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cloudyluun · 3 days ago

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Under the Dining Table

Summary: A casual dinner with friends takes an unexpected turn when Harry’s hand finds its way under your dress. What starts as a teasing touch quickly escalates into a dangerous game, his fingers stroking you in slow, torturous movements while you struggle to keep your composure. The thrill of getting caught only fuels the fire between you, and when dinner finally ends, Harry wastes no time dragging you into a private space to finish what he started.

A/N: So, uh… I was supposed to be writing something wholesome, but my brain took a sharp left turn into filthville, and here we are. 🫣 Blame Harry, not me. (Actually, blame me—I had way too much fun writing this.) not proofread so sorry!!

Also, OMG?? I hit 500 followers?!? WHAT?!? Thank you all so much for being here, for reading my unhinged little stories, and for enabling my questionable life choices. As a token of my appreciation, here’s an extra post—filled with chaos, tension, and Harry being an absolute menace. Enjoy, you heathens. 😈🔥

P.S. If you get caught reading this in public, that’s on you. I take no responsibility. 👀

Word Count: 6k

Warnings:

Explicit Smut!

Public teasing (Harry has no shame, and neither do you)

Filthy behavior at the dinner table (do NOT try this at a family gathering)

The risk of getting caught (adds to the thrill, obviously)

Harry being an absolute menace (as usual)

Y/N struggling to keep a straight face (good luck with that)

Zero self-control (from both of you, let’s be honest)

Possible secondhand embarrassment (for the poor, unsuspecting dinner guests)

You will never look at dinner the same way again (hope it was worth it)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The dinner starts off casually—wine is poured, conversations flow, and laughter fills the air. The restaurant hums with soft chatter, the low flicker of candlelight reflecting in the deep red of your wine glass. Plates clink, silverware scrapes, and the warm scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs lingers in the air.

It’s meant to be just another dinner with friends, nothing out of the ordinary. A night to unwind, to catch up after weeks of conflicting schedules. Harry’s bandmates are here—Mitch, Sarah, Ny, Pauli, Adam, and Elin. The whole crew, filling out the long table with easy conversation and shared memories from tour.

And yet… there’s an underlying charge.

It started small, like a current building beneath the surface. Harry had been seated beside you by chance—an open seat, a last-minute rearrangement. But now, everything about his presence feels intentional.

The way he sat just close enough for his knee to brush yours under the table.

The way his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the rim of his glass, his rings catching the low light.

The way his cologne—deep, woodsy, and devastatingly familiar—lingered between you every time he shifted in his seat.

You try to ignore it, try to focus on the conversation. Mitch is recounting a story from tour, something about a hotel mix-up that left him and Harry in the wrong rooms, and Sarah is already laughing before he even gets to the punchline.

You laugh too, swirling your wine in your glass, willing yourself to stay grounded in the moment.

But then, there’s him.

Harry leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest, his fingers just barely grazing your exposed shoulder. He’s listening, engaging, but you catch the flicker of his gaze drifting—not to Mitch, not to anyone else at the table.

To you.

You don’t have to look to know he’s taking in every inch of your outfit. The silk of your dress—delicate, effortless. Thin straps, a neckline that just barely toes the line of appropriate, a hem that rides a little higher when you cross your legs.

And then, finally—finally—he speaks.

His lips brush your ear, voice smooth, controlled. Dangerous.

"You knew what you were doing when you put this on, didn’t you?"

It’s not really a question.

Your breath catches—just slightly—but you school your features, keeping them neutral as you bring your glass to your lips. The wine is rich, dry, but it does little to soothe the heat crawling up your spine.

"No idea what you’re talking about," you murmur, voice even.

A low hum rumbles in his throat, amused but unconvinced. His fingers—slow, calculated—skim the edge of your knee beneath the table, barely there.

You know it’s deliberate.

He knows you know.

"Right." He exhales softly, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Just a coincidence, then?"

His fingers brush higher. The tiniest movement. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

"That this dress is driving me absolutely fucking insane?"

It’s maddening.

The setting, the people, the complete normalcy of the moment contrasted with the way his words slip beneath your skin like a match to gasoline.

The conversation around you continues uninterrupted. Pauli is cracking a joke. Sarah is leaning into Mitch. Ny is scrolling through something on her phone, laughing under her breath.

No one notices the way Harry’s touch lingers.

No one hears the unspoken promise laced in his voice.

But you feel it.

And when his fingers—light as a whisper—drag another inch up your thigh, your breath hitches just enough for him to notice.

The smirk that spreads across his lips is slow, knowing. He doesn’t push further. Doesn’t need to.

You know exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It starts small—his pinky brushing against yours as he reaches for his drink. A small spark. A warning.

It could have been accidental, a mere slip of movement, but you both know better. The heat from his skin lingers even after the briefest touch, and your stomach clenches as your fingers flex against the stem of your wine glass.

You should pull away. Create distance. But you don’t.

Instead, you let the moment stretch, let it settle between you like the space between lightning and thunder. A crackling anticipation, thick and waiting to strike.

Then, his hand rests on your knee. Innocent at first. A casual gesture.

It would mean nothing if it were anyone else. A natural movement, a simple touch. But it’s Harry. And his hand—warm, heavy, deliberate—burns through the silk of your dress like an unspoken promise.

You keep your focus on the conversation around you. Mitch is talking about the festival lineup for next summer. Pauli and Adam are debating whether they should get another round of drinks. Sarah is laughing at something Elin said.

And Harry?

Harry is pretending he isn’t setting your body on fire under the table.

Then, his fingers slowly drag higher.

It’s subtle, measured, the kind of touch that feels unbearably slow because you’re already hyper-aware of it.

The first few inches are nothing—just the soft press of his fingertips against your bare skin. But then, he parts your legs just slightly. A silent question.

You inhale sharply, barely a sound, but enough for Harry to catch it. His lips twitch, amused.

Your brain is screaming at you to stop this before it goes too far. Before someone notices.

But instead, you let your legs fall further apart.

The moment you do, he exhales a quiet chuckle. Low, smug, so quiet only you can hear it. His fingertips dance along the inside of your thigh, teasing at the hem of your dress.

You can’t focus on anything else.

The conversation at the table continues as if nothing is happening. You nod along, force a small laugh at something Mitch says. But the second his fingers slip just beneath the fabric, pressing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, your grip on your wine glass tightens.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

You’re mid-sentence—mid-fucking-sentence—when you feel it. The softest graze of Harry’s fingers under the table.

Your body jolts in response.

It’s casual at first, almost innocent, as if he’s just adjusting his position. But then his fingers start tracing small, lazy circles over your bare skin.

You shoot him a look. A warning. A silent What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

But Harry? Harry doesn’t even glance at you.

His attention is fixed across the table, his expression easy, relaxed, engaged in conversation like he isn’t currently driving you absolutely insane.

The pads of his fingers press into your thigh, massaging slow, deliberate strokes.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, trying—failing—to pretend your body isn’t already reacting to his touch.

Then, he squeezes.

Firm. Just enough pressure to send a rush of heat down your spine.

And when his thumb drags up, up, up, pushing the silk of your dress just a little higher—

You realize you are completely and utterly fucked.

His fingers travel higher, skimming where you need him most, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he taps his fingers—just barely touching over your underwear.

The teasing, the unbearable lightness of his touch, sends a slow, torturous ache through you. You let out the softest exhale, shifting slightly, but it only encourages him.

His breath is warm against your ear as he murmurs, “Keep still, sweetheart.”

Your pulse hammers. He’s playing a dangerous game, and you’re too far gone to stop him.

He keeps his touch featherlight, circling over your already damp panties, and your thighs clench involuntarily. He notices. Of course, he notices. The smug amusement radiates off him, the slight twitch of his lips betraying how much he enjoys this.

Across the table, someone calls your name, and you have to steady yourself before answering. Your voice is barely even, and Harry grins when he feels your body tense at the effort.

His fingers inch higher, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress. The shift is so small, so subtle, yet it sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches, but you try to remain still.

He leans in, lips just barely brushing your ear, voice low and teasing. “You’re so quiet. Something wrong, love?”

You glare at him, but it only makes him smirk. His fingers slide higher, the tips of them teasing the very edge of your underwear, and you fight the urge to squirm.

He resumes eating with his free hand, completely unbothered, while his fingers continue their slow exploration.

You try to focus on the conversation, to process whatever meaningless small talk is happening around you, but it’s impossible when he drags his fingertips along the inside of your thigh, getting dangerously close.

The heat between your legs is unbearable. The anticipation is excruciating. And worst of all—he knows it.

Harry’s fingers finally push your underwear aside, fingertips dipping between your folds, just enough to coat them in your arousal. The first contact makes your entire body jolt, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from making a sound.

His touch is light, exploratory. He’s taking his time, as if memorizing every slick detail, as if he has all night to play with you like this. A single finger traces over your clit, slow and deliberate, and you swallow hard, your grip tightening around your fork. You focus on the weight of it in your hand, anything to distract yourself from the way he’s barely moving, barely giving you enough, but somehow, it’s already making you dizzy.

Your body responds instinctively, hips tilting toward him, chasing more friction, but he denies you that, keeping his touch featherlight. The smug bastard. His lips part slightly as he watches you struggle, his amusement barely concealed beneath the practiced ease of his expression. He’s reveling in this, in you.

"So wet for me already," he whispers, voice so low only you can hear. His breath ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers twitch under the table, reaching for his wrist. Your nails dig into his skin, but you don’t push him away. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Instead, you squeeze your thighs around his hand, a silent, desperate plea for more. He chuckles, the sound deep and knowing, vibrating straight through you.

His smirk deepens. “Needy little thing.”

Before you can snap back at him—not that you can form words right now anyway—he finally gives you what you want. His finger dips inside, slow and unhurried, sinking into your heat with a teasing curl. The stretch is minimal, barely anything compared to what you need, but it still steals your breath. A small, sharp inhale betrays you, and Harry has to bite back a laugh.

You’re completely at his mercy, caught between maintaining composure and succumbing to the slow, torturous pleasure he’s giving you. He works you slowly, teasingly, his finger slipping in and out with an agonizing lack of urgency. Every now and then, he curls it just right, pressing against a spot that makes your toes curl inside your heels. Your thighs tremble as you struggle to keep yourself still, as if staying quiet and composed will keep you from fully unraveling.

Meanwhile, the conversation around you continues as if nothing is happening. You try to focus, try to pick up on any part of it, but the words slip past you, meaningless and distant. Your plate is in front of you, the food untouched. You attempt to lift your fork, to act normal, but the second he drags his fingertip along that spot again, your grip falters. The fork nearly clatters against your plate, and you stiffen.

Harry chuckles under his breath, entirely too pleased with himself.

You shoot him a glare from the corner of your eye, but it only fuels his amusement. He’s enjoying this, savoring the way you struggle, the way your body reacts despite your best efforts to fight it.

Then—just as you’re about to lose control, just as your body begins to tighten around him, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—he pulls away.

You nearly whimper at the loss, at the way the heat between your legs turns into a dull, aching throb. Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady, hands gripping the edge of your dress in frustration. You dare to glance at him, and he’s already looking at you, smug as ever. He lifts his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you.

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he picks up his fork and resumes eating.

Then—just as you’re about to lose control, just as your body begins to tighten around him, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—he pulls away.

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he picks up his fork and resumes eating.

You shoot him a glare, but he just shrugs, sipping his wine like nothing happened.

"Be good," he mutters, adjusting himself in his seat. "I’ll take care of you properly when we get home."

But two can play that game. You shift in your seat, letting your hand casually drop under the table—right onto his thigh.

His jaw tightens, a quiet warning.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. "Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby."

His eyes darken instantly.

The night just got a lot more interesting.

Your fingers move with a lazy purpose, tracing circles along the inside of his thigh. You can feel the tension in his muscles, how hard he’s fighting to keep his composure. But you don’t stop. If he wants to play, so will you.

His fingers flex around his fork, knuckles turning white as you inch higher, teasing him the same way he teased you. His chest rises in a slow, measured breath, but you know him too well—he’s struggling.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a quiet growl only meant for you. “You don’t want to test me, sweetheart.”

You smirk, pressing a little firmer, feeling how hard he is beneath the fabric. “Oh, but I do.”

The conversation carries on around you, oblivious to the war happening beneath the table. You keep your touches light, teasing, making sure no one notices. The power shift makes you bold. You lean in, lips brushing against his jaw as you whisper, “You started it.”

His jaw clenches, his entire body thrumming with restraint. He doesn’t respond, just downs the rest of his wine and places the glass back onto the table with slow, deliberate ease.

Eventually, the dinner winds down. Harry is quiet as you exchange goodbyes, polite and composed, but you can see the storm brewing in his eyes. You drag out the farewells just to see how far you can push him.

By the time you slide into the car, the air is thick with tension. The driver pulls away, and you barely have a second to process before Harry’s hand is on your thigh, his grip bruising.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he mutters, low and dangerous.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “A little.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. The promise in his touch is enough.

The ride is painfully silent. His fingers remain on your thigh, possessive and unmoving, like a silent warning.

As soon as the front door shuts, Harry is on you.

His hands find your waist with ease, firm and possessive, and before you can even think of teasing him further, he spins you around, pressing you against the nearest wall. The air between you is thick with tension, the kind that had been simmering beneath the surface all evening, igniting fully the moment you stepped inside. Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling with anticipation as he cages you in with his body, broad and unyielding.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” His voice is low, rough—nothing like the teasing murmur he used over dinner, when he was playing along with your little game. Now, there’s no mistaking it; he’s done playing.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips despite the heat crawling up your neck. You love pushing him just to see how far he’ll go, love the way his patience snaps like a tight string pulled too far. “A little,” you hum, letting your voice drip with defiance.

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking in irritation—or maybe something darker. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tighter, holding you still against the wall. He leans in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done, sweetheart.”

The words send a thrill straight through you, pooling heat in your stomach. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands are already moving, one sliding around to the small of your back, the other dipping lower, skimming the hem of your dress. He tugs it up just enough to expose more of your thigh, his fingers teasing the bare skin there, deliberate and slow.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he murmurs, his mouth trailing down, barely brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. A shiver racks through you when his teeth catch just slightly, enough to make you gasp. “You in this dress, looking at me like that all night? Saying all those things just to get a rise out of me?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when he’s this close, when his presence alone makes your knees weak. “And what if I was?” you challenge, your voice barely above a whisper.

A sharp exhale leaves him, and then his hips press against yours, pinning you in place. There’s no mistaking the hard evidence of exactly what you’ve done to him. “Then you’re about to find out exactly what that does to me.”

His hand trails higher, fingertips ghosting over the inside of your thigh, making you arch into his touch instinctively. The anticipation alone is enough to have you breathless, every nerve in your body hyper-aware of his movements, his touch, his voice.

“Tell me, love,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with his fingers so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. It’s dark, smoldering, filled with something just on the edge of restraint. “Did you wear this just for me?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you bite your lip. “Maybe.”

His eyes darken further, and the corner of his mouth lifts in something that isn’t quite a smile. “You like teasing me?” His grip tightens slightly, thumb stroking over your jaw before trailing down the column of your throat, a silent reminder of just how in control he is.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, not when he’s so close, his lips hovering just over yours, waiting, daring you to break first.

“Because that little game you played at dinner?” His voice is lower now, thicker, dripping with the kind of promise that makes your stomach flip. “That’s going to cost you.”

And then his lips crash onto yours, all restraint snapping in an instant. His hands are everywhere—gripping, exploring, claiming—while his body presses you deeper against the wall, as if he can’t get close enough. You melt into him, into the heat, into the way his mouth moves against yours, demanding and desperate all at once.

He’s not just kissing you. He’s consuming you.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His touch is searing, fingers dragging along your skin with purpose, igniting a fire beneath every inch they explore. The rough pads of his fingers contrast against the softness of your skin, teasing, pressing, exploring. His grip on your ass is firm, squeezing possessively before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp, the sting fading into a pulsing warmth that sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

He chuckles darkly at your reaction, his knee pressing between your legs, forcing them further apart. The pressure is just enough to keep you aching for more, but not enough to satisfy the growing need inside you. "Look at you," he murmurs, his fingers grazing up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, slow and deliberate. "Still soaked for me. Such a desperate little thing, aren’t you?"

Heat surges through you at his words, your body betraying just how much his teasing affects you. His fingers skim over the damp fabric of your underwear, feeling the evidence of your arousal. He tuts, shaking his head as if disappointed. "I barely touched you at dinner, and you were ready to come undone right there in front of everyone." His voice is thick with amusement, but there’s something darker beneath it—something possessive, something that tells you he’s going to make you pay for every second of your teasing.

You shift against him, trying to grind against his knee, searching for any kind of relief, but his grip tightens instantly. "Uh-uh. You’re not in control, baby. I am."

With a quick, decisive movement, he hooks his fingers into your underwear and rips them down, the fabric sliding down your legs to pool at your ankles. The cool air against your exposed skin makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way his fingers brush over your folds, spreading your wetness, teasing, never quite giving you what you need. His touch is maddening, featherlight strokes that keep you on edge, keep you trembling with anticipation.

"I should bend you over this table and fuck you right here," he muses, voice dripping with authority, with the promise of something utterly sinful. "But that would be too easy."

Instead, he sinks to his knees before you, his broad hands gripping your thighs, keeping them spread. The sight of him there, between your legs, dark curls falling over his forehead, eyes burning with hunger—it’s almost too much. He looks at you like you’re something to be worshipped, but also something to be broken apart, unraveled slowly, piece by piece.

His lips brush against your inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing. His tongue flicks out, barely grazing your clit, making you jolt, a whimper escaping before you can stop it. But just as quickly as you feel him—he’s gone, pulling back with a smirk. "No, not yet."

A desperate sound catches in your throat as he licks up your arousal but never gives you the pressure you’re desperate for. He drags it out, taking his time, teasing you mercilessly. Every time your hips buck, every time you try to chase his mouth, he pulls away, making you suffer in the best way possible.

"Told you, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and taunting. His lips hover just above where you need him most, his breath sending shivers through your body. "You don’t get to be greedy."

He waits, watching you tremble beneath his touch, watching your chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. He wants you on the edge, wants you desperate, wants you aching for him in a way that borders on unbearable. And he won’t give in—not yet.

Not until you’re completely undone for him.

And then, finally, he gives in.

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking it into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure. At the same time, two of his fingers slide inside you, stretching you open, filling you in a way that has your back arching off the surface behind you. The moan that rips from your throat is wrecked, raw, and needy, the sound of pure surrender.

He groans in response, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His free hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place as your thighs threaten to snap shut around his head. But he doesn’t let you—he keeps you open, keeps you exposed, keeps you right where he wants you.

His fingers move with precision, curling just right, pressing against that perfect spot deep inside you over and over. Every movement, every stroke, every flick of his tongue is deliberate, calculated to drive you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, you’re clenching so tight," he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your slick skin. "You gonna come for me, love?"

You nod frantically, your hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold on to. His hair, the edge of the table, the fabric of his shirt—none of it is enough to ground you as the pleasure builds, higher and higher, coiling tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

And then—

He pulls away completely.

A choked, frustrated whimper leaves your lips, your body trembling, aching for release. But he only smirks, standing up slowly, towering over you as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

"Did you think I’d let you come that easy?" he taunts, his voice dripping with amusement, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. His hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your swollen bottom lip. "After the shit you pulled tonight?"

You barely have time to process the question before he reaches for his belt, unfastening it with slow, deliberate movements. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops sends a shiver down your spine, your thighs squeezing together instinctively.

"On your knees." His voice is dangerously low, dark and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You obey instantly, your body reacting on pure instinct. Lust pools in your stomach as you watch him pull his cock free, thick and already leaking at the tip. The sight of him, flushed and hard, makes your mouth water, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you look up at him with wide, wanting eyes.

He drags the head of his cock over your lips, smearing precum across them, teasing you just as much as he had been before. "Open up, baby," he murmurs, his tone deceptively soft, laced with something darker. "Since you wanna be a tease so bad, let’s see how well you use that mouth."

You part your lips obediently, your tongue flicking out to taste him before you take him in, inch by inch. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him in deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his size. A low groan rumbles from his chest, his head tilting back slightly as his fingers tangle into your hair.

"Fuck—just like that, sweetheart," he rasps, his hand pressing lightly against the back of your head, guiding your movements. "Such a good little thing for me now, huh?"

He pulls you off with a slick pop, his hand shifting to your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him. His thumb drags across your swollen lips, smearing the mess of saliva and precum. His gaze darkens, heat rolling off of him in waves. "Think you’re ready to take what I owe you?"

Your breath catches, anticipation coiling in your stomach as he helps you up, guiding you onto shaky legs. His grip is firm as he spins you around and bends you over the dining table, pressing your chest to the cool surface. He doesn’t hesitate, one large palm sliding up your back before retreating, only to come down hard against your ass. The sharp crack echoes through the room, a stinging warmth blossoming across your skin.

"That’s for making me hard in public," he growls, kneading the flesh before landing another slap, watching the way your body jolts in response.

