they softened a value in the dim lantern light. For a moment, he looked like a young man who hadn't been burdened by such honor and great responsibility. In this light, he became reachable and someone just as alone as you were. 

His words from earlier echoed in your mind. “About what you said,” you piped up, “about a prior lover—I never had one. It's only ever been you.”

You didn't know why it sounded like that when it left your mouth. Your cheeks warmed beneath his stare. 

“I mean,” you stammered, “I've had no prior partners.”

Junhui nodded. “I understand. Neither have I, really. I've seen what it's like, however.” His voice was gentler at the tail end, wistful almost. 

“Who, if I may ask, General?”

His posture seemed to straighten, and he reached over to take your hand. The velvety petals of the plum blossom tickled your palm as he enclosed your fingers around it.

“I'm Junhui to you,” he said in earnest. “We’re husband and wife. Please don't call me what everyone else does.”

Your heart rattled so violently in your chest, it threatened to catapult into your throat. You were imprisoned by his beautiful eyes, imploring you to heed his words. 

You managed a swallow, your fingers curling around the plum blossom as his hand continued to warm yours. “Alright, Junhui,” you breathed out. The name was so intimate coming from your mouth. 

The tension in his shoulders loosened, and the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch upward. Junhui nodded. “That’s… much better, thank you. And to answer your question, it was the crown prince and his princess.” This time, he did not fight his wistful smile at the thought. 

Could the memory be so lovely as to cause such a beautiful expression to bloom upon his handsome face? Would you one day be able to be the cause of such a smile?

“Crown Prince Minghao?” You recalled the uproar that entire scenario caused. A crown prince, destined for the imperial emperorhood, falling in love with a seamstress was unheard-of. Though high society was predictably scandalized, much of the whispers among the lower classes revered the seamstress princess as proof of class mobility. It was a love story fit for the ages, and legends never died. 

You could be happy for them but understand that theirs was an exceptional case. Not all would be blessed with such circumstances. 

Junhui hummed. “Yes. His partner was a friend of mine whom I grew up with in the northern provinces. When I was relocated here to the capital city, she was a part of my party. I like to believe it was fate.”

You looked on at him in foolish, tender hope, that spark catching oxygen to burn into a flame. 

He gently squeezed your hand with his. “We don't have to have their love,” he whispered, “but we can make the best of this.”

Maybe the little girl inside you who longed for something more was still buried somewhere deep within you. She cupped that flame of hope in your chest, and began to nurture it until it warmed your soul. You nodded at him, covering his hand with your free one in quiet agreement. 

Beneath the evening plum blossoms, you and Junhui made a pact on your own terms, together—you chose to search for the light along this path you were both forced to follow. 

a/n: don't forget to reblog + comment if you enjoyed!

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[inkmonster21]

Short n’ Sweet💋

Hugh Jackman x Fem!Sister!Reynolds!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (handcuffs, daddy kink)

Part 09

Series Masterlist

I Wanna Try Out My Fuzzy Pink Handcuffs

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Hugh shuts off the alarm, and he gently rolls closer to you, wrapping his strong arms around your body. The morning light filters in through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. He pulls you close, the touch of his bare skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t wanna go,” you speak softly. Hugh chuckles at your grumble, feeling your reluctance to leave. He tightens his hold on you, his fingers tracing soft patterns on your skin. "I know, darlin'," he murmurs, his voice gravelly with sleep. "But sadly, we've gotta get up and face the world."

As you zip your jacket you frown, “I wish I could reshoot that freezer scene. I was standing weird.” Hugh looks at you, seeing the disappointment on your face. He steps closer, his arms going around your waist. "You worry too much," he reassures you, his hands gently massaging your shoulders. "Who knows, you might get to reshoot the entire thing."

As you express your frustrations about the freezer scene, Hugh bites his tongue, holding back a secret that's been burning inside of him. He wants to tell you the recasting news so badly, but he's promised to keep it under wraps until the official announcement. He watches you, his expression a mix of excitement and restraint.

As you set foot on the set, the familiar routine ensues. The hair and makeup crew quickly pounce on you, fussing over your look and ensuring you're camera-ready. They brush your hair, apply makeup to your face, and make minor adjustments, transforming you into your on-screen persona.

