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arcadiaisle · 3 days

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Chapter 2: Thorn The boy in my card

Word Count: 2,802 Rating: PG Summary: Briar Yui Discovers her card is a boy?!

Briar left the small card shop, her new card tucked safely into her jacket pocket as she wandered out of the town. She glanced around, soaking in her new surroundings, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the simple card she had just purchased. She pulled it out, turning it over in her hands, staring at the single word: "Rose." Curious and unsure of what it could do, Briar stepped to the side of the road and, with a hesitant breath, called out the card’s name.

“Rose!”

There was a sudden puff of smoke, and Briar waved her hand in front of her face, coughing as the thick cloud surrounded her. She squinted through the haze, expecting a flower, a perfume bottle, or maybe even some kind of effect to emerge from the card. Instead, a boy appeared. Not a monster, not a spell—an actual boy, about her age, though an inch shorter. Briar blinked in confusion, her eyes widening as the smoke cleared and she got a better look at him.

The boy had jet-black hair, peach-colored skin, and gold eyes that gleamed with an almost mischievous excitement. Briar noticed faint scars scattered across his body and clothes that seemed to fit a peasant's style, with a rose motif woven throughout his outfit. He was looking at her as though he’d just met an old friend. Briar, however, was anything but at ease.

“What the…?” she muttered, stepping back instinctively, her heart racing. She was expecting anything but a human figure to pop out of her card.

The boy smiled brightly, as if completely unfazed by her reaction. “It’s been a while since I’ve been outside. The game’s changed a lot,” he said, his voice filled with awe as he glanced around at the world beyond the card.

Briar frowned, backing up further. “Where did you come from?” she asked nervously. “What are you?”

The boy ignored her questions, continuing to take in his surroundings. Briar’s confusion deepened as she considered the possibility that he might be some kind of deity, a powerful being sealed within the card. Her mind raced with the thought of accidentally summoning something beyond her control.

She scrambled backward, trying to crawl away, but before she could get far, the boy appeared in front of her, his expression playful yet determined. “Where are you going?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Away from you!” Briar replied, her voice shaking. “I didn’t sign up for this! I bought a card, not a—whatever you are.”

He chuckled softly, his gold eyes twinkling with amusement. “You bought me,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m a powerful spell card, and you’re going to need my help.”

Briar shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest. “No, I didn’t. I bought a card that said ‘Rose,’ not a boy. And I definitely don’t need your help.”

The boy only laughed as Briar turned and ran. She sprinted through the small town and out into the wilds of the island, desperate to distance herself from the strange boy who had emerged from her card. Hours passed, and as the sun began to set, Briar found herself at the edge of a dense forest. She set up camp, sitting down to eat a meager meal, trying to calm her frayed nerves.

“I can just buy a new starter card tomorrow,” Briar muttered to herself. “I’ll forget all about this weird ‘Rose’ card.”

But as she took her first bite of food, the scent of her meal attracted unwanted attention. From the shadows, a group of rough-looking duelists emerged. They were older, tougher, and their intentions were clear. Bandits.

“Hand over your money, girl,” one of them growled, pulling out a jagged, rusted knife.

Briar’s heart dropped as she stood up, backing away slowly. “I don’t want any trouble,” she said, her voice shaking. “Just leave me alone.”

But the bandits weren’t interested in talking. One of them lunged forward, trying to snatch Briar’s bag, and she bolted. Her heart raced as she dodged between trees, but the bandits were faster, and soon she was cornered, trapped against the trunk of an enormous oak.

Just as the lead bandit reached out to grab her, a thunderous roar echoed through the forest. Briar looked up in horror as a massive, grotesque beast burst through the underbrush. It was covered in thick, thorny vines, its body twisting and writhing like a monstrous plant. The creature stood at least ten feet tall, its eyes glowing a deep crimson as it let out a menacing snarl. Its body was composed entirely of dark, thorn-covered branches that coiled and snapped like the tails of serpents.

The bandits froze in terror as the creature towered over them. One of them hesitated, their eyes wide with fear, but the leader sneered and drew a sword, its rusted blade glinting in the dying light. "It’s just a monster card," he muttered, trying to sound brave. "We can take it."

With a blood-curdling roar, the beast lunged at the attackers. Its thorny tendrils lashed out, whipping through the air like razors. The bandits barely had time to react as the first of them was slashed across the chest, his armor offering no protection against the razor-sharp vines. He screamed, dropping to the ground as the thorns tore through his clothing and skin. Another bandit tried to strike at the beast with his sword, but the creature's vines wrapped around the weapon, snapping it in two as if it were nothing more than a twig.

