#golden rose clasp

[aiuredsworld]

Draco turned to let Harry see better, only to feel Harry's fingers sliding carefully through the light strands

“Here, it'd be easier if someone else does it”

————————————————————————————-

Excerpt from: Draco Malfoy and the House of Black

by starbrigid https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111171

[rainy-day-gracie]

- wedding night -

A Venus & Mars mini series

pairing: General Acacius x virgin!wife!Reader

content warning(s): reader insert, no use of y/n, arranged marriage, implied age gap but nothing specific, oral (f recieving), fingering, loss of virginity, piv sex, innocence kink, self indulgent praise kink, Acacius definitely talks you through it, discussions of consent because consent is sexy mandatory, discussion of future sexual acts, AFTERCARE because aftercare is hot, general acacius is in loooooove but doesn't know it yet haha, romantic and intimate as hell, grievous historical inaccuracy because it's fucking fanfiction, canon divergent because duh

a/n: So guys. I saw Gladiator II and it was awesome and Pedro Pascal is the sexiest man alive (in my heart). However, this character's name is not Marcus. I don't know who lied, but we've all been fooled. So in this sequel, the general's name is just Acacius in order to stay at least a little bit true to the actual canon.

I definitely will be writing for these two again because holy shit I made this romantic and I love them so much.

Read wedding day here!

Read bloodlust here!

---

Acacius saw heaven in your eyes, a piece of salvation he never thought he might be able to grasp with his blood-stained hands.

He glanced down your body, wrapped beautifully in your white wedding gown, gold jewelry shining in warm candlelight. For a moment, he wondered Venus herself were tricking him with her immortal seduction.

But the blush of red in your cheeks, the shine of desire in your eyes, the beat of your heart in your chest....

No immortal possibly could mimic such evidence of true, temporary, and precious life.

Acacius had been with plenty women in his lifetime, had thought he understood what desire was.

I want you, you had said.

Now, he thinks he's only scratched the surface.

---

The general-- Acacius -- peered at you like a starving man at a feast, drinking you in, turning the wheels in his head of what he wanted to do first.

He grasped your hand in both of his, studying the golden band on your ring finger. Evidence of your gods-blessed union.

"I want to see you wearing nothing.... except for this," Acacius breathed, his voice low, and dreamy, like the words were slipping from him with no control.

"I'd like that very much," you said, trying to keep your hand from trembling under his touch.

"May I strip you bare, darling?" He asked, calloused fingertips fiddling with the clasp on your golden bracelet.

"Yes."

Instantly, the bracelet fell, and then the other, and then the other. Acacius' gentle touch drove you wild, methodical and sure. He stopped for a moment, glancing at the purity ring on your pinky, and smirked in a way that nearly made your knees buckle.

Glancing back up to your gaze, he held your stare as he pulled the purity ring off. His lips were a hairsbreadth away from yours, letting you smell the sweet cherry wine on his breath.

"Kiss me," you mumbled.

Acacius' smirk remained. "Patience, darling."

He tucked the purity ring into a pocket of his tunic, and turned you around, so your back pressed against his chest. A sigh caught in your throat, realizing he had turned you both to face the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom.

"Answer me honestly," he said, trailing one of his knuckles down the exposed skin of your spine. "Have you ever touched yourself?"

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you shivered at his light touch. "Uh..."

"Don't you lie to me, now. It's a great sin to lie to your husband," he whispered, his teeth nipping lightly at your ear.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I- I've touched myself. I've touched... my..."

"Your cunt?" Acacius mused.

You nodded, your chest rising heavily.

"Did you… like it? When you touched yourself?"

"N-no. I've been told it is not ladylike, to... pleasure yourself in that way."

Acacius kissed the back of your neck, making you arch into his touch. "Oh, my poor darling... there's nothing more ladylike in the world. Don't worry... I will show you how."

A full whimper escaped you at that, and Acacius undid the knots of your dress with a chuckle.

The dress fell, leaving you in only your loincloth, tied at your waist. But Acacius was looking at something else.

His eyes were transfixed on your perked breasts, his mouth slightly open as he wrapped one of his hands around the soft flesh. A high-pitched sigh left your throat, and he reached around with his other hand to take hold of the other breast.

"Do you like it when I hold you like this?" Acacius murmured, his mouth at your temple. He twitched his fingertips to pinch your nipples softly, making you close your eyes in pleasure. "Look at me."

Snapping your eyes open again, he stared you down in the mirror with a small devilish grin. He pinched your breasts again, pulling an answer from you. "Yes, Acacius."

"Good girl," he praised, your cunt throbbing at the words. He let go of your breasts, untying the cloth at your hips until you were utterly bare before him, save for your wedding ring. "Lie down on the bed, darling."

He brushed a palm over your plush backside, guiding you towards the beautiful linen bed. Plenty big for two.

You obey with a shy smile, sinking into the blankets and pillows like you were always meant to fit there. Watching from your comfortable bed, Acacius loomed over the foot, undoing buttons on his tunic, and ties on his robes.

Your lips parted slightly as he exposed the tan, scarred skin of his chest, flickering candlelight bathing him in a warm glow. He studied your expressions like a hawk, watching for any sign of discomfort or displeasure.

As he unlaced the toga and loincloth, leaving him as bare as you were, you had to keep yourself from gasping.

His cock hung heavily between his legs, not even fully aroused but still bigger than anything you had anticipated. He wrapped a hand around his manhood, smirking at your expression, but mercifully saying nothing about it.

“I am curious, my wife,” Acacius began, his voice a rumble. He pulled himself onto the marriage bed, caging you in the sheets with his arms and legs straddling. His eyes never left yours. “What did they say about me? When you learned of our union, what whispers crossed your ears?”

You licked your lips, speaking suddenly a challenge. “Um, that you w-were brave…”

Acacius leaned down, pulling one of your legs over his broad shoulders.

“…and strong…”

He mirrored the motion with your other leg, leaving your weeping cunt exposed.

“…a-and…”

Acacius paused, waiting for your answer. “And?”

“General, I shouldn’t speak ill…” you moaned, wondering if one could combust with desire.

“Tell me the truth, darling. Or you won’t get what you so eagerly want.”

“Th-they said you were cruel,” you stammered, desperately, any wall of self preservation coming down. “They said you took anything you desired, washed your hands with blood, and violence was the only language you spoke. Your rage eclipses that of Achilles, and your eyes blacken every time you raise a banner. You are of Mars himself, shedding blood like you were born to it.”

Acacius’ smirk from between your legs was wicked, and he broke your gaze for the first time since lying on the bed.

He studied your open cunt with a glazed expression, like he was lost in the pleasure of staring at your slick desire.

“If I am of Mars then you are of Venus, my darling.”

His words filled you with affection, the way his knees bent on the bed almost like he was worshiping an altar between your legs.

“So pure…” he murmured, as if the words had slipped from his lips.

Your back arched like a bow as he licked a stripe up your soaking slit, sighs escaping from your throat.

Acacius hummed with delight, fucking you on his tongue lazily, drinking your desire like nectar of the gods.

You buried your hands in his hair hesitantly, unsure of what would be pleasing to him. In all the times you eavesdropped on the married women of the court, never once had they mentioned anything like… this. Never once had they mentioned any of the overwhelming pleasure racking every limb of your body. Never once had they mentioned the lightning erupting over your skin with every brush of his calloused palm.

Acacius trailed his hands down your arched torso, cupping your breasts as his mouth traced patterns over your cunt. Your breathy moans made him chuckle into your flesh, the vibrations making you lift your hips with pleasure.

Throbbing built in your pussy, clenching around his tongue as your desire jumped at every brush of his lips.

“A-Acacius, gods…” you cried out, throwing your head back as a pinnacle raced towards you.

“Relax, my darling,” Acacius breathed, bringing one of his hands down to rest at your soft inner thigh. “I’m going to put my hands on you now.”

“Oh, please,” you begged, unsure of what it was you were begging for.

“Tell me if it becomes too much,” Acacius said, and his hand on your thigh moved.

The gentle brush of his rough fingertips on your slick folds had you gasping anew, pulling lightly on the locks of his hair.

“Such a pretty cunt,” Acacius mumbled to himself. “I have half a mind to just keep you like this.”

You whined in protest, your hips chasing his touch.

“So needy for a virgin.”

You threw your head back as his finger pushed past your slick folds, reaching spots inside of yourself that you hadn’t known existed.

“Oh, so tight, my love. You truly are pure.” Acacius curved his finger, brushing against something spongy, and sensitive. A guttural moan escaped your throat, and he laughed softly. “When the pleasure peaks, do not fight it. Let it take you away, somewhere only you and I exist.”

You nodded at his command, closing your eyes as your head sunk into the linen pillows.

Unrestrained cries erupted from you as he pulled his finger out, and in, and out again, hitting that sweet spot with every push inside of your aching cunt.

When he pressed his tongue to the bud at the top of your core, he pushed a second finger deep into your slick, making you wonder if the gods truly did become man. The stretch of his fingers pricked a pain deep within, making you clench tighter around his calloused fingertips. A slight brush of his rough facial hair against your core was your ultimate undoing.

You called out his name as the pleasure rushed down your spine, into your belly, and built in your desperate cunt. He knew it, too, and continued to thrust his fingers deep inside with renewed enthusiasm. His tongue licked against your clit with hunger, tipping you over the edge.

Cries escaped your lips as the pleasure overwhelmed you, every muscle in your body going taut as the desire took over. Your cunt clenched tightly, chasing his fingers, and your spire curved with tension as the wave of lust claimed you.

Acacius watched with a lazy smile as your core squeezed with your orgasm, evidence of your desire dripping off his lips.

“Acacius… Acacius…” you breathed as the climax subsided, your body relaxing into the bed once more.

“How do you feel, darling?” Acacius asked, crawling back up to press his nose against yours. His brown eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with adoration.

In place of an answer, you buried your hands in his curly, soft hair, pressing his lips to yours. He responded instantly, capturing your mouth with the passion of love and war.

His tongue pushed against yours, pure want seeping from every brush of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hands cupped your hips gently, like he was making sure you were a solid thing he could hold in his hands. Like he was worried you might slip through his fingers.

“I want more,” you whispered against his mouth, and he nodded with his eyes closed, like he was dreaming.

“It will hurt for a moment, but I will be gentle with you,” Acacius breathed, trailing light kisses against your throat. “Tell me when there is pain, or if you wish to stop.”

You nodded against his temple, and he pulled his lips back instantly.

“Say you want me, darling. Say you will tell me to stop if you wish.”

The intensity in those brown eyes, the desperation, had you squirming with desire once again.

You held his face in your hands, tracing your thumb against his rough stubble, studying him.

Acacius' nose was utterly Roman, looking like it had possibly been broken once or twice. Every mark on him was evidence of a man that had seen the Underworld and walked away, but not without a few scars to show for it. Though he had been nothing but gentle with you, there was no doubt he could live up to his reputation of bloodletting.

Still, you held him close.

"I want you, Acacius. I will tell you to stop if I wish to." There was no hesitation, no tremor in your voice.

He sighed in relief, reaching down to his hard cock and bringing it between your legs. You whined at the sensitive touch, and he grunted at the slickness of your folds.

"So wet for me, darling, so perfect," he moaned in your ear, guiding the soft flesh of your thighs to wrap around his hips.

Tentatively, he rubbed his cock up and down your core, getting you accustomed to the blunt feeling. You whined breathlessly, near begging for him to fuck you already.

"Patience, darling. I need to go slow to not hurt you," he mumbled.

The blunt head of his cock pushed past your sensitive folds, and you dug your nails into the strong muscles of his back.

Acacius let out a guttural groan into the heated skin of your neck. "So wet, and tight."

You called his name like a prayer, your head tossed back in pain and pleasure. Over and over again, you called his name.

"A little more, easy, easy..." Acacius moaned, pushing further into your virgin cunt.

You cried out in pinching desire. "S-so much, Acacius..."

"I know, darling. We're halfway there."

You held tight to him, his rough hands on your soft skin distracting you from the stretch of your cunt around his cock. "H-halfway?"

Acacius chuckled, holding still inside of you to let you adjust. "You feel... divine. So, so perfect, my sweet wife."

A high pitched moan escaped you as he pulled back slightly, kissing your neck as he pushed farther in. You clenched around him, and his lips on your clammy skin sent a fresh wave of lust panging though you.

But Acacius stopped, and you gasped in pain again, as if he had hit a barrier in your core he couldn't push past. You knew he could bottom out if he so wanted, but not without tearing you deeply.

Instead of pushing forward, he stayed where he was inside of you, tracing his nose along the curve of your jaw.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost like he didn't mean for you to hear his words.

"Do you want to know what I want, darling?"

You were too breathless to answer.

Acacius continued. "I want to fuck you so well that all of Rome hears you calling my name. I want to mark you with my mouth so you may look in the mirror and think only of me. I want fall to my knees and thank the gods that gave you to me. But for now, my darling... I want you to come on my cock with your most divine cunt."

Your cunt, as if on command, fluttered, and you moaned as he was able to fill you to the hilt without a pinch of discomfort.

"Oh, yes," Acacius whispered, his tongue darting out along your pulse point. You cried out in pleasure as he shifted inside of you, holding tight to his strong back.

"You... are... perfect, darling," he panted, thrusting slowly, in and out, in and out. "So warm, and tight..."

"Acacius, please..."

"Please... what?" Acacius teased, biting your bottom lip slightly as he pushed back into you.

"More... more," you said, digging your nails into the muscles of his shoulders.

Acacius responded in kind, chuckling at your desperation. "As my lady commands."

His thrusts into your aching cunt deepened, becoming harder as you grew needy for his strength. You tossed your head back with a high-pitched cry when he was able to hit that perfectly sensitive spot inside of you, and the reaction made him even more ravenous for you.

"Oh, you take my cock so well," Acacius praised, the words making your cunt clench around him. "So, so good, my darling."

As if he knew what you needed before you did, he pulled his chest away from yours, sitting up on his knees while thrusting into you. He looped his wide arms underneath your spread legs, angling you upwards on his thighs and pulling your hips up off of the bed. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you arched your back off the sheets with a shriek of delight.

"Acacius, Acacius," you cried out, the new angle sending him deep into your core, hitting spots you hadn't even known existed.

"That's it, say my name," Acacius said with a smirk. "Say my name when I fuck you, tell all of Rome who is making you feel this good."

You couldn't stop, the falling of his name from your lips dripping like sweet honey. All you could feel was the sweat of his skin against yours, the calloused of his hands as they gripped your soft thighs closely, and the depths of your core his cock was able to reach.

"You're going to cum for me," Acacius ordered, his words coming out in pants of breath. "You're going to cum for me, because you're a good girl. You're a good girl, aren't you? Letting me fuck her virgin cunt so nicely, such a good girl..."

At his praise, your cunt tightened around his cock, back arching like a bow. As you came, he pressed a calloused hand into the flesh above your pelvis, the pressure making your high all the more intense. You cried out his name, over and over again, the two of you becoming the only people in the world as the tidal wave of pleasure overwhelmed you.

Acacius' thrusts into your aching core sped, became less focused, and you knew he was losing control himself as you came apart underneath him. Your name fell from his lips as he pressed his hand further into the spot below your belly, where his cock seemed to bulge into his palm as your cunt pulsed around him.

"Such a good girl, such a good wife," he moaned. Only when your core could only twitch in response to his strong thrusts did he slow, leaning back over you and capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

A warmth pooled within you, evidence of his pleasure. You didn't know if you'd ever felt such an intimate connection with anyone as you did with him, his kiss burning a brand into your heart as the heat of passion faded.

Acacius pulled away after a moment, breathing heavily against your throat. "Hold still a moment," he warned. His palms pressed against your hips, his cock sliding from you with a slight sting. You followed his advice, your legs feeling weak and shaky.

You studied him as he crossed the bedchamber to the washroom, his broad back dimpling with the movement. Returning with a clean cloth and a faint smile on his lips, the dimple in his cheek made your heart swell as he saw your sprawled body on his massive bed.

"Feeling comfortable?" Acacius asked, eyebrows raised with amusement.

You nod, watching him as he crossed over to you, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips as he carefully wiped your messy core.

Breaking from your lips for a moment, he pressed his nose against yours, and you cherished the gentle, intimate gesture.

"Shall I call the servants for a hot bath?" Acacius mumbled, tossing the cloth aside.

"A hot bath sounds divine, but only if we may take one together," you reply, slightly giddy.

Acacius furrowed his brows in confusion. "What is making you laugh, my darling?"

You kissed him again, long and slow. Time stood still, and it was as if you could physically feel the bond forging between the two of you, forging in a slow burn of a crackling fire. It was warm, and easy, and comforting.

You broke away, studying him in his eyes. "You are simply... not what I expected."

Acacius smiled, that damn dimple curving in his cheek.

The most feared general on the continent.

Your husband.

Acacius kissed your forehead. "You, my darling, are everything I've been dreaming of."

---

taglist (people that asked to be tagged in part 2): @marianastudiesart @joeldjarin @fallout-girl219 @shantellorraine @lanadelslay69-420 @pedrofan

my request box is open! would love to hear y'all ideas for Joel, Acacius, Javier, or Oberyn :)

[obsessedwithceleste]

In Touch, But Out of Reach

Lorenzo Berkshire x Ravenclaw! reader

Summary: When a secret admirer sends you a mysterious parcel at breakfast, you figure you shouldn’t let the pretty locket enclosed inside go to waste.

word count: 5.4k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

Undoubtedly your favorite part of the day was each morning at breakfast when the owls of Hogwarts would flood into the Great Hall, swooping and gliding gracefully through the air delivering mail into the waiting hands of students. You’d always thought the birds were just lovely and whenever you received mail from home it was a nice way to start your day.

The small parcel that sat in front of you however was starkly unfamiliar. It didn’t have the indecipherable handwriting of your father, or the usual rose scented fragrance from your mother. Instead you’re met with thick, expensive feeling paper sealed with silver wax.

“You’re not going to open it are you?” Marietta asks, leaning over your shoulder to inspect the parcel. “What if it’s cursed? I hear Katie Bell still has horrible nightmares after what happened in fifth year.”

“Oh hush. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe,” Cho interrupts, silencing her paranoid friend and gesturing for her to return to her seat.

“Well, if this delivery does kill me, at least there will be dozens of witnesses,” you try to joke as you continue to examine the mysterious package.

You couldn’t think of anyone who would have sent you something. It wasn’t your birthday, or near the holidays for that matter. And you really didn’t think anyone would go out of their way to jinx you in particular.

“The nargles don’t seem to mind it,” Luna says passively, glancing at the parcel as she takes a bite of toast.

You look at the younger witch beside you, weighing your options as your fingers glide over the smooth parchment.

“Well that settles it then. Must be safe if the nargels think so.”

You carefully break the seal, half expecting to be possessed or some such, but when nothing happens you give your shoulders a small shrug and continue peeling back the layers of meticulously folded paper.

You’re about to sit back and declare the whole thing to be some silly prank when a slip of paper finally emerges from the folds, followed closely by a distinct, silver shine.

Slowly you pull an intricately designed pendant strung along a dainty chain from the parcel, the silver metal cold against your palm. Delicate silver swirls cover the little heart, bending and twisting only to meet on one side to form a clasp. A locket. You try to open it but the hard metal remains firmly clamped shut. Odd.

You turn over the slip of paper that had come with the locket to find five small words printed there in swooping, slanted letters.

Soulmates always find each other.

“Oh no. Katie Bell was cursed by a necklace. You don't think it's another one do you?" Marietta asks, eyeing the piece of jewelry in your hands warily.

"I suppose there's only one way to find out, no? Besides, how often does lightening strike twice?"

Before anyone can protest further you clasp the necklace around your throat, breath catching as you wait for a moment, then two. Nothing.

"See? I told you guys it would be fi-"

"Um. y/n? Why is the necklace glowing? Necklaces aren't meant to glow are they?" Cho interrupts, eyes widening as she stares helplessly at you.

Marietta looks as if she's about to faint as you reach up to grasp the necklace. It emits a soft golden glow that only lasts another moment before it's gone as if it had never happened. You blink, trying to make sure your eyes aren't playing tricks on you before standing abruptly, your seat making a screeching sound as it's shoved backward.

"I'll be in the tower, I need to find out what the hell I have around my neck," you announce to your friends.

"You don't think they're going to die do you?" you hear Marietta whisper furiously as you turn to leave.

As you hurry out of the hall, a pair of familiar warm eyes follow you, a smug glint catching in the light as you disappear through the doors.

You groan, throwing your head back in despair as you come up with yet another dead end.

"Still nothing?" Cho asks, concern clearly laced in her voice as she looks at you with pity.

You just shake your head as you shove the book back onto its shelf. You'd practically run through every book in Ravenclaw tower at this point and you weren't sure what to do. There were books here that the main library could only dream of having, and yet nothing on the strange necklace that had found its way to you this morning.

"I might as well check the main library, right? Couldn't hurt. Maybe even sneak into the restricted section?" you sigh as your fingers once again close around the silver locket.

You didn't feel any different. No boils or ulcers. No voices in your head. And you were still breathing. So that was good.

"Want me to go with? I could help," Cho offers, making to close her book.

"It's okay, really. Don't want to drag you into this. Besides, if it comes down to it, I'll just beg Lorenzo to distract Madam Pince while I nick a book from the restricted section."

Cho gives you a knowing look, a smug smile forming on her lips.

"Then by all means, don't let me get in the way of you and lover boy," she teases.

You feel heat rush to your cheeks at her comment and you turn away, rolling your eyes.

"I'll be back later. And let Marietta know that I'm still alive and well. I'm pretty sure she's more worried about this whole thing than I am."

With that, you disappear down the winding stair case, making the treacherous journey down to the library. Lucky for you, the moving staircases don't quite have it out for you, only stranding you on an empty level once. By the time you finally push through the doors of the library, your mood is only slightly more agitable than when you left. Still though, you make a beeline for the section on cursed or otherwise lethal objects and begin to pile books into your arms.

You're about to retreat back into the maze of shelves with your prizes when an arm wraps smoothly around you, resting casually on your shoulder.

"You lost Berkshire? I didn't know you could read. What are you doing in the library of all places?" you tease quietly, glancing slyly up at the wizard beside you.

Lorenzo just scoffs, his smug smile never leaving his face.

"Please, you're beginning to sound like Draco, who by the way is why I find myself in this wretched place. It's not so bad when I find pretty little Ravenclaws between the shelves though."