As you’re pulled away, Hugh follows Ryan’s directions to the back of the set where the costume department is waiting. He’s ushered into a room, where the crew begins prepping him for his scene. They help him into his costume, make the final touches to his hair and makeup, and explain the blocking for the upcoming scene.

Ryan comes up behind you, hands on your shoulders. “Hey Kiddo. Bad news. We’ve got to reshoot the restaurant scene after the jail shoot. Okay?”

You turn around, surprised by Ryan's sudden appearance behind you. You reply, your tone slightly resigned. "That’s fine. I thought I was standing weird. So I’m up for it." Ryan nods, understanding your disappointment. "Yeah, we just need a few more shots to get the scene right," he explains, his hands still on your shoulders. "It shouldn't take too long, but we'll have to do it after the jail scene this afternoon."

You're led onto the set, where the crew has already set up the intimate restaurant scene. The lighting, camera angles, and props are all carefully arranged to create the perfect atmosphere for the scene. You’re dressed in a beautiful, seductive dress that accentuates your curves, and a pair of high heels that make you feel both elegant and a little bit vulnerable.

The fake jail set is an accurate replication of a prison cell, down to the cold, hard concrete floor and the metal bars that confine you. You sit on a bench, two other actresses taking their place on the other bench. The atmosphere is tense, the other women looking just as miserable as you. You wait for Ryan's voice to call "action" and cue the scene.

“Action!” Ryan’s voice echoes through the set, signaling the beginning of the scene. As you sit in the small cell, looking dejected and defeated, you suddenly hear a voice call out your last name. You raise your head in confusion, looking up at the guard who just spoke. “Someone bailed your ass out,” he continues. Your eyes widen with realization, a small smile forming on your lips. You stand up, the bars to the cell opening, and step out slowly. “To your right,” a guard says.

You approach a guard through a thick glass partition. The guard holds up a small bag containing your personal belongings – a pair of shades and lipstick. He glances at you through the glass, his expression indifferent as he asks, “Are these your personal belongings, miss?”

You nod with a smile.

The guard continues to speak, detailing the process of your release, but you barely pay attention. Your focus is on the bag in your hands, specifically the lipstick and shades. You flick open the compact, using the glass partition as a makeshift mirror to apply the lipstick. The guard speaks up again, irritated, “Miss, this is not a beauty salon. Please listen carefully.”

As the guard continues to explain the procedure, your focus is interrupted by the sound of heavy metal doors opening. Your eyes shift from the guard to what’s behind him, and in that moment, you see HIM. A smile spreads across your face as your heart skips a beat.

Hugh is roughly guided down the hallway by the officers, his eyes quickly finding yours as he glances in your direction. Despite the harsh treatment, he manages to keep his calm demeanor, his gaze never leaving your face. The officers shove him into a room, and the door closes behind him, concealing him from view. You watch him disappear into the room, your heart racing in your chest. You bite your lip, holding back an intense sea of emotions.

Ryan’s voice echoes through the set, signaling the end of the scene. “Cut!” The crew immediately springs into action, adjusting lights, repositioning cameras, and preparing for the next shot.

Hugh emerges from the room, a small smile forming on his lips as he walks towards you.

Your eyes widen, and a smile paints your lips.

Hugh reaches you, and you instantly cling to him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you laugh. "What in the world," you exclaim with amazement, "when did you become the lead?" Your laughter fills the air, the joy and relief evident in your voice. This moment feels like a dream come true, everything you've secretly hoped for.

Ryan approaches the two of you, a wide smile on his face. "Well, I thought, who else better than Hugh Jackman, right?" he says, his tone brimming with excitement. Hugh smirks and winks at you, enjoying the moment as you both revel in the surprise revelation.

You laugh at Ryan, a smile forming on his face, as you say, “So, you’re fine with this? With us?” Ryan lets out a small chuckle at your question, the smile on his face growing larger. “With this?” he responds, gesturing between you and Hugh. “With you two?” He nods a look of contentment in his eyes. He’s happy to see you happy. “As long as you two don’t do anything stupid.” Ryan turns to Hugh, a protective brotherly demeanor in his tone. He points a finger at him, his eyes meeting Hugh's with a hint of warning. "Like breaking her heart."