Before you can even catch your breath, he lines himself up and thrusts forward, slamming into you in one deep, punishing stroke. The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, a wrecked moan spilling from your lips as he fills you completely, stretching you to the point of delicious discomfort. He doesn’t ease you into it, doesn’t give you time to adjust—not after the way you teased him all night.

His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he sets a relentless pace, each thrust deep and deliberate, pushing you further into the table with every snap of his hips. He’s merciless, his restraint completely shattered, taking exactly what he’s been aching for.

"You feel that, love?" he rasps, voice thick with lust. "That’s what happens when you tease me all night."

A whimper leaves you, nails scratching against the wooden surface as he presses a hand to your lower stomach. He groans when he feels himself moving inside you, the pressure making your walls flutter around him. "Right here, yeah? You feel me right here?"

You can barely think, let alone respond. Your head falls forward, breath coming in short, desperate pants as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. He’s everywhere—overwhelming, consuming, ruining you in the best possible way.

"You’re gonna come like this," he grits out, his rhythm unrelenting. "Stretched around my cock, taking every inch like a good girl."

His fingers slip between your legs, finding your clit with expert precision, rubbing tight, insistent circles that have you teetering on the edge almost instantly. The combination of it all—his deep, punishing thrusts, the way he’s stretching you, the possessive grip on your body—sends you spiraling.

Your orgasm slams into you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your walls clenching around him as you fall apart. A strangled moan tears from your throat, your body trembling beneath him.

"That’s it, baby—fuck, that’s my girl," he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, deeper, rougher as he chases his own release. He buries himself to the hilt, his grip tightening as his hips stutter, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills deep, a broken moan escaping his lips.

For a moment, neither of you move, both of you breathless and spent. His hands glide over your back, soothing, grounding, before he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his voice softer now, tinged with something warm.

You hum in response, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. "More than okay."

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he stays inside you, his body pressed flush against yours, his breaths warm and uneven against your shoulder. His lips, still swollen from earlier kisses, brush over your spine—soft, reverent, like he’s memorizing you with every touch.

"You okay, love?" His voice is lower now, tender in a way that contrasts with the way he had just unraveled you. His hands move over your waist, slow and soothing, fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your skin as if grounding you both in the aftershocks.

You nod, a satisfied hum vibrating in your throat. "Better than okay."

A pleased sound rumbles in his chest before he finally pulls out, a groan slipping from his lips as he watches the way his release spills from you. His fingers brush over your inner thigh, as if resisting the urge to push it back inside. His jaw tightens, his pupils blown wide with something both possessive and enamored.

“Fuck—you look so pretty like this.”

Before you can respond, he scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing. The mattress dips as he lays you down with care, his touch never leaving you. He disappears for only a moment, and when he returns, the cool press of a warm, damp cloth against your skin makes you shiver. He cleans you up gently, his fingers barely grazing over sensitive spots, his touch tender despite the wicked gleam still lingering in his eyes.

Once he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls you against him, tucking you into his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, one hand splaying over your lower back while the other tangles into your hair. His lips press against your temple, murmuring something too quiet to catch, but the warmth in his voice says enough.

"Next time, you behave at dinner," he mutters, amusement lacing his tone, though there’s an edge of warning beneath it.

A smirk tugs at your lips as you trail a teasing finger over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "No promises."

His chuckle is low and dangerous, vibrating against your skin as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with promise, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your hip.

"Good," he murmurs, voice husky and laced with anticipation. "I like a challenge."

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sometimesanalice · 2 days ago

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Morgannn!! 💖 oh I’m so, so happy you liked this! Fluffy, fun, and flirty vibes for days!

I’m so happy that it was something that made you smile! 🥰🥰

More for you!!

Oh, this was absolutely delightful and fun and exactly what I needed after this week! I broke into giggles and a smile more times than I could count! I love everything you write, but sometimes you pop off with the best little details and phrasings and it's such a joy to read your writing!—🥹🥹🥹

And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

Quite literally the vibe for modern dating, and especially with how many men always forget Feb 14th is a holiday!!!!!— I just imagined her being like “are you sure??” like five times and this guy being like “it’s a Wednesday like yeah”. But truly, the amount of me not utilizing the notifications on their built in calendar is a CRIME. But especially on international hearts day!

And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Men don't appreciate good fashion. That's why we dress for the group chat and ourselves!— the girlies(gn) just want to look and feel cute! But also, you know that group chat was popping off with the🔥 emoji, lol

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

This visual this gave me! A beacon of pink! Get her a drink!— goodness knows miss ma’am needs one! She was just trying to go with the flow and have fun! But I loved trying to find ways to highlight just how out of place she was there, not only like with how she felt but also the setting!

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

STOP, THIS GOT ME!— I MEAN CAN YOU IMAGINEEEEE

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

Snaps for Selleck mention.— the OG mustache man!

Oh.

AN ITALICIZED OH, SO YOU KNOW IT'S GOOD!!!— ITALICIZED OH SUPREMACY!! (Also I’m so endlessly tickled by the amount of support the italicized oh has gotten 😂 I know I posted about it specifically, but I love how much love we all have for those two little letters!)

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

This was entirely too relatable. Those jeans are too slutty and the group chat must know! (nothing wrong with taking a lil pic either 🤫) — I was so obsessed with the idea of her being like “you guys won’t believe what happened” and her phone just blowing up the other night of her best babes wanting allll the tea! You know the brunch talk is going to be popping! (But the slutty beans and that cock walks are a lethal combo!!)

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

This whole pool scene was so fun! You captured Jake and Bradley's game with so much descriptive detail, it made me want to watch the movie again! Jake would absolutely get hustled, that man has too much ego to not get played.— ahhhh!! This is the best thing you could have said because Morgan I know nothing about pool lmaooooo 😂 I was reading as much as I could and snooping on r/billiards to figure out what was going on hahaha! All the while cursing myself for deciding her ace needed to be her sneaky pool shark skills. He would SO get played, he wouldn’t be able to help himself!

In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold.

This is quite literally one of my favourite ways a kiss has been described. So visual, yet you can feel it. It's going to be rolling through my brain for a bit, I love it!— stopppp!!!!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰 there’s always so much pressure to try and get a first kiss right, so that makes me so happy that it landed well with you!! 🫶🏻

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in.

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own. “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it. But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#thank you for reading and reblogging!#I’m just so happy you liked it!! 🫶🏻#the babe with the big move

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xylatox · 2 days ago

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Bound By Blood and Vengeance | lhs

The lovely Rae has posted again! The witch hunter x witch pairing intrigues me so bad and it's with Heeseung no less (forever downbad for 1 of my 2 biases). Anyways:) unto my thoughts hehe.

Before I even started I saw mcd and was like, wth is mcd I have to look it up, then my brain brained and I died. I am going to lose it at the death scene.

You step back into the shadows, your heart a furnace of grief and fury. — this expression is absolutely insane oh my goodness

The set up so far is amazing, the world building, impeccable, I am so invested.

"You were dealing with pure evil, good thing you had been made straight from hell clawing at the cage of your soul to pull him down there with you. — I love with when women seek revenge, it makes me so happy, also thus phrasing is amazing again???? I'm definitely going to be gushing about the phrasing for the entirety of this fic, I'm so sorry in advance.

"Magic is not a matter for you to concern yourself with," he says, his tone firm. "Your focus should be on diplomacy and tradition." — I already dislike the King (more than I did before), the way he says this just angers me, but Hee intro🤭 he's so ahh!!

Also I love dynamic between the two?? the banter?? the tension??

The king’s lips press into a thin line, and he drums his fingers against the armrest. "That girl is a threat. Her bloodline alone makes her dangerous. If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be biding her time, waiting to strike when we least expect it." — the irony, I'm so excited for what is to come.

"No, Your Majesty," Heeseung replies, his gaze briefly flickering to the weapon before returning to the king. "Not yet." The king exhales, his expression hardening. "Good. Let’s hope it stays that way. But if the girl—or any other witch—dares to challenge us, I expect you to use it without hesitation. That blade is our safeguard against their kind. It’s the only thing that can cut through their spells and end them before they wreak havoc." — if this is foreshadowing for what is to come, I am so (not) looking forward to the inevitable.

As he makes his way back through the castle, his thoughts drift to the princess. Her sharp tongue, her probing questions about magic... and the way her eyes seemed to burn with a defiance he couldn’t place. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. She was a complication he didn’t need right now. The witches were still out there, somewhere, and one of them could be closer than anyone realized. Heeseung tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, his jaw set. He couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now, not ever. — the irony oh no:((

I didn't expect reader to meet a lady for poison at thr carnival!— "You carry great hatred in your heart, girl." Her tone was not that of judgment but of curiosity, and i bit of understanding. You meet her gaze evenly. "And he carries greater sins." — I love this so much. Also the way Hee just has a hutch that something is off??

Oh. This King is absolutely vile, wow, that's pretty intense.

“Would you really stop a lady who’s in her bleeding from using the bathroom guard?” You had made uncomfortable with your talk of women's duties. — this is so hilarious to me, I would've loved to see Heeseung’s reaction to this statement.

You should be searching for the king’s quarters, not watching the irritating captain of the guard train like some entranced fool. — no but let's be real, imagine the visual.

I will always love the tension between them; the sparing was attractive and I can't put my finger as to why exactly, again maybe it's the tension.

Your fist slams against the case. Nothing. Again, harder. The glass doesn’t even crack. "Open," you whisper, voice raw. "Open, damn you." The magic inside you stirs, a furious storm barely contained. You summon it, let it coil in your palm before slamming your magic against the case. Sparks crackle against the glass, but it remains untouched. Spell-locked. A sob of frustration bubbles up, but you swallow it down. Hot tears slip down your cheeks, your breathing ragged. They mutilated her. Desecrated her. Took her apart and locked away a piece of her like some sick prize. You grip the edges of the case, nails digging into the wood. The weight of loss, of helplessness, crushes down on you, threatens to drag you under. You want to destroy everything in this room, rip apart the shelves, burn this entire wretched castle to the ground. But you don’t have time. Not now. But soon. Your mother’s ring—her body—will not remain here. You will come back. You will tear this place apart if you have to. But first, the king must die. — I feel so empathic towards reader, like my heart breaks for her.

I didn't expect the king to be unharmed???? like I'm so shocked (and invested). For a moment I thought Hee somehow knew it was reader but — Then, slowly, you step closer, tilting your head up at him. "Were you worried, Heeseung?" His throat bobs. His eyes flicker down to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—before snapping back up to meet yours. "I'm doing my job," he says, but the words sound hollow even to him. You hum, unconvinced. "Are you?" Silence. — I don't know, thus makes my heart clench.

The kiss omg😭—"You shouldn’t do that," you murmur, your voice breathless. "Do what?" he asks, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Look at me like that." Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with something like frustration. "Then stop making it so damn hard." — Rae I'm going to insane rn I could scream

“You’ll have to pull out. I cannot become with child Heeseung.” — I died, goodbye.

This King scares me, I always assume now he's going to kill at least 1 person whenever he opens his mouth. Also Hee's gut feeling being right but his refusal to acknowledge it because of how he feels for her?? this is going to end so tragically. Its so sad too, to hear how people talk about reader's mom :((

“I love when a man kneels to me.” You snicker, a laugh falling from your lips in a cascade. “Just a second ago you were pulling away, now look at you.” You were teasing with him, toying around with him. His small smile told you he didn't really seem to mind your teasing, if anything it fueled his desires for you. — reader is so real for this.

This was bigger than you, bigger than what you felt for Heeseung and you had to continue no matter how much it hurt. — tears in my eyes, genuinely.

“Don’t go.” The words slip from your lips before you can stop them, quiet but heavy with meaning. Heeseung freezes. His hand, which had been reaching for the door, stills. The tension in his shoulders tightens as he slowly turns back toward you, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks almost hesitant, like he’s bracing for something. He waits for you to take it back, for you to tell him he misheard. But you don’t do that, instead you stand there looking at him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. And maybe, for tonight, he is. — I am devastated oh my god.

Heeseung tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I know you,” he says. “And I love you.” Your breath shudders. — Rae I'm fucking sobbing what the hell. THE LAST I LOVE YOU BEFORE HE WALKS OUT AHHH😭😭😭

NO WAY THEY FIND OUT SHE ISNT THE PRINCESS BECAUSE OF THE LETTERS OJ WHAT THE FUCKKKK.

But his heart— His heart belongs to her. And no matter how much he tries to bury it—no matter how much it kills him— It always will. Heeseung feels like he’s standing outside of his own body, watching the scene unfold as if it’s happening to someone else. The king’s voice slices through the thick silence. — I love that eventhough she's a witch, Hee is still very much in love with her and isn't immediately filled with disgust and hatred towards her.

The moment between them noo :((( I'm sick, throwing up, I can't do this.

His voice wavers, but the desperation in his eyes is unwavering. “Please,” he begs again, quieter this time. He might as well be on his hands and knees. — he's so in love with her😭 — “Am I nothing?” The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, slipping silently down your cheeks. “You’re everything to me,” you choke out. —😭😭 I can't do this

It’s the look in Heeseung’s eyes. So devastatingly beautiful. So, broken. You broke him, you are exactly who you’ve always been. A monster. And you were going to die the death you deserved, in the arms of the man you loved but by the hands of the man you loved. — im crying so hard, you would not believe.

He does not say goodbye. Because he knows he will return. Because he knows he will never stop loving her. Because even in death, she is the only truth he has ever known. — oh my god the end. I'm so heartbroken, this was such a beautiful piece Rae. The way you are with words is amazing. I sincerely hope they are happy together in another life :(

BOUND BY BLOOD AND VENGEANCE ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ l.hs

》 In the kingdom of Aethera, the shadows whisper tales of revenge, betrayal, and forbidden magic. A cunning witch with a flair for deception, has spent years honing her craft for one purpose: avenging her parents’ deaths at the hands of the King. Disguised as a visiting princess from a distant realm, She charms her way into the castle, weaving lies and illusions to mask her true intent—murdering the king. Her plan is flawless, or so she believes, until she crosses paths with Heeseung, the brooding captain of the royal guard. Tasked with protecting the "princess," Heeseung finds her insufferable, too sharp-tongued and confident for his liking. But as they’re forced to spend time together, her wit begins to spark something deeper in him, despite his better judgment.

》 𝔢𝔫𝔥𝔶𝔭𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 & 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢...

pairings » witch hunter!heeseung x witch!reader

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 » smut » fantasy » forbidden romance » angst

warnings » smut, oral fem rec, angst, gore, death, murder, dark themes, dark magic, mcd, angst, parental death, 1500s royal ideologies (not entirely accurate), blood, graphic depiction of some death scenes, mainly in reader's pov second person "You" but some scenes in Heeseung's pov, longing, lots of longing.

« 𝔞𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔟! »

word count «30.1k »

ONCE UPON A TIME… In a land far far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky, and the water sparkled under the glowing sun. Where mountains rose high and in which long, deep caves ran. Where the sea met shore in a collision of tall waves. Where the undead walked among the living. Where the winged flew above the finned. In a land where things beyond any reason and rhyme existed. And amongst those very beings, within the veils of Aethera, there was…

Prologue.

The midnight sky hangs heavy over the sprawling coven hall, its black-stone spires clawing at the heavens like skeletal fingers. The air inside is thick with incense and whispered spells, a choking blend of power and menace. You stand hidden among the crowd of robed witches, your heart hammering as your aunt, Mira, ascends the obsidian dais at the center of the room. Mira moves with the precision of a predator, her sharp features twisted into a mask of triumph. Her voice rings clear, cutting through the murmurs of the assembly like the slash of a blade. "Let it be known," Mira declares, her tone dripping with venom, "that my sister, Esme, was a fool. Her lust for power led her to defy the council—to act alone, recklessly, against the king. And now, she is dead."

The word strikes you like a physical blow. Dead. The room blurs as tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. You can still picture your mother’s fiery gaze, her defiant smile. Gone? It doesn’t seem real. Mira’s voice rises, commanding the attention of every soul present. "Esme’s actions have left a stain upon this coven, a mark of disgrace that threatens to unravel all we have worked for. The council must act wisely to ensure our survival. As her successor, I motion that we abandon this foolish vendetta against the royal family. Let the king and his ilk live." A wave of murmurs ripples through the hall. Your fists clench at your sides as you listen to the witches’ agreement. Your aunt, the woman who had coldly informed you of your parents’ deaths only hours before, now calls your mother power-hungry and selfish.

"My sister sought glory and brought ruin upon herself," Mira continues, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Let her fate serve as a warning to those who would seek to defy this council." The crowd erupts in murmured assent, some nodding gravely, others casting wary glances at one another. You shrink further into the shadows, your nails digging into your palms until crescent moons of pain etch into your skin. Your mother wasn’t power-hungry. She wasn’t selfish. She had been brave, determined to rid the world of the tyrant king who had oppressed your kind for decades. How dare Mira speak ill upon her only hours after her death. The council’s seal burns bright upon Mira’s palm as she raises her hand, swearing her oath to uphold the coven’s decisions. The crowd roars its approval, but your ears ring with the sound of your own heartbeat. You watch your aunt with burning eyes, feeling the injustice of it all sear into your very soul.

They are cowards, every last one of them. But not you. You won’t let your mother’s death be in vain. You step back into the shadows, your heart a furnace of grief and fury. One day, you vow, you will finish what your mother started. You will avenge your parents and bring the king to his knees—even if it means standing against the coven itself. As the council hall fills with chants and the rustle of robes, you slip away, unseen. Your path is set, your purpose clear. The king’s days are numbered, and you will stop at nothing to see justice served.

The cold night air bites at your cheeks as you sneak through the hidden tunnels beneath the coven hall. Every step echoes in the silence, but you’re too determined to let fear stop you now. The moonlight above guides your way as you slip out into the open, the dark forest swallowing you whole. You’ve heard whispers in the coven—rumors of a royal procession. The king is welcoming a princess from a neighboring kingdom to learn the traditions and history of Athera. The thought is your first glimmer of a plan. If you can reach the castle, you can get close to the king. And if you can get close to the king, you can kill him.

The journey to the village square is long, but you’re light on your feet, moving through the shadows like a wraith. When you arrive, your pulse quickens at the sight of the royal carriage docked outside the saloon. Its intricate gold detailing gleams in the torchlight, and the sound of boisterous laughter drifts from inside as the guards enjoy their meal and drinks. You approach cautiously, your heart pounding. The guards are distracted, but you can’t afford any mistakes. Muttering a quiet incantation under your breath, you weave a charm spell, your words wrapping around the nearest guard like a silken thread. His expression slackens, and he gestures for you to pass, oblivious to the danger. What a punk. So easily taken down, is the king so stupid as to not have his guards under protection that wavers spells. Amateur. You scoffed at your hatred for him.

The carriage door creaks softly as you open it. Inside, the princess sits on a plush seat, her gown shimmering like moonlight. Her eyes widen in alarm when she sees you. Her blonde hair bright under the minimal light seeping through the closed curtains of the carriage. Her chest heaved at the sight of you, clearly frightened. Just how you liked it. A scared little privileged girl who had not even the slightest idea of how cruel the real world is. Growing up with a king for a father and a queen for a mother, spoon fed with a gilded spoon. You tsked at the thought. It made your next move all that easier to accomplish. "Who are you?" she demands, her voice trembling. "Guards!"

Before she can scream again, you lunge forward, your dagger flashing in the dim light. Sinking the knife into the side of her chest without so much as another protest. The struggle is brief, her cries fading into silence. You catch your breath, staring at her lifeless form. There’s no time for hesitation. Stripping her gown, you exchange your rough clothes for her regal attire, pulling the hood of her cloak low over your face. With practiced efficiency, you shove her body to the far side of the carriage. You’ll deal with it soon enough. Moments later, the guards return, oblivious to the change. The carriage lurches forward, and you wait until the village lights are distant before opening the door and pushing her lifeless form out into the night. You had no regrets. None. This is what needs to be done, for your parents. The world is now rid of one less pretty princess who had lived and loved ten times more than you ever had. You fought a smirk from gracing your lips, pure evil instincts kicking in.

The muffled thud of her body hitting the ground is followed by distant shouts of alarm. You don’t look back. The screams of the villagers grow fainter as the carriage speeds toward the castle, carrying you closer to your destiny. You sit back against the cushioned seat, your fingers tightening around the dagger hidden beneath your cloak. Soon, the king will pay for everything. For taking your parents far too early. For being an arrogant, no good tyrant. You couldn't wait to spill his blood. You were actually giddy. The towering gates of the castle loom before you, their iron bars glinting in the moonlight. The carriage comes to a halt, and the driver announces your arrival with a booming voice. You steady your breathing, keeping your head bowed as the door opens. A pair of guards escort you inside, their armored boots clanking against the stone floor. The grand hall is a marvel of opulence. Chandeliers dripping with crystals cast a warm glow over gilded walls and intricate tapestries. Your eyes catch every detail, memorizing the layout as your heart pounds beneath the layers of the princess’s gown.