The bandits scrambled backward, their bravado crumbling as the beast unleashed its fury. One by one, they turned and fled into the woods, leaving their fallen comrades behind. The thorny creature didn’t give chase. Instead, it stood tall, its crimson eyes scanning the clearing before turning its gaze to Briar.

Panting, Briar tried to climb up a nearby tree, but her foot slipped, and she fell, hitting her head on a low-hanging branch. Dizzy and disoriented, she called out weakly for help, but before she could hit the ground, she was caught in the monster’s thorny arms. Its jagged exterior softened, the vines retracting as the beast began to shrink and transform.

To Briar’s astonishment, the creature’s body shimmered and morphed, until, standing before her once again, was the boy from before. He held her gently, his expression calm and composed as he lowered her to the ground.

“W-What just happened?” Briar stammered, her heart pounding in her chest. “Who… what are you?”

The boy grinned, brushing a hand gently across the bruise on her forehead. Where his fingers touched, small rose buds bloomed, soothing the pain. “You needed saving,” he said simply. “So I saved you.”

Briar blinked in confusion, still trying to process everything that had just happened. “Why? Why are you helping me?”

The boy smiled softly. “Because you’re my summoner now. And I think we’re going to make a great team.”

Briar stared at him, unsure of what to say. He brushed the dirt off her clothes, dusting her off before stepping back. “Your name’s Briar, right? That’s funny, ‘cause guess what?” He grinned wider. “My name’s Thorn.”

Briar’s cheeks flushed slightly as Thorn’s golden eyes twinkled with amusement. He gave her a small, playful bow, his rose-themed outfit swaying in the evening breeze. “I want to be your spiritual companion,” he declared, his voice full of confidence.

Briar hesitated, still unsure of what she had gotten herself into, but something about Thorn made her feel… safe. Maybe, just maybe, this strange boy could be the ally she never knew she needed.

Chapter 2: A New Bond

Briar and Thorn made their way to a quieter area of the forest to set up camp. Thorn, ever the gentleman, assisted Briar in walking as she was still sore from her earlier encounter. Briar, still in shock, sat down on a log, her cheeks flushed from both embarrassment and the earlier ordeal. Her mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

“How… how did you wind up in the Rose card?” Briar asked, trying to steady her voice. She glanced up at Thorn, who was busy gathering some fallen branches for their campfire. Thorn’s smile faltered slightly, a shadow of reluctance crossing his face.

“This game can get pretty dangerous,” he replied, his tone evasive. “That’s all I can say.”

Briar’s thoughts drifted back to the thorny beast Thorn had morphed into earlier. “And that thing back there,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “is that what you become?”

Thorn shrugged nonchalantly, plucking some flowers from his skin and removing the vines from his legs. “I can be. That form is known as the Tenebrose Beast. I told you I was a powerful card,” he said with a wink. He began weaving the flowers together, using the petals to gently wipe the blood and dirt from Briar’s face. Briar was still processing everything, and her confusion was palpable.

“Why… why did you say your name was Thorn?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“That’s right! Thorn Levy!” Thorn announced proudly, a wide grin on his face.

“Th-Thorn… why do you want to be my…” Briar hesitated, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. “Companion?”

Thorn moved closer, gently taking her hands in his. “Because you’re my Rose Princess!” he said with enthusiasm. Then he added more seriously, “Well, I don’t have many options, so I’ll take anyone as my summoner. I just want to be your favorite card, the one you call upon. That way, maybe one day… I can go home.”

Briar’s eyes widened. “Go home?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is… is there anything else?”

“No,” Thorn said with a sigh. “I just want to go home. Having a summoner who regards me as a spiritual companion helps.”

Briar swallowed hard, her mind racing with the implications. “Alright, then. If I accept you, will you help me win the game, get cards, duel, and all that?”

“Oh yes! Yes, I will!” Thorn said, standing up enthusiastically before her.

“Alright, what do I have to do?” Briar asked, reaching for her book to check her deck and where to place the card. “Is there a special place for the card?”

“Yes, but there’s something else,” Thorn said, sitting down next to her. He extended his palm, from which a delicate rose began to bloom. He plucked two petals and offered them to her. “If you consume a petal and I consume one, we’ll be bound to each other. This way, I’ll be able to assist you both in and out of battle without you needing to summon my card. I will protect you until the end, and in exchange, I’ll need your help to get home. Sound good?”

Briar hesitated. She didn’t entirely trust Thorn, but he had saved her life, and she was desperate to succeed. “Alright,” she said, “I’ll do it.”

Thorn chuckled softly and ate his petal, and Briar followed suit, swallowing it whole. As soon as she did, she felt a strange sensation. Her black hair began to turn a cloudy white. “What the…? What’s happening?” Briar exclaimed, tugging at her hair in confusion.