Your heart flutters a bit at his words, but you find yourself rolling your eyes at the flirtatious boy who'd decided to keep you company.

Befriending Lorenzo Berkshire had never been on your top ten things to do at Hogwarts. Hell it hadn’t been on your list at all. Enzo was arrogant, and flirtatious, and honestly a bit of an arse at times, but he had grown on you over the past year or so. Slowly.

“Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere with me Enz. Now be helpful and hold on to these for me please?”

Without waiting for the boy’s answer you plop your stack of books into Lorenzo’s arms, fingers brushing ever so slightly as Enzo fumbles for just a moment, his arm tearing away from you before taking hold of the tower of tomes with ease.

"You going to tell me what all these are for, or are you just using me for my dashing good looks and rippling biceps?" Lorenzo asks as he follows you dutifully through the shelves.

You fear that if you roll your eyes at the boy behind you anymore, they'll get stuck in the back of your head. You sigh.

"If you must know, I got this locket here in the mail this morning," you tell him, fingers brushing against the silver locket once more as you show your friend.

You gesture for Lorenzo to set the books down on a nearby table before you continue.

"It started glowing right after I put it on and now Marietta is convinced I'm going to die a grim and painful death," you tell him, taking a seat at the table.

Lorenzo follows your lead, chuckling slightly.

"If the necklace were going to kill you I'm pretty sure it would have done it by now if it makes you feel better. I've seen a cursed necklace or two before at the manor and I can't think of a single one that would risk the victim taking the necklace off before it gets the job done. If it didn't go for the kill right away, it probably won't at all," he replies.

"Thanks for the insight Enz, you certainly know how to sweep someone off their feet. Do you normally start conversations by weighing the odds of your companion's survival?"

Lorenzo lets out a rather loud, unattractive snort, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth, but only succeeding in holding in an eruption of laughter and causing you to join him as you both look at each other, shocked that the great Lorenzo Berkshire had let his mask slip, if only for a second.

"Only when I'm trying particularly hard to impress someone," he replies finally regaining his composure and picking up a book from the top of the stack and cracking it open. "Now let's see what agonizingly gruesome deaths lay in store for you hmm?"

It feels like hours had gone by, and they probably had by the time you and Lorenzo were through the large mountain of books that you had compiled. And yet you were no where closer to finding your answer than when you had begun.

"I'm really sorry for wasting your night Enz," you sigh, snapping the last book shut and tossing it back into the pile.

"Not to worry love, better than listening to Draco bitch and moan about how Granger is besting him in potions, and charms, and everything really," he replies easily as he gathers some of the books to help put back.

As you wander through the shelves once more, slotting books back into their homes, you feel a light presence appear behind you yet again. You turn, expecting to see Lorenzo's loosened tie and rolled up sleeves, but instead you're met with black robes and a yellow tie.

"Oh! Hi Cedric," you greet, jolting a bit at the surprise as one of your hands shoot up to fiddle with the locket around your neck nervously.

You watch as Cedric's eyes follow your sharp movement, locking in on the necklace between your fingers. His brows furrow a bit as he gets a good look at the thing before his eyes widen ever so slightly.

"Um, Cedric?" you say again after a moment of silence.

Now it's Cedric's turn to jolt out of his stupor as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck abashedly.

"Right, sorry, um. I was just going to ask if you wanted to study for that charms exam together sometime, but I see you're already spoken for," he says before giving you a slight nod and retreating back into the book shelves.

You blink once, slowly, not entirely sure what just happened before turning to see Lorenzo hovering in the aisle behind you looking quite pleased with himself.

"That was weird right?" you ask as you both make your way back to your table to collect more books.

Lorenzo just shrugs, still sporting his smug grin.

"Not everyone can be as charming and charismatic as me, love, what can I say?" he replies.

"Good to see you still alive and breathing," Cho chirps as you take your seat beside her.

"Hahaha, I've managed to survive the week, I don't think I'm going to drop dead anytime soon, Cho," you reply, dropping your bag on the floor next to you.

"I'd have to agree, and it is a pretty necklace. I wouldn't want it to go to waste either if I were you. Have you found anything out about where it might've come from?"

You shake your head no as you pull out your notes and lay them out in front of you.

"Not a thing. I've scoured every book, scroll, and tome on cursed objects that I could get my hands on and come up completely dry," you tell her.

"Well, maybe it's because you're looking in the wrong place. I mean, you're still alive and very much not cursed. It's probably time you adjust your perspective."

You cock your head to the side, considering your friend's words and quickly coming to the conclusion that she's right. How had you not thought of that? It was so obvious.

Before you can respond however, Professor Slughorn bursts through the doors juggling armfuls of various potion ingredients, finally letting them all tumble noisily across his desk.

"Alright then. Draught of Living Death. Who can tell me something about it?" he asks, turning towards the class as he waits expectantly.

Of course Hermione's hand shoots straight up into the air and Slughorn humors the girl.

"The Draught of Living Death is an extremely powerful sleeping draught that sends the drinker into a death like slumber."

"Yes! Very good, very good Miss Granger! Ten points Gryffindor!" Slughorn chortles gleefully as he begins scribbling instructions on the chalkboard. "Now of course you'll have your recipes in your text, but these are just some old tricks of the trade I've found over the years," he rambles, the chalk screeching as he writes. "And you'll be working in pairs today, pre-determined of course, and I expect you'll all be done by end of class."

With that, he releases you to find your partners which were now listed pristinely at the front of the classroom. Your eyes scan the list quickly to find your name next to one Draco Malfoy. You know what? You'd take it. He was one of the best in class after all.

You turn to the back of the classroom only to find the blonde haired Slytherin already looking at you. He gives you a small nod before gathering his things and making his way towards you. You both wordlessly agree to simply take the station behind you as Cho's partner joins her, sliding into the spot you'd previously occupied.

"I'll set up the station if you'd like to gather the ingredients," you offer, already placing your cauldron onto the table.

"Right. That works for me," Draco agrees readily before disappearing to riffle through the storehouse located in the back of the classroom.

By the time he returns, the cauldron is already bubbling and you have the recipe spread out in front of you with everything you'd need to complete the potion. The two of you get to work and it doesn't take long for you to see why Draco was probably one of the best brewers in your year. He worked quickly and efficiently, all while being perfectly precise.

"All right," Draco announces, "All's that's left to do for this bit is stir seven times anti clockwise. But add a clockwise stir in after every seventh counterclockwise stir."

He hands you the stirring rod before going back to focus on chopping valerian root.

"Are you sure?" you ask, eyes scanning your instructions, not seeing any mentions of stirring clockwise.

"Just do it. It'll be fine," Draco huffs.

You raise an eyebrow at the boy before giving a shrug of your shoulders and following his direction. What could go wrong? You lean over your work station to get a better look inside the cauldron, watching intently for any sign that the potion might be going south, but it looks perfect.

"Where did you get that?" Draco asks suddenly, startling you and almost causing you to tip over the cauldron.

Your head snaps over to your partner whose eyes are glued to the silver chain around your neck. The locket must have slipped out while you were stirring.

"My locket? I got it in the mail last week. Didn't say who from though," you reply carefully as Draco squints at the heart shaped pendant.

"Y/n's got a secret admirer," Cho teases from her station, never missing an opportunity to poke fun at you.

"Please. A secret admirer is simply a stalker with stationary. Be careful, y/n," Hermione interrupts as she passes by.

Draco glares at the bushy haired girl.

"No one was talking to you Granger. Mind your business. The locket isn't cursed, they're fine," he snaps.

You don't even have time to tell Draco to mind his manners as your brain locks in on his words.

"Wait. How do you know the locket isn't cursed? Do you know who sent it?" You ask, grabbing the boy's arm.

Draco scoffs.

"Of course I know who sent it," he replies, carefully extracting his arm from your grip. "But it's none of my business. You'll have to work it out with them."

"How am I supposed to work it out with 'them', if I don't know who 'them' is?"

Draco just shrugs his shoulders as he avoids eye contact, dropping a piece of valerian root into the cauldron. The liquid bubbles for a moment before finally settling into a perfect lilac shade.

Lorenzo would like to think that he was peacefully minding his business when Draco comes storming into their shared dormitory. Blaise, Pansy, and Theo who had all been studying together on the other side of the room all jump at the sound of the door slamming open.

"Berkshire, would you care to explain to me why, in Salazar's good name, y/n is walking around the castle with the Berkshire betrothal necklace around their bloody throat?"

This catches the other three's attention and Lorenzo suddenly feels four pairs of eyes on him.

"You asked them to marry you? Are you crazy? When did that even happen?" Blaise asks.

"More importantly, you asked them to marry you and they said yes? Are they crazy?" Theo scoffs.

Enzo just shrugs his shoulders, casually leaning back on his bed.

"I mean, I didn't exactly ask them so much as send them an anonymous owl with the necklace inside."

“Enzo! You can’t do that!” Draco groans, head falling back at his friend's antics. “There are rules. Traditions to uphold.”

“Clearly I can do that, because I did. And you’re really one to talk are you? At least I’m doing something, unlike you. It’s always Granger this, Granger that. All day, every day, but nothing to be done,” Lorenzo shoots back.

“Hey now, while Enz makes an excellent point, that’s not the point of all this,” Blaise sighs. “Look Enzo, you have to tell them. You can’t just have them walking about announcing to everyone that the two of you are engaged without them even knowing.”

"They put the necklace on and are walking around with it willingly. Besides it's already doing its job. Got Diggory to fuck right off the other day." Lorenzo reasons, not seeing what all this to do was about.

Were his actions morally ambiguous? Sure. But he'd found that the morally grey plans were always the ones that turned out the best.

"Lorenzo," Pansy's voice breaks out, eerily calm and level, "I will say this once, and one time only. They. Are not. Your property. Go tell them what you've done, you arrogant, pig-headed, prat."

Lorenzo just sighs, crossing his arms stubbornly as he looks back at his friends.

"You all are blowing things all out of proportion. I was going to tell them. Eventually."

"You're going to tell them now," Pansy snaps, looking as if she's only a moment away from smacking him upside the head.

"Alright, don't get so worked up about it. I was just buying some time-"

"Buying time?" Pansy interrupts, looking at the other boys as if to ask 'what is wrong with him?' before turning back to Enzo. "Of all the short sighted, irresponsible, stupid, boar headed- you know what? I'm owling your mother."

Pansy makes for the door, storming past a rather alarmed looking Draco as Blaise trails behind her in exasperation. Theo just stares at Lorenzo, an expression of 'now look what you've done' clearly written across his face as he shakes his head.

"Oh come on. You two don't really agree with her do you?" Lorenzo protests as the other two boys eye each other warily. "Alright, fine. I'll go talk to them," He says finally when the other boys remain silent. "None of you tossers ever see my vision," he mutters to himself as he slinks out of the dorm.

On the other side of the castle, high in Ravenclaw tower you were buried in your research on pureblood heirlooms. A few things had given it away, Cedric's hesitancy to even really speak to you after seeing the necklace, Cho's realization that the locket wasn't really cursed at all, and of course the nail in the coffin was Draco's immediate recognition of the pendant. But what made it so special?

You’d gone through pretty much every book you could get your hands on. You’d seen signet rings, brooches, medallions, the entirety of the Malfoy’s public jewel collection, and you were still stumped. Letting out a groan of frustration, you slump back in your chair letting your book snap shut. Every time you thought you were getting close to the answer, it just slipped away from you. You felt like you were losing your mind and the constant banging on your door was not helping. Wait.

Dragging yourself from the comfort of your bed, you open the door to find a very tired looking Cho Chang.

“I’ve been knocking on your door for like five minutes. The portraits were getting testy,” she yawns. “Anyway, the Grey Lady said your lover boy is waiting for you out in the corridor. I’d go get him before the eagle chats his ear off.”

“Enz? What’s he doing here?” You ask in confusion, rubbing sleep from your own eyes.

You had no idea how long you’d been holed up in your dormitory.

“Not a clue. Better go find out,” Cho replies before turning and shuffling back off to her own dorm.

Before your better judgment can talk some sense into you, you venture down the spiraling staircase, the heavy metal door at the bottom that secured Ravenclaw tower opening to reveal an ever familiar brunette Slytherin.

"Hey love, fancy seeing you here."

You raise an eyebrow at Lorenzo who's leaned up against one of the giant pillars lining the corridor.

"I live here," you reply, still wandering why on earth this boy was out here at this time of night.

Not that you were complaining of course.

"Course you do. Thought we could take a walk," Lorenzo replies easily, charming as ever as he extends his elbow out to you.

"Do you know what time it is?" you ask in exasperation, gesturing to the darkened halls around you.

Still though you take hold of his arm, allowing him to guide you through the shadows.

"I've always fancied myself a good midnight stroll," he tells you as he leads the both of you through a dark passage way that you swear hadn't been there a moment ago.

Pushing aside a thin veil of greenery, you emerge in what appears to be the center of a hedge garden. High walls of fern and leaves shielding you from prying eyes while the night sky stretches out over head. Lorenzo had clearly been here before if the blanket on the ground that he was currently making himself comfortable on was anything to go by. He pats the spot beside him, gesturing for you to sit.

"Hear you've gotten yourself a secret admirer," Enz says as you take a seat next to him, stretching out your legs as you lean back, gazing up at the night sky.

You just miss the way his eyes nervously lock in on the necklace that gleams around your neck.

"Hermione calls it my stalker with stationary," you hum in reply, not able to stop the giggle that escapes your lips.

Lorenzo just snorts, shaking his head in distaste, his nose wrinkling as he makes a face.

"Well that just takes all the romance out of it."

"Oh? You trying to say you're something of a romantic, Enz?" you ask, cocking a brow at the boy beside you.

Lorenzo was a flirt for sure. A seducer perhaps. But you'd never known your friend to quite have the sincerity to be considered a romantic.

"I'm saying I could be, for the right person."

Looking over at the boy, you find his eyes already boring into you, lighting a fire in your chest as his eyes search yours. You feel the heat slowly begin to creep up to your face and you pray to Rowena that he doesn't notice. Had he always been sitting this close? When had it gotten so warm out?

"How upset would you be, if I told you that the pendant around your neck happens to be the Berkshire betrothal necklace, and that you've been waltzing around the school letting every pureblood in sight know that we're betrothed?" he murmurs, his arm brushing up against you, fingers ghosting across yours.

It takes you a good long moment to fully grasp onto Enzo's words, the absurdity of the situation almost laughable. There simply was no way.

"Um, probably very upset," you hear yourself croak out, very much hoping Enzo was about to burst out laughing and telling you he was only kidding and this was all a prank that Draco had put him up to.

He doesn't.

"Well, this is rather unfortunate then, I suppose," he says instead, his nervous grin still charming as ever as you feel the blood that had previously rushed to your cheeks completely drain from your face.

"Lorenzo," you reply, gritting your teeth as you force a smile onto your face, "What on earth possibly possessed you to think that anonymously sending me your family's betrothal necklace was a good idea?"

It takes everything in you to remain calm as you think back to all the incredibly strange and awkward encounters you'd had in the past week. All the puzzle pieces were falling into place, and Enzo was here sitting next to you with a dopey smile on his face looking at you like you were his entire world. Good intentions, bad execution you tell yourself as you take a deep breath. Good intentions, terrible, horrible, really very bad execution.

"Well, I wasn't really. Thinking that is. I just figured, you're single. I'm single. There's clearly something between us. Act now, think later."

"And did you happen to think about how I'd react to finding all this out?" you ask, still not fully convinced any of this was real.

"That was part of the think later bit, love," he replies.

You had no idea how he was so nonchalant about the whole thing.

"So there was no plan then?" you ask. "Just make me look like a fool for a week?"

For the first time you see Enzo's smile falter. His brows furrow as he frowns at the ground.

"Course not," he mutters, reaching out to take one of your hands in his.

Against your better judgement, you let him. Watching with careful eyes as his thumb begins rubbing soothing circles into your palm.

"I was just waiting for the perfect moment to tell you," he murmurs, eyes focused intently on your hand which he had now interlocked with his own. "There didn't really seem to be one, and the necklace was doing its job, keeping people away. I just- I really like you. And I didn't know how to tell you."

You have to take a moment to let Enzo's words sink in. You'd never heard this kind of vulnerability from him before. Usually he was all confidence and arrogance, but right now, he was real.

"So. Soulmates, huh?" you ask, head tilting as you scoot over on the blanket, gingerly lowering your head to rest on Enzo's shoulder.

He looks down at you with surprise as if he'd half expected you to storm off back into the castle. You'd considered it for a moment, but you just press yourself closer, waiting for his arm to finally wrap itself around you.

"That's what you said in your note. With the necklace. You think we're soulmates then?"

You feel Enzo's whole body vibrate as he lets out a nervous laugh.

"I told you I was a romantic."

"Yeah, but you didn't warn me you were nauseatingly so," you tease.

Lorenzo just hums in response.

"Is now a bad time to tell you that the glowing when you put that necklace on was a binding charm that can only be broken by death?"

You immediately stiffen at his words, shooting up into an upright position as you claw at the locket around your neck.

"Lorenzo what the fuck?" you screech, only to be met with laughter as Enzo holds his sides, bending over not even trying to hold back his cackling.

After a moment of fumbling, you're able to unclasp the necklace and your jaw drops as you glare at the boy beside you, giving him a playful shove and causing him to fall over as he's still shaking with laughter.

"This is no way to charm someone," you say, trying to pout but unable to hide your smile at the boy's antics.

When Enzo finally pulls himself up from the ground, you find yourselves sitting almost face to face, your breath mingling in the cool night air. It's almost hypnotizing the way he's looking down at you, his carefree grin still gracing his lips.

"Are you ever going to kiss me, or do you plan on continuing to give me heart attac-"

Lorenzo's lips are on yours before you have the chance to finish your sentence, one hand gently cupping your face as the other grabs frantically at your waist, pulling you into him.

Your heart is pounding out of your chest as his lips move against yours, warm and inviting. It's slow at first, careful as if he's afraid you'll break beneath his touch.

So many times you'd caught yourself staring at Enzo's soft, pink lips, wondering what they'd feel like pressed against yours. Feeling bold, you snake your arms around Enzo's neck, tongue flicking every so slightly against his lower lip and causing the boy to moan into your mouth before pulling back slightly.

"Don't toy with me now, love," he whispers breathily, resting his forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

Reaching up, Enzo catches hold of your hand, still wrapped around him, pulling it down and gently prying back your fingers to reveal the locket that you had still been clutching onto. Wordlessly he takes the necklace, wrapping it back around your neck. You open your mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again when you see the way Enzo is eying you possessively, his nimble fingers easily closing clasp once more.

"Right back where it belongs," he murmurs before pulling you in once more.

He's hungry this time, his soft lips moving harshly against yours as if he's a man starved. You quickly find your fingers tangled in his hair as he pulls you impossibly closer. Every gasp that escapes your lips only seems to encourage him as he begins nipping lightly at your lower lip before trailing kisses down your jaw line, continuing down your neck. You were definitely going to need a concealment charm or two in the morning.

When you finally pull away, you once again find yourself out of breath as Enzo continues to pepper kisses across your nose and forehead.

"We should probably go back inside soon," you tell him as he presses another soft kiss on your lips, but Lorenzo just lets out another soft laugh.

Adjusting you in his lap so that your back is pressed against his chest, he wraps his arms tightly around you your head falling back to rest on his shoulder once more.

"If you think I'm letting go of you now, you're absolutely crazy."

[lokisgoodgirl]

Breaking Fast [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki breaks a self-imposed sexual fast with you, of course. (w/c 1.6k) Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Language. Asgardian Loki x Female Reader.

Loki was acutely aware of each thud of his boots against stone, each swish of the leather cape which brushed his knuckles as he ignored the hungry eyes following him.

He had one goal; one objective which would consume him with black, maddening fire if he didn't sate it before the need reached crescendo.

'A sexual fast', he'd told his brother loftily. 'To counteract the tolerance from centuries of overindulgence.' And his brother had laughed. But the scepticism had only made him more determined, and Loki had kept the promise to himself not to break until it was a necessity. And now, you'd left him no choice.

As the ache in his hips tightened, he couldn't recall why he'd tried to resist the coy glances for so long; the calculated shift of your body against his during feast days and court balls. Desire ran hot and hard in his veins. It was decided. He would have you—and his fast would be broken.

He wanted to feel your gasps of pleasure fresh and needy on his face, the moans of surprise as he knocked the air from your lungs with his legendary cock. He wanted to own you; mark himself on your supple thighs between wet, indecent pleasures and wring the tantalising lilt from your voice until it was rasped and rusted with his name.

He would fuck you like another never had, and like another never would. Until your dying breath, it would be his prowess that made your cunt glisten in the dying of the light.

Loki's leathers tightened furiously.

The messenger would have arrived to your quarters one hour ago, bringing his command. You would be waiting in his expansive wing used exclusively for entertainment. His nest of debauchery and hedonism, such as it was; dust gathering on its silks and scattered pillows.

Not for long.

He smiled as the bronze doors bearing his emblem drew closer. He could see it now: your naked body spread on the furs, draped out for him, driven half mad by anticipation. A dizzying pulse of excitement soared in his chest. Two guards stationed outside rose their spears in salute and brought them sharply to the marble floor. Loki waved a hand, and the doors spread as smoothly as he would part your legs.

"Open it to no one."

The guards exchanged a worried glance.

One of them cleared his throat. "Not even....her...Prince Loki?"

Loki's eyes narrowed as he spun slowly towards the one who'd spoken. The fear in his eyes made Loki's cock throb despite the swoop of irritation forcing up his throat. "Do you mean to tell me she isn't here yet?"

"N-No, my—"

"And miss your theatrical approach?"

Loki's gaze snapped in the direction he'd come, heat flushing immediately through his chest. You stood straight and regal, delicate hands clasped in front of you and your chin tilted up with an air of imperiousness that made his scalp tingle. Silk chiffon, barely opaque, fluttered in outrageously alluring folds down to your ankles.

"It's foreplay, watching you storm around like a conqueror. I thought that was the intention."

Loki opened his mouth and closed it again as you passed, shooting a last warning glare at the guards.

The doors slammed behind him.

Loki watched with uncharacteristic silence as you wandered to the window, casting a cursory glance over the sprawl of Asgard’s golden turrets glittering in afternoon sun. "Everyone has been so invested in your sexual fast, Loki." His name teasing on your lips made his manhood twitch riotously against leather. Norns, he'd never wanted anyone more. And yet he couldn't move. The silhouette of your body was outlined against a halo of thin, pale fabric. "Although I must confess, your public have been rooting for its end. The gossip well is positively dry without you."