The king and queen stand at the far end of the hall, their regal presence commanding the room. The king’s sharp eyes study you as you approach, his mouth curling into a welcoming smile. The queen’s gaze is softer, but no less piercing. They are everything you expected—and everything you loathe. Tall, graceful. As hard as stone. Your heart leaped in your chest but you would not allow the disease of anxiety to plague you. You were stronger than that. "Welcome to Athera," the king says, his voice rich and commanding. "We are honored to have you here." You forced a snarl down at his voice alone.

So instead you curtsy deeply, keeping your expression demure. "Thank you, Your Majesties. It is an honor to be here."

"You must be tired from your journey," the queen says, her voice as smooth as silk. "We have arranged for a nursemaid to attend to you. She will show you to your chambers and ensure you have everything you need."

"You are most kind," you reply, forcing a polite smile. Your hands are steady, but the weight of the dagger hidden beneath your cloak reminds you of your true purpose. The king steps closer, his imposing frame towering over you. "We look forward to hearing about your homeland and sharing our traditions with you. Tonight, you will dine with us. It will be a chance to begin your education in the ways of Athera."

"I would be delighted," you say, inclining your head. The thought of sitting across from him at the dinner table, so close yet unable to strike, makes your blood boil. But patience is a weapon, one you are learning to wield. Even if your hatred for him is at an all time high you must remind yourself of the ultimate goal here. Not only do you want to kill the king, you also wish to make him suffer, in the most unimaginable ways. You had never known how your parents died, or what the nature of it was but based on the horrifying stories told about the king's prisoners you could only assume the worst. You were dealing with pure evil, good thing you had been made straight from hell clawing at the cage of your soul to pull him down there with you. A maid appears at your side, bowing low before gesturing for you to follow. You allow her to lead you through the labyrinthine halls of the castle, your mind racing with possibilities. Each step brings you closer to the moment you’ve dreamed of: the moment the king pays for his crimes. For now, you must play the part of the princess, but soon, the mask will come off—and the real game will begin.

The maid leads you to your chambers, a room so grand it feels like stepping into a dream—or a trap. The ceiling arches high above, painted with scenes of celestial beauty, and the furnishings are fit for a queen: a massive canopy bed draped in silk, a polished mahogany desk, and a window seat overlooking the sprawling castle gardens. You fight to keep your expression neutral, though the opulence threatens to overwhelm you. "This will be your room during your stay," the maid says with a bow. "A bath has been prepared for you. Shall I assist you, or would you prefer privacy?" You had never had someone to dote on you, even when your mother was alive. You sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

You give her a small, dismissive wave. "I can manage for now. Thank you." She nods, retreating with a final bow. Once alone, you let out a breath, shedding the heavy cloak and feeling the weight of your dagger hidden in the folds of your stolen gown. The luxurious bath beckons, but you remain cautious, examining the room for anything amiss. When you’re satisfied that no prying eyes or hidden spells lurk, you strip off the dress and slip into the steaming water. The warmth eases the tension in your muscles, but your mind remains sharp, replaying every moment since you entered the castle. The king’s piercing gaze. The queen’s soft, calculated smile. They seemed so at ease, so secure in their kingdom, but that security would be their downfall. When the water begins to cool, you step out and wrap yourself in a robe. A knock sounds at the door before the maid returns, this time with a tray of delicate bottles and brushes. You're especially jumpy. Learning to be extra cautious. You were in enemy territory completely undetected.

"I’ve come to prepare you for dinner," she says, setting the items down. She moves with practiced efficiency, brushing and arranging your hair into an elaborate style that feels foreign on your head. Her hands are gentle, but the intrusion feels invasive, a reminder that every moment here is a performance. You could never be fully comfortable, fully relaxed. Not under the watchful eyes of the royals and all who serve them. "Do you like it?" she asks when she’s finished, holding up a gilded mirror.

You glance at the reflection of a girl you barely recognize—poised, elegant, nothing like the witch who crouched in the shadows of the coven. "It will do," you say curtly, standing to allow her to help you into another dress. This one is finer than the last, adorned with jewels and embroidery that shimmer in the candlelight.

When you’re finally ready, she steps back with a small smile. "You look lovely, Your Grace. The king and queen will be most pleased." You nod, hiding the dark satisfaction that simmers beneath your calm exterior. Let them be pleased. Let them believe I am harmless. A pair of guards and the nursemaid walk you to the dinning hall where your dinner will take place. The dining hall is a spectacle of wealth and grandeur. A long table stretches the length of the room, laden with golden plates and crystal goblets. Servants move like shadows, ensuring every detail is perfect. The king and queen rise as you enter, their smiles warm and inviting. "Ah, our honored guest," the king says, motioning for you to sit beside him. You glide to the seat, each step measured and deliberate.

"Thank you for this generous welcome," you say, your voice soft but steady. The king studies you as you begin to eat. His questions come slowly at first—polite inquiries about your homeland and upbringing. You answer carefully, spinning a web of half-truths and vague pleasantries.

"And what do you hope to learn during your time in Athera?" he asks, cutting into a piece of roasted meat.

You pause, as though considering your words. "Your Majesty, I wish to understand the traditions and history that make this land so revered. To gain the wisdom that only a kingdom as ancient as yours can provide." The queen smiles at this, but the king narrows his eyes slightly, as if testing the sincerity of your response. Before he can press further, he gestures to a man standing near the far wall.

"This is Captain Lee Heeseung," the king says. "He is my most trusted guard and will oversee your safety during your stay." Heeseung steps forward, bowing slightly with an air of quiet authority. His dark eyes meet yours, and you sense he’s already assessing you, searching for weaknesses.

"An honor to serve, Your Grace," he says. His voice is steady, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his tone. You incline your head, feigning disinterest. "The honor is mine, Captain." The king seems satisfied with the exchange and continues speaking. But when you inquire about magic in the kingdom, his expression hardens. You ask of magical beings he has here, perhaps prying too far but you did not care much. Being here meant making sacrifices.

"Magic is not a matter for you to concern yourself with," he says, his tone firm. "Your focus should be on diplomacy and tradition."

Your lips tighten, but you force a smile. "Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my curiosity." You bit back every harsh wish you could utter at him, biting your tongue almost to the point of bleeding. The conversation drifts to other topics, but your mind lingers on his dismissal. Magic is none of your concern. The words echo in your thoughts like a challenge, feeding the embers of your anger. You’ll prove him wrong. You’ll prove them all wrong. Magic was your entire being. It coursed through your veins at this very second. Born and bred a witch, the king didn't know the true first thing about what Magic truly was. Not unless the asshole possessed it himself, which he didn't. As far as you heard he did his bidding in the creatures he held captive in this very castle. He was a coward.

The evening wears on, and when the meal concludes, the king rises to offer a toast. His words are full of pride and hope for the future, but you hear only arrogance. You lift your goblet, hiding your true thoughts behind a mask of gratitude. One day, this kingdom will bow to you. One day everyone will know of the Bloodborn witch who outsmarted and conquered the tyrant king. For now, you bide your time. Tonight, you’ve taken your first step into the heart of Athera. Soon, the real work will begin.

After dinner you're more than eager to get out of the confines of your room, you were just itching to scope out the castle and what it entailed. There was just one tiny problem. Your guard dog Heeseung was permitted to walk with you every step you took. The moon hangs high over the castle as you step out onto the garden path, the crisp night air brushing against your skin. The opulent gardens are a labyrinth of perfectly trimmed hedges, vibrant blooms, and marble fountains that glimmer under the silvery light. It should be peaceful, the perfect setting for you to gather your thoughts and refine your plan, but the sound of boots following closely behind shatters the illusion. "Is this truly necessary?" you ask, throwing a glance over your shoulder at Heeseung, who trails a few paces behind.

"The king insisted," he replies, his tone clipped. He doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his expression as his dark eyes meet yours. "I don’t particularly enjoy babysitting, either."

You huff, turning away from him and focusing on the path ahead. "I hardly need a babysitter."

"Then why am I here?" Heeseung mutters under his breath. You fought the urge to crack him over the head with a tight closed fist. You didn't need a low life guard treating you like some weak girl who couldn't hold her own head up. Fuck that.

You shoot him a sharp look. One laced with venom, and ash laden tongue. "Because the king is clearly overprotective."

"And because you're a guest," he counters, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Guests don’t wander around royal gardens unescorted, no matter how stubborn they are."

You stop abruptly, forcing him to do the same. "Stubborn?" You crossed your arms over your chest, your nails digging into the skin of your arm to stop yourself from lashing out on him and doing something irreversible. Heeseung folds his arms across his chest, just like you had. "That’s one way to describe it. Most princesses would relish the chance to stroll under the stars with the captain of the guard. You seem more annoyed than honored."

"Honored?" You scoff, your eyes narrowing. "To be followed around like a child who can’t be trusted to think for herself? If that’s what you call honor, I’d rather not have it." Heeseung’s brow arches, and for a moment, his irritation gives way to curiosity. "You’re not like other princesses, are you?"

"Perhaps that’s because I’m not as complacent as they are," you snap, taking another step forward. "I’ve seen enough of this world to know that women are treated like ornaments—delicate, fragile things meant to be admired and controlled. It’s infuriating." His gaze sharpens, and a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Strong words for someone dressed like a jeweled ornament herself." You let a low hiss leave your lips at your growing frustration.

Your hands clench at your sides, but you hold your ground. "This gown doesn’t define me. And neither does your opinion." Heeseung chuckles dryly, though there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—respect, perhaps, or maybe amusement. "You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But spirit doesn’t mean much in a place like this." He was giving you some kind of rundown you hadn't asked for, treating you like an idiot.

"And why is that?" you ask, your voice icy. Your body cold from the fury swirling in your veins. "Because this kingdom isn’t built on ideals. It’s built on power, control, and tradition." He steps closer, his tone dropping to something quieter but no less intense. "If you want to survive here, you’d better learn to play by the rules."

"I make my own rules," you reply, lifting your chin defiantly. You’d be cursing yourself for your behavior later, but now you couldn't help but let the spit fire fall from your lips. The tension between you crackles like lightning in the air, but neither of you looks away. Finally, Heeseung sighs and takes a step back, his expression hardening again. "You’re going to make my job difficult, aren’t you?" he says, shaking his head.

“Yes.” was all you responded with. And you'd give no other explanation to it. Heeseung probably wondered what kind of trivial trouble he faced ahead but he surely didn't know it was much more dangerous than that. This wasn't just some head strong princess fighting to stay somewhat afloat in a world akin to men. You were a bloodthirsty, wishfully avenging witch who would stop at nothing to see her enemy, the King, dead. He had not even an inclination of a clue. The silence stretches between you as you continue your walk, the garden’s beauty muted by the clash of wills. Heeseung doesn’t speak again, and you’re grateful for the reprieve. Every step solidifies your resolve, every glance at the castle walls a reminder of the kingdom you’ve infiltrated. Heeseung might think he understands power and control, but he knows nothing of the storm brewing inside you. Let him underestimate you. Let them all underestimate you. Soon, they’ll realize the true extent of your will—and the price of underestimating it. When you finally return to your chambers, you glance back at Heeseung, who remains at the door, his expression unreadable.

"Goodnight, Captain," you say, your voice laced with the faintest hint of sarcasm. But also a bit of amusement.

"Goodnight, Your Grace," he replies, his tone matching yours. As the door closes behind you, you can’t help but feel the night has been a small victory. You’ve made your first impression on the castle—and its people. And though Heeseung may prove to be an obstacle, he’s also a challenge, one you’re determined to overcome. For now, you let your thoughts settle as you prepare for the days to come. The game has begun, and you’re ready to play it to win. The heavy oak door closes with a quiet thud behind you, sealing off the noise of the castle. Your chambers are grander than anything you’ve ever known—rich velvet drapes, a bed large enough to drown in, and shelves lined with books whose gilded spines catch the flickering light of the fire. But none of it feels real. The luxury, the warmth, the illusion of safety—it’s all a lie.

You slip out of the heavy gown, casting it aside as if shedding a skin that doesn’t belong to you. Your reflection in the ornate mirror catches your eye, and for a moment, you stare. The princess’s face looks back at you, her delicate features framed by your freshly styled hair, but the defiance burning in your gaze is all your own. You turn away, pulling a well-worn leather satchel from beneath the bed. Its contents are simple but vital: a few personal belongings, a small book of spells, and a dagger you’d hidden before anyone could search your things. The weight of the dagger is comforting as you place it on the bedside table, a silent reminder of your mission. The fire crackles softly as you settle onto the plush rug by the hearth, spreading a stack of books in front of you. You’ve managed to gather a modest collection about the castle, the royal family, and the kingdom’s history—enough to keep your mind occupied, or so you thought.

Your fingers trace the faded ink of an old map of Athera, your lips silently forming the names of its towns and landmarks. But no matter how hard you try to focus, your thoughts keep drifting back to him. Heeseung. The way he’d looked at you in the garden, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable, as if he could see through your every facade. The way he’d dismissed you as stubborn and spoiled, as if you were no different from the pampered nobles he’d sworn to protect. The way his words had challenged you, igniting a spark of defiance you couldn’t shake. You scowl, slamming the book shut with more force than necessary. "Infuriating," you mutter under your breath, as if saying it aloud will exorcise the thought of him from your mind. It doesn’t. Instead, you grab your spellbook, flipping through its pages with restless energy. The familiar symbols and incantations should be a comfort, but even your magic feels dull tonight. You murmur a spell to conjure a small orb of light, watching it hover in the air like a firefly, but the satisfaction is fleeting. The orb winks out, leaving you in the dim glow of the fire.

Why does he bother you so much? He’s just another guard, another obstacle in a castle full of them. And yet, his words linger, needling at the edges of your thoughts. You hate the way he made you feel—challenged, unsettled, seen. Shaking your head, you push the thought aside and return to the books. The king is what matters, not some arrogant captain of the guard. You remind yourself of the plan, of the vengeance that fuels you. You’ll learn everything you can about this castle, this kingdom, and the man who sits on its throne. Heeseung is nothing but a distraction, and distractions have no place in your mission. Still, as the fire dwindles to embers and the castle settles into silence, his voice echoes in your mind: “You’ve got spirit.”

You grit your teeth, shoving the memory aside as you extinguish the lamp. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, and you can’t afford to let him—or anyone else—get in your way. As you lay down, the shadows of the room seem to whisper promises of the chaos you’ll bring to Athera. And yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet, infuriating thought remains: Heeseung may not be as easy to forget as you’d hoped.

The next morning arrives with the soft knock of your nursemaid, her presence dragging you from a restless sleep. The golden sunlight streaming through the tall windows feels almost mocking, a stark contrast to the cold determination that weighs heavy in your chest. You dress quickly, donning yet another gown far too frilly for your taste, and endure the nursemaid’s fussing over your hair with forced patience. By the time you arrive at the study hall, you’re already in a foul mood. The room is grand, with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in fine silks and shelves brimming with ancient tomes. At the far end of the room, a frail man in scholar’s robes stands by a chalkboard, his spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. His presence is as unimposing as the droning voice that greets you. "Ah, Princess," he says, bowing stiffly. "We shall begin with a comprehensive overview of Athera’s founding and its noble lineage."

You sigh inwardly, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. As you take your seat at the front of the class, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye—Heeseung, leaning against the wall near the door. His arms are crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of boredom and irritation. He’s clearly as thrilled about this arrangement as you are. The scholar drones on, his voice a monotonous hum as he recites the kingdom’s history. Something about treaties, alliances, and a war long past. You try to focus, but the words blur together, slipping through your grasp like sand. Your gaze drifts to the window, where the gardens stretch out in the morning light. The vibrant colors of the flowers and the rustling of the leaves call to you, a welcome escape from the suffocating walls of the study. He talks of magical beings. Dragons, werewolves, creatures in the sea, creatures in the sky. "Princess, are you paying attention?" the teacher’s voice snaps you back to the present. His stern gaze pins you in place, and you force a polite smile.

"Of course," you lie, straightening in your chair. But your mind is already elsewhere again, plotting and scheming. How could anyone care about the history of treaties when the present holds so much more promise for chaos? In the corner, Heeseung shifts, his boots scraping lightly against the stone floor. His gaze meets yours for a fleeting moment, and you catch the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Is he laughing at you? You bristle, sitting up straighter.

The teacher drones on, oblivious to the silent exchange. "And so, The King’s unification of the eastern territories laid the foundation for the peace we enjoy today..." You stifle a yawn, your gaze flicking back to Heeseung. He looks as disinterested as you feel, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he leans against the wall.

"Do you find this as thrilling as I do, Captain?" you mutter under your breath, barely audible.

His eyes narrow slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Riveting," he murmurs back, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Though I imagine it’s more tolerable when you’re not staring out the window." Your cheeks heat, and you turn your attention back to the teacher, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a retort. The exchange leaves you flustered, though you can’t quite decide if it’s from embarrassment or irritation. The lesson drags on, and by the time the scholar finally sets down his chalk, you’re convinced an entire day has passed. "We’ll continue tomorrow with the origins of the royal family’s insignia," he announces, as if that’s something to look forward to.

You stand quickly, smoothing your skirts as you prepare to leave. Heeseung falls into step behind you, his presence a constant shadow. As you walk through the corridors, the silence stretches until you can’t bear it any longer. "You seemed awfully comfortable back there," you say, your tone sharp. "Do you always hover like a ghost, or is it just for me?"

Heeseung glances at you, his expression unreadable. "It’s my job to keep you safe. I don’t have to enjoy it."

"Safe from what?" you scoff. "The dust on those books? The unbearable monotony of castle life?"

He stops abruptly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Safe from whatever danger your enemies might bring. Or," he adds, his voice low, "whatever danger you might bring yourself." The weight of his words hangs in the air, and for a moment, you’re at a loss. Then your lips curl into a smirk. "I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Captain." You continue down the hall. Heeseung may be a nuisance, but he’s also observant—and that makes him dangerous. You’ll need to keep your guard up around him, even if he’s nothing more than an obstacle in your greater plan. The day isn’t over yet, and you still have work to do.

After the lesson, you wander down the grand corridors of the castle, the heavy weight of boredom pressing against your chest. The day has been insufferable—yet another dull recounting of history delivered in a monotonous drone, the same names and dates hammered into your skull until they blurred together. You’re not sure if it’s exhaustion or frustration that drives your next decision, but the thought of retreating to your chambers feels unbearable. "I want to go to the library," you declare suddenly, glancing back at Heeseung, who’s trailing behind you with the enthusiasm of someone heading to their own execution.

He raises a brow, not even trying to mask his irritation. "The library? What for? Didn’t you just spend hours listening to all that history nonsense?"

"I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?" you reply sharply, spinning back toward the hallway ahead. "Some of us like to expand our knowledge." There was a lot you needed to learn about the king and more specifically this castle if you were going to properly find a way to kill him. "You mean some of us like to make other people’s lives harder," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

You stop abruptly, turning to face him with an arched brow. "Oh, I’m sorry. Is being my guard not entertaining enough for you? Should I organize a parade in your honor?" Heeseung rolls his eyes, falling into step beside you instead of keeping his distance. "Entertaining is the last word I’d use to describe this job. Babysitting a princess who doesn’t act like one isn’t exactly the highlight of my career."

"Good," you say with a saccharine smile. "Because I’m not a complacent little princess who needs constant coddling." You held your hide with triumph. Heeseung was just another man who had thought you weak, he was in for a rude awakening that was for certain. "That’s obvious," he mutters, but you catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. When you reach the library, the grandeur of the space strikes you all over again. Towering bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, their dark wood polished to perfection, and the scent of parchment and old ink fills the air. It’s quiet, serene, and exactly what you need after the grating monotony of the lesson.

"Stay there," you order, gesturing vaguely to a corner. "You’ll ruin the atmosphere if you breathe too loudly."

"Believe me," he says, leaning casually against a pillar, "I have no desire to ruin whatever grand intellectual pursuits you’re pretending to have." Ignoring him, you approach the nearest shelf, your fingers grazing the spines of the books as you scan the titles. But after a moment, your curiosity gets the better of you. "Speaking of pursuits," you say, casting a glance over your shoulder, "why is it that no one here seems to talk about magic?"

Heeseung’s posture stiffens slightly, the smirk fading from his face. "Why do you care?" It was an odd reaction, one you were watching closely. Why did everyone seem to tense up when magic is talked about? Isn't Aethera filled with endless amounts of magic and creatures unhuman. This was not something that was taboo, it should be normal. "Because it’s fascinating," you say, turning to face him fully. "Magic is power, creation, mystery... Why wouldn’t I care?" You knew everything about magic, how much of magic did Heeseung really understand? It was obvious he did not possess any magical abilities and unless he could shapeshift into a man it didn't seem he was a magical being at that.

"It’s dangerous," he replies curtly. "That’s why." The answer was short and it annoyed you. Who was he to tell you? You had to remind yourself that he didn't know who and what you really were. "Everything is dangerous," you counter. "Swords, fire, ambition. That doesn’t mean we ignore it. I’d think someone like you would understand that."