Thorn’s hair was changing in a similar fashion, matching hers. “Oh, it’s fine,” he said with a reassuring smile. “It’s just an indication of our bond now.”

Briar looked at him, still bewildered but trying to accept the new reality. “Alright, alright, that’s it, yeah?” she asked nervously. “It… it’ll take some getting used to, but it’s not too bad, I suppose…” She yawned, her exhaustion catching up with her.

Thorn, sensing his summoner’s fatigue, reached out and wrapped her in a blanket made of rose vines. To Briar’s surprise, the blanket was incredibly soft and free of any sharp thorns. “Here you go,” Thorn said gently. “You should get some rest. Don’t worry, I’ll watch over you while you sleep, Rose Princess.”

“H-Hey, don’t call me that,” Briar mumbled as she settled down, her voice barely audible. “It’s just Briar…”

Thorn’s smile widened as he sat nearby, keeping a watchful eye over her. “Goodnight, Briar,” he said softly. As she drifted off to sleep, the events of the day replayed in her mind, but for now, she felt a strange sense of security with Thorn by her side.

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year

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Ruined

|Jacques Le Gris x Fem!Reader|

Short Story

Summary: Once you come of age, you're sent to your brother-in-law's estate to find a husband. After months of deflecting and denying suitors, old and young, you encounter the dangerous squire Jacques le Gris.

Author's Note: Jacques le Gris is a rapist. No matter which point of view you look at, he is a rapist. I would also like to say that I personally hate him. He embodies everything I hate about men and victim blaming in the modern world. Still, at the same time, I am so incredibly enamored by him, primarily due to Adam Driver's acting. Initially, I didn't want to write this story, but it would not leave me alone. Without further ado, here is Ruined. I hope you enjoy it!

WARNINGS: Mentions of rape, period-accurate sexism, noncon elements, extremely toxic masculinity, orgy (non-participating), the reader is a virgin, slight blood play, violence, degradation (Jacques receiving), rough sex, Jacques is not nice until the end, sexual blackmail, unprotected sex, PIV.

(I wrote this story almost a year ago but realized I didn't publish it here for some reason. You'll definitely see how much my writing has changed for the better.)

The obnoxious noises of people chanting draw you out of your trance, sipping wine from a silver goblet periodically to drown everything out. These parties were never your favorite, but you came, observing the party-goers dancing drunkenly as if it was your duty to attend.

You roll your eyes as the crowd cheers, Count Pierre yelling above the rest, a woman on his lap, and bringing your gaze to where the sound is directed.

A young man with raven hair draped around his neck stalks towards a maiden, a smirk on his lips, untying his white tunic. His chest is broad, a sheen of sweat glittering on his skin in the candlelight. He would be so much more attractive if this were a different situation. You could even imagine yourself being the one to pleasure his cock. You roll your eyes, understanding the intentions of this whole charade.

"Jacques, my boy, get on with it," Pierre says, growing impatient with the lack of excitement.

He nods, making wide steps to the woman, circling a wooden table as she runs in the opposite direction he follows. You can't help the groan of distaste that releases, tilting the cup to your lips and turning away, not wanting to see the show.

How could anyone like this? It was blasphemous in the eyes of the Lord. Mary would be weeping for what her son's followers do for fun. You must mention this in your confession, receiving penance for witnessing hedonistic actions, drawing the sign of the cross, wiping the stray dribbles from your lips, and making room for your bed chamber.

Pierre sticks his leather boot out, nearly tripping you as you huff, putting your hands on your hips.

"Where are you going, sister," he questions. "The party has just begun."

Your lips curl into a snarl, your white teeth reflecting the flickers of light.

"It is quite late, my dear brother-in-law. I need to rest my weary body."

Pierre tucks his leg back, a wave of shock washing over you. He fakes a pout, his eyebrows scrunching with a wet lip out. You shake your head, disbelieving his ridiculous antics. Indeed, he wouldn't let you go that easily.

"Awe, my dear sister," he pats his free thigh, "won't you find your rest here on my lap?"

The room erupts with laughter, everyone watching the exchange unfold, wondering how this will end. Your stomach turns inside, revolted by your legal brother's detailed proposal in God's eyes. Hot words of hatred sear your tongue's end, begging you to be free, but you bite it. He was, after all, above you, gifting you a home while searching for a husband. You were indebted to him. Saying no was not an option. Your eyes meet Jacques, a look of surprise as if he never knew you were here in the first place— a typical man, keeping his head trained on one hole at a time.

Pushing all the bile and anger, you plaster a smile, accepting the offer and sitting across from the finely dressed lady. Pierre runs his calloused fingers along your spine, turning you into stone as you set your gaze on the floor.