"Is that why your temptations have been so flagrant?" His voice was forced; strained. You glanced over your shoulder with a wicked smile.

"It's a game we play. Me and my Ladies."

"I only saw you playing it."

"As intended. On my part, at least. I can assure you it was quite competitive."

Loki's feet moved of their own accord, crossing the sun-slatted room in several long strides. And then your hands were in his hair, fiddling at the clasps of his cape, tangling your bodies and feet and mouths in a liquid rush of desire. He slipped the material from your shoulders, fine as spider web, devouring kisses rushing down the long column of your neck. You smelled like crushed florals, spices: tingling inside his nostrils and making his hips snap against your abdomen.

"I want you to ruin me, Loki Odinson..." Your smile grew against his ear. "All the depraved, filthy fantasies you've run through your mind as you fucked yourself like an animal in your lonely bed. I want them all."

Loki's mind folded in on itself as lips crushed together, bodies moving to the nearest pile of furs as his tunic was shed, belts skittered across the floor and tangling in the dress discarded beside it.

He crawled on top of you: naked, resplendent, his pale cock flushed with raging, animal anticipation. "I will not be gentle," he murmured, it tenderness shifting to a savage purr as he grazed his nose up yours and punctuating it with a hungry nip of your bottom lip.

"Neither will I."

He brushed a thumb slowly over your lips, teasing the bottom one down, parting willing beneath his touch, and pushing his thumb further inside that hot, sweet mouth.

He felt a flicker of tongue against it, and then, you began to suck, your head tilting back ever-so-slightly; eyes fixed on him. His thigh pressed up between your legs and a brief grin dawned on his lips at the gasp that followed.

Your fingers fastened around the meat of his length, guiding it inside you. Loki's ragged groan would be heard in Muselheim. But he didn't care. All he cared about was the tight, hot grip of your pussy as it absolved him of any doubt, lighting up the deep, dark, dormant pockets of his mind.

His biceps tensed as he fell to his forearms, caging your impossibly perfect face. He bottomed out, dragging himself back, and the hideously primal ripple of pleasure that coursed across your features made him want to burn the world for you.

Words were lost in the slap of skin and the tight smack of his balls as he plunged deeper. Your hand fisted in his hair, edging him on with each slam of your hips.

Orgasm exploded like magma, searing from his belly and coating his limbs in electric, juddering ecstasy. He slid down the furs, dripping as he went, and burying his face between your legs.

The taste of cunt was heaven. Gods, how he'd missed it. What was I thinking? As Loki's fingers tightened around your hips, reacting to each rise and fall of each breathless moan, he resolved never to deny himself again.

The taste of your sweetness arrived like sunrise through the tang of his cum. He dove deeper, careful to keep the methodical lap of his tongue away from your swollen clit. Too soon. He wanted to feel the madness in your twists against the sheets; to feel you come undone like boneless prey. He wanted to hear you beg. He wanted—

"Loki," you pleaded, and he met your eyes over the swell of your stomach. There was more than lust in them—it was devotion— and the god groaned deep in his throat as he suckled your clit.

Your back arched, and his hands slid up your spread thighs, tips sinking into soft flesh.

He made you come four more times—each leaving you with more sweat glistening on the spill of your breasts. As the fourth ebbed, as he massaged his jaw, you flipped upward and slid onto his lap.

He fucked you like that: slow, intimate, benevolent, for as long as he could bear.

The careful scratch of nails on his shoulders, the soft caresses of your pretty moans in his ear. His hands slid to your waist before raising and twisting your body in one fluid motion to all-fours.

"Do you know you are honoured?" he asked with all the imperiousness he could muster. He had a sudden, blinding need to cover every inch of your body with his seed. Your profile appeared, locking eyes with a rabid determination he’d only ever seen reflected in the mirrors above his bed.

The words from your lips were ambrosia: low and smooth. "Honour me, God of Mischief," you commanded; and so he did.

Loki slid inside your wet slit with a guttural choke.

His large hands grasped at your hips, fucking you like a dog, the slap of his skin against your flesh filling the air like hail. He was conqueror and king; ruler of every pitched whine of pleasure from your lips as your fists tightened against the furs and you panted his name like it was the only word rattling around your skull.

Fresh, milky cum welled at your sex, spreading up the thick of his cock as he slowed and pulled out, dipping the tip leisurely before slamming to the hilt like the starving dog he was. "Turn around," he ordered against your spine, acutely aware of something shifting urgently inside him; the urge to fuck, and fuck, and fuck.

You complied, eyes sparkling. He watched them track from his spread thighs, cum glistening; the flushed cock in his hand, the tight, taut nip of his waist. Your gaze rested on his ropes of tense shoulder muscle, the shift of his right bicep as his fingers toyed with the leaking crown of his manhood.

Shameless.

He loved it.

Your hands cupped your breasts, massaging gently. Loki couldn’t look away. His hand moved faster, jolting at the scratch of your nails on the underside of his balls. They tightened.

"F-Fuck," he rasped, head falling back and curls of damp hair sticking across his forehead.

He groaned a final time, cum forcing up so fiercely it might rip him in two. His neck snapped forwards at the moment it exploded, landing at the hollow of your neck, dripping in thick, white tendrils over the sweat-pearled gleam of your skin.

He panted, mouth open, dazed as you drew a finger up the mess and sucked it clean. You rose to your knees, kissing him deeply, one tilt sliding into another; the taste of him strong in your mouth. "Welcome back, Prince Loki," you whispered. And between the flush of your bodies, Loki’s cock twitched.

Tags in comments! ❤️Come say hiii (please) 🤭 x

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — please note that this is a civilization thousands and thousands of years ago, so they probably aren't as socially accepting.. you are also of arabian and hellenistic heritage. normally i am ambiguous of how i describe the protagonist of my stories, but i'll be a bit more focused on my details in this story. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE TRIGGERS PLEASE BE MINDFUL. i will also put a DISCLAIMER of any non consensual stuff or any triggering events that may end up happening PRIOR to the actual scene. (obviously it will not be frequent thing) — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — PROLOGUE | next chapter

this will be a bit short. its the prologue— so its going to just go over a little tid bit of how everyone is going to be and you can see how the atmosphere is.

the morning is soft with silence.

sunlight filters through the sheer drapes like it’s hesitant to enter, golden dust suspended in the hush. your room smells faintly of rose oil and crushed figs, of silk warmed by the sun. servants move quietly around you—gentle hands braiding your hair, smoothing the folds of your linen dress, adjusting the golden clasp at your shoulder. you don’t speak. neither do they. it’s an old, practiced ritual. the preparation of a daughter for something unspoken.

you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”

your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.

“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.

“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”

you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate? 

“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.

“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber. 

later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn. 

the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.

outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.

caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.

he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:

“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”

caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.  

“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his.  the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”

caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.

caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you. 

and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him. 

shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)

the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah  sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.

“what decision?”

“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”

sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.  

“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”

sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through. 

“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”

the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”

sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.

“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”

“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”

sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.

“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”

the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”

sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more. 

he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”

the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.

“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers

[trashmouth-richie]

dulcis ut rosa { sweet as a rose 🥀}

part 1 1/2– dulex (the gnat🥀) pt ii: vitiosus + deliciosus

pt iii: frangere me 🥀pt iv: ad caelum vel infernum, tecum sum

emperor Geta x female servant reader || word count: 4.4k || smidge of caracalla x reader

summary: brought to Palatine Hill as a gift from your village to the new Emperors— Caracalla claims you as his own, but Geta has his own plans for you when the moon crests into the sky.

tw: anal, p in v, rough inexperienced sex, oral m receiving, use of the word whore, caracalla is a whiny bitch, geta is fuckboy of the era. i googled a majority of the historical events, timelines, roman names for things, and latin translation— if it’s wrong, oh well. bad at feelings! geta, insane! crybaby! caracalla. idk geta is an unhinged mother fucker but what if he wasn’t so bad?

It had been months and many cycles of the moon ago when you were sent as a token of goodwill, a gift to the new Emperors in exchange for peace for the small village you resided in. 

Other Virgines and yourself were taken in the dark ebony of twilight, shackled side by side into the wobbly wagon driven by the village's strongest oxen. You didn’t dare object, instead you held your chin high, awaiting fate as the cart swayed this way and that, heart racing and blood pulsing as your journey to the Palatine Hill began. 

Some nights were still spent awake, remembering the crippling fear in your chest as you watched women from your village being gifted to generals as their personal servants. 

Some were given to soldiers as a sense of “release.” No better than a common whore being passed from soldier to soldier, fitting their needs.  The others were pillaged and picked like grapes from a cluster— and finally you had stood alone, defiance pooling in your eyes, pushing back traitorous tears.

Emperors Geta and Caracalla sat on ruby and gold twin thrones, identical in size and power. The tension between them was palpable— so thick you could reach out and stroke its ugly head. Where Caracalla’s grin was full of mischief, Geta had a snarl curled on his upper lip. 

You should have known then. The difference between them.

From where you stood, Geta’s dark eyes looked empty. Every so often they twitched as he spun the rings adorned on his left hand. His eyes rolled when his older brother giggled as the gifts from whatever poor village gave away their ripe, untouched women. 

Bare toes standing on the marble floor— unable to even grab shoes before you were heaved into the cart— you felt a heat from dark eyes that you were certain would drive someone mad if they dared look back. Like the boiling flames from hell itself were simmering in the coal of his irises. 

Caracalla jumped up, stepping forward from his throne, a wicked sense of evilness piercing from the iciness of his stare. His golden tooth caught the sun’s rays and you nearly vomited as he strode forward, eyeing you like a meal. 

A feminine laugh bubbled from his throat,  he clasped his hands together, bangles clanking in a sick harmony, a childlike grin spread on his pale face, “she’ll do.” 

You remember the first night in his chambers. Caracalla himself was bathed in ivory, same as the stone walls that were covered with flowing draperies. Although it was meant to be beautiful, the air felt choked, tight in your chest as you tried like hell to calm your frazzled nerves. 

The same giggle you heard in the throne room all morning now reverberated off the walls. He sat on a chaise lounge in only his dressing robes, sweat dampening his temples, that same damning stare as he slid his tongue over that disgusting gold tooth. Was he nervous? Drunk?

You had thought an emperor of his caliber would be used to this sort of thing. Maybe not. 

You had been cleaned by the palace servants, hair untangled and dirt scrubbed from under your nails. Hints of jasmine and honey perfumed from your gown as you tiptoed toward him. You watched as beads of sweat trickled down his brow, and he wiped at them hastily. 

“Sit.” 

The singular word seemed to give him trouble, as if he had never been in the presence of a woman before. 

He was clumsy, unthreading your gown with clammy hands, dragging across your skin like a damp sponge. Your skin crawled under his touch. 

His lips were stained with wine, thin and shriveled as he pecked at your skin. When you reached for him, hurrying this task along, he recoiled from your hand, shaking his head, a pained expression on his face as he held your wrist in a death grip. 

His eyes squinted shut and he screamed for you to leave. “Out!” “Get out!” Chalices and gold cutlery were tossed in your direction as you sprang for the door. 

Throwing open the heavy wood and running smack into the bare chest of the other Emperor. Emperor Geta. 

Although younger, he was taller than Caracalla. His chest was more broad, shoulders stretched tight with muscles. The same death-like stare on his face as he shoved you from him, having you stumble onto the stones into a wall. The cords of his neck strained as he took in your appearance.

He didn’t soften his features as you peered up at him with a fear stricken expression. He snarled, flaring his nostrils at the pathetic look of you, practically in rags. 

“Ah, and what do we have here? My brother’s whore in tears outside his chamber door. Can’t say I'm the least bit surprised.” He leaned into you, his eyes burning into your skin as he ripped the last of your gown to the floor, leaving you naked before him. 

“Tasteful thing, aren't you?” he gloated, pinching your bare nipple between his thumb and forefinger, laughing when you yelped in surprise and tried to cover your decency. 

He crowded into you, pushing your further down the hall way until you reached a dead end, his groin pressed into your middle. 

“Pathetic.” he sneered, enunciating every syllable the word held.  “Every single one of you.” His voice slithered like a snake against your ear, his breathing was forced, almost erratic and strained like he was holding himself back from bashing your skull into the wall. 

“Brought in here like some glorious stuffed hog on a spicket, trying to impress the Emperors so your village would be overlooked..” he clicked his tongue and grabbed the nape of your neck, his mouth only an inch from your own, “I don’t miss anything. Even though my sniffling brother may, I do not.” 

“Emperor, please.” 

“Do not speak!” he shouted loud enough to wake the entire palace, the veins in his neck stood at attention, throbbing,  “a whore will never open her mouth to me unless asked, or you are given something to fill it— understood?” 

You nodded feebly, a single tear trickling down your cheek. Geta placed the tip of his tongue to your skin catching the salty wetness, “if you can not please my brother, you will please me… otherwise what good are you here?” 

He shoved you to your knees, bits of sand biting into your skin as you hit the ground with a thud. His eyes were ablaze as he pulled out his cock. Veiny and impossibly thick, you’d never imagined one to be so large.  

Geta stroked himself, already hard and velvet beneath his palm, “open for your Emperor,” he demanded, the same snarl on his lip you noticed earlier today. 

You did as you were told, tongue out mouth agape waiting for him to slide against your mouth. Forcing himself inside, he filled it full until the pink head slithered into your throat, his groans vibrating through your bones. 

He rocked his hips into your face, panting and groaning some more as you gagged on his length— spit dripping down your bare chest and down his sack. 

He spoke nonsense to himself as you tried to breathe, squinting out tears from your eyes as you peered up at him. “The virgin mouth is fuck, yes, too good… impossibly sweet, untouched by another man, fuck, never get enough.” 

His large fist gripped your hair, pulling at the root as he bludgeoned himself further into you, fucking your head into the wall surely to leave a bruise or knock you unconscious, he wouldn’t care either way. 

“Stupid sniffling Caracalla,” he choked out between thrusts, “incompetent bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a whore if one fell on his cock,” he laughed and scrubbed at his face, reaching with his free hand to press the column of your throat, feeling himself deep beneath his thumb, “lucky for you, I do.” 

He came then, loud and shaky, holding you to him until your nose was tickled by his patch of dark pubic hair. He pulled out, leaving a pearl against his slit to rub against your mouth. 

“You might belong to Caracalla, but you will bow to me, and you… my sweet rosa, I have plans for you.” 

And that was how it started, how every night you would meet with Caracalla only to be summoned by Geta in the corridor upon your dismissal. Spilling secrets of his brother before pleasuring him with your mouth. 

In the light of day, you were ignored by him as you catered to Caracalla’s beck and call, and you often wondered if Geta had another servant he preferred during the sunlight hours. 

You were a midnight affair, a servant to one Emperor, a secret to the other. Caracalla was a strange man. Your time with him mostly was spent with him whining about the day's woes. 

How hard it was to be an emperor, the many expectations he had, the palace wasn’t large enough, his brother was too mean. Night by night his paranoia spread like wildfire, and he became gaunt, refusing to eat thinking Geta poisoned his food, his cheeks began to hallow. 

During all those nights he never once gave in to his own sexual temptations, he laid his head in your lap like an infant, whimpering and sniveling. One particular warm night you were sitting on his bed as you did every night before, listening to him sob about his mother and how he felt her attention was elsewhere. 

It took a single second of you being unresponsive for his switch to flip. Caracalla raged, flipping over furniture, ripping his draperies from the walls and pulling at his own hair. You were terrified, scared of him for the first time since the night you came to the palace. 

Caracalla bound your wrists above your head, and took force between your legs as you silently let him, disassociating from the entire situation, as he kissed a bruise to your collarbone, and scratched your thighs with his bitten fingernails. His inexperience was evident in his approach, in the way his hips held no rhythm, in the way he screeched like a midnight owl when he was close to release. 

He repeated the same thing over and over until he spilled against your stomach, a plea to either himself or to the Gods above, I am worthy. 

You shook violently, not with pleasure but with fear. You had thought of spitting in his face, but realized death would be your only future if you were to humiliate him during this catastrophic performance of what he would assume to be lust. 

Caracalla finished with a sweaty brow, laying down to fall asleep like a babe, an arm wrapped around your middle. A gaudy rouge colored his pale cheeks as drool slipped from his lips. 

You felt sick, defiled and disgusting. 

You’d rather be fucked by thirty men at once than have to endure that pathetic, cry baby fit from Caracalla. Gently placing his arm on the pillow, you fled. 

Missing your village, your family, the man who you were supposed to marry someday, your tears clouded your vision down the winding corridors of the palace. You would have fought to stay behind, should have pleaded to the men that you could be useful to them. This whore’s life isn’t what you had bargained for, death would be swifter— easier than this. 

The sweet scent of the balneum made you take a detour to the right, and you sobbed upon seeing the moonlight glint across the soft bathing water. 

Desperate to scrub his filth from your skin, the water was barely warm but you couldn’t care less as you sunk deep into the marble stone basin. Scrubbing your skin with anything your fingers could get ahold of. The jasmine soaps the servants washed you with the first time was tucked into its cradle and you slathered until your skin shined like an apparition. 

Tears dropped from the apples of your cheeks hitting the massive pool like a rainstorm over the ocean. Caracalla was a coward, a nuisance to Rome, to the Gods themselves. You damned his name as you scrubbed and lathered, repeating feverishly. 

For how long Geta stood in the doorway, you weren’t sure. You weren’t where you should have been, and he was irate upon your absolute disrespect of his time. He wanted to shout, plunge his way into the water and drag you out by your hair, bring you to the coliseum and make everyone watch your death against whatever animal he saw fit. 

You broke his rules, his laws, his heart raced with anger at the sight of you casually washing yourself. Nobody in the palace bathed in the moonlight, and when he heard commotion from the tepidarium room, he stomped towards it to find whoever the culprit was idiotic enough to disobey. He was alarmed to find you in there. Frantic, shooken up, no doubt from the hands of his flaccid brother.

“The lamb strayed away from the flock, I see.” his voice was like a snake, cool and calm but dripping with acidity that could kill at any given time. Jumping at his voice you nearly shrieked at his sudden appearance. 

“The moon has passed the mountains, yet you do not seek me out? Instead I find you here, helping yourself to the royal bathing quarters, as if you deserve such luxuries.”

Your voice trembled, as you climbed from the water, “I wanted… I needed to be clean.” 

His eyebrows twisted inward, confusion riddling his features until he stepped further into the room and noticed the marks across your skin. Caracalla’s mark. The marks of an hungry, untrained runt, trying to prove himself to the litter. 

Geta’s face boiled with sadistic rage as his eyes scanned down your body, the scratches of an novice beast unable to pleasure a whore. Bruises from a limp man who deserved a knife to his throat.

“Come.” he demanded, not waiting for you to follow as his stalked from the room, tossing a long cloth behind him to your awaiting hands. 

—

Water trickled behind you and down the length of your body as you padded on bare feet to catch up with Geta. 

This part of the palace was foreign to you, a set of stairs leading to a dark tower that you didn’t know existed, and then you realized why. He was leading you up to his chambers.

Geta and Caracalla lived on opposite ends of the palace, their hatred splitting them apart as far as it could allow. 

He thrust open a concealed door and stomped down a few stone stairs leading into his chamber. 

It was decorated in hues of deep ruby and scarlets, black linens flanked his walls. His bed was massive, alluring in the dark majesty of its presence. A single candle flickered beside his bed, casting shadows in the deep night. 

His hooded eyes seemed to strike with a ripple of psychotic light when he came back to the doorway to pull you inside by your wrist. 

Sitting on a lavish wooden chair he leans back, spreading his legs wide, reaching for a wine filled chalice downing it in one gulp, his eyes never leaving you. 

“Let me make myself clear,” he stated, “I do not care what Caracalla does in his chambers I never have nor will I now.” 

Geta wiped at his chin and set down the glass, his finger rounding the rim, “You came here knowing what your life would hold as an Emperor’s servant or a soldier’s fuck sack. The little amount of freedom you were once born with has vanished, and what a pity that must be…but quite honestly,” he gleamed leaning forward his face warmed by the light, casting shadows of evil on his brows, “I am not a savior to the fucked raw whores of this palace who weep after fulfilling their master’s needs.”

Your eyes casted downward at the patterned marble floor. “I told you the night we met that if you aren’t pleasing my brother or myself, you have no purpose here, did I not?” 

Your head shook up and down, knowing every word he said was true. 

“I will grant you gratitude where it is due by saying that you have done everything I have asked of you, sharing my brother’s secrets, using your mouth to fill my needs— it is all very pleasing…”

For the first time you look into Geta’s eyes, the shadows inside flicker with the candle light, and you are drawn to them like a moth. 

“… however, I find myself enraged thinking of that shriveled weasel dick not taking you to bed in a proper manner. It is not my style to fuck like a lover would—I use women to my needs and that’s it.” 

He rubs his jaw, as if the stubble was itching him, suddenly stopping to look at you dead in the eyes as his narrowed to slits, “but you, are a gnat. An annoyance I can not seem to get rid of, and I can’t decide if you are a woman version of the plague or something else…” His eyes glimmer for a second before he shakes his head to clear his mind, “Get on the bed.” 

“Emperor?” 

His voice boomed as he slammed down his cup, “do not make me say it twice, I find myself to be quite angry when I have to repeat my words.” His throat pulsed in wrath, and his knuckles turned white from his fists being clenched. 

You do as you're told, gingerly making your way to the enormous frame and mattress, sitting rigidly. Geta undresses himself, standing bare before you, that glorious length springing freely. 

“The difference between Caracalla and myself, is I know how to use my God bless-ed cock to pleasure a woman, and I’m damn good at it.” 

He’s on you in a flash, his breath sweet from the wine he had consumed. His body was solid on top of yours, pale skin never exposed to the sun. Enormous shoulders dressed in muscles that were hidden with robes daily. He sniffs loud, taking in your scent you feel his body shiver above you. 

His teeth nip at your earlobe, piercing through the flesh releasing a trail of hot blood onto your neck. It’s swiftly lapped away by his tongue, a low groan following as he tastes you. 

“If your blood is this sweet I would hate to know how you taste between your legs.” 

You squirm beneath him as he bites your lip the same way, his canines piercing your plushy flesh and he moves his mouth over the bites, enjoying the iron-like taste. A flood of wetness rushes to your core and you suddenly feel hot everywhere… something Geta doesn’t miss. 