"Someone like me?" he echoes, his eyes narrowing. "You’re a soldier, aren’t you? A protector. Surely you see the value in power," you press, taking a step closer. "Unless, of course, you’re afraid of it."

Heeseung’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he crosses his arms, his tone clipped. "Magic has its place. But you seem a little too interested in it."

"Why shouldn’t I be? Don’t you ever wonder about it?" you ask, watching him carefully. "Or are you just another guard who sees the world in black and white?" He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches between you. Finally, he sighs, his gaze hardening. "I don’t have magic, if that’s what you’re asking."

The admission doesn't surprise you, causing a laugh to bubble up inside of you "None at all? That’s... unfortunate." The corners of his mouth twitch downward, and his eyes darken. "What’s that supposed to mean?" You decided to tease him, to rile him up a bit.

"It means," you say with a shrug, "I would’ve thought someone with your... demeanor might have at least a little magic. Even the tiniest spark."

"Not everyone needs magic to survive," he says sharply, his voice lowering. "Some of us rely on skill and discipline. But I guess you wouldn’t understand that."

"Skill and discipline?" you echo, unable to resist pushing further. "Is that what you tell yourself while others wield power you can’t touch?" As far as he knew, you didn't possess a magical ability but still teasing him was the highlight of this dreadful day. His glare is sharp enough to cut, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. "I don’t need magic to be stronger than most people you’ll ever meet. And I don’t need it to see through people like you."

"People like me?" you ask, tilting your head. You were appalled at his blatant candor. It was almost insulting. "You hide behind clever words and fake smiles, pretending you’re better than everyone else," he says, his tone as biting as his stare. "But you’re just as flawed as the rest of us—if not more."

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a moment, you falter. But then you square your shoulders, lifting your chin. "At least I’m not afraid to reach for power when I see it. Unlike you." Heeseung exhales sharply, his frustration visible in the tight set of his jaw. "You think you know everything, don’t you? But let me tell you something, Princess—power without control is just chaos waiting to happen."

"And control without power is just cowardice," you shoot back. Your blood boiling, heat soaring through your veins, heating your cheeks. The air between you crackles with tension, neither of you willing to back down. Finally, Heeseung turns away, his voice quieter but no less firm. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Maybe I don’t," you say, retreating to the shelf you were examining. "But I know enough to see that you’re scared of something you can’t admit." He doesn’t respond, and when you glance over your shoulder, you catch the faintest flicker of something in his expression—resentment, maybe, or something deeper. It vanishes just as quickly, replaced by his usual stoic mask. You pull a heavy tome from the shelf, the weight of it grounding you as you carry it to a nearby table. As you settle into the chair and open the book, you steal another glance at Heeseung. He’s still by the pillar, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on a distant point in the room. For once, the thought of irritating him doesn’t bring you any satisfaction. Instead, his words linger in your mind, echoing louder than the scratch of your pen against the paper as you take notes. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re here for a purpose, and nothing—not even an infuriating guard—will distract you from it.

The sound of boots against marble echoes faintly as Heeseung strides through the castle halls toward the king’s private chamber. He moves with purpose, his posture straight and disciplined, but his mind is far from focused. The conversation with the princess in the library still lingers, her biting words replaying in his head like a song he can’t escape. "Power without control is just chaos," he mutters under his breath, as if reaffirming the truth to himself. He shakes his head, forcing the distraction aside. There are more pressing matters to deal with.

The guards stationed outside the chamber bow their heads as he approaches, stepping aside to allow him entry. Heeseung pushes open the heavy wooden door, the warmth of the king’s study enveloping him. The room is richly appointed, filled with books, maps, and the faint scent of parchment. The king sits behind a wide desk, his imposing frame leaning over a document, but he looks up as Heeseung enters. “Heeseung.” the king greets, gesturing for him to approach. "What news do you bring?" Heeseung crosses the room, bowing slightly before standing at attention. "Your Majesty, the witches have remained quiet for now. The council is still fractured after what happened with Esme. Most of them are cautious, unwilling to draw attention."

The king leans back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing. "And the daughter?" Heeseung hesitates for a fraction of a second, his expression tightening. "She went missing not too long ago. No one knows where she is or what she looks like. The coven has done an exceptional job of erasing her trail. We’ve searched the surrounding areas, sent informants to neighboring regions, but nothing has turned up."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Heeseung says, his voice steady. "I’ve increased surveillance on the coven. If they make a move, we’ll know about it immediately." The king rises from his chair, pacing slowly across the room. His hands clasp behind his back, his expression thoughtful. "Good. But I want you to remain vigilant, Heeseung. The witches are not as divided as they may seem. Their hatred for this crown runs deep, and I will not let another insurgent rise under my watch."

Heeseung nods, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. "Understood, Your Majesty. I’ll continue monitoring them closely." The king stops in front of a display case, its glass gleaming under the warm light of the room. Inside rests a single weapon—a dagger with an obsidian blade that seems to absorb the light around it. The hilt is engraved with ancient runes, and the very air near it feels charged with power. "You haven’t had to use it yet, have you?" the king asks, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity as he nods toward the blade.

Heeseung’s hand unconsciously brushes against the hilt of his sword, though he feels the weight of the king’s words more than his weapon. "You have my word, Your Majesty. I won’t let them get close."

"See that you don’t," the king says, turning to face him fully. His gaze is sharp, his tone commanding. "The witches are not to be underestimated, Heeseung. Their magic is insidious, and they’ve infiltrated kingdoms before. We don’t even know how many of them might be near us, hiding in plain sight. Keep your eyes open—and your blade ready."

Heeseung inclines his head. "Of course, Your Majesty." The king studies him for a moment longer before nodding in dismissal. "Go. Report back to me if there’s any sign of activity from the coven." Heeseung bows deeply before turning on his heel and exiting the chamber. The weight of the conversation settles over him like a shroud, the king’s words ringing in his ears. As he makes his way back through the castle, his thoughts drift to the princess. Her sharp tongue, her probing questions about magic... and the way her eyes seemed to burn with a defiance he couldn’t place. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. She was a complication he didn’t need right now. The witches were still out there, somewhere, and one of them could be closer than anyone realized. Heeseung tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, his jaw set. He couldn’t afford to lose focus—not now, not ever.

The morning sun spills golden light across the castle grounds as you stand by the grand entrance, waiting for your reluctant escort. The crisp air carries the distant hum of the city waking beyond the castle walls—the sound of merchants setting up stalls, the laughter of children, the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakeries. You can almost taste the freedom of the outside world. Almost. But, of course, you aren’t truly free. A sigh escapes your lips as you hear the familiar sound of armored boots approaching. Heeseung stops beside you, arms crossed, looking as thrilled about this excursion as he has about every other time he’s been assigned to you. His expression is one of pure exasperation, like he’d rather be facing a horde of assassins than babysitting a foreign princess in the city streets. "Let’s get this over with," he mutters, adjusting the sword strapped to his hip. "Where exactly do you need to go?"

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "I heard there’s a traveling carnival near the market today. I’d like to see it." His brow furrows. "A carnival?" He looks you up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not you’re serious. "You mean to tell me you want to waste time with games and fortune tellers?"

"You say ‘waste time,’ I say ‘cultural experience,’" you counter, offering a saccharine smile. "It would be a shame to visit Athera and not witness such a grand attraction." Heeseung sighs through his nose, clearly debating whether or not to argue. "Fine," he grumbles after a long pause. "But don’t wander off." You hum in agreement, already planning exactly how you’ll do just that. The carnival is a whirlwind of color and sound. Performers juggle flaming torches, musicians play lively tunes, and vendors shout over the crowd, boasting their wares. Children run past, their hands sticky with honeyed treats, and silk-clad fortune tellers beckon visitors into their tents. It’s an assault on the senses—but more importantly, it’s a perfect place to disappear.

"Stay close," Heeseung warns, scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance. You pretend to admire a display of glass trinkets, then gasp as if something catches your eye in the distance. "Oh! A mirror maze!" You turn to him, feigning excitement. "Let’s go in!"

Heeseung groans. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"Oh, come now," you say, grabbing his wrist before he can protest. "Surely a fearless captain of the guard isn’t afraid of a few reflections?" His jaw tightens. "I’m not afraid of anything."

"Then prove it," you challenge, pulling him toward the entrance. His grumble is lost beneath the laughter of passing carnival-goers as you drag him inside. The moment you step into the maze, you’re surrounded by endless versions of yourself, your reflections stretching infinitely in every direction. The air is thick with the scent of candle wax and aged wood, and the flickering lanterns overhead cast eerie shadows along the mirrored paths. You take a slow step forward, the sound of your boots muffled against the carpeted floor. The maze is designed to disorient, to make one question what’s real and what’s merely a reflection. Even the flicker of candlelight bends strangely, making it hard to tell if the passage ahead is truly open or just another illusion.

Heeseung exhales sharply behind you. "This is ridiculous," he mutters, glancing around warily. His reflection appears hundreds of times over, each version of him scowling in frustration. You can’t help but smirk. "What’s the matter, Captain? Losing your sense of direction?"

He glares at you through the glass. "No. But I know a trap when I see one." You press a hand against one of the mirrors, watching as the pressure sends a ripple through the illusion. "And yet, you walked right in with me," you tease, stepping forward with confidence. "That means either you trust me or you’re a fool." Heeseung doesn’t reply, but his silence is answer enough. The two of you move deeper into the labyrinth, the paths twisting in unpredictable patterns. At one point, you think you see the exit, only to step forward and bump into cold glass. Another time, Heeseung’s reflection appears beside you, making you jolt—only to realize he’s actually several feet away. The maze is playing tricks, forcing both of you to second-guess every turn.

But unlike Heeseung, you know exactly what you’re doing. You let your fingers graze the mirrors as you walk, feeling for subtle shifts in temperature and texture. It’s a trick your mother taught you long ago—how to sense when an illusion is stronger, when the air bends just slightly differently. Your way out is clear. You just need to make sure Heeseung doesn’t follow. "Stay close," he orders, his voice firm. You smile to yourself. "Of course." Your voice like silk as you mutter the words.

You take a sharp turn, slipping through a narrow passage where the reflections fold over themselves like endless corridors. You move faster now, ducking under one of the low archways of glass, letting the maze do its work. Heeseung hesitates behind you, briefly lost in the overlapping images. Then, you act. You dart into one of the mirrored alcoves, pressing yourself against the cold surface. The way the mirrors are angled makes it seem as though the passage continues straight, even though you’re standing just off to the side. Heeseung rushes past you, too focused on keeping up to notice that you’ve stopped.

A few seconds pass. Then, his footsteps fade. You let out a slow breath, stepping out of your hiding place. The reflections shift again, swallowing Heeseung deeper into the maze while you double back toward the hidden exit. By the time he realizes he’s been tricked, you’ll already be gone.

You slip through the narrow streets of the market, weaving between clusters of merchants and townsfolk, the scents of roasted nuts, spiced cider, and fresh bread thick in the air. The colorful banners overhead sway lazily in the breeze, casting shifting shadows over the cobblestone path. But your focus remains sharp. You know exactly where you’re going. Behind you, Heeseung is pushing through the crowd, his irritation palpable. He hasn't realized yet that you lost him in the mirror maze on purpose, only that you’re suddenly too far ahead for his liking.

You pick up your pace, slipping into a cramped side alley where a wooden sign hangs above a darkened shop. The paint is faded, but the symbol etched into the wood is unmistakable—an open palm with an eye in the center. The sign of an apothecary. You step inside, and immediately, the scent of dried herbs and aged parchment wraps around you like a cloak. The shop is dimly lit, with shelves stacked high with jars of powders, roots, and liquids. Small bundles of lavender, sage, and bloodroot hang from the ceiling, their fragrance mingling with the faintly acrid smell of something more potent.

A hunched old woman stands behind the counter, her fingers gnarled like tree roots as she grinds something into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. She doesn’t look up as you approach. "You're late," she rasps.

You hesitate for only a fraction of a second. "Am I?"

Her milky white eyes flick up to meet yours. "No. But I like to keep customers uneasy. It keeps them from wasting my time." You smirk despite yourself. "Then I won’t waste yours."

You lower your voice, leaning in slightly. "I need something strong. A poison. One that can kill quietly, without immediate suspicion." The old woman tilts her head, her sharp gaze scrutinizing you. Then, with slow deliberation, she sets down her pestle and shuffles to a shelf behind her, running her fingers over rows of tiny glass vials. "Death comes in many forms," she murmurs. "Painful or painless. Swift or slow. Do you wish them to suffer?"

“Yes.” You answered honestly. “I want it to hurt.” The words leave your lips like a blade unsheathed, sharp and final. The old woman pauses, then turns slightly, considering her selection. "Painful, then. I have something fitting." She plucks a dark glass bottle from the shelf, turning it in her hands before setting it on the counter between you. "Widow’s Thorn. It seeps through the body like fire, tightening the lungs, sending agony through every nerve. A slow, excruciating death. He will beg for it to end before it takes him."

A cold smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "Perfect." The woman watches you for a long moment. "You carry great hatred in your heart, girl." Her tone was not that of judgment but of curiosity, and i bit of understanding. You meet her gaze evenly. "And he carries greater sins."

She hums in approval before placing her gnarled hand over the vial. "It is not cheap," she warns. "Nor is it a toy." You slide a coin pouch from your sleeve, setting it on the counter with a soft clink. "I understand." The woman studies you for another long moment before removing her hand. You pick up the vial, feeling the cool glass between your fingers.

"You’re no ordinary noble," she muses. "Your eyes are too sharp. Your hands too steady." You meet her gaze evenly. "And you ask too many questions." You hiss, your jaw tense. The old woman chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. "Perhaps. But take care, girl. Poison is a cruel death, and cruelty has a way of staining the soul." You slip the vial into the folds of your cloak, nodding once before turning toward the door.

As you weave your way back through the winding streets, the hum of the carnival grows louder, the scent of roasted nuts and melted sugar filling the air. Lanterns sway overhead, casting flickering patterns along the cobblestone paths. You slip effortlessly into the crowd, blending among the laughter and shouts of eager festival-goers. Just as you step past a fire-breather’s act, a strong hand clamps around your wrist. You spin, already knowing who it is.

Heeseung glares down at you, his jaw clenched tight, his dark eyes burning with irritation. “Where were you?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “I was right where you left me.”

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his frustration clear. “Don’t play games with me,” he hisses. “You disappeared.” You pull your wrist free, dusting off your sleeve as if his mere touch sullied it. “Maybe you were the one who got lost.”

His brows furrow, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I wasn’t the one who suddenly vanished into thin air.”

You smirk. “Then maybe you should be better at your job, Captain.” Sending him a mocking nod just to further piss him off. Heeseung exhales sharply, stepping in closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Your smirk doesn’t falter, but inside, a flicker of unease coils in your stomach. “And what exactly am I doing?” He studies you, his gaze raking over every inch of your face like he’s trying to decipher some hidden code. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know yet,” he admits, voice low and firm. “But I will.” You hold his stare, refusing to be the first to look away.

Then, with a casual shrug, you turn on your heel, striding toward the heart of the carnival. “Try not to lose me again, Captain,” you call over your shoulder. His sigh of frustration is lost beneath the clamor of the crowd, but you don’t need to hear it. You know he’s fuming. And you relish it.

The vial of poison sits heavy in your pocket, the glass cool against your fingertips as you walk through the dim corridors of the castle. The evening hums with quiet activity—servants moving about with trays of food, guards standing at their posts, the murmur of distant conversations blending into the ambiance of wealth and order. You keep your pace measured, controlled, your heart steady even as anticipation thrums through your veins. The kitchens are alive with motion, filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasted meats and warm bread. Flames crackle in the hearth, casting flickering light over the bustling staff. No one notices you lingering near the long oak table where steaming pots of stew are being ladled into bowls for the servants' evening meal. No one sees the small flick of your wrist as you pull the vial from your sleeve, tilting just enough for a single drop of the deadly liquid to disappear into the bubbling broth. it dissolves instantly, colorless and scentless. Perfect. Satisfied, you slip away, vanishing into the corridors before anyone can notice your presence.

Dinner in the grand hall is an affair of indulgence and formality. The king sits at the head of the table, the queen beside him, both of them poised in their regal authority. The table stretches long, lined with glistening silver and crystalline goblets brimming with wine. Candles flicker against the polished surface, casting an intimate glow over the lavish setting. You are seated further down, close enough to play the role of the polite, eager-to-learn princess, but not too close to draw unwanted attention. Heeseung stands by the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. You can feel him watching you, though you do not meet his eyes. Your hands rest lightly in your lap, your fingers curling against the fabric of your gown as you wait. And then it happens. The sound of hurried footsteps. A muffled cry from the hallway.

The heavy doors burst open, slamming against the stone walls. A maid stumbles in, her face ashen, her apron twisted in her trembling fingers. Her breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps. “Your Majesty!” she cries, eyes wild. “A-a servant—he collapsed! He’s dead!” The room stills. The queen sets down her goblet with quiet precision. The king barely moves, his gaze turning toward the distraught woman as if she were little more than a nuisance.

“What did you say?” His voice is calm, almost lazy, but there is an undercurrent of something else—something cold, something dangerous. The maid’s throat bobs as she swallows. “T-they say… it was poison, Your Majesty.”

You suck in a breath, widening your eyes just enough to sell the performance. A low murmur rises among the nobles at the table, whispers of concern and speculation threading through the air. “Poison?” you echo, your voice trembling ever so slightly. You place a delicate hand over your chest, as if the very notion disturbs you. The king exhales slowly, setting his goblet down with deliberate grace. He does not look surprised. He does not even look angry. He looks bored.

He lifts his fingers, and the nearest guard steps forward. “Bring me the chef.” The murmurs grow louder as the order is carried out. The tension in the room tightens, a string pulled taut, ready to snap. Servants shift uncomfortably, the flickering candlelight making their faces look gaunt and uneasy. You sit perfectly still, your posture straight, your expression frozen in careful distress. Minutes stretch long before the doors open again, and the head chef is dragged into the room, his face pale with sweat. His apron is still dusted with flour, his hands trembling as he is forced onto his knees before the king. The silence is suffocating.

The chef’s lips tremble. “Your Majesty,” he gasps, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly touches the marble floor. “I swear upon my life, I would never—” The king tilts his head, studying the man as one would study a fly that has landed in their wine. “Do not lie to me.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it crushes the air from the room. “A man is dead. Someone is responsible.”

The chef shakes his head violently. “It wasn’t me! I have worked in this kitchen for years! I would never—” The king lifts a hand, a simple flick of his wrist. The command is unspoken, but the nearest guard knows what it means. Steel flashes in the candlelight. A single stroke. A sickening, wet sound. The chef’s head hits the polished marble floor with a dull thud. Blood pools in thick, slow streams, spreading out like ink on parchment. A servant gasps. One of the nobles flinches. But no one speaks. You inhale sharply, letting your fingers tremble as you press them to your lips, your eyes wide with horror. Inside, your heart races—not with fear, but with something else. Power.

The king sighs, as if exhausted by the whole ordeal. He picks up his goblet and takes a long, unbothered sip of his wine before turning his attention back to the table. “My apologies for the disturbance,” he says smoothly. “Shall we continue?” And just like that, the feast resumes. Conversation stirs back to life, noble voices rising once more, the clinking of silverware against porcelain filling the void left by the dying man’s last breath. You lower your gaze, the picture of a shaken princess, but inside, your mind is alight with possibility. The poison worked. Now, all that’s left is to decide when the king will drink his own dose. And when he does, you will make sure his suffering is slow. Painful. Unforgettable.

The morning light filters softly through the high windows of your chambers, casting delicate golden patterns across the marble floor. The events of last night linger in your mind like the ghost of a dream, the image of the chef’s head hitting the cold stone floor replaying itself over and over. The king’s lack of hesitation, the way the entire room returned to feasting as though nothing had happened—it only fuels the fire within you. Today, you will continue your plan. After dressing, you step into the hallway where, as expected, Heeseung is not waiting for you.

Instead, another guard stands in his place—a man taller, broader, but lacking the quiet sharpness that Heeseung always carried like a second skin. His armor gleams, freshly polished, his stance stiff and professional. You slow your steps, letting irritation seep into your voice. "Where is Heeseung?" you ask, folding your arms as you tilt your chin up slightly.

The guard, clearly not accustomed to being questioned, hesitates for a moment before responding, "Captain Heeseung is taking a personal day, Your Highness." Your brows lift in surprise. "A personal day?" The words feel foreign in relation to Heeseung. He never struck you as the type to take time for himself, not when he carried that ever-present scowl and duty as if they were armor.

The guard shifts slightly, looking uncomfortable under your scrutiny. "Yes, Your Highness. He did not say when he would return, only that he would be back when needed." You study the man, noting the slight tension in his stance, the way his hand stays a little too close to the hilt of his sword. You’re not the only one unsettled by Heeseung’s absence. “Interesting,” you muse, keeping your voice light, as if this information does not bother you. But it does. Something is off. Heeseung doesn’t just disappear. He doesn't get days off. And though you should welcome the reprieve from his constant watchful presence, you find yourself… unsettled. Not because you miss his company—certainly not—but because Heeseung’s absence means unpredictability. And unpredictability is dangerous.