You can't help but let out a laugh at Ryan's overprotective gesture. With a playful smile, you push his hand away, your confidence in Hugh clear in your voice. "I highly doubt he'll do that," you reassure Ryan, your eyes flicking between him and Hugh lovingly.

Ryan lets out an exaggerated eye-roll at your words, pretending to be annoyed but secretly amused by your banter. "Yeah, yeah. On with the schedule," he replies, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "We don't have all day, you two. Let's get rolling."

The reshoot of the restaurant freezer fight goes smoothly, and you can't help but feel that it was meant to be for you and Hugh to film this together. The chemistry between you is undeniable, and as you go through the fight sequence, it’s clear that the camera loves you both.

After the intense fight sequence, you find yourself tenderly cradling Hugh's head in your chest. His eye is bruised, and the evidence of the brutal fight is displayed on his face. But despite the physical impact, there’s a certain vulnerability and tenderness in Hugh’s expression as he leans into your embrace.

Hugh pats your thigh, signaling for you to get off the trunk. As you step away, he opens the trunk and tosses his bag inside, revealing Barry, tied up and duck-taped, lying inside the trunk. Your eyes widen in shock, and a glare instantly forms on your face as you take in the sight before you, "Don't embarrass me, you motherfucker.”

"Cut!" Ryan laughs, clearly enjoying the scene. Hugh pops open the trunk again, carefully freeing Barry from his duct tape restraints. Both Hugh and Barry join in the laughter, clearly amused by the intensity of your performance.

"That was such a good take," Ryan chimes in, a smile still on his face. "I think we've got a real winner there."

Your lips curve into a knowing smile, and you can't help but agree. "Especially with the next scene," you affirm, the anticipation and excitement building in your chest.

You turn to Ryan with a hopeful look, "Because I think it’s only fair I have creative control over at least one scene." Ryan hums for a moment then nods, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, yes. You've earned the creative control for one scene," he reassures you, his smile widening.

Hugh catches your glance, sensing the hint of something more in your words. He raises an eyebrow in curiosity, a small smile playing on his lips.

You turn to Ryan, a hint of determination in your eyes, and address him. "Then you might want to leave set," you say. Ryan looks between you and Hugh, understanding what's about to transpire. He sighs with a smirk, realizing the significance of the moment. "Oh, shit."

Hugh dutifully sits in the chair, his expression focused and serious as the camera rolls for the last verse of the song. The set is quiet, with all attention on this pivotal scene.

You rise from the couch, your footsteps deliberate and purposeful as you approach Hugh. A pair of handcuffs swings in your hand, a symbol of dominance and control. As you reach him, you meet his gaze and deliver the line, "If you wanna go and be stupid, don't do it in front of me." Your voice is firm, and the conviction in your words is undeniable.

You move behind Hugh, closing the distance between you. With a swift movement, you handcuff his wrists together behind the chair, effectively restraining him. The sound of the handcuffs clicking into place fills the air, symbolizing Hugh's helplessness in your grip, “If you don't wanna cry to my music, don’t make me hate you prolifically.”

You straddled Hugh's lap, your thighs on either side of him. A piece of duck tape is in your hand, and you press it to his lips. Instead of applying it directly, you kiss his lips through the tape, leaving an impression of your luscious lipstick on the tape. The kiss was a mix of dominance and affection, your actions conveying your control.

You saunter away from Hugh, a satisfied smirk on your lips. He watches you intently from the chair, his eyes filled with a mix of lust and confusion. Bound and restrained, he struggles against the handcuffs, calling out your name through the duct tape covering his mouth.

With a victorious yell, you call out "Cut!" The shoot was finally over, and a sense of relief washed over you. You quickly rush over to Hugh, the excitement and triumph clear in your eyes. Laughing, you expertly release him from the handcuffs and duck tape, freeing him from his confines.

He leans in, placing a lingering kiss on your ear, his voice a low whisper as he speaks. "Can we take those home?" he asks, making a gesture towards the handcuffs you'd just released him from. You couldn’t help but smirk at his request, a mischievous idea forming in your mind.

Ryan pops out from behind the makeup tent, his voice breaking the intimate bubble between you and Hugh. He raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the tension in the air.

"Can I come out now?" he teases, a knowing grin on his face. "Is everything back to PG?" You roll your eyes playfully at Ryan's cheeky comment, a smile still gracing your lips. "All clear, Ryan!" you confirm, your tone a mix of mock annoyance and love for your brother.