“My brother’s whore is quick to becoming wet.” he says with a chuckle, sweeping his fingers between your folds, his rings collecting your arousal on his knuckles before he pulls them into his mouth,  “mmmm leave it to Caracalla to fuck a bitch when she’s drier than a well.” 

His mouth assaults your neck. Sweeping circling as he groans into you, his cock rutting against your sex as you pull him further into you, a hand coiled in his golden hair, yanking slightly, a traitorous moan escaping his lips. 

Your hips widen to try to sneak the tip of him into your cunt but he only laughs at your attempt.

“Look how desperate you are, pathetic thing… so eager to be filled by a man who knows how to fuck.” He groans when your nails scratch down his back, and he licks his lip to not get too carried away. 

That pitiful excuse for a human couldn’t satisfy his own hand, let alone a whore who begs to be brutalized.” You moan his name when he skims blunt nails around the peaks of your nipples, running his palms along your rib cage. 

“You're teasing me, Emperor, te necessito.” 

The snarl that seems to be a permanent fixture on his face curls on his lip, “begging is a good start, we both know how good you are on your knees, but I like the pity showing in your eyes, as if I’m your God.”

With that final word and title, Geta thrust himself into you, shredding your walls with each delicious inch of his cock buried inside of you. All breath is expunged from your lungs as you stare into the devil’s eyes, a chokehold to your own.

“Ora pro me, Deus meus, pray for me God,” he grunted as he pistoned back into your heat. Your screams filled his chambers, the tower shaking with seduction as he matched your shouts with grunts and moans of his own. 

He pawed at your tits, squeezing and claiming every inch of skin he could get his hands on. Your thighs were wrapped around his waist, your hips circling to meet his rhythms. A large hand wrapped tight around your throat, and you licked your lips letting a grin spread against them. 

Geta was leaned forward just enough for you to put a hand against his own throat, squeezing as tightly as you could. He wasn’t expecting this, wasn’t expecting someone to match his own sadistic fantasies.. let alone a commoner from a village he didn’t care to know the name of. 

His eyes embellished like a dark jewel in a burning hell before he snarled and backhanded your cheek. He had never been more turned on, practically fucking you stupid as the welts from his rings raised on your skin. 

“Puella pulchra, pretty girl,” Geta whispered into your ear after flipping you over, his cock wedged between your ass cheeks. “Mea es, mea es, you’re mine;  no one else’s.” 

His rings bit at your sides as he positioned your ass upwards, leaving his dental records in each cheek before slapping them hard in unison, mocking your yelp as he dribbled spit where he needed it to be. 

With no warning he entered your other hole at a bruising pace. You saw black when Geta bottomed out and you swore you were near passing out from the stretch of his giant cock stuffed tight inside of you. 

Your pussy throbbed to his commands as he pulled you by your neck with one hand, so your back was leaned against his chest. Thick fingers slotted themselves in the heat of your core until his rings were nestled against your clit. “How dare you let Caracalla have at you first, this cunt is too sweet, too sinful to not be mine.” 

Babbling along to everything he said you simply screamed yes over and over, as your head lolled back on his shoulder. You came so hot and bound tight that it flooded his fingers and spread down your legs as he kept pounding inside of you. 

“Oh fuck,” Geta grunted, shoving your forward to gain leverage on your hips as he pistoned into you a final time. A great yell breached his throat as his seed flooded your ass, filling it full and spilling over both himself and you, down to the laundered sheets. 

You collapsed onto his bed, legs shaking and quaking struggling to catch your breath. Geta fell onto his back beside you, his skin glistening with sweat, his release coated thickly on his softening cock and pasted into the curly hair. 

“Dulcis ut rosa,” he murmured with his eyes closed, licking his lips to savor your taste once more. 

Tumbling on shaky knees, you lift yourself up just enough to eye his length, wrapping your mouth around his cock, sucking off his spend and yourself from him. Moaning as you devoured him.  

He hissed at the contact, reaching out to stroke your cheek with his thumb “you’ve made a fool of me, you wicked thing, I’m nothing but a fool.” 

When you were finished, Geta laid in silence beside you. His thumb strumming along his torso his eyes wide staring into the ceiling, deep in thought. 

Noticing a decanter of wine you asked if he’d like another glass. “No,” he said, still staring upward, unable to look at you. “I’m tired, leave me now.” 

Removing yourself from the bed you find the dressing robe he was wearing when he found you in the bath and slipped it over your shoulders. 

Leaving his chambers left you feeling rotten. 

It was strange how he looked at you during and after, he was talented just as he said he was, and you knew you’d never forget the night the other Emperor bed you in his sheets. For tomorrow was another day, back to Caracalla and his blubbering whines of the hardships of royalty.

Geta lie awake for hours. Eventually seeking refuge on his balcony staring into the pale ivory moon, silently asking the Gods for answers he himself didn’t know. He had bedded hundreds of women. Every shape, size and color. But you. The little gnat. You had been buzzing in his ears every night since you had gotten to Palatine Hill. 

Since the day he laid his eyes on you and scoffed to try to denounce his admiration, Geta silently wished death on Caracalla when he claimed you as his own. His original plan was to spoil the apple from the inside out, use you as a spy to gain information about his deranged brother— but it became more to him, you became more. But why? 

The God’s didn’t have the answers tonight, just like they hadn’t the night before, or every dawn since the night you showed up here. Guilt struck him like a bolt from Jupiter’s mighty hand and he pushed it down with the remaining wine he had stashed beside his bed. 

The facaded mask he wore these days almost slipped off tonight when you lay beside him. How he wanted to reach out and touch your skin while you laid in euphoric bliss. And he shut you out to avoid something he couldn’t risk. He didn’t know how to love a woman, his love was for war and power, blood and gold— still the gnat buzzed, unrelentless. 

Laying in the sex sodden sheets, he knew what his dream would be of tonight. It hadn’t changed in the months of you arriving here: Caracalla dead by his hand, and you, the gnat, sweet as a rose…his empress.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

latin translation:

virgines— virgins

dulcis ut rosa— sweet as a rose

balneum— bathing room

te necessito— i need you

ora pro me deus meus— pray for me my God

puella pulchra— pretty girl

mea es— you’re mine

tagging some moots: @joejoequinnquinn @choke-me-eddie @etherealxwitch

[cherrixpie]

NEMESIS

part six of six

↬ you were supposed to steer clear of mattheo riddle. Shame that he was just so irrestible.

↬ eventual nsfw content (at ca. 8k words); wc: 14.8k (because why not); cw: mentions of violence, swearing, blood, smut (mdni) ; tags: gryffindor!reader, muggleborn!reader, enemies to lovers ; nsfw tags: oral fem receiving, praise, teasing, overstimulation, p in v, aftercare

( masterlist )

Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as you hurried past students and ghosts alike. In your vision, they were reduced to flashes of blue, yellow, green and red, or an ethereal shimmering, background noise, the first layer on a canvas.

Once you reached the top step, you were gasping for breath, but the lack of oxygen didn't stop you from running along the wall to avoid the crowd that would only slow you down, simultaneously mapping out Hogwarts inside your head to take the quickest route to Dumbledore's office. Half aware that many heads were turning after you, some whispering behind their hands, you crossed a corner into an emptier corridor and only hastened your tempo.

Fictitious yet haunting images flashed before your waking eye as your imagination ran wild with what could possibly have happened to Mattheo. He'd get in fights constantly, but, to your knowledge, had never been summoned to the headmaster. Though, Dumbledore hadn't asked for him but you. Fear tore at your chest, adding to the ache of running. Was Mattheo so badly hurt that he felt the need to console his friends- and significant other?

In the last corridor, you barely stumbled towards the stairs that led up to the headmaster's office and gasped the password at the gargoyle who nodded approvingly and let you in. Barely managing to climb the last few steps, you slumped against the door to Dumbledore's office and knocked your fist against it. “Step in!” the headmaster’s old voice called from the other end and you pressed down the handle to swing the door open.

You'd been in this office once already, the night almost six years ago, after you and your friends had found the chamber of secrets and Harry had slayed the basilisk inside. There'd been a feast after, but you weren't sure if Mattheo had attended it. You'd have to ask him. Over the last days, you'd continued your habit from the tutoring lessons, of teasing each other about the way you'd previously perceived the other- though it was a lot more fun on his part when you got to hear his side of the story, living through all the events you did but experiencing them so differently. Sometimes it was funny and you found yourself giggling about things like preschool children. Other times, it was melancholic, a plea for better times or an unwelcome reminder of the difficulty of your relationship.

The portraits on the walls were pretending to be sleeping, but you couldn't be fooled anymore since your fateful run-in with chattery Dorothy Dankworth. Filigree golden instruments stood along the walls, fulfilling their mysterious purposes, and a great golden phoenix, Fawkes, sat on his place on Dumbledore's desk. The headmaster himself sat behind the desk and looked up from his parchment when you stepped in, still panting audibly for breath. His thin lips pulled into a smile as he lowered his half moon spectacles and his piercing blue eyes met yours.

You knew he could do legilimency, just as Mattheo could. Only, Mattheo had promised you never to use it against you without your knowledge, and the man sitting across from you had never made such promises.

But Dumbledore averted his stare fairly quickly and rose from his seat behind the desk, walking around it and beckoning you closer. With hesitant steps, feet still hurting from your little sprint through a huge damn castle, you walked towards him and he offered you a chair he conjured out of thin air. Without a word - you were still too out of breath - you sat down on it and he reoccupied his seat as well, clasping his hands together over the table.

“Miss Lovegood may have told you why I wished to speak to you,” he said calmly, his expression painfully serious. Oh, what you would have given for a calming smile or a winking eye right now, the safety and comfort the headmaster always displayed at the start-of-the-term feasts.

“Is he hurt?” you asked, for once without regard to proper etiquette. Your hands were clenched into fists beneath your robes, nails digging into the flesh of your palm as you fearfully awaited Dumbledore's answer.

For a few seconds, Dumbledore surveyed you thoughtfully, slightly crooking his head, before giving you the smallest of smiles. “It is true, Mr. Riddle got involved into a fight today, but he is not seriously injured. Though he would do well with medical treatment, which I hear he refused.” You breathed a sigh of relief, as confusion rose within you. Why then had you been called to the headmasters office? Why weren't you already with your boyfriend, patching him up?

“Gossip spreads incredibly fast in Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore quietly, “as you have experienced yourself. So I must ask: are you aware what the cause of Mr. Riddle's disagreement with two very unfortunate Gryffindor boys in your year was?”

“No,” you replied truthfully, going through the Gryffindor boys in your year one by one. Ron and Harry were the most likely candidates, but to your knowledge, they had spent the whole day up in Gryffindor tower and had still been there when Hermoine and you went on your way down. You could rule Neville out definitively, which left-

“Though Mr. Riddle remains with no major injuries, the same cannot be said for Mr. Finnigan and Mr. Thomas,” said Dumbledore seriously. “If eyewitnesses are to be believed, Mr. Riddle attacked Mr. Finnigan upon overhearing him suggesting to Mr. Thomas how you would come to your senses eventually, that once Mr. Riddle would get bored of you, you would come, ah, ‘crawling back’ to them.” Dumbledore seemed almost embarrassed to say this out loud.

Biting down on your lip, you lowered your gaze. It was true, Seamus had been very reserved towards you ever since you'd kissed Mattheo the day after his fight with Ron. It really shouldn't come as a surprise that he had said these things, though you'd had more respect of him before. And Mattheo… you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at him, not when a stupid fuzzy feeling in your chest betrayed how flattered you felt that he had tried to defend your honor, even though you ultimately would have preferred it hadn't happened and no one were injured right now.

“Miss y/n?” Dumbledore asked and you looked back up at him. “Your relationship with Mr Riddle seems to be a popular topic of discussion all around the castle these days. Just yesterday, I overheard the fat monk and Sir Nicolas talking about it. So I regret weighing in on a topic you are probably long tired of.” So that was it. Dumbledore wanted to know about your relationship to Mattheo. And he was right, you weren't really in the mood of discussing it with your headmaster.

You realized he was looking at you, awaiting some sort of reaction, and you nodded. “It's fine.” It was not fine, but really, you just wanted to get this over with quickly so you could see if Mattheo was really alright as Dumbledore had said.

“To my understanding,” said Dumbledore, “and you may correct me if I'm wrong, you’re Mr. Riddle’s first girlfriend- not counting his many -uh- exploits, as well as his only relation outside of his friend group.” Reluctantly, you nodded. This felt wrong. What was he getting at?

“You must have met a great deal of resistance from your peers, especially your own house,” he continued. “Tell me, my dear: what do you see in Mr. Riddle others do not?”

Though you were taken aback by the question, you didn't need to think about it long. “What people think of him is entirely founded on the assumption that he must be like his father," you said seriously, "But you yourself will surely agree with me that it's not blood that is important, or what family you belong to, but how you choose to live your life and what decisions you make for yourself.”

“But,” Dumbledore said gently, “Mr. Riddle has been notorious for violence for quite some time, as you yourself must know.”

“If you tell someone over and over again that they are going to be a monster, that that is the path cut out for them,” you said, your voice rising a little as you got more heated, “You are not allowed to be shocked or surprised when they follow the path you pointed for them all their life!” To make your point, you sat up a little straighter and placed your hands on Dumbledore's desk. “Mattheo is a person, he's always been, what did you expect would happen if there is no hand extended to him?”

“So, you extend that hand to him?” asked Dumbledore calmly and watched you very carefully over the rim of his half moon spectacles.

“No,” you said curtly, “that was your job. For god’s sake, Mattheo isn't my charity case!” Realizing how loud you'd become unintentionally, you took a deep intake of breath to calm yourself. Respect for your teachers had always been important to you, Mattheo was the one with the anti-authority leanings. “Headmaster, I don't know what you expect me to say. But I'm not with Mattheo to- to save him or something, I'm with him because I love him.”

“Love, Miss y/n,” said Dumbledore pensively, “is often the greatest weapon against darkness. But it is not always enough to save someone who does not wish to be saved.”

“What are you saying?” you pressed, not breaking eye contact as your fingers clenched around each other on the table, curled into a tight net.

Dumbledore breathed a long sigh, and for a moment, he looked older than you'd ever seen him. “Mattheo Riddle is a young man burdened with a name that carries a great deal of darkness. I fear that darkness is eager to claim him.” He leaned forward ever so slightly. “I quite agree with you that it is not our blood that defines us. But do you believe Mattheo understands that?”

You couldn't answer this. In whispers, Mattheo had confided in you about his parentage, what some called his legacy to follow his father’s footsteps. As an incredibly powerful wizard, he'd always been expected to use these powers for the worst. It had been drilled into his head, that nothing about him could be good, that he would always be the destruction of goodness, the epitome of heinousness. He had confessed to you how he never knew how to hold you, as if you were an angel from another dimension. Too good for him, too pure to be touched by him, incorruptible and therefore never to be his, truly.

Dumbledore seemed to sense your inner conflict and addressed you, making you look up at him. “There is a storm inside that boy, one that I believe he doesn't know how to quiet. And yet, with you, he may be able to. But I advise you to let caution rule. You may be his light in the shadows, but even the brightest light cannot force someone to walk out of the dark.”

“Is that all?” you asked, burning to escape the headmasters office that seemed to get more cramped with each second. Dumbledore examined you closely, but then he nodded and you rose from your seat in an instant. Your hand already on the door handle, he called your name one last time and you turned around.

“Miss y/n?” asked Dumbledore, and the lightest of smiles played around his lips, though it seemed tainted with worry and sadness. “I do sleep better at night, knowing Mr. Riddle has you in his life.”

Leaving the office, you took off to Gryffindor tower at once, sprinting through halls and up the stairs until your lungs seemed to be bleeding and screaming in protest. Stumbling through the portrait hole, you caught sight of a group of Gryffindors in your year huddled together, throwing you both judgemental and apprehensive looks as you passed them, but neither of your closest friends were among them, so you paid them no mind.

Thankfully, the girl's dormitory was empty when you broke through the door, panting and gasping for air. Walking over to your bed, you pulled your medical bag out of your cupboard, flung the handle over your shoulder and took off down the stairs again. But when you went to make your way across the common room, you suddenly crossed paths with Ron. Assuming he'd ignore you, you tried to rush past him but his voice made you stop dead in your tracks.

“Can we talk?”

You turned around, finding him looking a little embarrassed and self-conscious, though he was still frowning. Even though the fight had been about a week ago, some of the bruises were still visible on his face, in spite of Madam Pomphrey’s medical miracles. “What is it?” you said, trying not to sound too impatient.

Ron blew out a long breath through his mouth, rocked lightly on the balls of his feet and looked anywhere but you. When you were just about to ask again, he glanced back at you and his frown deepened. “I was… a bit of an asshole last week.”

These barely muttered words stunned you enough to momentarily forget about Mattheo and concentrate your attention on the boy standing before you, who was rubbing his neck uncomfortably. “Yeah… kinda…” you said, suddenly realizing that you weren't even mad at him anymore. His words had been cruel, but you hadn't been innocent either, and he was one of your best friends. You knew he hadn't meant to hurt you, and he had gotten his comeuppance already.

“Look, I-” he seemed to be looking for the right words, “I didn't mean what I said about you being stupid and naive and throwing yourself at Riddle. I'm really sorry.”

“It's fine,” you said, after a short pause. “I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have lied to you all like that, you guys are my best friends. I was just afraid that you might react, well, disproportionately.”

“You're going to keep seeing him then?” Ron asked, barely managing to keep the bitterness out of his tone. At least he wasn't shouting anymore, and you felt confident enough to quirk a little smile. “Well, yes. Actually, I was just on the way.”

Ron clenched his jaw. “I don’t trust him. I probably never will. But if he ever hurts you, I swear I’l-” He stopped himself and sighed, giving you a hesitant smile. “Just be careful, okay? Look, you're like a sister to me, that's why I was such a bloody idiot about this. I just don't want to see you get hurt.”

“You won't,” you promised, and, after a second of hesitation, you closed the distance between the two of you and wrapped your arms around him. It was kind of hard because Ron towered over you with his considerable height, but nevertheless, he returned the embrace. When you shifted, he winced slightly and you broke apart. “Still hurts?” you asked empathetically.

Ron shrugged. “I guess I deserve that. Have fun with your boyfriend.” Though he rolled his eyes, he seemed in a much better mood than before.

Ten minutes later, you hurried down the steps to the dungeons and flew past the torches on the walls, blazing through your vision, in search of the Slytherin common room. When visiting the dungeons, you'd only ever been to the kitchens. There had never been an occasion when you'd felt the desire to enter the snakes den. Up until now.

Rounding another corner, you were suddenly faced with a dead end. Dark brick obstructed your way, cold and unsympathetic to your plight. You groaned in growing desperation, already turning on your heel to keep looking for the entrance, when suddenly, you gasped. Someone emerged from the wall, walking through stone, it seemed, as if it were nothing but fog. When they broke apart from the wall, you realized it was Theodore Nott. Equally surprised to find you, his eyes widened, then dropped to your medical bag.

“Did somebody already get you?” He asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. To be on the receiving end of Nott’s staring was slightly terrifying and your fingers closed around the handle of your bag.

“Nobody got me,” you answered, growing more self-conscious by the second. Nott seemed so hostile- did Mattheo not want to see you? “I just… heard what happened and I wanted to come and… well…” Gesturing vaguely to your medical bag, your voice drowned off uncertainly.

But Nott only said “good” and motioned you towards him. When you came to a halt next to him, faced with the dark wall, he cleared his throat and said “vaframentum” at the wall. It seemed to be the password, as he held you by the arm and walked back through the seemingly hard brick, pulling you through with him.

It was the most peculiar feeling to walk through a wall, it seemed to mold around you like a tight suit, unable to breathe, until you came out on the other side the split of a second later. You shuddered, looked back at the brick and shook your head. “No offense, but I prefer our entrance, I think. Do people ever get stuck in there?”

“I think there was a kid, few decades back,” said Nott easily. You noticed his eyes were quite cautious as they surveyed you, but he didn't seem as hostile anymore. “He's up there.” Nott indicated something above you and only now did you properly appreciate the sight before you.

The Slytherin common room was somehow just like you had expected. The whole room was tinted in a greenish hue due to it being beneath the black lake and the portraits of many stern looking witches and wizards adorned the dark walls. Though a fire cackled in the large sophisticated fireplace, the room was a good few degrees cooler than the Gryffindor common room. The couches were of black leather and very elegant and desks stood along the walls, groaning under quills and parchment.

You looked up into the direction Nott had indicated and saw a flight of stairs leading upwards, where the dormitories had to be. With a short nod, you followed him, struggling to keep up with his long strides as you climbed the stairs. Walking up the staircase in silence, you passed many doors though none seemed to be the right one. Finally, Nott came to a halt before a large wooden door, undoubtedly the Slytherin boy's dormitory.

For the split of a second, Nott seemed to hesitate, but then, he brushed past you and opened the door. Because his large frame obscured much of what lay beyond the doorway, you could only see several pairs of feet and a curl of smoke rising over their heads, and hear Mattheo's voice, rough and agitated as he snapped at his friend. “Not you again, piss off, Nott! I need everyone to get out of my damn face.”

“It's not a pleasure looking at your face right now, I can assure you, mate,” Nott replied, coolly, leaning against the doorframe. “You look like Frankenstein's monster.”

A humorless chuckle sounded through the room and you heard someone shift. His voice, his laugh was enough for you to know that whatever had happened during that brawl had not been enough to fulfill Mattheo's need to make someone bleed for it, and for a split second, you were almost worried about Nott, even though you knew Mattheo loved him like a brother. “Oh great, another lecture,” Mattheo drawled sarcastically, looking to provoke, “you know, for someone who is not my mother, you sure nag like one.”

You couldn't help it, you couldn't stifle the little chuckle that left your throat at their banter. Silence fell upon the room. Next second, Nott was suddenly pushed away with a rough thrust and Mattheo stood before you in the doorway. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm braced against the wood, his posture careless yet undeniably tense. His knuckles were split, seeping with blood, but he didn't seem to care. Neither did he seem pained by the deep cut that split his lower lip, swollen and dark, and the faint bruise that was already blooming on his cheek.

His hair was even messier than usual, like he'd run his hand through it too many times in frustration, and he removed the cigarette from his lips to flick it down and stamp on it to suffocate the glowing embers. As he scanned your soft figure and noticed your chest heaving slightly, every breath somewhat audible as a slight hitch, his dark eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing behind them. A smirk ghosted his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

“Didn't think I'd be seeing you here, princess,” he drawled, his voice low and rough, yet his eyes had somewhat softened at the sight of you. “If I knew getting my face bashed in would get you sneaking into my dorm, I might have done it sooner.”