For now, you will play along. You give the guard a measured look before sighing dramatically. “Well, I suppose that means you will have to endure escorting me today.”

The man straightens. “It would be my honor, Your Highness.” Annoyingly polite. You roll your eyes. “How unfortunate for you.” And with that, you turn on your heel, already planning your next move. Wherever Heeseung is, you will find out soon enough.

You had to get away from this guard. He was dumb, unmoving. He didn’t speak and barely moved. You could outsmart him, escape. There’s no time to waste. “I’m going to the washroom” You spoke quickly, not giving him much time to respond. “Wait-” The guard said, hand stretched out.

“Would you really stop a lady who’s in her bleeding from using the bathroom guard?” You had made uncomfortable with your talk of women's duties. He bowed his head, eyes not meeting your own. Coward. Pathetic coward. What kind of man gets squeamish at the thought of blood? The guards stationed outside the hall barely acknowledge you as you sweep past them, your head held high, posture regal. The trick to sneaking around isn’t to skulk in the shadows—it’s to make people believe you belong wherever you are. And right now, you belong anywhere you damn well please. The deeper you go into the castle, the more the corridors narrow, the lavish decorations thinning out as you approach restricted areas. You slow your steps, eyes scanning for anything useful—an unguarded door, an overlooked passageway, something that will lead you closer to the king’s private quarters.

You turn a corner and pause. Through an open archway, the scent of steel and sweat lingers in the air. The sound of a blade slicing through air, followed by the heavy thunk of metal embedding into wood, echoes through the hall. You step closer, careful to keep yourself hidden behind a pillar, and peer inside. There he is. Heeseung stands in the center of the training room, sleeves rolled up, his tunic damp with sweat. His usual pristine appearance is gone—his hair tousled, his expression hard with focus. But it’s his hands that capture your attention. A dagger twirls effortlessly between his fingers, moving so fluidly it’s as if it’s an extension of his own body. He flicks his wrist, and the blade slices through the air before burying itself into the target at the far end of the room.

Bullseye.

Without hesitation, he pulls another dagger from his belt. Spins it. Throws. Another perfect hit. Again. And again. Each throw is precise, calculated, deadly. You watch in silence, captivated despite yourself. You’ve seen skilled fighters before—your own mother had trained you in combat, in magic—but Heeseung moves with an effortless grace that is as infuriating as it is impressive. You wonder if he even realizes how dangerous he looks right now. Then, as if sensing your gaze, Heeseung stills. Your breath catches. For a split second, you think he’s caught you. But he only exhales, rolling out his shoulders before retrieving his knives from the wooden targets. The tension in your body eases slightly, though your mind remains alert. You shouldn’t be here. You should be searching for the king’s quarters, not watching the irritating captain of the guard train like some entranced fool. The rhythmic thunk of steel embedding into wood echoes through the training yard. Heeseung moves with effortless precision, each throw of his blade landing dead center on the target. His stance is steady, his expression unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes—a quiet intensity that speaks of years of discipline.

You watch from the shadows, hidden behind one of the stone pillars framing the open-air training ground. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on the fluidity of his movements, the weight of the blade in his grip. But after a few minutes, his motions slow. His shoulders tense ever so slightly. Then, as if some unseen force pulls his gaze, he turns. His eyes lock onto you, narrowing the moment he registers your presence. For a flicker of a second, surprise flashes across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by something sharper—anger.

“Why are you alone?” he demands, striding toward you. “Where’s your guard?” You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Somewhere, I suppose.” Heesseung looks angry; you wouldn't tell if the redness was from his prior workout or anger. His jaw tenses. “And he just let you wander off?”

You offer him a lazy smile, tilting your head. “I suppose he did.�� Heeseung exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” His voice is low with frustration as he moves to usher you back inside. “Come on, let’s go. You shouldn’t be out here.” But you don’t budge. “No.”

His steps falter, his brows knitting together. “No?” You cross your arms. “I want to spar.”

He scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

“I insist.”

“I don’t care.”

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with something he can’t quite place. “Afraid I might win?”

His expression darkens. “Afraid I’ll break you.”

You step closer, raising your chin defiantly. “Try.” For a moment, he says nothing. There’s a war in his gaze, hesitation battling irritation, but something about your confidence—your audacity—chips away at his resistance. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he relents. “Fine,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. “A few rounds. That’s it.”

The sparring circle is a wide-open space in the center of the training grounds, enclosed by a low fence. Heeseung steps in first, rolling his sleeves up as he retrieves two training daggers. He tosses one to you without warning, but you catch it easily, twirling it once in your grip. He eyes the movement with quiet appraisal before stepping into position. “Try to keep up,” he says.

You smirk. “Likewise.” Then he moves. He’s fast, striking without hesitation. You barely dodge his first attack, sidestepping at the last second before blocking his next strike with your blade. The clash of steel rings through the air. Heeseung doesn’t let up, forcing you backward, testing your reflexes. You knew he was skilled, but this—this is something else. Every move is calculated, precise. He’s relentless, but so are you. You don’t fight like a princess. You fight like a survivor. And soon, Heeseung realizes that. The match intensifies. You anticipate his strikes, dodging just enough to throw him off balance, forcing him to adjust. He sees it now—the sharp intelligence behind your movements, the way you don’t just react, but plan. And then, just as he thinks he has you cornered—you outmaneuver him.

With a sharp pivot, you twist out of his reach, knocking his blade off course. Before he can recover, you close the distance, pressing your dagger against his throat. Heeseung stills. The only sound is your heavy breathing, the pounding of your heart, the weight of the moment hanging between you. His dark eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, his voice—low, measured. “Who are you?” You tilt your head, pressing the blade just a little closer, enough to make a point. Then, voice soft, you ask,

“I don’t know. Who are you? Do you ever truly know who you really are?” The question lingers between you like smoke, curling into the air. His breath is shallow, his gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment—just a fleeting moment—you both forget yourselves. Your faces are close. Too close. The sharpness of the fight melts into something else, something neither of you acknowledge but feel all the same. His eyes flicker to your lips. Your grip on the dagger tightens. But before anything can happen, before the tension snaps—you pull away. Slowly, deliberately, you lower the blade, stepping back just enough to let the moment pass. Heeseung exhales, something unreadable in his expression. You smirk, tossing the blade back to him. “Good match.” Then, without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him standing in the circle, breathless and utterly at a loss for words.

That night, the castle feels different. A hush has settled over its grand halls, a silence deeper than usual, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. A storm churns in the distance, flashes of lightning illuminating the arched windows, followed by the low rumble of thunder rolling across the land. The wind rattles against the stone, whispering through the cracks, but inside, everything remains still. It is the perfect night to disappear. Hushed whispers of a ball being thrown had been thrown about the castle like a plague. Every staff member was occupied with making it as grand as possible for the king and queen, no one would even notice you moving throughout the castle like a wraith in the night. You move like a shadow through the corridors, your cloak wrapped tightly around you, masking the movement of your form. The guards are stationed at their usual posts, their movements predictable, their patterns unchanged. You’ve studied them, memorized them, and now you slip past with ease, ducking into alcoves and timing your steps to the rhythm of their shifting patrols.

The grand halls of the upper castle give way to narrower passageways as you descend, leaving behind the golden glow of chandeliers for the dim flicker of torches. You pass cold stone walls lined with forgotten paintings, their gilded frames dulled with dust, their subjects long since faded into irrelevance. Down here, the air is thick with something ancient, something heavy that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs. You need to go deeper. You recall the books you pored over in the library, the pages that spoke of the castle’s underbelly—of vaults hidden beneath layers of stone, of corridors long abandoned by those who walk in the daylight. The king is a collector, a hoarder of power. His vaults hold relics of immense magical strength—artifacts stolen, bought, or seized by force. Somewhere in this castle, he has hidden them away, locked behind spells and steel, guarded by something more fearsome than any soldier. The thought of it quickens your pulse. A kitsune.

The old texts mention it only in passing, never in detail. A fox spirit of great power, bound to the king by means unknown. A guardian of his most prized possessions, watching over them with an unwavering gaze. The mere idea of it is enough to make most people turn away, abandon their curiosity. But you are not most people. Your fingers brush against the cool stone wall as you tread carefully down a spiraling stairway, your ears straining for any sound beyond your own heartbeat. The deeper you go, the more the castle shifts. The polished grandeur of the upper levels fades, replaced by something older, something untouched by time’s gentle hand. Here, the walls are raw, uneven, carved by those who built the kingdom’s foundations centuries ago. The torches burn lower, their light flickering against carvings worn down with age. Whispers of history cling to the very air, as if this place remembers all that has passed within its depths.

Then, a feeling washes over you—like a change in pressure, like stepping into the eye of a storm. Magic. It hums in the air, subtle yet undeniable. The taste of it lingers on your tongue, thick and electric, coiling through the corridor like an unseen force. You are close. Your breath is steady as you move forward, every step measured, every sense heightened. You know better than to rush. Whatever lies ahead is more than mere locked doors and guards with steel. This place breathes magic. And somewhere in the depths of this castle, hidden behind layers of spellwork and shadow, the kitsune waits. You continue in the shadows until you come upon a door. The heavy door looms before you, thick with iron reinforcements and etched with sigils of protection. It’s unmistakable—this is where the king hides his most treasured artifacts, his most dangerous secrets. But it’s not unguarded. Two men stand at either side, their hands resting lazily on the hilts of their swords. They’re not expecting trouble—why would they? No one should be foolish enough to wander this deep into the castle, let alone pose a real threat. That works in your favor.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing out the frantic beat of your heart before stepping forward, letting panic seep into your features, widening your eyes, letting your breath hitch as if you've been running for your life "Please!" Your voice is rushed, desperate. "I— I think I’m lost. I don’t know how I got down here, I was just trying to find my way back, and then—" You swallow, letting your hands tremble. "There were voices. I heard something. I got scared."

One of the guards furrows his brow. "How did you even get down here?" He eyes you warily, shifting his stance. "I— I don’t know," you stammer, stepping closer, your body language frantic. "I was exploring, and then I took a wrong turn, and then suddenly I was just… here." They exchange glances, their suspicion flickering into something softer—concern. You’ve played your part well. "You shouldn’t be here, Princess," the other guard says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "This area is off-limits. We’ll escort you back—"

Before he can finish, you move. A whisper of power curls from your lips, the incantation slipping through the air like a snake through grass. The first guard barely has time to react before his head jerks violently to the side, the sickening crack of bone snapping echoing through the stone corridor. His body crumples to the ground. The second guard recoils, horror flashing in his eyes. "Witch!" he bellows, drawing his sword and charging at you. You barely have the strength to lift your hand, but you don’t need much. Another whisper of your spell, and his charge is cut short—his neck twists sharply, and he collapses in a lifeless heap beside his comrade. Your breath comes ragged and uneven. Magic floods through your veins, but it takes from you as much as it gives. Your limbs are heavy, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight. The price of your power. You don’t have time to dwell on it. Stepping over their bodies, you press a hand to the iron door. Magic thrums beneath your fingertips, woven through the metal itself. The king is cautious—he wouldn’t leave his treasures unprotected. But you are not just anyone.

Summoning what little energy you have left, you press your palm against the seal and begin to whisper another spell. The lock trembles. The air crackles. Then, with a final pulse of energy, the door groans and clicks open. You push forward, slipping inside, knowing your time is running out. The chamber hums with power, its air thick with ancient magic, the weight of centuries pressing down on you. The sconces along the walls flicker with eerie blue fire, casting shifting shadows over the stolen artifacts—daggers humming with curses, crowns still stained with dried blood, vials of glowing liquid that pulse as if alive. Your fingers skim over them, barely paying attention. None of it matters. None of it will help you kill the king.

Then you see it. A small glass case, set apart from the others. You step closer, your breath catching in your throat. Inside the case, a severed finger rests on a velvet cushion. For a moment, your mind refuses to understand. The skin has shriveled with time, the bone just barely visible beneath. But your eyes lock onto the ring—silver, inlaid with dark opal that shimmers with hues of deep purple and green. It was your mothers ring, your mothers finger. A sharp inhale stabs through your ribs. You know this ring better than anything. You remember tracing the intricate metal work as a child while curled up in her lap. You remember the way she twisted it absently when she was lost in thought, the way candlelight flickered against its surface as she cast spells in the dead of night. And now, it sits before you—severed, encased, displayed like a grotesque trophy. Your hands shake as you press your fingers against the glass, breath fogging up the surface. No. No, no, no. A cold, empty feeling spreads through your chest, then morphs—growing hotter, sharper. Your vision blurs, rage and grief mixing into something unbearable.

Your shoulders heave as you force yourself to turn away, scanning the shelves with red-rimmed eyes. Then, something catches your attention. A slender vial, shimmering deep crimson in the dim light. You reach for it, your fingers brushing over the cold glass. The moment you pick it up, you feel the power inside—dense, ancient, raw. Dragon’s blood. A weapon unlike any other. Your grip tightens around the vial. The grief clawing at your chest hardens, sharp and unyielding. This will have to be enough. With one last glance at the case—the last piece of your mother left in this cursed place—you turn and slip out of the chamber, your pulse a war drum in your ears. You don’t look back. But you swear, with every shattered piece of your heart, that you will return.

The next morning, the castle is a different place. Tension clings to the air like a storm about to break. The usual murmur of servants and guards is replaced with sharp orders and hurried footsteps. Every corridor you pass seems to hold hushed voices, uneasy glances, hands gripping weapons a little too tightly. Something is wrong. When Heeseung arrives at your chambers, his expression is carved from stone. His dark eyes, usually filled with a mixture of irritation and exasperation when he looks at you, are unreadable. "Get up," he says shortly. "You're expected at breakfast."

You stretch your arms above your head lazily, feigning disinterest, but you study him closely. His jaw is tense, shoulders rigid beneath his uniform. "What’s with the fuss this morning?" you ask, tilting your head as you sit up. Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He exhales through his nose, as if debating what to tell you. Finally, he settles on: "There was an intruder in the castle last night." Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral. "An intruder?" you echo, feigning mild curiosity. His eyes flick over to you, sharp and assessing. "Two guards were killed. Their bodies were found near the lower levels of the castle."

You force yourself to frown as if this is just terrible news and shake your head. "How awful," you murmur. "Who would be foolish enough to break into the king’s home?" Heeseung is still watching you. Too closely. "They don’t know yet," he says after a moment, his tone carefully measured. "But the king is furious. He’s ordered every entrance locked down. No one enters or leaves without permission."

You hum, slipping out of bed. "Good thing I have no reason to leave, then." Heeseung scoffs, shaking his head as if he finds you exhausting. "Just get dressed," he mutters. "You're not skipping breakfast." As you move to change, your back turned to him, your mind races. They're already searching. They're already tightening security. If they realize why someone broke in—if they even suspect it was for the vault—you might not have as much time as you thought. You press your lips together. No. It doesn’t matter. The plan hasn’t changed. If anything, this only confirms what you already knew—this kingdom is built on blood and fear. You need to be careful, but you won’t stop.

As you fasten the last piece of your attire, you catch Heeseung watching you in the reflection of the mirror. He looks as if he wants to say something—his brow furrowed, his mouth pressing into a line—but he says nothing. You turn to him with a smirk, masking the unease curling inside you. "Lead the way, my dear guard," you say lightly. Heeseung rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. You follow him out into the castle halls, stepping into a kingdom on edge.

You stand before the ornate mirror in your chambers, staring at your reflection. The grand dress draped over your body is a masterpiece—rich fabric embroidered with delicate golden threads, dark as midnight yet shimmering under the candlelight. You look every bit the part of a royal guest, a princess attending a grand ball. But beneath the surface, beneath the layers of silk and jewels, you are something else entirely. Tonight, you are a weapon. Your fingers tighten around the small vial hidden in your palm. The Dragon’s blood. The forbidden elixir, the essence of an ancient and untamed power. You uncork it carefully, the scent metallic and sharp, like the crackle of fire before it engulfs everything in its path. Slowly, you tilt the vial, letting a single drop roll onto your tongue. The effect is instant. A current of heat rushes through your veins, not burning, but igniting something deep within. Your magic, once a slow ember, roars to life, curling through you like smoke, like lightning trapped beneath your skin. Your fingertips tingle, your senses sharpen. You feel more. More alive, more powerful, more capable. The exhaustion from the night before—the drain of breaking into the king’s vault—fades into nothing.

You exhale, gripping the vanity table to steady yourself. You had been unsure, hesitant even, that you were strong enough. But now? Now, there is no doubt. Tonight, you will make your move. You turn back to the mirror, watching as your expression settles into something unreadable. Calculated. Regal. Deadly. The ballroom will be filled with nobles, lords, ladies, and dignitaries from far-off kingdoms. A perfect spectacle. A perfect place for a queen to fall, for a kingdom to be thrown into chaos. For a tyrant to meet his end. Straightening your posture, you give yourself one last look. This is it.

The ballroom is alive with opulence—golden chandeliers dripping with light, polished marble floors reflecting the grandeur of silk and velvet swirling across them. The music is intoxicating, the scent of perfumed nobles and honeyed wine thick in the air. Laughter rings out, conversations swirl around you, but you hear none of it. Your mind is elsewhere. Your pulse pounds like war drums beneath your skin. You move through the crowd with effortless grace, a smile painted onto your lips as if you belong here. As if you’re not plotting the death of a king. But Heeseung is there. As always. His presence is suffocating, shadowing your every step like a second skin. His dark eyes flicker over you, unreadable, his stance tense yet controlled. He doesn’t speak much, but his gaze tells you enough. I’m watching you. You raise your chin, offering him an easy smile before returning to the conversation at hand. A nobleman drones on about trade routes, his voice a low hum beneath the sound of the orchestra. You nod, feigning interest, but your thoughts are far from politics. You need a distraction. Your fingers twitch at your side, hidden beneath the folds of your gown. You reach for the magic simmering beneath your skin, feeling it coil and tighten, waiting to be used. Just enough to pull Heeseung away—to make him focus on something else. You cursed yourself for the tiny bit of shame you felt for using magic on Heeseung but you had to do it, you had no other choice.

You glance toward the great dais, where the king sits, adorned in his gilded robes, his expression that of a man who believes himself untouchable. Disgust coils in your stomach, but you keep your expression neutral. Soon, he will fall. You slip away from the conversation, weaving through the guests, searching for the right moment. The right opportunity. The plan was simple: a small, unseen pulse of magic. A subtle stroke of power, like a whisper through the wind, meant to strike the king down where he sits. Undetected. You reach deep, letting the dragon’s blood hum within you, amplifying the magic you summon. Your lips barely move as you utter the incantation beneath your breath, sending the spell toward the king, unseen and deadly. But something is wrong. The moment the spell leaves your fingertips, something repels it. A force stronger than your own—like an invisible wall caging him in. Your power slams into it, rebounding with such force that the air crackles, sending a ripple of energy through the room.

And then— The chandeliers flicker. The music halts. A gust of unseen force whips through the ballroom, unsettling gowns and ruffling hair. A gasp spreads through the crowd like wildfire, confusion crackling in the air. The king is unharmed. And your magic has failed. Panic seizes your chest. All around you, nobles murmur in confusion, their gazes darting about the room, trying to make sense of the disruption. Chaos brews. Guards immediately rush forward, swords drawn, shouts echoing against the gilded walls. The tension is thick, palpable, the scent of fear curling through the air. "Find the culprit!" someone yells. Your breathing is unsteady, your pulse racing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. And then A hand clamps down on your wrist, strong and unyielding. Heeseung. And before you can say another word he’s pulling you outside towards the grand doors of the ballroom amongst the chaos. The night air is crisp, wrapping around you in cool tendrils as Heeseung all but drags you out of the grand ballroom. His grip is firm but not bruising, a silent urgency radiating from him as he pulls you through winding hallways and out into the open garden. The moment your feet hit the damp stone path, the doors click shut behind you, muffling the panicked voices and frantic movements inside.

Moonlight washes over the garden, casting silvery shadows across the sculpted hedges and trickling fountains. The scent of night-blooming flowers clings to the air, but there’s no time to admire the beauty around you—not when Heeseung turns to you with that sharp, assessing gaze, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. "Sit," he commands, his voice clipped and breathless. You scoff, arms crossing over your chest. "Excuse me?" Instead of answering, he steps closer, his eyes sweeping over you with meticulous precision. He looks frantic, almost wild, like a man searching for something just out of reach. His hands hover, unsure, before finally settling on your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse as if to confirm that you are, in fact, still alive. "I'm fine," you snap, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens just enough to stop you.