Everyone's eyes had left except for one, the only pair you didn't want on you as you sat in defeat, cheeks fuming. Jacques was intense, his facial hair dusting around the hard line of his mouth, shining with the wetness of the wine. It almost seemed you were his prey now, not the maiden with the ornate burgundy dress. You had no intention of being hunted by him.

With the clap of Pierre's hands, the merriment commences again, Jacques halting for a split second before his pupils are set back to where they were before. The woman is shouting no, over and over again, excitement barely laced in it. Your heart went out to her, a feeling of protection for the circumstance. She had no choice in who fucked her; a status of nothingness gave men the right to do what they wanted. Your gender had just as much value as theirs. Breasts and warm heat should not matter.

The position in a society fueled the eternal flame of fury in your soul, always wanting to rebel and speak your truth, but the consequences of disrespecting a man were deadly. You were just as helpless as the woman being thrown over Jacques's shoulder and flipped onto the bed, held down by other waiting women.

A hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to watch the poor woman be soiled.

"Watch," Pierre commands, saying your name. "Watch him fuck her, and maybe you will learn how to be a good wife for your husband."

You clench your teeth, growling in protest as you watch Jacques enter her from behind. The iniquity of the sounds is enough to stir your core, but the cries of her protest ring louder, maybe laced with a hint of pleasure as the meat from the large feast threatens to exit your throat.

"Here." Jacques's voice was smooth, rolling out his chest like a baritone into your ears, caressing them. "Take some evil inside you," he says, aligning his hips with hers.

Your body jolts, either from the erotic sounds of his words or the disgusting act he was committing on her, as you put a hand over your mouth, jumping from your spot before Pierre can stop you. Incoherent noises were mumbling out of you as you ran to the doors, bursting them open with weight. The onlookers are quiet once more, waiting for a cue from the Lord. Jacques is the only one not paying attention, his vision trained on your retreating form as the girls giggle.

You order your handmaids to draw a bath, telling them to put as many herbs and oils to soothe your racing heart. They listened, bowing their heads in respect as they went off to do their respective duties, and you were in the scented waters in no time.

Take some evil inside you.

The words echoed in your brain, fuzzing all concise thoughts and morals. These parties were always like this, orgies were the most common, but they all seemed consensual. You never heard a woman shout no until tonight. Pierre ordered him to almost rape, teetering on dubiousness and assault.

Why would someone participate in that so willingly?

Jacques could say no and leave, not chase her around like an animal until he jumped on her. He was so attractive and sensual in his movements that even Christ would be shy.

You reached over the top of the tub, picking up the leather-bound book on the stand next to you, attempting to distract your mind from the man that was viciously pounding into as many women as he could in the other wing. A book of poems written in Latin was always your choice.

You had been lost in the pages for hours; the water had turned lukewarm and your skin pruney, but you were too focused as you felt the door slam. You jumped, nearly dropping it into the tub. You were surprised to find visitors, especially this late in the night. You lift your gaze with a quizzical raised brow. The person standing in your bathing room was Jacques Le Gris. You squeal, dipping into the water and covering your chest.

"What the Hell are you doing in here?" You nearly scream, forgetting your place.

He takes a few steps closer as you turn away more, his boots thudding, sending vibrations through the floor as he bends over, picking up your book. He reads the name aloud, almost like a question, and turns the pages, looking for a certain one. Jacques reads it aloud.

"Bibe mihi nisi oculis tuis et ego confirmo in oculis tuis." (Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine.) He says, eyes flickering to your submerged body. "Vel osculum sed in poculo relinque, et vinum non quaeram." (Or leave a kiss but in thine cup, and I'll not look for wine)

Your muscles relax as you listen to his voice. It sounds the same, but the feeling of it is so much better than before.

"Sitis, quae ex anima oritur, divinum potionem petit." (The thirst from the soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine.) You turn your body towards him, still covering your chest as you study his lips, how they pucker slightly, and his pink tongue touches his teeth.

Jacques begins to read the following line, but you interrupt him, having read this poem many times, as you peek over the side of the brass tub.

"Sed, ut potui, lovis nectare supponerem, Nolo tuum mutare." (But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.) He lowers his head a few inches above yours. His intense honey-brown eyes bore into yours.

"Sera tibi roseo misi, non tam honorante, quam ut spem dare non posset arescere." (I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, not so much honoring thee, as giving it a hope that there it could not withered be.) He reads the line, inching closer and closer.

You lick your lips, lifting yourself as you recite. "Tu autem ibi solus respirasti et mihi remisisti." (But thou thereon did'st only breathe, and sent'st it back to me.)

"Cum crescit et olet, non per se, sed te." (Since when it grows and smells, I swear, not of itself, but thee.)

Jacques closes the book with a slight slap, the tip of his prominent nose gliding across yours as your mouth parts for him. He closes his eyes, leaning in.