Though worry tugged at your heartstrings at the sight of his injuries, you rolled your eyes slightly as a little smile played around your lips. Mattheo's eyes seemed to cling to them like a drowning man to his lifeline and he lowered his head slightly, grinning irresistibly down at you. Before he could try anything though, you gave him a glare and a flick against the forehead. “None of that until I have fixed that lip.”

Your rejection couldn't wash the sly smile off his lips. “I'm sure this is one of those things you can kiss better.” Behind him, you thought you heard someone gag, and Mattheo turned around sharply, glaring at Malfoy who seemed to be the culprit. “Why don't you shut your ferret ass mouth in front of my girl, Malfoy, before I make your face even prettier than Finnigan’s?” In an instant, Malfoy fell silent, merely glowering at the ground. Beside him, Lorenzo Berkshire gave you a little wave and smile that you returned.

Mattheo's eyes flickered briefly between the two of you, but without another comment, he seized you around the waist and pulled you against him and into the room. It was very orderly, probably not because of Mattheo. Zabini, Malfoy and Lorenzo seemed to stand around the four poster you assumed to be Mattheo's, looking at you with varying expressions of interest, disapproval and encouragement.

“Oi, idiots,” said Mattheo gruffly as he sat down on his mattress and pulled you along with him until you almost sat in his lap. “Kindly get your stupid faces out of my girlfriend's sight.” He seemed to take great satisfaction in calling you his girlfriend and his fingers curled into the flesh of your waist as he watched the others with sharp eyes.

“Mattheo,” you said softly, attempting to calm the storm that still seemed to be raging inside him. His head snapped around at you and his expression changed in an instant, softening visibly. His lips ran a line up your temple as he pulled you even closer. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Malfoy storm out of the room. Zabini followed, dragging a pissed looking Nott along with him, and Lorenzo left last, with a friendly smile your way.

Once the door fell shut behind them, you freed yourself from Mattheo’s hold. A disgruntled frown crossed his face, but he didn't try to stop you and only wrapped his hands around your knees, thumbs rubbing lazy circles onto your thights. A trickle of blood made its way down his chin and you brushed it away with a fleeting touch, careful not to hurt him. Many of his wounds were already scabby, but untreated. A defeated sigh lift your lips and you noticed Mattheo's eyes snapping down to them. “Why didn't you clean your wounds, Mattheo? You must be in a lot of pain.”

A casual grin tugged at his lips as he looked up at you, his dark curls falling into his eyes but he made no effort to brush them away, perhaps hoping you would. “You worried about me?” he asked in a teasing tone, his hands traveling up your thigh almost indiscernibly. “Careful, princess, you're gonna make me all soft for you.”

Shaking your head at his antics, but unable to suppress a smile, you placed your medical bag next to Mattheo on the bed and opened it to grab a small towel. With a murmured “aquamenti”, you moistened it and started to clean his cuts and bruises. You could feel his eyes on you, boring into your skull with a new intensity as he crooked his head. When you reached his lip and ran the cloth ever so carefully over his swollen cut, he didn't even wince but only leaned up as if chasing your lips for a kiss.

Quickly, you turned away, shaking your head in disbelief. “Really, Mattheo, you’re impossible. You're bleeding and bruising up and you still-” Breaking off with another sigh, you averted your eyes from his that had begun to glint at your abashed expression. You discarded the towel and instead took the murtlap essence, dipped your fingers into the cold liquid and began dabbing it onto the cut on his lip.

“Not gonna lie,” he said, lowering his voice slightly and it resonated in the limited space between his and your lips. “You fussing over me is kind of hot.” His eyes searched for yours, and when they met, his gaze locked you in place, unable to take your eyes off of him. “I wanted you to do it,” he said huskily, “I didn't clean ‘em because I wanted you to do it.”

The way your brows scrunched together almost had him on his knees for you. You looked so fucking irresistible in the dim light of his dorm, looking down at him with worry etched into your gaze and the soft touch of your hands. No one had ever cared for him like this. No one had ever cared enough to heal him, patch him up. Mattheo himself had mostly just let the injuries be until they vanished or turned into messy scars. Not that he'd ever cared. If anything, it only made people flinch back even more. And as much as he hated them for their silent judgement, there was a certain satisfaction in seeing the fear in their eyes when they looked at him.

Fear. Mattheo had found himself reveling in it ever since he'd first experienced it: the summer after his father had returned from his Albanian exile. Before, it’d only ever bothered him how people burst out of the way when he walked down hallways. But now, doing to them what was done to him seemed not only just in a twisted way, but satisfactory. Even seeing his friends flinch away from him from time to time was a warped sort of thrill he relished.

But not with you. Mattheo hated the thought that he might see the same fear he'd seen in others reflected in your eyes. Your horrified expression after the brawl with Weasley had been enough of an appetizer to make him detest the very thought. No, you saw something in him, something good, something worth worrying about. And for the first time in his life, Mattheo didn't want to prove anyone's assumptions right by being as much of a monster as they all expected, but to be whatever you liked about him, though he couldn't really imagine what that might be.

“Knew you'd come,” he said, finally, after a short silence during which you had been dabbing at a cut through his brow, eyes narrowed adorably in concentration. “You're too kind, princess.” He couldn't resist urging you closer, his hands still cupping your lower thighs. Though his head was craned upwards, he couldn't have cared less about neck strain. He'd not let himself be deprived of the sight of you fussing over him with such tender care. A smirk played around his lips and he could see your eyes flick down to them, an almost unnoticeable tint of pink on your cheeks. Fucking hell, how he loved to see you blush.

Almost instinctively, his hands tightened and your breath hitched a little. Mattheo couldn't help the light groan that left his lips. “You should be in bed, not sneaking into the serpent’s den for your reckless boyfriend.”

To his surprise, you breathed an amused chuckle and ruffled his hair. He could have moaned when your fingers grazed over his scalp, he was damn near purring, leaning into your touch and catching your thumb between his teeth. You gasped in faux indignation and delivered the lightest of slaps to his temple. But a soft smile spread across your utterly kissable lips. “Tragically, I would do it any day.”

Mattheo felt something pull tight in his chest at your words, a warmth he wasn’t prepared for, something dangerous in its softness. He covered it the only way he knew how: with a smirk, with teasing, with the same careless charm that usually kept people at arm’s length. But it didn't quite work with you. Not when you were this close, your hands so gentle against his bruised skin, your eyes holding none of the judgement he was used to. He forced a chuckle, tilting his head as if unaffected, as if you hadn’t just unraveled something inside him with a single sentence. “Tempting idea, if it gets you all over me.”

It was meant to be flirty, meant to be light, but even he could hear the edge of truth beneath it- because, Merlin help him, he was starting to think he liked being taken care of by you. And that? That terrified him more than any fight ever could. The little laugh that spluttered past your lips didn't improve his precarious situation. “There are easier ways to do that, you know,” you said, quirking an eyebrow. “Not involving sending people to the hospital wing, I mean.”

Your heart skipped a beat when Mattheo's expression darkened visibly, as if the storm you'd managed to calm for a few minutes was brewing up again, swirling in his dark eyes. His jaw clenched dangerously and again, his grip on your thighs tightened as if on instinct. “They deserved it. Like I'd ever let them talk about you like that and do nothing." You could tell he was still agitated by what Seamus had said, his knee rocking restlessly and the words practically spat out of his mouth.

Frowning, you dabbed at his cheek and drew soft circles on his blooming bruise. “Mattheo, people just need time. Before I came here, Ron apologized to me. It will be the same with the rest, they'll get used to it.”

But your attempt to soothe his simmering wrath, it only seemed to spur him on as his eyes hardened. “Did you forgive him?” he asked through clenched teeth, still looking up at you with unwavering attention.

You hesitated upon recognizing the barely suppressed fury in his tone and leaned down peck his healing lips. Though his lips chased after yours, you didn't want to risk reopening the cut and drew away decisively. “Well,” you said, ignoring the way one of his index fingers started to draw a line up your thigh and the goosebumps it left in its wake. “Yes,” you confessed, “for what he said about me, at least.”

A harsh “tch” made its way past his lips and the next words he nearly growled. “Of course you did.”

Feeling a pinch of defiance, you got a hold of Mattheo’s hand that had been wandering up to your skirt and placed it firmly back on your knee. “So, you think I was wrong to forgive him?” you asked with a frown.

For the first time this evening, Mattheo tore his eyes away from yours and fixed them instead on a spot somewhere on your belly where your shirt was tucked neatly into your school skirt. “‘m not gonna sit here and pretend I don't benefit from you being so damn forgiving. But I guess that's what you have me for now.” Though he shrugged, you saw that his shoulders were tense and caught his fingers wrapping around each other, squeezing the bleeding knuckles that only emitted more blood.

“You’ll be my guard dog for the bad guys then?” you joked in an attempt to lighten the mood. A heavy tension had set upon the room, weighing down on you like a thick blanket. His touch and his intense, dark eyes paired with his agitation and words of boiling rage. The inevitable mood swings, when he'd attempt to shield his true feelings behind a well crafted mask of sarcasm and flirtatious teasing. Mattheo Riddle was a rollercoaster of a man, and it was hard to keep up with him at times. But then again, you'd always known that.

Instead of switching to a more conversational and casual tone, Mattheo suddenly brushed your hand off. You could practically see it in his eyes, like closing shutters of a dimly lit house. Mattheo was closing himself off, and he moved his head so your arm fell helplessly to his side. His hands had detached themselves from your thighs as his fingers seemed to look for another smoke in his inside pocket. “You're wasting your time, love. Not like a few bruises are gonna kill me.”

With an almost exasperated sigh, you crouched down before him so that you were now the one looking up at him and closed your fingers around his red and slimy hands. Not a muscle twitched in his face, it seemed to have frozen over into a mask of indifference. “Mattheo, I want to,” you said, firmly and in great earnest, “I don't want to see you hurt. Please-” your voice dropped down to a low whisper, “please let me help you.”

Fuck. You'd used the magic word, whether it had been conscious or not. Mattheo could never resist you pleading so sweetly, looking up at him with those caring, loving eyes, holding a gaze so heavy with tenderness as he'd never experienced it before. Your hand reached out to him, and he flinched away for the split of a second, knowing your touch would be too much, would burn down all barriers and barricades he could flee behind to hide from your disarming kindness. When your hand cupped his face softly, he damn near shuddered under your hold, leaning into your touch and looking up at you with blazing eyes. “You're really gonna waste those pretty hands on fixing me up, huh?”

You let out a smile laugh, aghast at how he could be flirty even in the most grim of circumstances, with blood running down his face. Shaking your head, you got a hold of his hands and started to treat his bashed in knuckles. “I think these pretty hands are put to good use.”

Seeing his lips quirk up into a smirk, you knew what he was gonna say before he did, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “I think I know a way to put them to better use.”

“You are a menace onto the world, Mattheo,” you chuckled in disbelief and his smile only seemed to widen. Dropping his right hand, you reached for his left one and started dabbing a soothing creme onto his scabby knuckles, moving your index finger in small, careful circles over the wounds.

Mattheo leaned forwards slightly, seeking your gaze with his distracting enigmatic eyes. “Mmm, keep touching me like that and I might start purring.” You delivered a light push to his torso in a feeble attempt to free yourself from his distracting proximity, but your eyes widened in alarm when Mattheo failed to conceal the lightest of winces. Immediately, he attempted to distract you with another charming smile, but your nurse instincts knew greater obstacles.

“Take off your shirt,” you said firmly and gave him a short glare. To your surprise, he didn't quirk one flirty brow at you and no low teasing whistle made its way past his lips. Instead, he turned and held your steady gaze hostage as he slipped his hand from yours and worked on the buttons of his shirt. You felt almost burned by his chestnut eyes as his fingers escaped your sight and he shrugged off his white shirt in a singular motion.

When your eyes wandered down his torso, you felt your breath catch in your throat- but not in a good way. The bruises and fresh cuts were bad enough, but it was his scars that truly stunned you. They were spread all over his upper body, some faded and thin, others deep and jagged and alarmingly recent, craving stories you weren't sure you could handle knowing across his skin. Your fingers, trembling slightly, hovered over a particularly brutal mark near his ribs, but you couldn't bring yourself to touch it, afraid of hurting him, afraid of what it might mean.

Were those all a product of his fury fueled fighting? Many of the fresher scars didn't look like the consequence of a hallway brawl. They looked like remnants of cruel torture, the kind you'd only ever seen in your healing books about treating wounds inflicted by dark magic. How many times had he been hurt like this? And worse- how many times had no one been there to patch him up? The thought sent a dull ache through your chest, made your heart clench and sadness settle heavy in your stomach.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, but he wasn't smirking anymore. His expression was guarded, wary- like he was waiting for you to flinch back, pull away, see disgust settle upon your features. But all you could think of was how much pain had he been carrying alone? Without your consent, you felt your eyes well up with tears and averted them, pretending to study the more recent bruises. But the deep, brutal cuts stood out to you as if there was a stagelight upon them, and you felt a stubborn tear slip past your defenses and roll down your cheek.

Before you could brush it away and pretend it had never been there, you felt rough pads of fingers under your chin, guiding you to look at the one they belonged to. Mattheo's brows were scrunched together in what seemed like worry. It was an unusual look on his face, it somehow didn't seem to match his features, as if someone had pulled and arranged them into an awkward interpretation of care. But you knew better. You knew he wasn't used to showing any kind of emotion, much less worry, care or empathy. All of which would be considered a weakness, and Mattheo couldn't allow himself to be weak.

Mattheo Riddle was an animal because his life had been guided by a single driving force: staying alive, making it to the next day. Roughening up with each new hardship was an adaption, a natural evolution. Hardening was a necessary precaution, because care for anyone else would mean less care for himself, and he needed all he could get. You knew what a precarious line he walked, and how eager the world was to see him fall. Because you had been them, and you had been watching. Only now did you realize how much.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding almost insecure. Though you tried to keep it together, this show of vulnerability only added to the pile weighing in on your poor heart that belonged to him way too much already. You tried to smile, but another tear made its way past your lashes and down your cheeks and your breath trembled audibly.

“I'm just-,” you said, unsure how to properly wrap the emotions welling up in you up in a sensible string of words, how to explain. “I'm just so sad,” you finally managed to confess weakly, plainly, the words so flat you could have slapped yourself. “For you,” you clarified, when his brows twitched with irritation, the urge to rid you of anything that might be dissatisfactory to his princess. “For all the pain in your life. I wish you hadn't needed to go through it.” Your voice was a mere breath, a dying whisper on your tongue. Finally, your shaking fingers lay upon the largest scare with such care that he would barely be able to feel it. “I wish I'd been there with you.”

“No, you don't,” he said firmly. Something flashed in his eyes, almost like panic, like a deer in the headlights as he imagined you with him, within his fathers reach. But they hardened the split of a second after. “Hear me, princess? You don't.” You couldn't help yourself, you leaned into his touch and his hand seized your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

For a long while that felt like an eternity and a second at once, he didn't speak, only looked at you. Your care had taken him off guard. You'd shed tears for him. Nobody had ever cared about him like you did, with an unconditional love like yours, with a kindness like yours. Nobody had ever shed tears for him. He should have felt bad that you were crying for him, especially when he himself would say some of these wounds were deserved. If not for his direct action, then for the crime of his existence. But he couldn't deny the feeling of stupid stupid relief at seeing you care so deeply.

Having calmed your tears, you wiped the last remnants from your cheeks and gave him an apologetic look. But before you could even open your lips to mutter an apology, his free hand seized one of your wrists and the intensity with which his eyes met yours made any attempt at speaking die on your tongue. Slowly, as if giving you the chance to pull away any second, he guided your hand towards him until it touched the skin of his shoulder, one of the more faded scars. It felt hot against your hand, even though you'd made sure to warm your hands up before treating him.

Still keeping your gaze hostage, Mattheo slowly moved your hand, moved it over his collar bone and down his chest, running over smaller and bigger scars, clean and brutal ones. He didn't blink once, only looking into your helpless eyes as he made you touch every single scar on his body. When he let go of your wrist, it fell limbly against your side and the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips as he crooked his head at you. “See? Now they’re beautiful.”

A shaky breath left your lips and hung in the air between you, like a question. He answered as he tilted his head slightly and reached out to you in a way that didn't need hands. When you lowered your lips onto his, they were still impossibly soft from the soothing effect of the serum. His moved gently against yours, missing the usual heat and settling for a tender caress. His hands settled on your thighs once more as he caught every shaky breath with his lips. You knew he was no man of words, a stranger to comfort, but he had the right instincts.

After a good minute, you parted and you directed your eyes at his body once more. You were still here to treat him, after all. So, you sat down on the bed beside him, made him turn and face you and started applying diptam to his bruises. Checking that no ribs were fractured, you ran your hands over his sides and could practically feel him swallowing down a provocative comment.

When you were finished, you pulled away from him and stored your flasks in your bag. As you looked back at him, you felt your heart skip a beat. The neutral healer’s eye had been replaced, you could no longer see Mattheo's body as just another body to be treated. He was undeniably, unfairly beautiful. The sharp cut of his collarbones, the taut muscles beneath scarred skin, the way his stomach tapered down in a way that made your stomach twist. Even battered and bruised, sitting on his bed beneath your healing hands, he carried himself with, it seemed, effortless strength. Every line of his body was shaped by a lifetime of fights, of survival.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, warmth creeping up your neck as your eyes traced the ridges of his abdomen, the way his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his dark gaze flickering over you like he knew exactly what you were thinking. And maybe he did- because when you finally dragged your eyes back to his, that damn smirk was back, lazy and knowing, and Merlin help you, it only made him more infuriatingly attractive. You felt heat rise in your cheeks and averted your eyes, afraid they might linger and betray your hunger for him. But of course, nothing could escape Mattheo.

When you attempted to bring some distance between you and his irresistible smile and body, he rose from the bed and strolled towards you with slow, deliberate steps. Backing away, you felt like a mouse fleeing a hungry cat, until your back met wood and your breath got stuck in your throat- audibly. Mattheo's eyes widened with pleasure at the sound and his infuriating smirk only deepened as his attentive eyes caught the way your gaze fixed on anything but him. Fucking adorable.

You even leaned back your head against the wood as his arms came up to cage you in, making you look up at him with rosy cheeks and an abashed smile. “Uh,” you said, squirming under his intense gaze, and voice shaking for a whole other reason than distress. “Don't you want to put your shirt back on?”

Mattheo chuckled at your words, he seemed to find your sudden embarrassment very amusing. “Blushing, are we?” he asked, ignoring your suggestion and inching closer until there were only breaths between your still clothed chest and his bare one. You found yourself aching for him, aching for him to close the distance, because you could never, and you would never ask it. But Mattheo only made a “tsk” sound and shook his head in playful scolding, “and here I thought you were being professional.”

Any response died on your tongue when he leaned down and all you could see was him, all you could smell was him, all you could hear was him. Your senses were overwhelmed with him, him, him, as you did your very best not to sneak a look at his bare upper body. For some reason, Mattheod seemed to be able to sense your distress, though he made no attempt to ease it. Quite the contrary. Another chuckle left his lips, growing ever more dangerous. “Relax, princess, you can look. I don't bite, not unless you want me to.”

“I-” you managed to say before the look in his dark eyes sealed your lips just as effectively as a charm might have. He leaned in even further until his breath fanned your lips and you closed your eyes in unfulfilled expectation. “Fucking hell,” he murmured into the little space between you, “you're adorable when you try to pretend you're not flustered. Tell me princess-” Without a warning, he grabbed your wrist and brought your hand to his chest once more, this time running it over his abs. His devious eyes seemed to notice every reaction, every nervous flicker of your eyes. “Do you want to touch me?”

Not trusting your voice, you nodded and he cooed, running your hand up to his chest and down again. Again, that suffocating smirk. “I know you want to look at me,” he said, “wouldn't even need legilimency for that. Go on. I'm yours now, remember? You’re allowed to look, princess.” For a moment, you managed to keep up the act, but then, your eyes flickered down to his body and you felt yourself shiver with desire. God, he was beautiful.

Suddenly, his hands released your wrist and found their way to your waist, pulling you with him as he walked slowly over to his four-poster. You felt almost dizzy from looking into his eyes, as if they were black holes pulling you towards him with irresistible force. Your heart nearly leaped from your chest when a light push made you flop down onto his mattress and he followed suit, swallowing all forms of protest as his lips clashed into yours with fiery heat.

The kiss was demanding, it had the edge the previous one had missed. Mattheo kissed you as if he wanted to devour you whole, as if he wanted to claim your lips as his forever. His rough hands dug into the flesh of your waist and guided you slowly to lie on your back, exerting full control over you. Yet you'd rarely felt more content, experienced such a thrill as when one of his hands cupped your cheek and angled your jaw just right for his lips to wander down your neck and leave red marks in their wake. There was little Mattheo loved more than marking you up, molding your soft skin into a shape of his liking, sully it with marks of his claim on you.

When he reached the spot just below your ear, your breath hitched in your throat and Mattheo damn near groaned into your neck. Your smell overwhelmed him, the feeling of your soft skin on his, listing to your labored breathing and you. You laying in his bed, in his sheets. When he was satisfied with the mark he was working on, he forced himself to part from your neck, from your skin, to hover above you. Your lips were kiss-bitten and slightly swollen, fresh hickeys adorned your neck and writhed so sweetly in his bed. His. This was where you belonged, with him, and he with you.

Your breathing was uneven as you looked up at Mattheo, his dark eyes glinting dangerously as they raked down your clothed figure. A crease appeared between his brows as he lowered himself once more, but refusing to close the distance between the two of you. His fingers played with the hem of your shirt that had come untucked at some point and his voice was nearly a growl. “Think we should be equal, don't you, princess?” His voice was heaving just slightly, enough to make him maddeningly irresistible. “Why don't you take this off?”

Though thoroughly flustered by your current predicament, by the way his bare chest moved against yours and the pads of his fingers brushed experimentally over the exposed skin of your waist, you managed to give him a small smile. “Why don't you?”