"Stop," he murmurs, and this time, his voice is different. Lower. Almost pleading. Something in you hesitates. His hands move with surprising gentleness, brushing over your arms, ghosting across your shoulders, grazing your waist. Every touch is clinical, precise—searching for wounds, hidden injuries, anything that could explain the tension in his jaw, the way his brows remain furrowed even as he finds nothing. A strange warmth pools in your stomach. You shove it down. "You’re acting like you care," you say, the words sharper than you intend.

His jaw clenches, his fingers twitching before he pulls away like you've burned him. "Don’t flatter yourself," he mutters, raking a hand through his tousled hair. Your lips curl in amusement despite yourself. "Then stop acting like you were about to have a heart attack over me." His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his expression before it hardens. "You could have been hurt," he grits out, like admitting it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. You blink. The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A beat of silence stretches between you, thick and charged.

Then, slowly, you step closer, tilting your head up at him. "Were you worried, Heeseung?" His throat bobs. His eyes flicker down to your lips—just for a second, barely noticeable—before snapping back up to meet yours. "I'm doing my job," he says, but the words sound hollow even to him. You hum, unconvinced. "Are you?" Silence. The space between you feels impossibly small. Heeseung is still close, his breath warm against your skin, his scent—something dark and woodsy, laced with steel—curling around you. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the remnants of adrenaline mixing with something else. Something more dangerous. For a fleeting moment, you wonder what would happen if you reached up, if you closed that final inch between you. If you tilted your chin just a little higher— no.

“Yes, doing my job.” He said again not meeting your piercing gaze. You scoff. "Your job? Is your job doting on me like I’m some fragile, innocent, doe-eyed princess?" You take another step toward him, closing the space he’s put between you. "Why are you so obsessed with making sure I’m okay?" Heeseung clenches his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then— "It’s my duty," he grits out. "As the king’s guard, it’s my responsibility to protect the people."

You roll your eyes. "The people. How noble of you." You cross your arms over your chest. "That doesn’t explain why you—the ever-dutiful Heeseung—seem to be more concerned about me than anyone else." He stares at you, his nostrils flaring slightly, tension coiling in the set of his shoulders. His lips press into a thin line like he’s fighting something, some war within himself. Then, finally, he exhales. And when he speaks, his voice is lower. Rougher. "Because I care about you." Your breath catches. His confession hangs between you, raw and unguarded. He looks almost regretful for saying it, as if the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

You swallow, heartbeat hammering. "You—"

"I care about you," he repeats, like he’s forcing himself to admit it, to say it out loud. His brows knit together, frustration laced in his voice. "And I hate that I do. But I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you." You should say something. You should throw some quip back at him, something sharp and taunting. But the way he’s looking at you now—dark eyes flickering with something intense, something dangerous—steals the words from your tongue. The air between you shifts. Neither of you move, but the gravity between you pulls tighter, like a thread stretched to its breaking point. You can feel the heat of his body, the restrained tension radiating from him like a caged storm. His gaze dips to your lips. You don’t think. You just act. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to you. His lips crash against yours, rough and unrelenting. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s desperate. You hadn’t been touched for what seemed like forever, the feeling of a man's hands running up and down your body had felt foreign. You were not experienced but you weren't a virgin eachother. Action was hard to come by in the coven believe it or not. Heeseung makes a low sound in the back of his throat, something between frustration and need, as he presses you back against the stone wall. His hands are on you—gripping your waist, sliding up your arms, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself, to remind himself that you’re real.

Your own hands tangle into his hair, pulling, needing him closer, needing more. He growls against your lips, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushes against you. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat pounding just as wildly as your own. The kiss deepens, turns hungrier, more fevered. You nip at his lower lip, and he exhales sharply, his fingers tightening on your waist. His control is slipping—you can feel it in the way his breathing turns ragged, the way his hands grip you like he’s afraid to let go. For a moment, the rest of the world ceases to exist. There is no ball, no king, no duty or vengeance. Just this. Just him. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your hips as he backs you against the cold stonewall of the secluded garden. Your breath hitches as the contrast between the chill of the stone and the heat of his body sends a shiver down your spine. Heeseung feels it—his grip tightening, his fingers curling into you as if he wants to pull you closer, eliminating the space between you entirely. You don’t speak your tangle of tongues and teeth speaking for you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up his chest, over the rapid rise and fall of his breaths, until they find their way to his hair. You tug—harder this time, just to see what he’ll do. Heeseung groans against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones, and in retaliation, he presses his body flush against yours. A gasp slips from you at the overwhelming sensation of him—his warmth, his strength, the way he fits against you so perfectly it almost feels inevitable. You’re drowning in him, lost in the way his lips move against yours—urgent, searching, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. The air between you crackles with something electric, something undeniable, something that neither of you can ignore anymore. His hands wander, sliding up your sides, over the delicate fabric of your gown. When his fingers skim the bare skin of your arm, you shudder. Heeseung notices. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, something dangerously close to reverence. "You shouldn’t do that," you murmur, your voice breathless. "Do what?" he asks, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Look at me like that." Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with something like frustration. "Then stop making it so damn hard."

Your heart stutters. And then his lips are on yours again, softer this time—lingering, savoring. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his thumbs brushing gentle strokes along your jaw. It’s different now—less rushed, less desperate, but no less intense. He pushes you up against the moss covered wall of the royal garden, his breathing slightly labored. “We should stop.” He pants out his breathing hitting your face, his lips hovering over yours.

“We should.” You nodded, “But I don't want to.” You muttered. You reattach your lips to his refusing to acknowledge the world around you, to ignore the fact that you very well could get caught in this garden with the captain of the king's guard lips attached to yours. You found it hard to care, not when his hands were roaming your body like he owned it. Like he wanted to eat you whole and you’d let him. You’d let him skin you alive, picking at you layer by layer until you laid bare in front of him. You didn't have the time for that. No matter how badly you wanted to take your time with him you simply couldn't. You had to be quick and you had a sharp feeling that wouldn't bother Heeseung much.

“I want you.” You hissed out. Your hands reach to cup his face. “Let me have you.” Heeseung’s face changed from shock to lust in such an instant you thought you might have imagined the change.

“This is wrong.” He shook his head, stepping back not even an inch. It looked like it pained him to move even the slightest. Like it would kill him to not be touching you. You felt the same. “Who cares.” Your voice was light, airy. It almost sounded desperate, a tone you had never heard from yourself. You didn't know whether to be embarrassed or not. Standing here begging a man to take you. You had never been so vulnerable before and it scared you. This wasn't what you were here for, you had one mission and that was to kill the king not fall in love. Your mouth and body seemed to have a mind of its own. You shook your head, stepping forward, your hand landing on Heeseung’s arm.

“It’s Okay.” You whispered. “Do you want me, Heeseung?” You asked, your voice stern as your eyes searched his.

“I-” He started out but you shook your head, asking him once again. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Heeseung said without much more hesitation. His lips were back on yours before you could utter another word. His tongue mingled with yours. It was exhilarating and mind numbing, a great escape away from everything that plagued your mind as of late. His hands pawed at your skirts, inching them up slower and slower. It was if he was hinting at it, like you both hadn’t just agreed to do this. Your hands reached for your skirts pulling them up hastily.

“Don’t beat around the bush.” You pant. “Fuck me.” Your words served as a catalyst for Heeseung’s growing lust. His hands worked on his belt and then his pants yanking them down just enough to free himself. Your chest heaved up and down feeling constrained in your very tight corset. “You’ll have to pull out. I cannot become with child Heeseung.”

Heeseung nodded his head but said nothing, almost as if he wanted to ignore the topic. You understood that completely. You didn’t want to stop and think of what the two of you were actually doing and what it would cost if you were caught, no that would be disastrous. It would ruin your entire plans and everything you had worked so hard for you. You shook the thoughts away, you didn't need to over complicate things now. Heeseung’s lips met your neck in a haste. His lips trailed down the column of your neck until it reached your collarbone and lower. His mouth attaching to your cleavage and hands cupping your breasts over your dress.

“Are you ready?” He asked you, his eyes meeting yours. You nodded at him. You needed him to do something, now. You watched only his face as you felt him lift your skirts a bit more for more access. His hands sliding over your bare thighs. His eyes flicked down only for a moment before you felt him at your entrance. The two of you were silent but the sound of your silence was loud enough. You didn’t need words, not when your need for each other spoke for you. You felt him slide into you with slow ease. His breath catching but his eyes never leaving yours.

“Oh god.” You muttered out. Your voice was wispy and almost airy but you couldn't help it, just the initial stretch of Heeseung had felt like a tiny piece of heaven that you hadn't known you needed until you got it. “Is this ok?” He asked as he made shallow thrusts into you with only his tip going in and out of you.

“Yes.” You hissed. “More.” Heeseung’s hips moved faster against yours. You tried your best at keeping your noises low in your throat. You didn't know if guards were wandering around the garden or not. Heeseung’s soft moans are the main source of noise between the two of you as he hurriedly rutted into you like a ravaged dog in heat. Your back bumping against the moss covered all over and over as Heeseung worked himself over you.

You looked up at Heeseung with doe-like eyes. Sweat dripped from his brow, his mouth slightly agape. “That feel good?” You asked him with a slight smirk. Heeseung’s eyes met your own with a bewildered look.

“So fucking good.” He grunted, slamming his lips against yours more rough than before. A squeak left your lips at the contact bracing your hand behind you on the wall. “Such a pretty pussy for a pretty little princess too.” His words caught you off guard, he was dirty talking to you. And it was so fucking hot.

“Yeah?” You asked breathily, running your hands over his clothed chest. “You like using my tight little princess pussy don’t you? Fucking me so good.” Heeseung groaned, groping at your ass over your dress. His thrust became less coordinated, more rushed.

“Fuck. Yes.” Heeseung grunted each snap of his lips bringing you that much closer to your end, heat bubbling in your core ready to explode. And explode it did, like a blinding light you reached your end convulsing around Heeseung’s cock like a starving whore. Your hand stuck to your mouth to cover the sounds that spilled from your lips. Heesung watched you intently, his eyes drinking in your haze of lust like he was under a spell and he didn't care. Soon Heeseung was pulling away in a haste causing a gasp to leave your lips. His hand moved up and down himself, a groan leaving his lips as he spilled his spend all over his hand, making a mess of himself.

Only silence hung in the air after as the both of you caught your breath. Heeseung washes his hands off in the fountain in the garden. Heeseung turns to you, his face flush, he reaches a hand out to you cupping your cheek gently, still no words fading between the two of you. Still, you’re silent, so silent you could hear a pin drop. You stared up at him watching as his eyes intently bounced around your face, probably taking what had just happened between the two of you. You could feel the shifted energy between the two of you. Things have changed, no matter how much you didnt want them to, they did. A distant noise from the castle—a door opening, the faint sound of voices—pierces through the haze, snapping you both back to reality. Heeseung tenses first. He pulls back slowly, his breathing heavy, his lips still parted as if he might say something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he releases you and just like that, the spell between you breaks. You stare at each other, caught in a silence thick with unspoken words. Then Heeseung swallows, straightens his posture, and takes a step back. "We should go inside," he says, his voice rough. You nod, though your body still hums with the memory of his touch. Neither of you say anything else as you make your way back toward the castle, but one thing is clear—whatever just happened between you, whatever this is…it’s far from over.

The war room is thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of failure. Heeseung stands rigid before the king, his jaw clenched, hands behind his back in a position of forced composure. Across the long table, the king and queen sit side by side, their expressions carved from stone—one of fury, the other of calculation. "How," the king begins, his voice dangerously even, "was there an intruder in my castle, undetected, and yet none of you useless guards managed to catch them?" No one dares to answer. The other high-ranking guards are present, standing along the edges of the room, their heads slightly bowed in shame. The captain shifts uncomfortably beside Heeseung, but he too says nothing.

The king slams a fist onto the table. "A witch," he seethes. "We know it was a witch. What we don't know is how they got in, how they killed my men, and what the hell they were looking for!" Heeseung remains silent, staring ahead at the flickering torches along the stone walls. His mind replays the scene over and over—the slaughtered guards, their twisted bodies, the power that had killed them. It was magic. Dark magic. "We found no trace of them," The captain finally says, his voice tight. "No lingering presence of a spell, no indication of their path in or out. It's like they vanished into thin air."

"They used magic," The queen interjects coolly, her eyes sharp as a dagger. "That is what witches do." Her tone had Heeseung’s skin prickling with a sense of fear. "Then why didn't we sense it? Why didn’t our barriers—" He started.

"Because they are getting stronger," The king snaps. His gaze falls to Heeseung now, pinning him in place. "You have been keeping tabs on them, have you not? Watching their movements, ensuring they don’t have the power to rise again? Did you fail me, Heeseung?" The weight of the king’s words settle deep in his chest, heavy and suffocating. Heeseung straightens. "No, Your Majesty," he replies firmly. "We have been monitoring the council and the remaining witches closely. There has been no sign of a rebellion, no whisper of an attack. If there is an unknown witch at work, then they are acting alone."

The king's lip curls. "And yet they managed to infiltrate my home." Heeseung has no response to that. The king exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He is furious, but there is something else beneath his rage—something colder, something more dangerous. A deep-seated hatred, burning just beneath his skin. The queen tilts her head, studying Heeseung carefully. "And what of the stolen artifacts?" she asks. "Has there been any sign of what was taken?"

"A vial of dragon’s blood," One of the guards answers. "Nothing else was missing." The room goes deathly silent. Heeseung curses under his breath. The king's fingers twitch against the table. "Dragon’s blood," he murmurs, his tone turning sharp. "And you all think nothing of this? Do you not know what that blood does?!" A shiver rolls through the room. Everyone knows. Dragon’s blood enhances magic. Strengthens it. Sharpens it. The king rises from his seat slowly, his gaze flickering toward the shadows of the room. "This was no ordinary thief," he says, more to himself than anyone else. "This was a witch preparing for something." His voice hardens as he turns back to them. "Find them. I don’t care what it takes—double the guards, search every crevice of the castle, and burn every witch’s den in this kingdom if you have to. I want their head."

A chorus of "Yes, Your Majesty," follows. Heeseung says nothing, simply inclining his head. He should be agreeing. He should be vowing to track this witch down, to put an end to this threat before it grows. And yet, Something gnaws at the edges of his mind, an uneasy whisper he refuses to acknowledge. The magic. The precision. The cleverness. His thoughts flicker—just for a second—to her. To the princess. To her uncanny way of maneuvering around the castle, her endless curiosity, the way she always asks about magic, as if she understands it more than she lets on. The way she had moved against him in their sparring match—controlled, sharp, deadly. And last night. The way he had kissed her. The way she had felt against him when they were intimate. Could it be—? No. He shoves the thought away before it can take root. It’s impossible. The princess was raised in the east, far from the magic-infested ruins of this kingdom. There is no way she could be tied to witches. No way she could have been the one to— No. Heeseung forces the thought from his mind, locking it away. It’s just a coincidence. That’s all. Nothing more.

The castle is restless the next morning, an undercurrent of tension crackling through the air like a coming storm. Servants rush about, their voices hushed, their movements careful. Guards patrol every corridor, hands tight around their weapons. The nobles murmur amongst themselves, their eyes darting toward the throne room as whispers slither through the grand halls. "A witch," someone hisses near you as you glide past. "Inside the castle. Undetected. Can you imagine?" Another voice responds just as high pitched "Brazen enough to try and kill the king!" You roll your eyes, a smirk on your face. "They should burn them all, just like before." Your jaw tightens, your nails pressing into your palms so hard they nearly break skin. You keep walking, silent, unassuming. But with every step, the whispers become harder to ignore. Then– words that would make any daughter break. "It’s just like what happened years ago... with her—with that whore of a witch."

Your breath halts. Ahead of you, a gilded sitting room lies open, sunlight spilling through arched windows onto plush velvet furniture. A small group of noblewomen are gathered there, draped in silks, laughter like chiming bells. They sip from delicate porcelain teacups, their words laced with venom, utterly unaware of the storm they are inviting upon themselves. "She thought she could kill the king—thought she was worthy of a crown instead.”

"And look where she ended up—stripped of her magic, betrayed by her own people, her head taken before she could even beg for mercy." The edges of your vision darken only anger simmering in your blood. You step closer, silent as a shadow. "They should have burned her body instead of scattering it like filth." Your blood roars in your ears, your heart pounding in your chest. "At least the king took a trophy," one of the women sneers, swirling her tea idly. "That ring of hers—how pathetic. As if a simple bauble could ever make a witch a queen." The world around you stills at the realization. Your mother. They were talking about your mother. Your breathing slows. The fire inside you, carefully stoked and contained for so long, now flares into something feral, something uncontrollable.

But they don't know. They don't know who you are, what you're capable of. They don't know that your anger speaks for itself and that your magic is the greatest weapon you yield, but they were about to find out. A slow, measured breath slips past your lips. The air hums with power as you lift your fingers, just enough to let your magic slither through them. Invisible. Deadly. The woman in the center, the one with the sharpest tongue, freezes mid-sip. Her teacup hovers just below her lips. She gasps, eyes going wide but then her whole body stiffens. A shudder rolls through her frame, the muscles in her throat working against an invisible force. The porcelain cup slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor. A single crack, and then—snap.

Her head jerks violently to the side, the sickening sound of bone breaking echoing through the room. She crumples instantly, collapsing forward onto the table, lifeless. There was a moment of silence, a fleeting moment you quite enjoyed. But then– screams. Blood curdling screams that brought you only joy. The other women scramble back, knocking over teacups and trays in their blind panic. One of them shrieks, hands clamped over her mouth as she stares in horror at the limp, twisted form before her. You let the sound wash over you, slow satisfaction curling through your chest. Without a word, you turn on your heel and walk away, your steps light, effortless. The wails of the noblewomen ring through the corridor behind you, a discordant symphony of fear and hysteria, but you don't look back. You don’t have to. Because for the first time in years, you feel like your mother’s daughter.

Evening descends upon the castle, casting long shadows through the stone corridors. You sit by your vanity, absently tracing the rim of a goblet with your fingertip, waiting. The distant sounds of hurried footsteps and hushed voices in the halls tell you the kingdom is still shaken, still trying to piece together what happened this morning, and at the ball. A knock raps at your chamber door and you already know who it is. You can sense, feel him. "Come in," you call, voice smooth, controlled. The door creaks open, and Heeseung steps in, his usual composed demeanor in place, but there’s something tense about the way his shoulders sit. His eyes flick over you—your carefully arranged hair, the gown draped over your form, the utter calmness in your posture. His gaze lingers on your face a beat too long before he clears his throat. "Dinner," he says simply.

You arch a brow. "Just us?" This would be the first time since you’ve arrived where you wouldn't be having dinner with the King and Queen. "The king and queen are otherwise occupied. Security measures." Heeseung mutters his gaze avoiding yours. "How intimate," you remark dryly, standing and brushing past him. His scent lingers—leather, steel, something faintly smoky. You don’t miss the way he exhales sharply, as if steeling himself, before following after you.

The dining chamber is much smaller than the grand halls you’re used to. The table is modest in comparison, only set for two. Silver candleholders flicker between the untouched dishes. The air is thick—too quiet, too heavy with something unspoken. You take your seat, watching Heeseung as he settles into his own across from you. He’s stiff, guarded, too preoccupied with the food before him to even look at you. You let the silence drag, waiting for him to say something. But of course, he doesn’t. You stab a piece of meat with your fork. "Are we going to pretend it didn’t happen?" His eyes snap up to you narrowing slightly as if to dare you to keep going. So, in turn you do. Testing the limits was your favorite pastime after all. You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "The sex," you clarify, twirling the utensil between your fingers. Heeseung tenses. "This is neither the time nor the place."

"Then when is, Heeseung?" You lean forward slightly, voice laced with challenge. "After another failed assassination attempt? Perhaps over breakfast? Maybe I should schedule it between my courtly duties and plotting treason." His jaw tightens. "Don’t," he warns. His cool tone had you hot. You had to remind yourself that this was not the time for that. You roll your eyes, exhaling dramatically. "You’re being ridiculous."

He sets his knife down with a sharp clink, the muscles in his arms flexing as he pushes his chair back. "Come with me." You blink, caught off guard as he stands abruptly and moves to your side. Before you can protest, his fingers curl around your wrist—not harsh, but firm. "Heeseung—"

"Not here," he mutters, already dragging you from your seat. You follow, your pulse a slow, deliberate thrum beneath your skin. He doesn’t let go, guiding you through the corridors with determined strides, past watchful guards and dimly lit hallways. Then, The library doors swing open, swallowing you both into the quiet expanse of towering shelves and candlelight. The scent of parchment and ink wraps around you, thick and familiar. Heeseung doesn’t stop until you’re deep inside, far from any prying eyes. He finally releases you, exhaling sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. "You shouldn’t talk about it so carelessly." You cross your arms. "Why not?"

"Because it’s dangerous." His voice is low, but edged with something raw. "Because it shouldn’t have happened."A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "But it did." Heeseung looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression flickers between frustration and something else, something that makes your breath hitch for just a fraction of a second. "Tell me," you continue, stepping closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Are you regretting it?" His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. You tilt your head. "Or are you afraid of what it means?" His silence is answer enough.