"Take some evil inside you."

You pull back, standing in the tub quickly as the water splashes out. Jacques's face turns pale at your rejection, embarrassment clouding his mind. You turn your back to him, grabbing a large towel.

"You know, Sir Le Gris, that poetry would sound heavenly if it wasn't for your filthy mouth." You flip your hair over your shoulder, bending slightly to wring the water out as you hear Jacques approach.

Fear stuns you for a moment, freezing, unsure of what to do or where to go because you know he will not take no for an answer if he reaches you. Suddenly, you spot a mounted dagger over the fireplace. You stroll as if you planned to walk over all along. He catches up in no time, pinning you to the stone, his form pressed into your back as he buries his nose in your neck, sniffing. You try not to cringe, even though everything in your body tells you to do so. You can't show him you're afraid.

"Would you like to rub my oils on Sir Le Gris?" You try to hide the tremble in your voice, staying frozen in place.

"Mmm," he moans, "I would love to." He moves away from you, finally giving you the chance to breathe.

"They are over there." You point to the shelf with glass bottles and vials as he nods. Turning his back on you, you reach for the dagger, silently prying it off the display. "You can pick whatever oil you want, Sir."

Jacques studies each one, popping off the corks and glass lids, smelling them until he finds something he enjoys, and walks back over. He opens the bottle, the smell of roses wafting in the air as he pours some out into his hands, massaging your neck.

If this was any other circumstance, you might adore basking in it, but it isn't. You're with a man who has no concept of consent, a man who would bend you onto the hearth and fuck your weeping body. He reaches down to your shoulders, halting when he feels your resistance on the cloth; not letting him remove it, he overpowers you, pushing it down. You clutch the dagger closer to your bare chest as his fingers glide down your biceps and back, slick with the oil.

"You are so stiff, my sweet."

You shudder at the endearment, trying to relax your tense muscles. Jacques's hand travels down your chest, encompassing the small flat area as his fingertips touch the top of your breast.

"Stop," you command with a flat voice. Jacques ignores you, continuing to massage your intimate parts.

You turn around, flying at lightning speed, and put the dagger's tip to his throat, only enough to draw a trickle of blood.

"When a woman says stop, you stop, Jacques. When a woman says no, you listen." The words fly out of your mouth, anger for seeing the filthy action he committed on that woman from the party.

His lack of terror frustrates you. Even with a knife to his throat, he radiates arrogance. You push him backward across the room, still at his throat, pinning him to the large wooden door. He stands there in surprise, his arms up in surrender, more startled than afraid.

"I could end your life in a second, you scoundrel, yet you show no fear."

Jacques laughs. He laughed dark and deep, his perfectly crooked teeth sparkling as his Adam's apple bobs. You slide the blade with your neck craned; the edge is now piercing. Your face scrunches with fury bringing your knee up to his stomach, causing him to laugh more, slightly doubled over.

"Do you have such a low view of women that you take it in jest when they threaten your life?" You spit. His joy subsides a bit, chest still slightly bouncing.

If you slid the blade across his neck at this moment, his throat would slit, spilling his tarnished blood on your naked body, yet he still doesn't seem to care. His eyes travel down you, still damp from the bath. You slam his shoulder into the door with your fist, trying to assert dominance over him, not allowing him to look. You suppose this is a precarious pose, leg hiked up, hand on his shoulder, giving him perfect access to your womanhood.

Your stance falters at the thought, Jacques taking it as the perfect opportunity to grab you. The blade slides across his arm, flinching for just enough time to run, but he grabs you at the waist, the soles of your feet sliding across the stone floor. You yelp as he flings you over his shoulder, your legs and arms kicking as you scream for him to stop. He doesn't listen, opening the door to your bed chamber and throwing you down on your mattress.

Your body displays perfectly for him, with a slight sheen on your flush body. He devours the sight of you, ripping off his sweat-stained tunic as you push yourself off the sheets and away from him, running towards the exit. Jacques cuts you off, hunched over in a stance that resembles the one at the party, his arms out. You step to the side, and he mirrors it. You step to the other, and the same thing happens again.

"If you run, I will only chase you," he says with a predator's grin.

You look around desperately for anything to help you escape him. You spot a candle stick, sprinting to it, knocking the lit wax onto the floor as it rolls to Jacques's feet; his boot steps on it, snuffing the flame.

"Oh, my darling, you must be careful. You wouldn't want to cause a fire. Our fun might end." His voice is condescending as he stalks you.

"I will set this whole castle on fire before I ever have fun with the likes of you, swine."

A glob of spit flies out of your mouth, landing on his cheek. The pads of his fingers touch it, wiping it on them and bringing them to his mouth, sucking. He hums, popping them from his lips with a smile.