Something changed behind the guarded curtains of his eyes, something shifted, like a beast awoken from slumber. Mattheo chuckled dryly against your lips when suddenly, a resounding rip reached your ears. You flinched when he literally tore your shirt off of you, buttons flying in every direction. Your gasp was muffled by his lips as they crashed into yours once more, chaotic and wild, as he worked on discarding what was left of your shirt. In dire need for air, you pulled away and pushed at his chest lightly. “Jesus, Mattheo, my shirt!”

“Be that damn cheeky again and I'll do the same to your skirt,” he said lowly before propping himself up just enough to get a proper view of your exposed upper body. His eyes were captured with fascination, unable to tear themselves away from the soft skin, the curve of your breasts and your damn white lace bra. Fuck, if you hadn't looked enough like an angel already. Unsuspectedly, he could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, his fingers almost trembling as he ran them up the side of your belly, over the soft flesh, until they reached your bra. Shivering deliciously beneath his simple touch, you looked up at him with your doe eyes and he felt the conflicting desires to absolutely ruin you and impale himself on a stick for touching something so damn holy with his sullied hands.

Sitting up slightly, you seemed to misinterpret his lingering stare and crossed your arms over your chest. Immediately, his shot forward to seize your wrists and pin them above your head, unable to hide the hunger brimming behind his cold facade. “Fucking beautiful you are,” he said gruffly and reveled in the way your cheeks heated up, the soft tint of pink. His eyes were drawn to the hickies on your neck and Merlin did they look good on you.

Your chest was heaving under his intense gaze as he dipped his head down to kiss, nibble and mark all along your collarbone. “Take that off.” You complied immediately, reaching behind your back to unhook your bra and discarding it somewhere to the side. “Won't someone- ah!” You let out the a high-pitched squeak when he bit down on the flesh just above your breasts and could hear him breathing in deeply. Determined, you tried again as his lips made their way down the valley of your breasts. “Won't someone come in?”

“No one who wants to keep their head,” he growled and you whimpered when he turned his attention to one of your tits. He let go of your wrists in favor of cupping the other and rubbing circles around your sensitive bud, making you stifle a soft mewl. “So, what about that skirt?” He pressed and your now free hands quickly made their way down, tugging at the waistband of your skirt. Impatient, one of his hands slapped yours away and pulled the skirt down your legs, along with your thights, leaving you with nothing more than your panties against the heated air of his dorm.

Mattheo buried his fingers in the soft flesh of your thighs and you could feel him against your thigh, feel his arousal. It was somewhat calming to know that he was just as effected as you, though he wasnt yet mewling helplessly. You felt his hot breath on your skin as his lips travelled down, down your belly, leaving a trail of unexpectedly soft kisses and whispering into your soft flesh as if in holy confession. “Merlin, you’re so fucking beautiful, can't believe it, cant wait to hear you scream my name-”

If you’d been blushing before, you definitely were now. Something hot seemed to pulsate in your cheeks as your heart fluttered with every word he spoke into your skin, spoken in the tone of a starving man praying for salvation.

Mattheo was in love with the little sounds you made as his lips made their way down your body, his fingers brushing over spots he knew would have your skin break out into goosebumps. Merlin, how he relished how responsive you were, how your soft, pliant body seemed to mold into his every touch and how your helpless little gasps and suppressed mewls sounded like music in his ears. He’d have you screaming for him in no time, have you screaming his name, and his heart raced in eager expectation.

But he had to take it slow with you. For one, he knew he was far more experienced than you were- when it came to the physical sense. But he’d never done it like this. With actual love behind it. The act of sex had always been about selfish pleasure on the one hand and power on the other. The power of someone else’s reactions, the satisfaction of knowing they despised him as they fell apart under his touch, that he’d be their dirty fucking secret but so powerless in that moment. There was no love behind it, just sex and power.

But now, he had to overthink. You were so perfect, so soft and gentle, so he had to try and be gentle with you, too- because you deserved it more than anyone. Mattheo was well aware that you deserved someone better than him, someone less tainted, less selfish, and better at loving you. But the heavens should strike him down if he couldnt give you the best time out of anyone in this damn castle. But it had to be perfect. It had to be just right.

As he reached your pubic bone and his deft fingers closed around the waistband of your underwear, you squirmed slightly and felt goosebumps spread all over your skin, in spite of how damn hot it was. “No no no, don’t run away from me now, princess,” he muttered against the skin of your pubic bone, and when you glanced down at him, you saw him look up at you with the utmost devotion and a carnal need that had you gasp lightly. Both his hands were on your thighs as he rested his chin on one of them and looked at your through his long dark lashes. The tension seemed to mount between the two of you, you realized he was waiting for something as heat crept up your neck.

Then, without any warning aside from a small twitch of his lips, he leaned down and blew a gust of air against your clothed core. A high-pitched yelp left your lips and he chuckled darkly, slowly pulling at the waistband of your panties. And even still, he was fixing you in place with those criminally seductive eyes of his. “What do you want me to do, princess?” he asked with raised brows and you swallowed thickly, chest heaving as you propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. Your wide, pretty eyes almost had him folding for you, but he wanted to hear you say it. Wanted nothing more than for you to disregard your bashfulness, whatever means necessary.

But you found yourself unable to answer, not with the way his eyes bore into yours and you hoped he would read your desire in your mind, so you wouldn't have to say the words that felt so utterly filthy,you could never say it. Let alone the thought had your cheeks burn with shyness and you shook your head shakily, looking at him with pleading eyes. His teasing smile grew when suddenly, you felt his hand cup your clothed cunt, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. “Want me to eat you out like you deserve, princess?” he asked, smiling evily at your abashed whine, “Salazar, I bet you taste sweeter than sugar.”

“Mattheo,” you breathed, whether to spurr him on or to warn him you didn't know, but he cooed. “I know, princess, I know.” His hand drew away, but was soon replaced by his index finger drawing lazy circles over the fabric of your underwear. With a disgustingly smug look on his face, his eyes raked over your slightly trembling form as you practically shook in anticipation.

You looked so fucking sweet, barely holding it together, blushing and stuttering and he hadnt even properly touched you yet. Though he had planned your first time with him to be all about you, he could feel himself harden painfully as he burned to seek relief against the mattress. But if Mattheo could do one thing, it was to disregard his needs.

“Tell me, princess,” he drawled as he kept rubbing painfully slow circles, barely teasing your clit. Though you would never mentioned it, you’d heard from the other girls in your dorm how good he was in bed, you knew he was teasing you deliberately. “Anyone ever eaten you out before?” Hesitating for a split second, you shook your head and saw his brows twitch. He hummed lowly. “What fucking losers.”

You stifled a moan when he slipped his hand under your lace panties and grazed the rough pads of his fingers over your most sensitive spot. “There weren't a lot of them,” you almost whispered and his eyes snapped up at you. “A-actually just one, really.”

An almost mocking smile adorned his lips. “Really now? And how was it?” Somehow, he already knew the answer, you could see it in his eyes, the quirk of his brow, the edge of his smile. Whether it was legilimency or he had somehow read it off the curves off your body, you didnt knew. You only knew he’d derive great pleasure from hearing you say it.

“‘t was pretty short,” you managed to croak out and gasped when Mattheo’s fingers finally released you from his tortuous teasing and twirled around your clit in a way that had you mewl loudly. Embarrassed, you slapped your hand over your mouth, but his eyes hardened and he fucking pinched your clit, making you squeak in a mix of pleasure and pain.

“None of that, princess,” he muttered in a commanding tone, “I wanna hear you, if you want me to make you cum. You do want that, don’t you?” Bashfulness, paired with his diligently working fingers, made you whine pathetically and he smirked. “That’s what I thought. Be a good girl and take those hands off your mouth, yeah?” With shaking fingers, you did and he tutted softly. “Atta girl. Now lie down.”

In a twisted way, it went to his head, how quickly you let yourself sink into the mattress, how eagerly you obeyed his command, how much you trusted him with yourself. You could still afford to be trusting, he realized, other than him. But he would fucking make sure you’d never lose that. He’d never let the world wash away your kindness, he’d kill anyone who tried.

With an impatient grunt, he pulled your panties off and threw them somewhere to the side. A shudder went through him when he came face to face with your perfect cunt. Merlin, you were so damn soaked. Mattheo felt pride swell within him, so unlike the selfish satisfaction he'd gained from others' pleasure. Oh, how long he’d imagined this these past few weeks, having you all pliant and soft under him, making you fall apart on his tongue. But fuck did your sweet smell call out to him, so that he couldn't waste an time.

When his tongue came into contact with your clit, you squeaked in a mix of surprise and a sudden surge of pleasure, but Mattheo barely gavce you any time top adjust to the feeling. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason in the way he was practically delving into your soaked cunt, as if he meant to suffocate himself in it. His tongue leaped at your core, then sucked on your clit in a way that had you seeing stars and you moaned powerlessly as you became putty in his hands. Mattheo ate you out like a man starved, and every single on of your moans was like music to his ears. His tongue swirled around your clit and a high-pitched mewl fell from your lips, so addictive that he had to do it again, and again, and again-

Mattheo threw your legs over his shoulders to find a new angle and your hands shot down to bury themselves in his soft curls. You tried not to tug too hard, but when he licked one long stripe up your cunt, moaning so fucking filthily, you couldn't help but hold onto him as if he was your lifeline. And Merlin, how he loved it. Loved the way your fingers dug into his curls, loved the way you pulled at them in response to his ministrations, how he could feel your fingers quiver when his came down to your cunt to ease open your entrance.

When he slipped a first finger inside, you practically whimpered and Mattheo could’ve sworn he lost his sanity right then and there. He added another finger to your sweet little cunt and scissored them, pushed them in and out of your glistening folds, angled them upwards and unerringly hit the spot that had you break for him so fucking deliciously. What he didnt expect was for you to breathe a mewl of his name that went straight to his aching cock. Oh, you little minx.

He chuckled against your sensitive bud and your breath hitched in your throat. “Say it again,” he murmured against your folds as his fingers and tongue worked tirelessly to bring you to your high. “Say it, my name, say it.” You didn't even need his instructions, the repeated high-pitched moans of his name rolled off your tongue as if it were the only word you had ever known and, glancing down, you saw him grind his hips into the mattress. Your hips bucked against his face when the pleasure mounted up to new heights and he accelerated the speed of his tongue and fingers.

Allowing himself one look at you, he wished he could engrave the sight into his skull: you, shaking and blushing under his ministrations, whimpering helplessly and writhing in his sheets. His sheets, his girl, all his. Even his mind was growing hazy, but he willed himself to stay focused for you as you got closer to your high. You were on cloud nine, feeling only pure bliss and goddamn had everyone been right about him: Mattheo Riddle knew what he was doing. His deliberate movements overwhelmed your senses with unknown pleasure and your thighs started shaking, as did your fingers.

“‘M close,” you barely managed to breathe out, lips quivering with the intensity of the orgasm you felt building up in your core.

You weren’t sure if he’d heard you, buried between your thighs, but his fingers only picked up speed, his tongue flicked against your clit and with a guttoral moan, you fell apart on his tongue. You could almost see the gates of heaven as pleasure unlike any you’d experienced before wiped any and every thought from your head but him, him, him. Mattheo worked you through your high as you kept mewling his name as if in prayer. How ridiculous, someone as heavenly as you praying to someone as depraved as himself- and how utterly twisted it was that he enjoyed it so fucking much.

Even as you began trashing in his hold, he couldn't stop, couldn't have it be over, couldn't depart from your sweetness. “Mattheo, ‘s too much,” you whimpered, but he was like a man possessed, kept going as if he couldnt stop himself. “I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, lapping up your juices, and you couldn't help yourself. As you felt a scream build up in your throat, you ripped your hands from his hair, earning a grunt of displeasure, and threw them over your mouth to muffle the loud cry. He stopped.

For a second, relief flooded over you, but then his face entered your field of vision as he hovered above you. His curls were as messy as you'd never seen them before, due to your restless hands, and your juices covered the better half of his face, making his lips glisten. His pupils were blown wide and a frown adorned his beautiful face, a frown that made you breath hitch and goosebumps spread all over your skin.

“Sorry,” you gasped, so short on breath as if you’d just run a marathon. “Sorry, Mattheo, I couldnt-”

His frown softened when he heard your voice quiver, looked into your pleading eyes. You were so fucking sweet, he’d never even think of punishing you. No, he only wanted to spoil you rotten, see the bliss in your eyes and hear his name on your tongue as he pushed you over the edge.

“‘S fine,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around your waist and lowering himself down to meet your lips. You seemed taken aback to taste yourself on his lips, making him smile into the kiss, but then, you opened your soft lips to allow his tongue access into your mouth and readily gave in to its push. Feeling his skin against yours, chest against chest, your tits pressed against his sternum and his sweat mingling with yours. It was so intimate you sighed into the kiss, which made him chuckle lowly.

Just then, you felt it. Something hard, clothed, dig into your thigh, and a trembling, daring hand of yours slipped between your intertwined bodies and grazed the tent in his pants. Mattheo let out a sharp hiss and his lips departed from yours to bite down on your ear lobe teasingly. “Well, aren’t you nice, always thimkin’ of me?”

You ignored his comment, sittin up a little to establish eye contact. Something was burning on your tongue, something you needed to ask before anything else happened between the two of you. Your heart beat nervously against your ribcage, but when you met his chestnut eyes, you felt all worry wash away in an instant. “What is it, princess?” Mattheo asked, crooking his head in a way that had his curls fall adorably into his eyes.

Before he could, you brushed them away softly and kept your hand on his cheek, as if to stabilize yourself. “I- I want to keep going.” God, your cheeks burned from just these words and he took notice with a light smile. Mattheo made no attempts to interrupt you as you searched for the right words in your head, arranged them in order, just to discard them. You weren’t good at this, he was, he could just talk about this kind of thing without turning into a blushing mess.

“Mattheo?”

“Hm?” he made expectantly as one hand of his started rubbing slow circles on your hip. “I-” you broke off and wet your suddenly dry lips with your tongue. God, this was so embarrassing you wanted to crawl in a hole and die. “I’ve heard from others about- well-,” you stuttered hesitantly and Mattheo, slowly piecing it together, grinned teasingly, only worsening your embarrassment. With a shaky breath, you dared to meet his eye and decided just to get it over with. “Would you mind not being as- as rough on our first time? I mean, now? It’s not that I don’t- I mean, I just-,” you rambled but he placed a quick peck on your lips, effectively shutting you up.

His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, more open than you’d ever seen them, more vulnerable, more loving. “Hey, hey, princess. We do it exactly the way you want, the way you enjoy, alright?” he said, still drawing soothing circles on your skin.

But you frowned lightly, brows drawing together. “But that’s not right,” you protested, “what about you?”

For the split of a second, Mattheo was startled, simply because he didn't remember ever being asked this question by anyone. But of course you would. You, with the kind smile and the soft hands and the warm look in your eyes. You, who never failed to think of him even when he really didn't want you to. But who was he kidding, it felt fucking amazing to know how much you cared about him.

“I’m getting my fair share of pleasure either way,” he smirked against your lips, playfully pinching the skin of your hip. You nodded slightly, your hand shakily resting upon his clothed cock once more and he covered the shaky breath that left his lips with a growled chuckle. “Careful there, princess,” he teased, head dipping down to trail kisses up your jaw, “You’re playing with fire.”

Nothing could have prepared him for the next words that left your mouth as you brought your other hand to his chin to make him look at you. “Then maybe I want to burn with you.”

Something seemed to snap within Mattheo and he surged forward, stealing the breath out of your lungs as he cradled your face and kissed you with such force you fell back into the sheets. Your chest heaved against his as you brought your hands to his hair and he groaned into the kis, biting down on your bottom lip. “We don’t have to do it tonight,” he managed to rasp against your lips, summoning his last remnants of morality that kept him from ruininmg you right here, right now, and drinking up every single sound of pleasure you made.

“I want to, Mattheo,” you whimpered as his hand found your clit once more, rubbing slow circles over the oversensitive bud. “I want you.”

“Fucking hell, primcess,” he straight up moaned and your breath hitched when he ground his clothed erection against your bare core. But you didn't let up, bucking your hips up to meet his and mewling when the fabric of his trousers rubbed over your clit so deliciously.

“Please,” you breathed against the shell of his ear when he started sucking on the already blooming hickeys on your neck again. “Please, Mattheo, I need you.”

Holy hell, your pleading shot straight to his cock. Your slightly whiny tone, the begging. Please. Please. You repeated it and Mattheo wished he could hear you say it forever. He fucking loved hearing you beg, loved the way your breath hitched in your throat when he bucked his hips into yours and your fingers tightened in his curls. His impatient fingers fumbled with his belt, tugged at the zipper of his pants until he was able to discard them to some corner of the room he didnt care to know. Because all there was now was you. Your breathing, your little moans, your squirming figure beneath his and your god damn pleas that had him weak in the knees. And, of course, the feeble but of fabric still separating you from him.

Pulling his boxers down as quickly as possible without departing from your neck, he finally managed to get them off and his cock, an angry red and already leaking precum, slapped against his abdomen with a filthy sound. When you felt his erection rub over your core, no fabric seperating you anymore, you bit down on Mattheo’s shoulder to stifle a mewl and dug your fingers into his biceps. His lips departed from your neck as he hovered above you, his curls framing his face like a halo. God, how you loved that man.

Your eyes were locked with his as his cockhead kissed your clit and you let out a high-pitched gasp, giving him a needy look. But Mattheo’s usual teasing manner had been replaced by an almost somber look in his eyes, as if he wanted to savor every second of this. He didnt have to ask if you were ready, you only nodded and he pushed in the first few inches.

Mattheo moaned loudly, unabashedly, and you tightened your grip on his bicep at the uncomfortable stretch. God, he was big, bigger than the one you’d had before, and anxiety curled in your stomach that you wouldnt be able to fit him inside. But Mattheos seemed to sense your worry as his breath shuddered over your face and he pecked your temple. “Relax,” he cooed, whispering praises into your ear that had you tremble and blush helplessly.

He didnt move, and it seemed to cost him a great deal of willpower, but as his tip pressed into your entrance and you breathed in and out through your mouth, you slowly managed to adjust as the sting turned into a comfortable stretch. With a little nod, you signaled him to go further and he pushed in another few inches, straight up whimpering into your ear. The sound made you clench and his fingers tightened around your waist. “fuck, princess, you trying to kill me?”

You shook your head and buried your face in his shoulder, trying to relax to make him fit. Mattheo cooed at your determination, rubbing lazy circles on your clit to ease you in. “M’gonna make you feel so good, princess, promise.”

Finally, with a lot of patience and willpower, Mattheo managed to bottom out and both of you struggled for air. His hands wandered down to your hips as he chuckled against your ear. “Such a good girl, taking me like a champ, arent ya?” All you could do was whimper in response, you felt so damn full, could almost feel him in your stomach. But the uncomfortable stretch became more enjoyable by the second and you let out a shaky breath against his skin.

“M- mattheo,” you croaked out pathetically and he cooed once more, breathing in the scent of your hair. “Feel so full,” you almost slurred, as if your mind had gone permanently blank, and you could feel him chuckle darkly into your hair.

“Do you now, princess?”

You nodded and his grin persistet as he started to rock his hips against yours. He pulled out and slammed back in, eliciting a loud moan from you, and reveled in the way your face scrunched up with pleasure. Your fingers shakily tried to grasp anything, his biceps, the sheets, any sort of halt, as he repeated the movement and you mewled helplessly. Mattheo burned to pick up the pace, ram into you with all his might, claim you like the animal he was, but he forced himself to discipline and established a slow pace to help you adjust.

Hiding your face in his shoulder, soft moans of his name slipped past your lips that made it impossibly harder to keep up the slow pace, but for nothing in the world would he stop now. He couldn't. His cock fitted so perfectly into your warmth, your little moans rung in his ears like a heavenly symphony. This was truly heaven, had to be. Especially when he looked down on you to see your fucked-ut expression, the crown of your hair around your face. He’d been wrong. You weren't an angel. You were a fucking goddess.

Without him even realizing, he’d picked up the pace and your fingers dug into his shoulder. “M- mattheo,” you whimpered and he had to stop himself from mercilessly ramming into your perfect cunt. Instead, he let his head fall to your neck and bit down. The cry it elicited from you made him shiver and moan in response, as his teeth dug into your soft flesh in search of some sort of support. He knew it would be the most prominent mark of all, and he relished the thought of you walking around with it, cheeks heating when someone asked about it. Damn right, they’d know, know you were his.

As if you’d heard his thoughts, your shaky little voice rasped into his ear: “Yours, I’m yours.”

Had he said it out loud? He couldnt tell anymore as any and all resolve crumbled and he rammed into you, all the while craessing your soft body with his rough hands. “Fucking right,” he spat against your lips - when had you come this close? - “You’re mine.”

Nodding helplessly, you seemed to be at a loss for words, or maybe too fucked out to string a single sentence together. The thought made him chuckle amd you whined. When you squirmed, he held your hips down, desperately stopping himself from cumming before you. As he felt his own high approaching, his fingerds slipped back down to your clit to draw hurried circles on it. “You’re mine to worship, mine to protect-” He pistoned in and out of you and each push was met with soft little “ah”s from you as you threw your head back and exposed your neck to him, your neck that was covered in his hickeys and he moaned uncontrollably.

“I’ll kill ‘em all,” he rasped against your lips as you tightened around him and the pleasure seemed to pierce through you like arrows, blinding you as you squeezed your eyes shut and cried out his name. “Damn right,” he murmured and you werent even sure what you’d said anymore, only holding onto him as you release cam crushing down on you. “I’ll kill anyone who’ll ever hurt you, nobody touches my girl.” You were pretty sure that he, too, was merely rambling right now as his hips bucked against yours uncontrollably, having lost all steadyness or rhythm.

As the world slowly took form again around you, as you came down from your high, you could practically feel him pulse inside you and crashed your lips onto his. He kissed you back like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Between kisses, you managed to catch fragments of drunken ramblings, until you realized it was a singular phrase, repeated agin and again, breaking off and whispered repeatedly against your lips, in a way that had you wondering whether he himself knew he was speaking.

“I love you.”

Your hand closed around his as he pulled out in a rapid motion and you could feel him release his cum all over your quivering thighs. For a few seconds, there was nothing but your breathing, the soft heaving of your bare chests against each other, the desperate attempt to refill your lungs with air. Then, Mattheo rolled off of you and sank into the sheets next to you. His strong arms came to wrap themselves around your waist as he pulled you towards him. One hand found its way to your neck where he tilted your head just right to softly peck your lips, and again, and again, but giving you room to breathe.