The tension in the library crackles like a storm on the verge of breaking. The dim candlelight flickers, casting shadows across the towering shelves and the ancient tomes lining them. Heeseung is still standing stiffly before you, arms crossed, jaw clenched—like if he lets himself relax for even a moment, everything will spiral out of control. “We can’t,” he says finally, his voice tight, like he’s forcing the words out. “If anyone caught us—if the king found out—we’d both be dead.” You let out a soft, amused laugh, tilting your head. “Is that what you’re so worried about?” You take a step closer, watching the way his body reacts—how his breath shortens, how his fingers flex. “Death?” His brows knit together. “It’s not funny.”

“On the contrary,” you murmur, your voice teasing, edged with something darker. “It’s absolutely hilarious. The great Heeseung, right-hand to the king, reduced to a nervous wreck over a kiss and a quick fuck.” His eyes flash with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not what?” You’re in front of him now, close enough to catch the faint scent of steel and cedarwood clinging to him. “Not true?” He swallows hard but doesn’t move away, anyone could see that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. He craved you and you were in no position to deny him of that satiation

“We can’t keep doing this,” he grits out, though the way his gaze flickers to your lips betrays him. “It’s dangerous.” You hum, tilting your head, running your fingers down the front of his shirt like you’re smoothing out invisible creases. His breath catches. “Dangerous is what makes it exciting,” you whisper, fingers drifting lower, pressing lightly against his stomach. His muscles tense under your touch, like he’s fighting himself, fighting this, fighting you. “Stop,” he breathes, though he makes no move to actually stop you.

You smirk. “You don’t want me to stop.” His hands clench at his sides, a war waging within him, but you know you’ve already won. You can feel it in the way his body leans ever so slightly toward yours, in the way his breath turns heavier. “Tell me to go,” you challenge, your voice softer now, but no less daring. “Tell me you don’t want this.” Silence. And suddenly, A sharp inhale, a flicker of something feral in his eyes. And then his hands are on you—gripping your waist, pulling you forward in one swift motion until your back is pressed against the bookshelf behind you. Your breath stutters just as his lips crash into yours, no hesitation this time, no careful restraint. It’s all heat and desperation, months of tension unraveling at once. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, like he’s making up for lost time, for all the times he’s told himself no when his body screamed yes.

Your hands tangle in his hair, fingers pulling, dragging him impossibly closer. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, sending heat pooling low in your stomach. You press up against him, feeling the way his body shudders at the contact. His fingers dig into your hips, bruising, possessive, like he’s trying to imprint himself onto you. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. And neither of you care. Too caught up on the feeling of one another to carefully consider what you could lose, only what you could gain. The library was quite save for the two of you. Your heavy breathing the only sound in the grand room. Heeseung’s hands gripped at your skirts much like he did the other night.

He lifted them high enough to expose you. “I’ve been thinking about this pretty little pussy since the other night.” He grunted. “We don’t have enough time but I think I can take a little taste can’t i?” You were nodding before he could even get the words out, your head bobbing up and down in excitement. Pure unadulterated excitement. It was comical, almost pathetic but you didn't care, you needed him anyway you could get him. Heeseung fell to his knees, your skirts still tightly gripped in his hands.

“I may be kneeling princess but soon you're going to be the one begging like a peasant.” He smirked up at you, the edges of his mouth slightly curved sexily. The heat simmerring in your belly only heightened your need for him and soon you were whining, lifting your hips to show him just how much you needed him to do just something, anything. “Don’t you worry.” He tsked “I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Without another words his mouth was on you, his tongue lapping at you like no tomorrow. Your hands found purchase on his shoulder as you steadied yourself. “Oh my god.” You hissed, biting your lip to keep your noises at bay. Heeseung groaned against your core, the vibrations sending tingles up your spine and furthering the pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands found your hips gripping them tightly in his hands under your gown skirts.

Your hands made their way from the bookshelf behind you down your own body until they reached your breasts cupping them in your hands for extra stimulant, Heeseung’s tongue explored every inch of your most sensitive bud sucking on it like his life depended on it. You tried your best to keep your noises at bay as you occasionally let a squeak and small moan out here and there.

Heeseung continued to suck and lick at you, your end hearing like a freight train. “I-i’m almost-” You gasped, finding it hard to cough the words out. “I know.” Heeseung said smugly as he came up for air. Your legs shook, thankful for Heeseung’s hands holding you upright. If it weren't for that you would surely be a puddle of yourself on the floor before you. It took almost no time for your end to slam into you. A single squeak left your lips before you're clamping your hand over your mouth to silence yourself. Heeseung continues to work on you throughout your orgasm granting you a spectacular end.

Heeseung let go of your thighs, straightening himself out as you caught your breath. Much like the garden the two of you only stared at each other in silence, not daring to utter even a single word. The silence was short lived as the sound of rustling outside the library tore the two of you apart, breaking the haze you were currently in. Luckily whoever was outside didn't feel the need to enter the library but the noise itself had Heeseung on edge. “We should get you to your chambers.” He mumbled, reaching a hand out for you to take. You stared at it for a moment as if it were a foreign object you had never seen before. You took his hand in yours letting him guide you out of the library doors.

The candlelight flickers in Heeseung’s chambers, casting restless shadows against the stone walls. He lays on his back in bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, his body exhausted but his mind refusing to quiet. He knows what they’re doing is reckless. Stupid, even. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away the memories of her—her scent, her warmth, the way she pressed against him in the library as if she knew exactly what kind of power she had over him. Heeseung has always prided himself on his discipline, on his control. But with her… He groans and turns onto his side, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. His duty is to the kingdom. To the king. To law and order. If anyone found out about this—about them—there would be no mercy. No hesitation. The king would have his head on a spike, and hers—hers would be paraded through the streets as a warning.

His stomach churns at the thought. But then, a far more dangerous thought slithers in, unbidden. What if they ran? The idea is so ridiculous he almost laughs. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t abandon his duty. But then he thinks of her again—of the fire in her eyes, of the way she moves like she belongs to no one but herself. She’s different. Not just from the princesses he’s known—meek, obedient, trained to be silent. No, she’s different from everyone. The way she speaks. The way she carries herself. The way she looks at him like she’s measuring him up, testing him, waiting to see what he’ll do next. The way she knows things—things she shouldn’t. A seed of suspicion takes root in his mind.

What if she’s not who she says she is? He thinks of the whispers, the rumors in the castle, the king’s paranoia about witches. He thinks of the way the attack at the ball had no clear culprit, no weapon, no trace. And then he thinks of her—of the way she smiles to herself when she thinks no one is looking, like she’s keeping a secret the world isn’t ready for. No. Heeseung shakes his head, as if to physically push the thought away. He’s being ridiculous. She’s just… unpredictable. Stubborn. Impossible. But not a witch. He refuses to believe that.

The next morning, the castle is alive with tension. Servants whisper behind cupped hands, guards double in numbers at every corridor, and the heavy clang of armor fills the halls. At breakfast, the king and queen stand before the court, their expressions grave. The king’s voice is sharp, cutting through the uneasy murmurs. "Until we discover the source of this treachery, the castle will remain under lockdown. No one leaves, no one enters without my explicit permission. Anyone found conspiring against the crown will be executed on sight." A chill runs through the room. Your grip tightens around your fork until your knuckles ache. Lockdown. The word presses against you like an iron cage, closing in.

This means you're getting closer. The king is scared. He knows his time is running out. You just need one final way to get to him. But then, your mind betrays you. Because instead of the king, instead of strategy and bloodshed, instead of magic—your thoughts drift to him. Heeseung. You can feel his eyes on you, watching from across the room. Even now, you know he’s keeping track of your every move, shadowing your steps in silence. You remember the way his touch lingered, the way his lips felt against yours, the way he made you forget—just for a moment—who you are, what you are meant to do. And for one foolish, fleeting second, you let yourself wonder. What if things were different? What if you weren’t bound by revenge, by the weight of your mother’s legacy? What if you were just a girl, and he were just a boy? But you are not just a girl. And he is not just a boy. You shove the thoughts down, swallowing hard. You call yourself a fool for falling into something so dangerous, so impossible. For even considering the possibility of anything beyond this mission. You are here for one purpose. And soon, the king will be dead.

The silence between you is louder than it has ever been as you walk to your rooms. The castle corridors stretch long and empty, the flickering torchlight casting your shadows against the cold stone walls. Each step echoes, the sound ringing in your ears, a cruel reminder that this night is slipping away too fast. Heeseung walks beside you, quiet as ever, his posture rigid with something unreadable. But you can feel it. The weight of the things left unsaid. The hesitation in the way he slows his pace just enough, like he’s not quite ready for this walk to end. Neither are you. And yet, the door to your chambers appears before you too soon.

You stop. Heeseung does too, standing just a breath away, his gaze unreadable in the dim lighting. Your heart hammers against your ribs. It feels unbearable—this thing stretching between you. The knowledge that the moment you step inside this room, something will shift. You won’t be able to undo it. So you do the only thing you can. You grab his collar and pull him to you, crashing your lips against his.

Heeseung tenses, his breath catching against your mouth. For a fraction of a second, he doesn’t move, stunned by your sudden desperation. Then, he breaks. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he kisses you back with something raw, something close to ruin. It’s not soft, it’s not slow—it’s everything you’re both afraid to say. It’s everything you’re about to lose. our fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him, trying to pull him closer, closer, closer—because this is the last time. You feel it in the way his hands tremble against you, in the way his breath shudders when he pulls away just slightly, his forehead pressing to yours. "Wait—" he starts, his voice hoarse, hesitant, but you shake your head instantly, your grip tightening on his shirt. "Don’t—" your whisper barely makes it past your lips. Your eyes burn, your throat tight. "Please don’t say anything."

Heeseung swallows thickly. His hands twitch at your waist before they slowly fall away. You take a step back. Then another and the distance feels unbearable. Your fingers ghost over the doorknob, hesitating for a fraction of a second before you turn it, stepping inside. You don’t dare look at him again. You can’t. The door closes between you with a soft, final click. You lean against it, pressing your forehead to the wood, your breath shaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. On the other side, you know he’s still there. You can feel him. Standing in the hallway, hands clenched into fists, fighting the same war you are. Seconds pass. Then minutes. And then—his footsteps, Slow. Hesitant. Fading. When he finally walks away, he takes a piece of you with him. And when you slide to the floor, pressing your trembling fingers to your lips, you wonder if you’ll ever get it back. You wonder if what you were doing was worth it, and you determine it is. This was bigger than you, bigger than what you felt for Heeseung and you had to continue no matter how much it hurt.

You sit there for what feels like hours, your back pressed against the door, your fingers still tingling from the ghost of Heeseung’s touch. You curse yourself. How could you be so stupid? Falling in love with the captain of the guard—the king’s most loyal soldier. It was reckless. Dangerous. A mistake you never should have allowed to happen. You clench your fists against your dress, trying to push away the warmth still lingering on your skin from where his hands had been. But no matter how much you tell yourself it was foolish, your heart still aches. Because for a moment, just a moment, you had allowed yourself to feel. You shake your head, jaw tightening, because love just wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough to stop you, it couldn't be. Not when the weight of your mother’s death still sat heavy in your chest. Not when the memories of your people being hunted and slaughtered played over and over in your mind like a curse that would never leave you.

The king needed to die and you needed to be the one to do it. If not for your mother, then for yourself. You push yourself up from the floor, shaking off the weakness trying to sink into your bones. You weren’t weak. You weren’t fragile. You were ruthless. A damn good witch. No matter what your aunt had said. No matter how the coven had doubted you. No matter how Heeseung had looked at you as if you were something to be protected, when all your life, you had fought to stand on your own. You move across the room, mind already calculating. You would need to act fast. The castle was locked down, but that meant the king’s guard would be scattered, spread thin. You could use that. You could use them. A smile, slow and sharp, spreads across your lips. No matter how much your heart screamed against it—no matter how much Heeseung’s face haunted you—you would not falter. Because this was your destiny and you would see it through to the end.

Morning light filters through the grand windows of your chambers, casting golden streaks across the floor, but you don’t move from the edge of your bed. Your plan is set. You should feel ready. Steady. But instead, your hands won’t stop trembling. You press your palms against your lap, willing the weakness away. A knock sounds at your door. You know who it is before he speaks. “Princess.” Heeseung’s voice is firm, but there’s an underlying softness beneath it. “I brought you breakfast.” You force yourself to stand, moving with a measured slowness as you approach the door. You can’t afford to falter now.

When you open it, he’s standing there, tray in hand, gaze unreadable. His dark eyes search yours for something—maybe a sign that you’re okay, maybe something more. You don’t give him anything. You reach for the tray, but before you can grab it, Heeseung’s foot moves forward, blocking the door from shutting in his face. You sigh sharply. “Move.”

“No.” His eyes narrow, suspicion creeping into his voice. “You’ve been locked away all morning. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You hiss, silently begging for him to just leave. Heeseung scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

You glare at him. “Why do you care?” He steps inside before you can stop him, setting the tray on the nearby table. Then, without hesitation, he turns to you and takes your hands in his. You stiffen. “Let go.” He doesn’t. His grip is warm, steady—just like it was the night before when you tried to push him away. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “What’s wrong?” You grit your teeth. “I told you, nothing is—”

“I don’t believe you.” You yank your hands away, stepping back. “Then you’re a fool.” Heeseung exhales sharply. “Maybe I am.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Everything we did was a mistake.” Something flickers across his face, quick and sharp. Hurt. Good, it's better this way. You’ve been selfishly allowing yourself to fall in love with someone you can never truly have. You lift your chin higher, forcing yourself to deliver the final blow. “I used you, Heeseung. You were convenient. That’s all.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t give you what you want. He just looks at you. It infuriates you. “You should be angry,” you snap. “You should hate me.”

“I don’t.” He argues, his voice rough with unshed emotion. “Why not?” You asked. You were desperate for him to stop, to give up. But he doesn't. “Because I know you.” His voice is quiet now, but there’s an undeniable strength beneath it. “And I know you’re lying.” Your breath catches.

Heeseung steps closer, gaze never wavering. “If you want to hurt me, you’ll have to do better than that.” You clench your fists. “I don’t care about you.” His lips twitch, and then he laughs. Heeseung’s laugh was a melody you wished you could bottle and keep forever, in a tiny little vial tucked away to keep the memory of this moment and how you felt in it alive. Even if fleeting, it would be worth it. To remember that even when you wished he would give you up and leave, he wouldn’t. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.” He just stares at you. Unmoved. Unyielding. And then he does something unexpected—he lifts a hand and gently cups your cheek. Your entire body locks up. His touch is careful, hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, voice dropping lower. “Tell me you feel nothing, and I’ll leave right now.” You swallow hard. The words are right there. You can say them. You should say them. But your throat closes up. Silence stretches between you. Heeseung exhales, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, but there’s no humor in it. Just quiet understanding. “You can lie all you want,” he murmurs. “But not to me.” His hand falls away. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he steps back. “If you don’t want me here, say the word,” he says. “And I’ll go.”

Heeseung crosses the room in a heartbeat. His hands come up to cradle your face, his touch firm yet gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. And then his lips are on yours—hot, desperate, claiming. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You can taste the longing, the fear, the hunger between you, and it terrifies you how much you need this. How much you need him. Clothes fall away, fingers trace over bare skin, mapping out the parts of you no one else has ever touched. His lips leave a burning trail along your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone. Every kiss feels like a promise neither of you can keep. This is different from the garden and the library. The emotions are stronger, the need more than just lust. He lays you down with a reverence that makes your chest ache, his body covering yours, warm and solid and real. And for a little while, just a little while, you allow yourself to forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you have to do. Forget that you’ll never get to have this again. Forget that, that thought scares you more than anything else. And when it’s over, when you’re lying in his arms, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the weight of reality crashes down on you.

Tears slip from your eyes before you can stop them. Heeseung notices immediately. He shifts beside you, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at you. His fingers trace lightly over your cheek, catching a stray tear. “What’s wrong?” His voice is hoarse, gentle. You shake your head, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. “Nothing.” Cursing yourself for looking so brittle, so weak. His brow furrows, unconvinced. “You’re crying,” he says, brushing another tear away with his thumb. “That’s not nothing.”

You inhale sharply, turning your head away. Because if you look at him—if you really look at him—you’ll break. You can’t afford to break. Heeseung shifts again, his body warm against yours. Then, out of nowhere, he says something that steals the air from your lungs. “Let’s leave.” Your breath catches in your throat. You turn your head back toward him, your lips parting in disbelief. “What?”

“Let’s leave,” he repeats, his voice surer now. “Tonight. Right now. Just the two of us.” You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest. “Heeseung, you don’t know what you’re saying.” Leaving would mean that coming here was for nothing. You couldn't do that, you needed to see this through for your mother. “Yes, I do.” He sits up too, his hands reaching for yours. “We can leave this place behind. Disappear. Go somewhere no one will find us. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Your heart clenches so hard it’s painful. He means it. He really means it, and you’re going to have to deny him. You can see it in his eyes, the unwavering sincerity, the quiet desperation. He’s not just saying it to comfort you. He truly believes you could run away, start over, be free. And for a fleeting moment, you want to believe it too. But you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut. “You don’t know the real me, Heeseung.” He exhales a soft, disbelieving laugh. That goddamn laugh. “Of course, I do.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You don’t.” Heeseung lifts your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His lips brush against your skin as he speaks. “I know that you hate being treated like you’re fragile. That you sneak out just because you can. That you act like you don’t care, but you do. More than anyone I’ve ever met.” His voice lowers, softer now. “I know you pretend to be heartless, but you’re not. You’re stubborn and reckless and the smartest person I’ve ever known.” Heeseung tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I know you,” he says. “And I love you.” Your breath shudders.

Heeseung has no idea how much those words shatter you. Because for all the ways he knows you—for all the truths he’s uncovered—he’s still blind to the one that matters most. You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I can’t.” His brows draw together. “Can’t what?” You don’t answer. You can’t. He studies you for a long moment, realization flickering in his gaze. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says quietly.

You close your eyes, gripping the sheets beneath you. Heeseung’s voice drops lower. “What is it?” Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words. Then, finally, you whisper, “Please… just go.” The pain from the moment was unbearable. Having to turn him away when you didn't want to. When your heart screamed at you to pull him close and never let go. Pain flashes across his face. His jaw clenches, his throat bobbing with the effort to swallow whatever he wants to say. He stands, gathering his clothes in silence. You stay where you are, gripping the sheets, digging your nails into the fabric to keep from calling him back. Before he leaves, he pauses at the door. He turns his head just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.” Then he walks out. And this time, you let him go.

Something was wrong. Heeseung could feel it. Being called to the King’s quarters almost immediately after returning to his rooms after his night with the princess. Something was wrong. Heeseung barely makes it to the king’s quarters before the weight in his chest starts to crush him. The halls are lined with guards, their grips tight on their weapons, their expressions grim. The air crackles with tension, heavy and suffocating. It feels like a noose tightening around his throat. He forces himself forward, each step heavier than the last. The moment he steps inside, he sees them. The King, the Queen And a group of high-ranking officials gathered around a long table, their faces drawn in grim lines. The candlelight flickers ominously, casting eerie shadows across the room. The doors slam shut behind him and Heeseung swears his heart in his stomach bile rising up his throat.

“My king,” he greets, bowing his head. He was trying to be graceful, trying to mask the pure terror coursing through his veins. The king doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. Instead, he lifts his gaze, sharp and knowing, and says, “Captain. Tell me… what do you know about the princess?” Heeseung’s heart stutters in his chest. He swallows thickly, keeping his voice steady. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?” The king doesn’t answer right away, furthering Heeseung’s racing heart. Something was wrong. Instead, he picks up a folded parchment from the table. Heeseung notices the broken wax seal—an unfamiliar crest pressed into the dried crimson wax. “These letters,” the king begins, “have come from her kingdom.” His tone is measured, calm—but there’s something deadly lurking beneath the surface. “They have been arriving for weeks. All addressed to the princess.”

Something cold curls in Heeseung’s stomach. “Then… why hasn’t she responded?” Heeseung asks carefully, forcing the words past his lips. “That is the question, isn’t it?” the king muses. Then he slams something onto the table. It’s a portrait. The parchment unfurls slightly from the impact, revealing a detailed oil painting of a young woman. Heeseung’s breath catches. It’s her. Or at least… it’s supposed to be. But it isn’t her. Not the woman he kissed. Not the woman he made love to. Not the woman he held in his arms. His stomach twists violently. The girl in the portrait has the same regal posture, the same air of nobility, the same crown resting atop her carefully styled hair. But the features are all wrong. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips, the sharpness of her jawline—none of them belong to the woman he knows.

The realization crashes into him like a blow to the chest. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “That’s not—” “Not the girl staying in our castle?” The King finishes, his lips curling into something almost amused. The room feels like it’s closing in. His lungs won’t fill properly. His ribs feel too tight, too constricted. His world is breaking apart piece by piece. How could she have lied so long? To everyone. To him? Is that what she meant when she said he didn't know the real her? The king leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden armrest. “This is the real princess,” he says, voice laced with cruel amusement. “The one we were supposed to receive.”