"You taste so sweet." He closes the space between you. "I would shun Jove's cup away every chance if it meant I could taste your nectar instead."

You grip the brass candle stick tightly, offended that he would reference a poem so dear, ready to swing at any moment. Jacques notices, smiling to himself. Your legs rub together at his words, a mind of their own.

His lips crash on yours, destroying any thought that you might not want this, and you drop your weapon, wrapping your fingers in his raven locks. You can feel him grin, happy to have won, his hand lacing itself on your neck.

You part for air as Jacques spins you around, sliding his other hand down your body to your aching mound, parting the wet folds with his digits. You gasp at the contact, your knees buckling as his grip holds you up.

"For a lady who put up so much of a fight, you are impossibly weak under my touch," he mocks, relishing his victory.

You glare at the wall with the brutal honesty of his words. You didn't put up much of a fight when his mouth finally met yours, even dropping your only form of protection.

"Silence." You demand, not wanting to hear any more of his taunts.

An exploratory finger glides over a sensitive spot on your heat, causing you to gasp and grip Jacques's trousers. He swipes over it, and you cry out at the foreign sensation, panting. You can feel the pride radiate from his demeanor at seeing your weakness, slowly rubbing circles on the bud.

You have never felt like this before, being taught never to explore that private area of your body, leaving it only for your husband to use. This pleasure wasn't something that society taught you. Yes, you watched many people fornicate at Count Pierre d'Alençon's gatherings but never allowed yourself to participate. He would have loved it if you did, but you had one duty to attend: finding a husband.

It was already so tricky finding anyone you could stomach, all the suitors decrepit and at death's door. You wanted to marry for love when you were younger. The idea of a fairytale romance clouded your eyes as a child, but once you bled for the first time, you were sat down and told of your duties. Accept whatever man had the most money, influence, or power and fill your stomach with his kin. But you wanted something else. The suitors also knew it, as you destroyed any notion of a small and obedient wife.

At times you were sure Pierre would throw you out as you brushed off and disrespected every man that came, but some of you knew he liked the entertainment. If only he could see you now.

Naked and moaning like a whore as Jacques assaulted your heat with his fingers, you loved the sinfulness of it all, Jacques breathing heavily into your ear as he worked you like a loom, rubbing in circles as pressure began to build in your stomach. Your hips were moving, seeking more friction. You can't control your body, the lust of the devil taking over your mind, a he kept touching that exact spot.

It was so intense, the new feeling, almost too much, you wanted to scream obscenities and thrash around, but he held you firm. Your toes curled as you stomped on the ground, a wave of ecstasy crashing into you as you screamed. Your body caved in on itself as you struggled in Jacques's grip, still rubbing the used nub. You twitched and spasmed as the aftershocks of your high jolted through your body, mumbling to yourself.

"It's-it's too much. Please. Stop." You beg as tears form from the overstimulation.

Jacques shushes you with kisses along your face, calming his fingers slightly, and you breathe a sigh of relief, head dropping as his hand still chokes.

"Have you ever experienced this before, a man's touch?" He whispers seductively, nose burying in your hair.

You're too dazed to think of a witty retort, Jacques pulling your consciousness away.

"No. I have to save myself."

"For who?" Jacques asks, removing his paws from your naked skin.

"My husband." You answer plainly.

Some of you have always wanted to explore your features this way, but you are always too scared, never taking the risk. You felt they would know what you had done by the look on your face, throwing you to live with pigs for the rest of your life. He chuckles at your lack of restraint, happy to have brought your defenses to a standstill as he slowly sways you to the bed, closing your eyes. You think he might leave you there, tucking you in for the night. You wouldn't protest with your achy limbs.

"You're still intact?"

You shoot up, eyes wide, as you realize what will happen. What?" That is all you manage to say, scared to admit the truth. Maybe if you didn't, he would lose interest and leave.

He rests his knees on the bed, your legs between his as he repeats.

"You are still intact?"

"Sir le Gris, I beg you to leave my chambers." Your voice weavers, sobering up, trying to keep a modicum of strength.

You slide off the bed, Jacques grabbing and flipping you as you swipe the candle stick from the floor. He crawls over the top, dragging his hair along your back as you feel his hands dip the bed, stick biting into your chest.

"I will ruin you for every man," Jacques whispers, face centimeters away from your ear, his facial hair tickling your skin as he peppers kisses along your neck.

The logical part of your brain wanted to stop this, realizing that you would fail if your future husband wanted to see if you were still a virgin. They'll declare you a whore, a harlot, sabotaging every suiter who enters the door. With your personality, you knew that your virtue would appeal more than money to them, and Jacques Le Gris would take it away. But the way his lips delicately kissed your skin, his hair lightly stroking it, taking the words out of your mouth as he reached your hips.