This was new territory, but it felt almost natural to trace soft lines down your sides, card his fingers through your hair and swallow up your little sighs. Mattheo was a stranger to aftercare, as to so many things you had taught him, beginning with airplanes and ending with unconditional love. He’d almost feared this moment, but the tenderness seemed instinctive with you as he grabbed the towel you’d used earlier for his wounds, cleaned it with a bit of wandless magic and ran it over your oversensitive core.

Exhausted, you rested your head against his chest and your hand on the prominent scar on his abdomen. Finally, you dared ask. “What happened there, Mattheo?”

His lips came to softly caress your temple and one of his hands rubbed soothingly along the curve of your hip. “Nothing you’ve gotta worry about.”

“Yes, it is,” you said, but your tone suggested that you would not insist upon hearing the story tonight. “It’s you, and I worry about you, because-” you hesitated for just a moment before opening your eyes and looking up at him. “Because I love you too.”

Mattheo couldn’t answer, any ability to form words seemed to have left him as he stared into your wide, trusting eyes. Again, he felt that if there was a time to die, it was now, with you. But there was another voice too. You loved him. You cared for him. And he had sworn to you that nobody could ever hurt you again. So he had to stay, for you. He wished he could have expressed in this moment how much he appreciated you, how much he loved you, how he’d never thought he could love anyone, given his parents- how could someone coing from pure evil carry anything good inside him? But he did, you’d proved him wrong and he’d never stop being thankful for it. Even better, when you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, he knew you understood, even without his words that would never manage to express his true feelings.

“I hope we find those clothes all again,” you said in a lighter tone, and Mattheo was thankful for it. “Not that Malfoy finds my bra or something.”

Your nose wrinkled in disgust and he laughed quietly, rubbing his nose against your temple affectionately. “Don’t you worry, they’ll know what we did anyway. Don’t think anyone could’ve missed those screams of yours, princess.”

Instead of blushing or looking alarmed, Mattheo was surprised to find you smiling sheepishly. “About that… I think I’ll have to disappoint you.” Biting down on your lower lip, you glanced at the door. “I might have put a muffliato charm on your dorm.”

“No,” Mattheo said disbelievingly, pinching a roll of your stomach and making you squeak. But he knew you weren’t lying. “When’d you do that?”

Now, there was the slightest tint of pink on your cheeks as you shrugged. “When you sent the others out. I thought… just in case…”

“fucking genuis, my girl,” he muttered into your hair and couldn't find it within himself to be irritated at you. “And here i was thinking the whole of the dungeons had heard what a good time you had tonight. No matter,” he smirked, looking back at you and examining the work he’d done on your neck and throat. “You still have the hickeys to show tomorrow.” Mattheo would gladly admit that he took pleasure in the way your eyes widened and you scrambled up in search of a mirror.

When you swung your legs over the bed to stand, however, they wobbled so hard you plopped right back down onto the mattress. Your thighs were still quivering with the last aftershocks and felt about as stable as cooked spaghetti. You glared at him when he laughed and pointed your finger at his face. “This is your fault.”

“Indeed it is,” he admitted and sat up as well, patting your bare hip. “‘m sure you’ll manage though.”

You gaped at him in indignation. “You’re not gonna help me?” When he grinned at you, you groaned, exasperated, and rose to your feet hesitantly, wobbling carefully over to the bathroom.

“‘M gonna pick your clothes up,” he said, getting to his feet as well and grabbing a pair of sweatpants to pull on. “Not that Malfoy actually finds your bra, I’d hate to have to explain to his mother why I gauged his eyes out.”

“You’re deranged!” he heard you call from the bathroom, but he could detect the smile in your voice. When you reemerged, he let his eyes run over your bare form, satisfied with his work.

You cleared your throat. “Can I have my clothes back?”

“No need,” he shrugged, storing the heap of clothes that belonged to yours in one of his drawers. “You can borrow one of my shirts.” When he caught your confused expression, he raised his brows at you. “What, you think I’m gonna let you walk back to Gryffindor Tower past curfew in your condition? You’re sleeping here tonight.”

“And your friends?” you asked hesitantly, and he flashed you a grin that could be mean no good. “Will keep their eyes to themselves if they like them.”

Once you’d pulled his shirt over your head, you slipped under the covers and Mattheo placed a soft kiss on your temple before leaving the room to notify his friends that they were allowed in again. You could still hear your heart beating in your ears amd had to suppress a squeal when the realization of what you’d just done hit you. In order to seem like a well adjusted person, you buried your head in Mattheo’s pillow and breathed in his scent. It was almost like having him here again, and you considered asking him whether you could switch pillows in the future.

But that was talk for tomorrow. How you’d get to class was talk for tomorrow. How the fuck you’d cover up the battlefield Mattheo had left on your neck was a talk for tomorrow.

After a few minutes, you heard several footsteps outside and looked up from Mattheo’s pillow. He was the one to push the door open, and his eyes softened considerably when he saw you laying in his bed, under his sheets. Behind him, the other boys trailed in, all of whom, you noticed, were purposefully avoiding to look at you directly. Malfoy seemed to be pissed about something, and you didn't have to wonder what, and Lorenzo smiled at you again, only to raise his hands in surrender when Mattheo sent him a withering glare.

Turning back to you, a smile tugged at his lips and once more, you were taken aback by his quick mood changes. Without another word, he slipped in beside you, turning his back on the room to hide you from sight and wrapped his arms around you. His breathing was calm against your ear as his chest rose and fell against your back and his smell engulfed you whole. You found yourself relaxing completely in his arms, all tension leaving your body as you leaned into him and he pressed another kiss to your temple.

“Sleep, princess,” he murmured against your skin and you nodded, resting your head against him, clasping his hand around your belly with your own and letting sleep consume you, knowing you were the safest in his arms.

a/n: thank you all so much for sticking around till the end and going on this ride with me, I hope you liked it! 🫶

taglist: @aespaslut @kricketwritesstories @catching-fire-in-the-wind @a-little-funny @thejediprincess56 @polireader @voidangxls @artsyle @nkvgt @ashrocker123 @chimchoom @onlytenkos @yvonne-dump @alwayslatetothefandoms @ravisinghs-wife @eneywey @viylikecats @darksss5516 @cocosparkel @stereading @helendeath @workof-a-rr-t @k0z3me @nottriddlethis @urfavetheaterkid16

[dark-and-kawaii]

Yuji stood just outside Nanami's and your home… his knuckles hovering over the wooden door, hesitant to knock. Each breath he took formed clouds of fog that hung in the air. He could feel it as he stood, felt the weight of his body and the chill that enveloped it. It felt heavy... Everything felt so impossibly heavy...

The silence that greeted his knock felt different, more final. Peeking through the window, he could see how still everything was, how quiet the house was for once, your usual playlist was absent, leaving an emptiness that seemed to echo… 

“Ohh~ Why hello there young man~!” 

A fragile voice had startled him from his thoughts. It was an elderly woman that emerged from behind the large rose bushes you and Nanami had planted together just last spring. She was small, barely reaching Yuji’s chest, her weathered hands trembling slightly on her cane as she shuffled closer. Her eyes held so much warmth- so much kindness and excitement that made Yuji’s chest tighten. 

“If you’re looking for Mrs. Nanami, she left in quite a hurry this morning~!” her voice quavered with joy, unaware of how each word drove daggers into Yuji’s grieving heart. “I’m not certain where Mr. Nanani is, but oh i do hope he made it in tim-”

“Please!” Yuji’s voice cracked, panic clawing its way up his throat, “Is she alright!?” His hands shook as images of curses and blood filled his mind of the worst possible outcome, “Where is she!?-” 

“Hush now, dear child,” The old woman's face softened into a gentle smile, “She’s at the hospital just down the way. The baby decided to come early!~” She clasped her hands together in delight, “I can hardly wait to see them come home- all three of them together! If it’s a boy, he’ll surely have his father’s handsome features!”

Yuji felt the world tilt beneath his feet. He bowed his head, shoulders hunched as if to shield his face from the truth he carried… Every word this woman spoke was another weight added to the crushing truth of what he knew- of what he had to tell you… His fingernails bit crescents into his palms, drawing blood he couldn’t feel though the numbness.

“Kento’s always been so quick to be by her side you know? it’s strange he wasn't there this morning, but ohhh~ I’m sure he was already at the hospital waiting for her~” The woman's voice continued, distant now, as if coming through water, “It must be nice having such a man like that, heavens sake, just last week when she was struggling with groceries he help-” 

Her voice faded into the background as memories flooded Yuji’s mind… How Nanami would adjust your scarf while the three of you were out on cold mornings, the way his usual stoic expression softened at the edges when glancing your way… The way his hand would absentmindedly touch your growing belly, as if to reassure himself you and his unborn child were still there… And now, because of one moment, one curse… he would never meet his child. Never know if they had his eyes, his smile, his quiet strength or your features and kind heart… 

At the hospital, through the crack in the door, Yuji saw how you were curled around your newborn daughter, your finger caught in her tiny grasp. The golden sunset painted you in a warm light, and despite your exhaustion, you were absolutely glowing…

“We did it, Kento,” your whisper carried through the door, “we have a beautiful baby girl.” Your smile, so pure and unaware, shattered what remained of his composure. “Hurry back from your mission so you can meet her… We’re waiting ♡.”

Outside your hospital room, Yuji stumbled back, tears burning trails down his cheeks as he bit his lip until it bled, trying to stifle the sobs threatening to break free. How could he tell you? How could he destroy this perfect moment with the truth that Nanami- your Kento, your daughter’s father- had been torn apart by a curse… How could he explain that your “waiting” would be eternal…?

He couldn’t. Not yet…

As he wandered the hospital halls, he noted all the beautiful details Nanami had ensured would surround you during this moment. The butterfly sanctuary, the library, the gardens. Even when it came to you birthing his child, Nanami had thought of everything- had wanted everything to be perfect for you.  

When Yuji finally entered your room, you were sleeping, your daughter nestled against your chest- a mother and child portrait of serenity. He noticed how your daughter’s wisps of hair caught the moonlight, the same shade as Nanami’s… The sight drove the air from his lungs. His body finally giving in and collapsing into the chair beside your bed, Nanami’s final moments- final words replaying in his mind… “You’ve got it from here, right? And please, watch over them.” followed by the visceral memory of blood spraying across the walls, of flesh tearing, of a good man’s last breath given to the thoughts of the family he’d never see again.

“Mmn’ Y-Yuji?” Your voice, still heavy with sleep, froze him in place, his heart stopping as your eyes fluttered open. “M’where’s Kento?” 

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your daughter’s first cry- as if she somehow knew, somehow felt the weight of what was about to destroy her mother’s word forever… Yuji’s throat closed around the words he couldn’t say, tears spilling over as he faced the impossible task of telling you that Nanami Kento would never come home again… And then he saw it- watched how realization dawned in your eyes as the blood stained necklace with Nanami’s wedding band slipped from his pocket… 

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Choiceless Hope in Grief

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Following the events of Rook's Rest, Aemond seeks refuge in the only person he has left.

Author's note: Day five of Smuffmas - fireplace and face fucking. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“He is waiting for you,” Lysa informed her, poking her head through the gap in the soft linen of the curtains that afforded her privacy while she bathed.

She sighed at the interruption, loathe to be pulled from the relaxation that the warmth of the jasmine infused water afforded her. Taking her time was a luxury she often indulged in, her rank and demand within Mother’s allowing her to keep her clientele waiting. However, this particular patron was one that insisted upon punctuality, and his status ensured no leniency for this particular rule.

The steam that wafted up from the tub obscured her view slightly as she peered over her shoulder at the serving girl. “Has he been prepared?” she asked, not wanting to rise from the water until absolutely necessary.

“Yes,” Lysa nodded, “exactly as you instructed. And he has had his draught,” she added, lifting up the empty tray that perched precariously upon her upturned palm, as if to emphasise her point.

“And the payment?” she enquired, turning away and leisurely lifting a leg from the bath, pointing her toes up towards the ceiling and watching as the wetness of her skin glistened in the candlelight.

“Paid up front,” Lysa informed her, “two golden dragons and a silver stag.”

She raised an eyebrow, her leg dropping back into the bath with a splash as her lips parted in surprise. That was more than double what he usually paid her. “Any particular requests?” she asked, attempting to mask the apprehension in her voice, as nerves fluttered in her belly. When patrons paid so handsomely, it was usually in anticipation of services that were considered illicit, even for the Street of Silk.

“Just the usual,” the serving girl replied, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, “shall I tell him you need a minute?”

“No need,” she insisted, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I shall be there momentarily.”

Lysa disappeared from the gap in the curtains, and she rose slowly from the tub as water dripped down the curves and planes of her naked body in rivulets. She didn’t bother to dry herself – high status clientele often preferred tangible proof that the women they had purchased for the evening were clean. She draped a silk robe of emerald green around her body, tying it closed at the waist; the fabric clung to her dampened curves, accentuating the shape of her breasts and hips. She pulled her hair free of the clasp that held it fastened to the back of her head, allowing it to fall in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. She would ordinarily go to the effort of braiding it, however, with the considerable amount that had been paid for her time this evening she decided that it would not be wise to keep him waiting any longer.

Sliding her feet into slippers, she walked quickly through the pleasure house. The heady scent of fragrant oils and incense hung in the air, doing little to mask the pungent aroma of sex and sweat, instead they clung together, creating an oppressive feeling of humidity.

Moans of pleasure, giggles and the slap of flesh against flesh floated out from each curtained partition as she passed, the thin drape of fabric doing little to protect anyone’s modesty, though all occupied within were too far gone in their carnal acts to mind.

Since having been burst in on by his brother and his retinue a month ago, the man she would be entertaining this evening had insisted upon more private quarters for his subsequent visits. He had been granted use of Madame Sylvi’s personal bedchamber for the services he paid for – an unusual privilege for paying customers, but one that Sylvi had been more than willing to offer to ensure his continued custom.

She pushed into the room, the warmth of the lit hearth heating her still wet skin as she stepped inside, allowing the wooden door to close heavily behind her. Though Sylvi had gone to great lengths to decorate the room with vibrant coloured silks, plenty of candles and plush sheepskin rugs, it did little to distract from its modest size. The space was just large enough for a double canopy bed, a modest table and chair, and the small fireplace that was kept lit day and night to keep out the chill and scare away the rats.

There he was, just as Lysa had said he would be. His pewter cup had been drained of the milk of the poppy it had once contained and now sat upon the table. He knelt, stripped bare, in front of the cracking fire – Prince Aemond Targaryen – the most fearsome dragon rider in all of Westeros, kneeling before a common whore as though their roles had been reversed. In this room they were, at least that was what he paid her for.

She allowed her eyes to linger upon his lithe, yet chiseled physique. Though his hair was loose, hanging in long, silver strands around his sharp features, it did little to obscure the sapphire which sat snugly within his left eye socket - the gemstone glimmered in the firelight, reflecting the dancing of the flames.

She stepped in front of him, gazing down upon him as she crooked a finger beneath his chin, encouraging him to look at her. She could tell from the lack of focus within his seeing eye that the opiates had begun to take their effect, and this pleased her; he was always so stiff, much too closed off before it did, which made her job harder. He was more pliant like this.

His hands reached up to rest upon her hips and he pressed his face into her lower belly, cuddling tightly into her, the tip of his nose flush against her soft flesh. She moved her hand away from his chin, bringing it to rest upon the crown of his head and gently stroked his hair. They remained like that for several moments, the only sound in the room was the occasional crack of a log on the fire.

“They have made me prince regent,” he finally said, his voice muffled against her robe. He pulled back to gaze up at her, his expression was soft, almost tired looking, “are you proud of me?”

Her eyes studied him carefully, taking in the darkness beneath his eye sockets. She knew that for Aemond to be made regent, the king would need to be indisposed, but Aegon had been in excellent health on the many occasions he happened upon this particular establishment in recent weeks. “How did you come to be made prince regent?” she asked softly, trailing her fingertips along his prominent jawline.

Aemond’s eye fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. She watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, before looking up at her once more. He answered as a child would when being asked who spilled their milk. “He fell from his dragon,” he said simply.

“How?” she pressed more insistently, tilting her head slightly as she stared intently down at him.

“He was in the way,” Aemond whispered, snuggling his face back into her belly, his grip on her hips tightening ever so slightly.

“In the way of what?” 

She combed her fingers through his hair, watching how the paleness of it shone in the firelight. It was easy to envision how Targaryens considered themselves to be closer to gods than men, when their hair resembled spun silver.

“He was not supposed to be there,” he murmured against her robe, “he would have ruined everything, Rhaenys would have killed him.”

A pit of dread formed in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Rhaenys. She had seen the dragon’s head that had been paraded through King’s Landing, an ill omen if ever there was one. Of course Aemond would have been the one responsible, not Aegon. She felt foolish for not having realised sooner.

“So, what did you do?”

“I burned him,” he replied simply, pulling back to gaze up at her once more, “and I will burn you too if you tell anyone.”

It made her blood run cold how effortlessly the threat tumbled from his lips, how little awareness he had of the consequences of his actions or the true weight of the power he wielded. It was almost childlike to witness, which made it all the more terrifying.

“I will not tell a soul,” she reassured him, cupping his cheek, “but you must realise that what you did was wrong. Did you want to kill your brother, so that you could take his place?”

He lowered his gaze, his brow furrowing as he looked pensive for a moment. “I…no…no, I do not think so. I just wanted him out of the way. But I am better suited to rule than he is, and I will never even get to wear a crown.”

“Be that as it may, even princes cannot simply take whatever they please whenever they please.”

“My own mother thinks I tried to kill him,” he said, looking back up at her, “I see how she looks at me, she is afraid of me. She said I am too impulsive to rule.”

“And what do you think?”

One of his hands moved from her hip, slipping inside the opening at the bottom of her robe and gently stroked her thigh, causing a shiver to run through her. Her core throbbed in anticipation for what she knew he was silently asking for. “I want only what’s best for her. To protect my family. To win this war.”

“That is good,” she whispered, and gave his hair a tug at the roots, making him hiss through his teeth. “Now show me just how good you can be.”

She widened her stance slightly, allowing her thighs to part, as she urged him forward by his hair. He went eagerly, pulling open her robe and using his thumbs to spread open the damp folds of her sex. A groan reverberated through his chest as he swiped a broad stroke with the flat of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, causing her to sigh softly, her head tilted back slightly.

“That’s it. Good boy,” she urged, holding him in place by the back of his head as she ground her hips against his face, working herself upon his tongue as he flicked the tip of it feverishly against her swollen pearl.

The sensation made her thighs tremble, the steadily building ache made it an effort to stand, and she wondered fleetingly how he was not uncomfortable having knelt for so long. The thought was immediately pushed from her mind as he latched his lips upon the delicate bundle of nerves and suckled hard. She mewled, bucking her hips, anchoring him to her with the vice like grip she held upon his roots.

His hands moved to her hips once more, holding her steady as he plunged his tongue inside of her, the tip of his nose adding additional stimulation to the outer parts of her, as he thrust the muscle into her repeatedly. Her skin grew hot and clammy with exertion, exacerbated by the crackle of the flames within the hearth.

The coil within her grew taut, and as though sensing it, he pulled out of her with a lewd squelch of saliva and arousal, redoubling his attention upon her bud, alternating between precise kitten licks and forceful sucks.

Finally, she cried out, holding him tight against her as she shuddered in ecstasy. White hot waves of pleasure rippled throughout her body as her inner walls spasmed with the force of her peak. Only when the final tremor had coursed its way through her body, did she release Aemond’s hair and allow him to draw back.

She gazed down at him, her mind now felt as foggy as his must. He was a vision of beauty, staring up at her, lips and chin shiny with her slick, his pupil dilated with arousal, as his cock stood rigid between his thighs.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked, repeating his question from earlier. “Yes,” she breathed, “my good boy. I am so proud of you.”

Read on AO3

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[daengtokki]

Kim Seungmin x female reader

wc: ~1.2k rating: explicit/smut with some fluff (contains: teasing, over-stimulation, toys, f receiving oral

…Seungmin finds a vibrator in your drawer and if he doesn’t tease you, he’ll explode

[MASTERLIST]

What are you doing in there?

Seungmin hears you call for him, but he can’t give up now. It was a long trip away from you, and he’s tired, but he knows he set your gift on the dresser before he hopped in the shower. It had to have slipped into the drawer…and why do you have so many damn pairs of socks and underwear? Why didn’t he keep it in the box? He just wanted to look at it one more time and think, because you’re so hard to buy for. But you love blue, and you love him, so this should be a good choice.

Everything is nice and hot, get out here and eat!

“There you are,” he pinches the golden clasp and looks it over again, but something else catches his eye.

*

“I thought you said you were hungry, I made your… uh, what?”

“Yeah, I am.” But he just stands there, halfway between you and the bedroom door. “Starving.” He relaxes and holds an arm out in front of him. Something small and pink sits in the palm of his hand, and you don’t recognize what it is right away—not until he tosses it in the air like a baseball, catches it, and it starts vibrating softly. “What is this?” He smirks and pushes the button until it turns off.

Your face grows warm. “Where did you find that?” It’s still new, and you’ve only used it once since it came in the mail a few days ago. Where did you even toss it after cleaning up that night? “Oh, my underwear drawer…why were you—”

The smirk is still stuck on his face as he takes a few steps toward you. “It’s cute, looks like a rose…but…” You watch as he twirls it between his fingers, runs the pad of his thumb over the petals, maybe figuring out exactly how you use it.

“But?”

He’s there a moment later, grabbing your arm and pulling until he has you trapped, back against him. He squeezes your ribs until you let out the breath you’re holding. “Couldn’t wait for me to get home, hm? Long week?”

“No, Minnie…” Despite your soft voice and hands touching him, he holds even tighter, lifting until your feet just graze the floor. “You know I need you, so—oh, mm…fuck.” His palm is hot on you, and his fingers push just right against your clit. It doesn’t take much to get you started, not when your mind is already two steps ahead, and not when you can feel how hard he is. “Seungmin.”

A laugh tickles your ear. “So, how does it compare?” The vibration starts, the petals graze your clit, and your knees buckle on his second pass. “Do I have some competition?” He’s squeezing again, pulling at your shorts until there’s nothing between you and the toy.

“No…nothing comp—“ Your body is begging for it, even if your mouth isn’t. The petals touch you again, and Seungmin moves it until he finds just the right angle. “Minnie…fuck…oh my god.”