You watch the reshoot playback, alongside Hugh and Ryan. The video looks flawless, with every shot and angle perfect. Hugh looks incredibly attractive in the all-black pants and button-up shirt, his hair slicked back and just the slightest hint of facial hair giving him an irresistibly sexy look. Your eyes can't help but linger on him, admiring his captivating presence on the screen.

Ryan lets out a laugh, clearly amused by the scene playing out before him. He turns to you with a sly grin and quips, "Whoa. You really wanna give the whole world a sneak preview of that private show?" You can't help but roll your eyes and swat playfully at his arm. "Shut up, Ryan," you respond, feigning annoyance but secretly amused.

Ryan laughs and nods, clearly entertained by the exchange. "Alright, alright," he replies. "I'll send it off to editing then. Looks like we've got a winner." You smile, satisfied with the outcome. "I have no problems," you declare with confidence, your eyes flickering from the screen to Hugh, who stands beside you.

Your body was buzzing with anticipation, the excitement of what was to come electrifying your senses. You practically leap into the car, the words "To my apartment" tumbling out of your mouth in a breathless whisper. The driver nods, acknowledging your instructions, and sets off towards your apartment.

As the car began moving, you couldn't resist the overwhelming desire that washed over you. Acting on impulse, you reach up and flick the privacy partition, creating a bubble of solitude between you and the driver. Your lips immediately begin to trail up Hugh's neck, the need for him becoming impossible to ignore.

Hugh gently grasps your jaw, his thumb tracing a path along your bottom lip. His voice, a low and seductive rumble, sends a shiver through you. "You just wait until I get you home," he warns, his words full of promise and anticipation.

As you both enter your apartment, Hugh quickly captures your mouth with a demanding kiss, his lips pressing against yours with a mix of passion and dominance. He guides you down the hallway, his body pressed against yours as he walks you towards the bedroom.

With a confident smirk, you turn and push Hugh onto the bed, causing him to land with a thump. "Wait there," you command, your tone sultry and authoritative. You take a moment to appreciate the sight of him lying there, eager and waiting, before turning away to retrieve what you need.

You re-enter the room, your gaze instantly locking onto Hugh. His eyes widen as he takes in your sexy black lace negligee, the lace hugging your curves in all the right places. You saunter towards him, each step slow and deliberate, fully aware of the effect you're having on him.

A sultry smile crosses your lips as you approach Hugh, your eyes fixed on the handcuffs in your hand. You crawl onto the bed, straddling him with a possessive aura. "I think it's time we had some fun with these," you say, dangling the handcuffs in front of him, the metal links catching the light and glinting mischievously.

A devilish smile plays on his lips as you approach the bed, his strong, muscular body moving with grace as he reaches for you. He's still dressed in a sleek, well-tailored suit, but you know that won't stay on for long. "I thought we'd start with a little role-play," he says, his eyes burning with desire. "How does that sound?"

"Perfect," you reply, your heart racing as you wonder what scenarios he has in mind. Hugh reaches into his pocket and pulls out the shiny silver handcuffs. "I think it's time for the naughty girl to be restrained, don't you?"

You bite your lip, feeling a rush of excitement as you nod slowly. "Yes, Daddy. Please, I want to be your good girl."

He chuckles a deep, sexy sound that makes your core clench. "Oh, you will be. But first, I want you on your knees." Obediently, you slide off the bed and kneel on the soft rug, your long hair falling around your face.

"That's my girl," he says, his voice full of approval. Without further hesitation, he snaps one cuff around your slender wrist, the cold metal sending a delicious shiver up your arm. You gasp softly, already feeling the power dynamic shift.

"Now, where should I put your other hand, hmm?" He trails the free cuff along your arm, teasing you, making you squirm. "Please, Daddy, just do it," you beg, your voice already hoarse with need.

He chuckles again, enjoying your impatience. Then, with a quick snap, he secures your other wrist, leaving you kneeling, vulnerable, and completely at his mercy.