He removed his body from yours, shucking his black trousers onto the floor. You grip the candle stick tighter. This was your chance to fight back, stopping him from taking your only decent quality in man's eyes, but you didn't. You just lay there, waiting patiently for him.

A part of you wanted this, to know what it felt like and to discard any chance of finding a betrothed. You couldn't be tied to domestics, organizing feasts, caring for little ones, and then laying down to a man you could never love. It would be pure Hell, and you could not accept that. You would rather die alone without your honor than live a day under a man's boot.

Jacques grips your hips again, pulling you towards the edge of the mattress, legs hanging off the end as he spits on his shaft, stroking it. You turn your head to take a peak. The length is impossible; you had never seen one this long or wide, glistening with his seed at the tip. He catches you staring, smirking at your shocked expression, glad to have finally put you in your place.

He positions himself at your entrance, rubbing his hands on your ass almost gently as he pushes into the hilt. You scream, silencing it into the blankets as he pulls out, only to slam back in again. Tears burst from your eyes at the blinding pain of being stretched, his blatant disregard for your comfort.

"Jacques, it-it hurts." You beg, body shaking, the salty streams of water cascading down your face and into your mouth. "Please, slow down."

Your trembling voice breaks him from his trance, realizing he can't treat you the way he does with other women, not if both of you were to enjoy it. He pulls out, turning your body, seeing your tear-stained face and the candle stick you had been hiding, throwing it off to the side. Jacques smirks, proud to have won your mercy. He didn't know how long he would worry about you trying to kill him. He was proud of the magic his cock could work, but he didn't think it was that powerful, willing someone as strong and aggressive as you into submission. He bent over your body, kissing you, sucking on your lips gently, as your fingers combed threw his hair.

"I'm sorry, my darling, I should have remembered you are not like the rest. So fragile and delicate." He smiles, getting a waft from the oil he put on you earlier. "Like a rose. Ma rose. Beautiful and elegant, but if you aren't wise, she will prick you with her thorns."

You're sure his terms of affection come from pure physical attraction, trying to calm you so he could get back to fucking you like a rabbit. But the feeling that crept into your bones and heart at his words wanted to tell you something different.

He slowly drags them across your velvet walls, relishing in the tiny moans and whines he pulled from your chest. This time, his hand went down to your womanhood, using your juices to coat his fingers before he slid in, stretching you but not as comprehensively as his cock. You gripped onto the arms that caged you, your fingernails digging into the toned muscles as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck, softly biting the flesh.

You felt your peak rising quickly as he stroked you with curled fingers, your heat clenching and twitching around him. Jacques didn't need you to say anything to know you were close. Your body told him everything he needed as he quickly exited before your climax, ignoring your protests. He brought the digits to his mouth, coated in blood and nectar as he sucked, eyes rolling back at the tangy taste.

You watched in awe as his tongue licked it, dipping into all the crevices. He leaned down, hesitating momentarily as he reached your lips before you parted them and then dove in, mixing the taste of you and him. You moaned through your nostrils, eyelids fluttering as your tongues danced together, wrapping your legs around his waist. You were tired of waiting now that he showed you what sex could feel like, frustrated by its denial. You pulled his hair, tugging his face away as you looked into his hazel-brown irises.

You had never been this close to Jacques to appreciate his beauty truly; the freckles and moles dotted his cheeks and around his nose. He almost looked like the Roman statues you had seen in books, with his face and body chiseled from stone.

"Please," you whispered on his damp skin, "I need you inside me."

Jacques had waited for those words his entire life, eyes rolling back at the wave of arousal he got from them. He positioned his cock at your abused mound again, sliding in slowly as he watched your expression.

It was painful again, tensing and scrunching as he held back the best he could, bottoming out. The feeling of him so impossibly deep made you gasp. You were sure he was in your guts. You slowly ground your hips against him, trying to seek the pleasure you now knew he could give you. He smiled at your eagerness, happy to have turned the stiff woman into a puddle in his hands.

He finally gave you what you wanted, pulling back and sliding back in. Your walls finally adjusted to his overall size, welcoming him in. Like earlier, he worked that sweet spot inside you, stoking the fire smoldered inside into a small flame. You wanted more now that you realized what was possible, snatching his body close to yours as you angle your hips up, inviting him to go the pace he wanted. And Jacques did, slamming into your body as he fucked you deeply, breasts bouncing from the force.

You moaned loudly, head rolling to the side as the pleasure took over, Jacques wrapping a large palm around your throat again to hold you in place.

"Oh Lord," you shouted, "please forgive me. Now that I know of this sinful ecstasy, I may never stop."