The blood in Heeseung’s veins turns to ice. His ears ring. His heart pounds so loudly it’s deafening. “She’s an imposter,” The King states plainly, his voice hard and unwavering. The Queen makes a disgusted noise. “Not just an imposter,” she sneers. “A witch.” The word slices through Heeseung like a blade toppling his world over. Shattering his entire being. A witch? No. It couldn't be. Something.is.wrong. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He can’t.

“She’s been hunting me,” the king continues, his voice dripping with satisfaction, as if he’s already won. “Planning my execution under my very roof.” Heeseung wants to deny it. Wants to fight it. Wants to claim it’s impossible. But deep down, something inside him unravels. Because it is possible. It makes sense. The late-night disappearances. The questions she never answered. The flashes of power he felt but ignored. The way she always seemed to have a secret buried behind her eyes. The realization knocks the air from his lungs. He had suspected. He had wondered. But he never believed. Because believing would mean losing her. And now—Now, he has lost her. A sharp breath rattles through his chest. He forces himself to stay still, to keep his expression unreadable, to keep the pain from showing. But it’s there. It’s tearing him apart from the inside out.

He can still feel her touch, still taste her on his lips. Still hear the way her voice broke when she told him she couldn’t. She had known this moment was coming. That’s why she kissed him like it was the last time. That’s why she cried. She knew. And she let him love her anyway. “Find her,” the king commands, dragging Heeseung back to the present. “Search the castle. The kingdom. I want that witch’s head.” Heeseung stiffens. The words are an execution order. His pulse roars in his ears. He forces himself to bow, to keep his voice steady as he murmurs, “Yes, Your Majesty.” But his hands tremble as he clenches them into fists. Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do. His loyalty is to the king. His duty is to the crown. But his heart— His heart belongs to her. And no matter how much he tries to bury it—no matter how much it kills him— It always will. Heeseung feels like he’s standing outside of his own body, watching the scene unfold as if it’s happening to someone else. The king’s voice slices through the thick silence.

“The body that was found, dumped from the carriage that night…” He leans forward, his expression grave yet victorious, as if he’s piecing together a puzzle he’d been struggling with for too long. “It was her. The real princess.” A sick, suffocating weight crashes down on Heeseung’s chest. He remembers that night. The gruesome discovery. The way the body had been barely recognizable, left for the elements like discarded waste. At the time, they had assumed it was the work of bandits, of those who wanted to send a message to the crown. But it wasn’t. It was her. She had done it. She had killed the princess. Taken her place. Deceived them all. She had deceived him. Heeseung sways slightly, his grip tightening at his sides.

“Captain.” His head jerks up at the king’s call. The king watches him carefully, expression unreadable, before he asks, “Do you have it on you?” For a moment, Heeseung doesn’t understand. Then the king clarifies. “The witch’s knife.” The words nearly send Heeseung to his knees. His fingers twitch at his belt, where the blade sits, unseen but ever-present—a weapon forged to cut through the magic that ran through the veins of people like her. He feels sick. Heeseung grits his teeth, schooling his expression into one of careful indifference. “Yes,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even. “I have it.”

The king hums in approval. “Good,” he says. “Then it’s time to put it to use.” The words ring through Heeseung’s skull like a war drum. “Bring her to me,” the king orders. “I want that witch dragged before me in chains.” His gaze flickers to Heeseung’s belt, where the blade rests. “And you will be the one to strike her down.” The world tilts. Heeseung can hear his own breathing, shallow and uneven. He has killed before. It is his duty. His purpose. His role. But never like this. Never her. Never the only person who has ever made him feel. He forces himself to nod. It is the only response he can manage without his voice betraying him. The king smirks in satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. “Go,” he commands. “Find her.” Heeseung turns stiffly, barely hearing the murmurs of approval from the gathered officials, The Queen’s quiet mutter of disgust. He walks toward the doors, each step heavier than the last. His fingers brush against the hilt of the knife. The one meant for her. The woman he kissed. The woman he loved. His heart cracks wide open, but there is no time to bleed. Because the next time he sees her— He will have to kill her. Something was wrong.

The air is thick with dampness, the scent of mold and stone clinging to your skin as you navigate the winding tunnels beneath the castle. Your heart pounds against your ribs, steady and strong, the only thing grounding you as you press forward. You don’t have much time. If everything goes according to plan, the king won’t see the next sunrise. The thought steadies you. You move like a shadow through the catacombs, tracing the steps you memorized, hands gliding along the rough walls. You can feel the pulse of magic thrumming in the stone, remnants of old spells woven into the foundations of the castle. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear whispers, ghosts of the past murmuring secrets only the dead could know.

You shake off the feeling. There’s no room for hesitation. Not now. Your plan is simple—efficient. Slip into the king’s chambers through the passage hidden beneath the castle, snap his neck, and vanish before anyone can piece together what happened. No spells. No weapons. Just you. Just justice. The idea of feeling his life slip between your fingers, of watching the fear dawn in his eyes when he realizes his power can’t save him—it’s almost intoxicating. But then he flickers in your mind. Heeseung. For a single, damning moment, you think of the way he looked at you last night, the way his hands held you like you were something precious. How his voice had cracked when he told you he loved you. And how you said nothing in return. Your throat tightens, but you shove it down. Love is not enough to stop what must be done. You push forward. The tunnels twist and stretch before you, endless in their darkness, but you know exactly where you're going. The passage that leads into the king’s private chambers is ahead. You’re nearly there— Cold steel presses against your throat.

You stop. Your body tenses, every instinct in you screaming to move, to fight, but the blade is firm, unforgiving. A single wrong move could end it all before you even reach the king. You feel power coming from it. Radiating off of it. It stung like poison. Was this a witch killing knife?

"Going somewhere?" The voice is low, familiar, and it guts you. Your pulse jumps. Slowly, carefully, you tilt your head just enough to see him. Heeseung. Oh god it was Heeseung. His face is carved from stone, eyes dark, unreadable. The knife in his hand does not waver. He looked destroyed, shattered against beyond repair. But he also looked angry, he knew. He knew who you were and even though that should scare you it didn't. You had oddly felt a sense of overwhelming relief. You weren't hiding from him anymore. Your breath comes slow, measured. “Move.”

He doesn’t. You try again, this time sharper, steel behind your words. “Move, Heeseung.” His grip tightens. “Tell me where you’re going.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something underneath it, something raw. A slow, careful inhale. “You already know.” There was no use in lying to him anymore. You refused to do it, you owed him that much at least. His jaw tenses. A muscle in his cheek jumps. But he doesn’t move the blade. The cold metal seeping into your skin stinging you and boiling your blood. A small part of you knew you deserved this. For lying to him for so long, for allowing yourself to fall in love with a man who you could never have. A man who would hate the person, the thing you truly were. He didn't know the real you. You had warned him. for the first time since you entered the tunnels, doubt creeps in. Not in your plan. Not in your abilities. But in him. Would he really stop you? Would he really— would he kill you?

The reality hurt. You’d kill him if you had to, no matter how much you didn't want to. No matter how much it would hurt you, end you even. You'd do it. For your mother and her legacy you'd do what you had to do. It's what you came here for. “You don’t want to do this,” you whisper, softer this time. Heeseung exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t I?” The words land like a blow. Your fingers twitch at your sides. You could use magic. Could throw him back, run before he can get up. But you don’t. Instead, you say, “I know you.” Heeseung flinches. Not visibly—no, no one else would notice—but you do. You see the slight hitch in his breath, the way his grip falters for just a moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper— “You don’t know me at all.”

The words sink into your skin, cold and unrelenting. Your chest tightens. And for the first time— You wonder if you've already lost. No matter what happened in this tunnel you were losing. The blade at your throat is trembling. Not steady. Not certain. Not like Heeseung at all. His breath is ragged, uneven, as if the very air around him is too thick to swallow. His grip on the hilt of his knife is white-knuckled, his knuckles straining under the force of it, but it’s not just from anger. It’s something deeper—something fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.

“Is it true?” His voice is hoarse, almost quiet, but the weight of it crashes into you like a tidal wave. You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when you knew he already knew the answer. Vocalizing what he already knew would make it too real for him. You were a betrayer, a murder, a witch. His chest rises and falls too quickly, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His fingers flex around the knife, and when you still don’t respond, something in him snaps. “Is it true?!” His voice cracks, raw and agonized, and it cuts through you like a blade sharper than the one at your throat.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your mouth is dry. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to meet his eyes—his desperate, frantic, broken eyes. You should lie. You should tell him no. You should take the last remnants of his belief in you and hold on to them—but it’s too late for that. The truth is already there, clawing its way out of you, forcing itself into the space between you. You can’t lie to him anymore. You wouldn’t. Your lips part. Your voice is barely a whisper. “…Yes.” The silence that follows is suffocating. Heeseung stares at you, wide-eyed, as if you’ve just struck him. His grip on the knife wavers, but he doesn’t lower it. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, his gaze never leaving yours. He looks at you like he doesn’t know you. Like everything you were to him has just unraveled at his feet, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the ruin of whatever you were. “Why?” His voice is barely there, hoarse and hollow.

The lump in your throat grows, threatening to choke you. You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want to tell him. But there’s nothing left to hide. The weight of your past has already reached him, coiling around his throat just as it has yours. Your hands tremble, your nails digging into your palms, as you force yourself to speak. “He murdered my mother.” but he knew that already? Didn’t he? The words taste like ash on your tongue. You watch as Heeseung’s entire body goes rigid. His expression—pain, anger, disbelief—flickers for only a moment before he schools it into something unreadable, something distant. But you can still see it. The horror. The realization. The unbearable ache. Your voice wavers. “The king ordered her death. He butchered her, Heeseung.” You take a shaky breath, one that barely fills your lungs. “He tore her apart. Took her from me. My father too.”

Heeseung doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. You take a step closer. He doesn’t retreat, but the hand holding the knife lowers—just slightly. “I was just a child,” you whisper. The words crack at the edges. “I had no one. My coven abandoned me. I had to make my own way in this world, and every single day, I have had to live with what he did.” Your breath shudders in your chest. Your eyes burn. “I was never going to be a princess, Heeseung.” There is no anger in your voice anymore. No rage. No fire. Just grief, raw and aching, an open wound that never healed Heeseung clenches his jaw so tightly that the muscles twitch, his hands trembling at his sides. His grip on the knife loosens. He looks at you like he’s trying to understand. Like he’s trying to see you through the haze of betrayal. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he whispers, “I’ll let you go.” Your stomach plummets. His gaze is pained, torn apart at the seams, but he holds it steady.

“I’ll tell them I couldn’t find you.” His voice shakes. His lips press into a thin line as he swallows down something thick and heavy. “I’ll let you escape, just—” He takes a deep breath, ragged and uneven. “Just leave. Never come back.” Your heart pounds, hammering against your ribs with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. His hand twitches. His free hand almost reaches for you, but he stops himself, curling his fingers into a fist instead. “So I don’t have to hurt you,” he murmurs, voice breaking. His eyes flicker over your face, memorizing you. Holding on to the pieces of you he still recognizes. “Please.” You should take the offer. You should run. But you can’t. Not anymore. You were way too far in. You weren’t a quitter. You weren’t weak and you’d fight until your dying breath. Killing the King was the only option for you. Not running. You’d never run. Never.

The silence between you stretches like a blade—thin, sharp, and deadly. Heeseung is still trembling, his breath unsteady, his fingers twitching as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or push you away. His body is tense, wound so tight it looks like it might snap under the weight of what you’ve done—of what you’re about to do. You can see the war raging behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to trust you. The part of him that still loves you. And the part of him that has been trained his whole life to protect his kingdom—to protect the king who raised him. He takes a step closer. The knife is still in his hand, but his grip is loose, uncertain. “One last time,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I’m begging you. Please. Just leave. Disappear. Run. I’ll make sure no one follows you. I’ll say you vanished into the night, that I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find you.” His voice wavers, but the desperation in his eyes is unwavering. “Please,” he begs again, quieter this time. He might as well be on his hands and knees.

For a second you imagined a life where you agreed where you left and lived a hate free life. Where you lived a life not plagued by an unruly anger for the one who took your mother from you. How would it feel to hide away from the rest of the world and be content. Maybe in a small cabin, under the mountains. With Heeseung. Heeseung would be there. And you'd be married with so many children you could never be bored. That life wasn't possible. You’d be an idiot to have such fantasies because life was never fair. The ache in your chest is unbearable. You wish you could lie to him. You wish you could tell him what he wants to hear, just to take the anguish out of his voice. But you can’t. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady the storm inside you, but it’s impossible. “I can’t.” He flinches.

“I’m sorry, Heeseung,” you whisper, your throat thick with emotion. “I can’t leave. Not if he’s still alive.” His expression twists, pain flashing through his face like lightning across a stormy sky. His hands clench into fists, his whole body trembling, and for a moment, you think he might drop the knife. But he doesn’t. His jaw tightens. His breath shudders in his chest. “Why?” His voice is barely a whisper, but the agony in it cuts through you like a thousand knives. “Why is your revenge more important than your life?” You swallow hard, blinking back the tears burning in your eyes. “Because it’s all I have left.” The words hang in the air between you, suffocating. Heeseung stares at you, his face unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—they are shattered, hollowed out by something deeper than just heartbreak. His grip on the knife tightens.

“My mother deserved better than to die screaming, being torn apart” you whisper, voice shaking. “She deserved justice. And if I don’t do this—if I let him live—then I am nothing. I will have nothing.” Heeseung’s face twists with something you can’t quite name. And then, in a voice so low and broken it barely reaches your ears, he murmurs, “And what about me?” Your breath catches. “What am I to you, then?” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Am I nothing?” The tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, slipping silently down your cheeks. “You’re everything to me,” you choke out.

And it’s the truth. Heeseung’s face crumples. His shoulders shake. His entire body is wrecked with the weight of those words, of what they mean—of what they don’t mean. Because love isn’t enough. Not for you. Not for him. Your need to fight for your mother’s memory is stronger than the love blooming between you. And his duty—his oath—to protect his king is stronger than his love for you. It has to be. It has to be. Heeseung lets out a choked breath, somewhere between a sob and a broken laugh. He drags a hand through his hair, gripping at the strands like he’s trying to rip himself out of his own body, as if he can’t stand the weight of his own thoughts. “Tell me you hate me,” he whispers suddenly. You stiffen. “Tell me you used me.” His voice is thick, unsteady. “Tell me none of it meant anything, and I’ll—” He shakes his head, voice trembling. “I’ll let you go.” You squeeze your eyes shut. You could. You could say the words and make it easier for him. You could cut him open and make sure he never has to grieve you. You could turn him against you so he doesn’t have to hurt when this ends. But you’ve already hurt him enough.

You open your eyes, looking at the man who has made you question everything. The man who, against all odds, made you feel again. The man you love—but can never have. And you shake your head. “I won’t lie to you.” A tear slips down Heeseung’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. And then, after a long, shuddering breath, he lifts the knife once more.Not trembling this time. Not uncertain. Because if love isn’t strong enough to stop either of you—then neither is hesitation. The dagger slides between your ribs, sinking into your flesh with a slow, devastating finality. The pain is instant—white-hot, searing, an agony unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. But what truly breaks you isn’t the blade. It isn’t even the poison, creeping through your veins like liquid fire. It’s the look in Heeseung’s eyes. So devastatingly beautiful. So, broken. You broke him, you are exactly who you’ve always been. A monster. And you were going to die the death you deserved, in the arms of the man you loved but by the hands of the man you loved.

Tears stream down his face, his lips parted in silent devastation. His hands tremble as he lowers you gently to the ground, cradling you like you’re something fragile, like you aren’t already breaking apart in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice barely more than a breath. He presses his forehead against yours, his body shaking with grief. “I had to. I—I didn’t have a choice.” You can feel the poison sinking its claws into you, stealing the strength from your limbs, making it harder to breathe. The world around you begins to blur at the edges, fading like a dream unraveling into nothing. You reach up with what little strength you have left, your fingers curling over his. He’s still holding the dagger, his grip tight like he can’t bear to let go. Blood spills between your fingers, warm and thick, but you don’t care.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice weak, shaking. “This was the only way to stop me.” And it was the truth. You would only give him the truth. Heeseung lets out a broken sound, something between a sob and a gasp. His other hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you before you slip away. “I wouldn’t have stopped,” you confess, blinking through the haze clouding your vision. “You know that, don’t you?” You let out a sharp breath “Because-..because you know me.” You laugh a little, it's short and winded but it's a laugh and it was real. He nods, his shoulders heaving with every ragged breath. More tears slip down your face, mingling with the blood pooling beneath you. “You did the right thing.”

Heeseung flinches, his grip on you tightening like he can somehow keep you here. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.” his voice trembled, tears still falling from his eyes and down his cheeks. “But you did,” you insist, coughing as blood spills from your lips. You can taste the bitterness of it, the iron tang. “You did the right thing, Heeseung. I—I’m glad you did.” Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. The darkness is creeping closer now, curling around the edges of your vision, but you fight to keep your eyes open. Just for a little longer. Just to see him one last time. “I love you.” The words come out in a fragile whisper, but they are real. They are everything. A sob tears through him, raw and wrecked. He presses his lips to your forehead, his tears falling against your skin. “I love you too,” he breathes, voice shaking.

You smile, just barely. And then your body stills. Heeseung feels it the moment you slip away. The last breath leaving your lungs. The way your fingers relax, the light in your eyes dimming until there’s nothing left but the hollow, empty silence. His heart shatters. A broken, strangled cry rips from his throat, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you against him as if that will bring you back. His whole body shakes with grief, his face buried in your hair. The dagger is still in his hand. The blood is still warm. And the weight of what he has done—the weight of losing you—crushes him whole.

Epilogue.

Heeseung kneels before the king, head bowed, hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails threaten to pierce his skin. His face is carefully composed—stoic, unreadable—but inside, he is unraveling. “I failed, Your Majesty,” he says, voice low, heavy with carefully measured regret. “The witch is gone.” Silence falls over the throne room, thick and suffocating. The king’s fingers drum against the armrest of his gilded throne, his expression dark with fury. Heeseung does not flinch beneath his gaze, does not waver even as the weight of his own lie threatens to crush him.

“Gone?” the king finally echoes, his tone sharp. “How?” Heeseung lifts his head slightly, just enough to meet the king’s eyes without betraying the storm of emotions raging inside him. “By the time we reached the catacombs, she had vanished without a trace. The guards and I searched the tunnels, the corridors, the perimeter of the castle. There was no sign of her.” The queen scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “And you expect us to believe that a single witch, after all the effort she put into infiltrating our home, simply decided to flee?”

Heeseung forces himself to nod, his jaw tightening. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The king exhales sharply through his nose, his displeasure clear. He shifts in his seat, fingers stilling against the polished wood of his throne. “No trace at all?”

“No.” The lie tastes like ash on Heeseung’s tongue. The king curses under his breath before waving a dismissive hand. “Find her.” Heeseung bows his head again. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He doesn’t wait to be dismissed. He knows the conversation is over. The king is furious, but he believes him. Or, at the very least, he has no choice but to. Heeseung turns on his heel and strides out of the throne room, keeping his shoulders squared and his pace steady. Every step feels heavier than the last. Because the truth is buried deep beneath his feet.

The forest is quiet, the only sounds are the whisper of the wind through the trees and the distant calls of night creatures stirring from their slumber. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting silver light over the clearing. Heeseung stands at the edge of the earth he has disturbed, his breath unsteady as he looks down at the freshly turned soil. This was where the king had left her mother to rot. A shallow grave in an unmarked place. Forgotten, discarded like she was nothing. Heeseung couldn’t give her justice. He couldn’t save her. But he could give her this. He had carried her here himself, long after the dagger had stolen the last warmth from her body. He had cleaned the blood from her skin, brushed the hair from her face, whispered apologies that she would never hear. And then, with shaking hands, he had laid her to rest beside her mother. Not in an unmarked grave. Not forgotten. He had carved a name into the wood he placed at the head of the mound of earth. Not the name of the princess she had stolen, not the lie she had lived. Her true name.

The name that had been taken from her the night the king slaughtered her mother. Heeseung takes a shaky breath, sinking to his knees beside her grave. He presses a hand to the cold ground, his vision blurring. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words barely a breath. The wind moves through the trees, rustling the leaves like a sigh. Heeseung closes his eyes. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had never been born in this kingdom. That he had never sworn an oath to the king, never pledged his loyalty to a crown soaked in the blood of innocents. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had been brave enough to run away with her. But there are no second chances. No rewinding time. So he sits in silence, keeping vigil over the woman he loved, mourning the life they never got to have. And when the sun begins to rise, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Heeseung finally forces himself to stand. He does not say goodbye. Because he knows he will return. Because he knows he will never stop loving her. Because even in death, she is the only truth he has ever known.

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