"There we go," he says, running his hand through your hair. "You look so damn sexy like this, you naughty girl." You blush, feeling a mix of embarrassment and arousal as he stands before you, his eyes raking over your restrained form. "Now, Daddy's going to play with his girl, and you're going to take it, understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," you whisper, your eyes fixed on his crotch, your mouth already watering at the thought of tasting him. He reaches down and slowly unbuttons his shirt, peeling it off to reveal a broad, muscular chest. "You like what you see?" he teases, knowing full well the effect he has on you.

"Mmm, so much, Daddy," you murmur, your eyes widening as he unbuckles his belt, pops the button on his trousers, and lowers the zipper, releasing his thick, hardening cock.

"Suck it," he orders, his voice firm.

You don't need to be told twice. You lean forward, your lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. "Fuck, yes, just like that," he growls, his hands tangling in your hair as you take him deeper, moaning softly around his length.

You love the power you have over him in this moment, the way he loses control as you suck and lick, your hands restrained, unable to touch. "That's my good girl," he says, his hips beginning to move slowly, fucking your mouth gently.

You moan, the vibrations teasing him, making him grow harder in your mouth. He tastes so good, and you wish your hands were free to explore. Suddenly, he pulls away, leaving you wanting more. "On your back, legs spread."

You do as you're told, your heart pounding with anticipation. He secures one end of the handcuffs to the headboard, leaving your arms raised above your head, your body splayed out like a sacrifice.

"That's it, baby," he says, his eyes drinking in the sight of you spread before him. "So fucking gorgeous."

Then, he's at your feet, his hot breath tickling your sensitive skin as he places soft kisses along your arches, slowly working his way up your body.

You squirm, feeling his stubble tickle your skin as he works his way up your calves, along the sensitive skin of the back of your knees, and then to the soft, tender flesh of your inner thighs. "Please, Daddy, touch me," you beg, your need for him all-consuming.

"Soon, baby, soon," he teases, placing soft kisses on your outer pussy lips, his breath hot against your swollen clit.

"Oh, God!" you cry out as he teases you with soft licks and kisses, his tongue flicking against your bud, sending shocks of pleasure through your body.

Then, he dives in, his tongue pushing inside your wetness as his fingers work their magic on your clit, circling, teasing, and driving you wild.

"Cum for me, baby," he growls, his voice thick with desire.

And you do, your whole body shaking as you climax, your juices flowing freely as your restrained arms pull at the cuffs, adding a delicious sting to the overwhelming pleasure.

Hugh laps at your sweetness, growling in satisfaction as he devours your cries and moans.

"Such a good girl," he breathes, his voice barely audible as he pulls away from your cunt. "But Daddy's not done with you yet."

He leans up unlocking the cuffs from the headboard. He softly pulls you up, turning you around so that your ass is pressed up against him. He gently takes each of your wrists safely cuffing them behind your back. You can feel his hardness against your entrance, the heat of his body searing through you.

"Get flat for me," he orders, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. You obey, your legs trembling as you lean your chest down flat on the mattress. He lines his cock up with your entrance, the head pressing against your tight hole. You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan as he starts to push inside.

"Relax for Daddy," he murmurs, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "Let me in, baby."

You take a deep breath, willing your muscles to loosen as he slides deeper, inch by inch until he's fully buried inside you. Your walls stretch around him, clinging to his thickness as he holds still, savoring the feeling of being inside you.

"Perfect," he groans, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Such a tight little cunt."

He begins to move, slow and steady, pulling almost out before thrusting back in. The rhythm is maddening, each stroke hitting your sweet spot, driving you wild with need. You can feel yourself building towards another orgasm, your body straining against the cuffs as you try to move with him.

"Beg for it," he demands, his thrusts growing more forceful. "Beg Daddy for more."

"Please," you gasp, your voice hoarse with desperation. "Please, Daddy, more... I need more."

"Good girl," he praises, his thrusts speeding up, pounding into you with relentless intensity. "Daddy's gonna make you cum again."

Your body tightens around him, your orgasm barreling toward you like a freight train. He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit once more, rubbing it with bruising force as he fucks you harder.

"Come on, baby," he snarls, his voice breaking with lust. "Cum for Daddy." The words send you spinning over the edge, your body shuddering as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. He follows you over, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing with each spurt of release.

As you both come down from the high, he pulls out, his softening cock slipping free with a wet pop. He turns you back around, kissing you roughly, his tongue invading your mouth as he takes possession of you once more. Hugh owned you, and you could fucking care less.