Jacques smiled, happy that he ruined and corrupted you like he said he would, a new wave of primal desire controlling him. He yanks you to the end of the bed again, slamming your body into him as he stands upright, grabbing your waist and fucking into you as hard as he can, gritting his teeth.

You pant, excited by the new position he thrusts into rapidly, the now familiar pressure quickly building in your stomach.

"I am going to ruin you for every man." Jacques reiterates from before. "So, when your husband is fucking you like an untrained dog, all you will think of is me."

His black mop of hair sticks to his sweaty forehead as he continues pumping into you, holding himself back until you climax for him. He hikes your leg over his shoulder, pistoning in you impossibly deeper, hitting the same spot repeatedly until you snap. Your vision goes white as you arch your back, screaming at the bursting pleasure in your stomach. Jacques grins, proud to have you writhing under him as he spills inside you, seed filling up your hole as you both continue panting.

Jacques pumps into you carefully, slowly riding your highs together as your pulse slows, breathing calmly. His hand slowly snakes its way to yours, hooking a cautious pinky. He pulls out, gently dropping your leg as he collapses beside you, spent from the activities together, staring up at the ceiling.

His digit is vast compared to yours, the size of your index, as he takes the invitation to wrap all of them under your plan, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. You stare at him, an eyebrow raised at the unexpected display of affection.

"Thank you for giving yourself to me, ma rose. For letting me have your virtue." You look down at the intertwined hands and then at his face, skeptical, seeing his sincere expression.

"You are welcome," you giggle. "Though I always imagined it would be my husband, now I don't think I need one for that anymore."

Jacques laughs, a naturally bellowing whole-body one, and shakes his head.

"With all due respect, my lady, I don't think you needed me to show you that." You mirror his emotions, silently agreeing with him as he gets up, searching for the lost garments during your adventures.

You attempt to stand, legs faltering as pain shoots through your core, using the bed for balance. Luckily, Jacques is in the bathing room collecting his tunic as you walk over to the candle and holder, putting them back.

Cold, wet fabric on your back causes you to jump, turning around to see Jacques fully clothed with a wash rag in hand. You wince at the freezing temperature of it, grabbing his wrist. You look at him perplexed as he leads you back to the bed, parting your legs as he drags them across your core, cleaning up the dried blood and fluids.

"I can do that, Sir." You protest, uncomfortable with the amount of concern he is showing you.

"I know you can." He chuckles to himself, shaking his head, and continues. You don't stop him, letting the man care for you this time.

Once he's done, you reach for the cloth to discard, but he yanks it out of the way, folding it and stuffing it in a pocket. You put your hands on your hips, shaking your head.

"And what are you going to do with that le Gris?" You ask in an admonishing tone.

"Oh, this?" He questions, feigning innocence. "This is just for me... and any other suiter who decides to court you."

Your face pales, your playful expression dropping as you go to grab for him, his body surprisingly fast for the bulk of it. You try again, and he expertly dodges towards the door.

"Give it back, Jacques," you demand, done with his games.

He smiles and shakes his head, patting where the tainted fabric is stored. You reach for it once more as he opens your bed chamber door and slips out, shutting it on your naked body. He knows you can't leave, or everyone will see you; although some might be pleased, you still stay inside, pounding on the door as you yell his name.

***

You sit silently at the table with Count Pierre d'Alençon and his wife, your sister, eating the day's first meal. You needed that after last night, still fuming after what Jacques did.

That damn scoundrel.

Pierre puts his knife down with a "clang," causing your sister and you to perk up, expecting an explanation for the sound as he wipes his lips.

"Jacques le Gris came to my chamber last night," he begins. A lump forms in your throat as you freeze, terrified about what his following words would be."I found it very odd, him being here that late after the party, but nevertheless, he said it was necessary."

Indeed Jacques didn't blast Pierre about what you did last night; he already had proof enough that he didn't need to say anything.

"You came up in the conversation, my dear sister," he says as he points a jeweled finger.

You swallow, plotting all the terrible things you will do to Jacques the next time you see him.

"He proposed a marriage to you."

You drop all your silverware on the floor, face in shock at the reveal. Jacques has already ruined all chances of future courtiers, even going a step further and ruining your prospects of freedom. Why the Hell would he do that?

"I, of course, said that he would have to follow the process like any other man. He would get no special treatment just because he is my friend."

He steals your virtue and now your only chance of freedom.

"What do you say, my dear sister?" He asks, ripping your mind for your thoughts.

You stare blankly, unsure how to respond to something as ridiculous as that and clear your throat.

"Jacques le Gris is like all of the men from before and will be like all of the men after," you reply.

Pierre smiles at your answer, happy to know the two most headstrong, fiery people he knows will go toe to toe. This will be a duel for the ages.

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