“Wait a sec...” He peeks over your shoulder and moves it again, making you shiver, and making him squeeze until you hold still. “Is it sucking? I can definitely suck better than this. Is that what you want, love? Is that what you like?”

“I want you”

“Mm mm…your little rose first”

Everything goes blurry when it hits your clit again, and Seungmin is careful and slow. The whining in your ear tells you he’s enjoying this as much as you are, but it won’t last long. You won’t last long. You steady yourself against him, dig your fingers into his forearm, and you can’t keep quiet when you come for him.

“Good girl…I know…that feels so, so…” he lets up, just barely, as you take a few breaths. “So good. We can make up for all those nights away.” But he doesn’t let you take too many. It’s on again, and you feel the vibration turned up a level when it slides down your stomach and between your thighs. “One down…let’s see how fast this works.” You can’t stop from shaking, and he can’t hold you steady until you’re against the wall. Another push of the button, and your moan makes him moan, and hearing him makes your legs shake, but all of your weight is back in the arm wrapped around you.

“Two…” he pulls away for a moment, just to tease.

“Please...too much”

“Too much? Is it too strong, babe?” He kisses your neck and pushes until you try to wiggle free, and the attempt only makes him laugh and push even more. “Not nice and gentle like your Minnie?”

You squeak out a yes, and then a no, but the rose finds just the right spot again, and despite the pain, you feel so close to coming a third time, and it finally burns through you like lightning. Seungmin laughs again when you dig your nails into the arm holding your toy. It’s off of you, and the absence of vibration is a relief. The room quiets when he turns it off, but the sound of your heart and your nerves firing off still fill your ears. “You’re so mean.”

The kisses he leaves on your shoulder is a sharp contrast to the painful throb. “Never.” He slowly walks you to the couch and sits you down.

Crossing your legs is another relief, but the warmth and safety of your thighs is short-lived. “What are you doing?” They’re forced open again, despite your attempts to hold him off, and he doesn’t like that. You’re pulled down to the edge of the cushion, and he stares at you, eyes narrowed, waiting. “Minnie…” you lower your voice to almost a whisper, but before you can finish, he starts working his way up your thigh. The slow kisses and intense stare are too much, and you throw back your head to look at the ceiling instead.

“Look at me,” he laughs and slides his tongue around every sore, overworked part of you, catching the arousal he forced out, and only slowing down when he gets to your clit. “Please look at me.” His voice turns sweet as his lips close around you.

“I know…you win”

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.” He means it. The warmth of his mouth helps you relax, and he works his tongue in soft circles until you start to move with him. “Good.” A smile twitches just as you look down at him, and your eyes connect as he sucks. His cheeks hollow, but the smile is still there. “Mhm,” he groans and releases you so he can do it again, and again, and again.

“I’m gonna come,” you sigh, and it turns to a laugh. This one you want. “Don’t stop.”

Seungmin sucks again before sending his tongue over your swollen clit, and it’s just enough to push you over the edge. This one moves slowly, and every part of you feels him—his fingers squeezing your thighs, his breath, his lips barely touching you, his tongue making sure it lasts.

“Mmm…Minnie, you feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop until he’s sure you’re finished, and when you relax and breathe deeply again, one more kiss sends a shiver up your body. “I know.”

[reidmarieprentiss]

I have a request that I know you’ll write 100% better than me! Spencer leaves his girlfriend at the altar without giving a single reason. And disappears for months. Then he comes back and it is revealed he did it because Reader's life was at risk. When he goes to apologize, Reader doesn't let him speak. Spencer crawls on his knees for forgiveness and tries to figure out how to improve the situation. The ending is up to you: angst, happy ending or not. You choose! I know you’ll do a great fic!

Sadly Ever After

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt, angst

Warnings/Includes: no happy ending, being left at the altar, just general sadness after a breakup, small crime talk

Word count: 5.6k

a/n: hiii i hope this is sufficient lolol i am in a very angsty mood

main masterlist

You had never felt so beautiful in your entire life. The dress—the dress—was everything you had dreamed it would be. Layers of soft tulle cascaded down your frame, the delicate lacework etched across the bodice molding perfectly to you, almost as if it had been made for you alone. Each step you took sent the fabric swaying around you like whispers of movement, ethereal and romantic.

Penelope had outdone herself with your hair. Loose waves tumbled, glowing in the golden light of the early evening, held in place by a sparkling hairpiece that caught the glow of the string lights. Every curl seemed to be perfectly placed, not too styled but effortlessly enchanting, as if you had stepped out of a fairytale. JJ and Emily had tag-teamed your makeup, ensuring that every stroke and brush was precise and delicate. The soft blush on your cheeks, the shimmer of your eyeshadow, the perfect tint of color on your lips—it was understated perfection.

And Rossi, ever the consummate host, had given you and Spencer the most breathtaking backdrop for your wedding. His sprawling backyard had transformed into something magical. An altar of wooden beams, wrapped with soft draped fabric and overflowing with flowers—roses, peonies, and wild blooms—stood like a gateway to forever. Twinkling fairy lights criss crossed above, their soft glow turning the clearing into a dreamscape. The grass, still cool from the afternoon, added an earthy softness to the air, grounding the magic in something real.

Then there he was—Spencer.

Your heart stuttered at the sight of him standing at the altar, hands nervously clasped in front of him, the slightest smile pulling at the corners of his lips when his eyes found you. His suit was sharp and clean, a dark shade that contrasted beautifully with the delicate tones of your dress. The bowtie, a small nod to his usual style, somehow made him look even more endearing, his charm on full display. His curls fell just perfectly, framing his face and softening the seriousness of his features.

But it was his eyes that caught you—the depth of them, brimming with unspoken emotion, raw and honest. The sight of him struck you in the chest, stealing the air from your lungs. The tears you had tried to fight back began to prick the corners of your eyes.

Each step down the aisle felt slower, deliberate, as though time itself had stretched just for the two of you. You took in every detail—the warm breeze rustling the leaves above, the distant chirp of crickets, the way the light filtered through the trees, creating golden halos around your guests. As you approached Spencer, standing tall beneath the altar where Aaron Hotchner waited to officiate, your heart swelled with so much love you thought it might burst.

Aaron’s voice, steady and clear, had been a comforting hum in the background—his dry wit laced through the ceremony brought a lightheartedness that had the guests chuckling softly at all the right moments. He was a master at balancing sincerity and charm, even as the formal words of the ceremony unfurled.

The vows had been the pinnacle of it all. Spencer’s, with their perfect blend of sentimentality and poetic elegance, had left you breathless. Every word was carved with precision, so achingly him that it made your heart feel both full and fragile in the best way. Your vows, equally personal and unflinchingly honest, had drawn a few tears from the crowd. For those few minutes, it felt like it was just the two of you—completely alone in your little world, pledging yourselves to each other.

But then Aaron’s voice broke that perfect little bubble.

“Spencer, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

It was a question Spencer had to be expecting. One he should have answered without hesitation. The words hung in the air like a held breath. Waiting.

You smiled softly, fingers intertwined with his, but that silence—the silence that followed—was deafening. The longer Spencer stood there, unmoving and unspeaking, the weight of the moment became unbearable. You felt the shift in the energy around you, a sudden drop in the warmth that had enveloped the ceremony just moments ago.

The guests began shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A murmur rustled through the crowd—quiet and confused. It was subtle at first, the furrow of brows and exchanged glances, but the longer Spencer remained silent, the more palpable the tension became.

“Spencer?” you whispered faintly, trying to ground him with the sound of your voice. Your hands squeezed his gently, searching for reassurance in the way his thumb brushed against your skin. But that was the thing—his thumb wasn’t moving at all. His hands were still, stiff even, as he stared at you.

And his eyes—oh, those fucking eyes.

They weren’t full of the love you had seen all evening, that awe-struck admiration that had made your knees weak when you first stepped down the aisle. No, they were hollow now, distant, as though he was somewhere far away.

The silence stretched so long you felt it wrap around your chest like a vice, squeezing the air from your lungs.

“Spencer,” Aaron prompted gently, his calm, officiating voice now laced with quiet concern.

Finally, finally, Spencer moved. The slightest tilt of his lips into a soft, almost apologetic smile. The kind of smile that said everything and nothing at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. The words were so soft they barely reached your ears, like a secret meant just for you.

Your brows knitted together as confusion bloomed across your face. Sorry? Sorry for what?

But before you could say anything, before you could even process the sound of those three words, Spencer’s grip on your hands loosened. He let go—he let go—and turned.

One moment he was standing in front of you, your almost-husband, and the next he was running. The sound of his shoes hitting the wooden platform of the altar was jarring. Sharp.

“Spencer!” you called after him, panic rising in your voice, but it was too late.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The murmurs grew louder now, confusion turning to shock as everyone watched Spencer disappear through the open back doors of Rossi’s house.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot where he had left you, your hands still hovering in front of you as though you could still feel the shape of his in your palms.

The string lights above twinkled innocently, the flowers framing the altar swayed in the evening breeze, and the guests remained seated, staring, waiting—hoping this was some sort of terrible joke.

But it wasn’t.

Aaron, steady as ever, took a cautious step forward, lowering his voice as he gently spoke. “Y/N… do you want to sit down?”

Sit down. Right. You felt like the earth beneath you had cracked wide open, leaving you teetering on the edge. How could he run? How could Spencer Reid—your Spencer—leave you like that?

Your lips trembled as you looked back toward the house, the place where he had vanished. You felt the eyes of everyone on you, their collective disbelief pressing down on your shoulders like an invisible weight.

You swallowed thickly, the tears you had been holding back earlier now threatening to spill for an entirely different reason.

“I don’t…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Because you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what had just happened or why.

All you knew was that Spencer Reid—the love of your life, your almost-husband—had left you standing alone under the twinkling lights of Rossi’s backyard, with nothing but a hollow whisper of I’m sorry lingering in his wake.

—

Months had passed, yet time felt like it moved at a crawl. The day Spencer ran from you—from your wedding—remained an echo that refused to quiet. You thought that eventually the sting would dull, that the confusion would lift, but it clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

You had packed up your life together in silence, alone in the home you once shared with him. The apartment was eerily still without the sound of his voice murmuring about a book or his soft humming while he made tea. It had felt haunted, as though every room whispered why? at you, taunting you with memories of what you thought your life would be. You didn't even see him again during those long days you spent packing—only once did Penelope call to let you know he had gone home to see his mother.

“Just so you know,” Penelope had said softly over the phone. She sounded hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was making things better or worse. “Spencer’s not in D.C. anymore. He went back to Vegas. I think he wanted to… I don’t know, give you space.”

You’d thanked her out of politeness, even though the words stung. Give you space. Was that what this was? Him running, abandoning you at the altar—was that his way of giving you space? You didn’t ask for space. You had asked for him. Well, actually, he had asked for you.

So you moved back into the apartment you had sublet without any real trouble. It was strange to see your things there again, familiar but foreign, as though they belonged to a different version of you. You kept most of your life in boxes for a while. Unpacking felt like admitting that this—this emptiness—was permanent, and you weren’t ready to do that yet.

The team tried to reach out in those first weeks.

JJ had sent you messages that were simple but heartfelt: “Thinking of you. I’m here if you need anything.”

Emily had tried to call you once. She left a voicemail, her voice kind and gentle: “Hey, it’s me. I know you might not want to talk right now, and that’s okay, but I just wanted you to know we’re all thinking of you. You’re not alone.”

Penelope was the most persistent. She sent texts, little gifts, even a handwritten letter because she knew how personal that would feel. But every text, every call, every kind gesture just reminded you of him. Spencer had been the thread that connected you to the team, and now every single one of them felt like a painful reminder of what you’d lost. Of the way he left.

So you shut them out, one by one.

You didn’t hate them. You couldn’t. JJ, Emily, Penelope, Derek, Hotch and Rossi—they were good people, your people once. But being around them, talking to them, made Spencer’s absence feel louder. It was as though his ghost lingered between every conversation. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t separate them from him.

Penelope’s messages stopped first. You imagined her sitting in her colorful office, fidgeting with a pen as she debated whether to text you again. She was the kindest soul you knew, and you hated the idea that you were shutting her out, but you couldn’t face her—or any of them.

Then came the loneliness. It wasn’t the kind that was born from an empty room or quiet nights alone. It was deeper, sharper. The kind of loneliness you only felt when you lost someone dear to you.

You sat on your couch one night—your couch now, not Spencer’s, not yours and his, just yours—and stared at the stack of boxes you still hadn’t unpacked. The light from the kitchen spilled into the living room, casting long shadows across the floor. It was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

You wondered if Spencer was in his childhood home now, back in Vegas, sitting with his mother. Did he talk about you? Did he think about you?

Or was he like you—alone in a room that used to feel like home, wondering how everything had unraveled so quickly?

It didn’t matter, you told yourself. You weren’t going to chase answers you might never get. If he wanted to explain himself, he would have. But he didn’t. Instead, he ran. He left you there, at the altar, in front of everyone you loved, and didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them as you stared at the faint glow of your phone screen on the coffee table. Another message from JJ, one you wouldn’t open. You knew she would stop eventually. They all would.

You had been close with all of them, almost like family. But Spencer’s absence had burned through those bonds like fire through dry wood. And now, months later, all that was left was ash.

And the strangest part of it all? You missed them. You missed JJ’s motherly warmth, Emily’s strength, Penelope’s relentless kindness. You missed Derek teasing you, Rossi’s wise words, Hotch’s steady, grounding presence.

But missing them also meant missing him.

And missing him? That was something you couldn’t bear to feel any more than you already did.

—

The bullpen was quieter than usual that morning. The team was settled at their desks, heads ducked over files and reports, but there was no mistaking the shift in energy. Spencer was back. After months of leave, months of silence, months of wondering—he had walked through the glass doors of the BAU like nothing had happened.

Except something had happened. Something none of them could make sense of.

Spencer didn’t look any different on the outside. His suit was pressed and neat, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder in that familiar way. But there was a tightness in his jaw, a heaviness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. He had always carried the world on his back, but this time, it looked like the weight might crush him.

The air hung thick as he settled into his desk, quietly unpacking his bag. No one spoke at first, though they all exchanged glances, unsure of how to broach it—of how to demand answers.

It was Derek who cracked first. Of course it was Derek. He had been simmering with frustration for months now, trying to make sense of Spencer’s sudden disappearance and his refusal to talk about it.

“You want to tell us all what the fuck is going on?” Derek’s voice broke through the stillness, sharp and pointed.

Spencer froze, one hand halfway to his desk drawer. He didn’t turn right away, but everyone else did. All eyes turned to Derek, who sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone was accusatory, sure, but his expression—underneath the tension—was concern.

Spencer swallowed, closing the drawer with a soft click before finally turning to face the team. JJ looked at him with something between worry and hope, her brow slightly furrowed. Emily’s gaze was harder to read, but her eyes were pinned to him, waiting. Penelope, standing in the doorway with a coffee in hand, looked like she wanted to speak but thought better of it. Even Rossi, ever the patient one, had his head tilted slightly as he studied Spencer.

Spencer took a breath, his hands curling around the edge of his desk.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly, unused to addressing so much weight at once. He steadied himself and tried again. “I owe you all an explanation.”

“Damn right you do,” Derek shot back, though his tone was a little softer this time.

Spencer nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line as he gathered his thoughts. He looked down for a moment, fingers drumming idly against the wood of his desk before he spoke again.

“I left because I needed to,” he said simply. His voice was low, not quite weak, but careful—like every word was fragile, like he was afraid they might break apart. “I needed to… figure things out.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as the team sat gathered around the conference table, all of them watching Spencer intently. The blinds were drawn, the overhead lights humming faintly above them, but it did little to dispel the weight pressing down on everyone.

“Figure what out?” JJ had asked softly, her tone teetering somewhere between exasperation and hope.

Spencer had sighed then, a breath so deep it looked like it pained him. “Yeah, um… can we go to the conference room?”

No one argued. 

Once they were all seated in the conference room, Spencer remained standing, gripping the back of one of the chairs like it was the only thing holding him upright. His knuckles turned white as he stared down at the polished table, gathering the words he had spent months trying to keep buried.

“Someone was threatening me,” Spencer said finally, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of something dark and unspoken. “Threatening her.”

The pronoun lingered like a slap, and no one needed clarification to know who he meant. You.

JJ sucked in a sharp breath, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest as though she could feel the impact of those words. Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression hardening as he processed what Spencer was saying.

“What do you mean, someone was threatening you?” Rossi asked, his voice calm but firm, coaxing Spencer to keep going.

“They found Y/N because of me,” Spencer continued, his voice quieter now, almost ashamed. “Because of my job. I… I put her in danger. They used her as leverage, made it clear that if I told anyone—if I told any of you—that they would kill her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Emily glanced toward Derek, her expression darkening as she began piecing things together.

“How long did this go on?” Derek finally asked, his tone a low growl.

Spencer didn’t meet his eyes. “Months. I started getting letters, then texts. Pictures of her—ones that no one else could’ve had. They knew where she was at all times. When she went to work, when she was home, when she was with me.”

Penelope gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth as tears threatened to well in her eyes. “Spencer…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Spencer shook his head, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I couldn’t. So when the threats escalated—when they said they’d kill her if I stayed here and didn’t cooperate—I left.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” JJ asked, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.

“I couldn’t,” Spencer said, his voice nearly cracking. “If I told any of you, they said they’d go through with it. So I had to work the case alone. I did things I… I don’t want to talk about, but I found them. I stopped them. I made sure they could never hurt her again.”

The room fell silent again as the weight of his confession sank in. No one spoke, no one moved. Spencer’s breathing had grown uneven, like the memory alone was clawing its way back to him.

It was Rossi who finally broke the silence, his voice calm and measured but tinged with quiet curiosity. “Why did you wait until the wedding to run?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at the table, his gaze unfocused, like he couldn’t bear to look at any of them. “I… I thought I could marry her. I thought if I could just get through that day, I could disappear. Take her somewhere safe. Run away with her before they could do anything. I wanted to give her something good, something beautiful, before I ruined everything.”

His voice faltered, and he shook his head, his grip tightening on the chair. “But when I saw her standing there… looking so happy, so perfect… it was like I was transported into my worst nightmare. I saw her—bloody and dead—because of me. Because of what I do, because of who I am. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being hurt because of me. So I ran. I thought… I thought it was better to break her heart than to get her killed.”

The room was deathly quiet now. No one knew what to say. Derek rubbed a hand over his face, trying to process it all, while JJ blinked away tears that had started to gather in her eyes. Penelope was openly crying now, her quiet sobs muffled behind her hands.

“You should’ve told us,” Emily finally said, her voice soft but firm. “We could’ve helped you, Spencer.”

Spencer looked up then, his face hollow, haunted. “And what if you couldn’t? What if I told you, and it still wasn’t enough? What if she died because of me?” His voice broke on the last word, and he quickly looked away, his shoulders trembling slightly.

No one had an answer for that.

Rossi sighed, leaning back in his chair, the understanding settling on his features. “So you’re back now because it’s over?”

Spencer nodded. “It’s over. I made sure of it.”

“And Y/N?” Derek asked quietly, though the question lingered like a punch to the gut.

Spencer’s face fell, his voice a whisper. “She doesn’t know. She just thinks I… left her.”

JJ’s brows furrowed in disbelief, her voice sharp now. “And you haven’t told her? Spencer, she deserves to know—”

“I know!” Spencer’s voice rose suddenly, a flash of frustration breaking through the cracks. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. “I know,” he repeated, softer this time, the anguish bleeding through. “But how do I explain it to her? How do I look her in the eye and tell her I let her believe I abandoned her because I thought I was saving her life?”

The room fell silent once more, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning.

No one had an answer for that either.

—

Spencer stood outside your apartment building, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears, like a drum echoing through a cavernous void. His hands trembled at his sides as he stared up at the familiar brick, the windows glowing faintly with light from the rooms inside. You were home. He knew it, and yet his feet felt like they were glued to the pavement.

His breathing came fast, shallow, uneven—panic building like a wave rising up from his chest and crashing against his throat. He bent over slightly, hands braced on his knees, trying to steady himself, but it wasn’t enough. The air felt thin, insufficient, as if he was sucking in nothing but emptiness.

Not here, not now, he thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. You have to do this.

He pushed off his knees and leaned back against the cool brick wall, his spine pressing into it like it could somehow ground him. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he tried to focus on something—anything—other than the guilt gnawing at him.

Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

He silently counted, forcing air through his lungs, slowing the frantic rhythm of his breaths. He repeated the process over and over until the tightness in his chest began to ease, just enough for him to move again.

His legs still felt weak as he pushed away from the wall and crossed the threshold into the building, each step heavier than the last. The stairwell yawned before him like an unforgiving climb, the kind that felt insurmountable despite its simplicity. He clutched the cold metal railing as he ascended, pausing halfway up the flight to press his forehead against the wall and whisper to himself under his breath.

“You can do this. Just knock. Just say it.”

The words sounded pathetic to his ears, hollow in the stillness of the stairwell, but they were all he had. After all these months, after everything he’d done—or failed to do—it came down to this. He had to face you. He had to tell you the truth, no matter what it cost him.

When he reached your floor, Spencer stopped outside your door, staring at the familiar brass numbers that suddenly looked foreign. His heart began to race again, beating faster and faster, drowning out every rational thought. He hadn’t been here since… since before everything. Since you had been his, since he had woken up to the sound of your laughter, since he had memorized the smell of your shampoo and the feel of your hand in his.

The memories hit him all at once, clawing their way out of the recesses of his mind like ghosts—mocking him with what he had lost. What he had taken from himself.

Spencer’s hand shook as he raised it, hovering inches away from the door. He felt paralyzed again, the nausea rising in his stomach like a sick promise. He could turn back. He could leave now, before you opened the door, before you saw him standing there. Maybe you hadn’t moved on yet, maybe you still hated him, maybe you didn’t even want the answers he had brought.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.

No. She deserves this. She deserves the truth.

His knuckles brushed against the door—softly at first, a timid, ghostly sound. Then he knocked, the noise louder than he intended, the echo of it reverberating down the hall.

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat as the moments stretched endlessly. The only sound he could hear was the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the blood rushing in his ears.

And then, from the other side of the door, he heard it.

Footsteps.

The shuffle of movement, the creak of a floorboard.

Spencer felt his pulse spike again, his palms growing clammy as the footsteps approached. His body tensed, and for one horrible second, he thought he might turn and run.

But then the door opened.

And there you were.

You froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob as your eyes met his. Spencer’s heart lodged itself in his throat as he took in the sight of you—your expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable, your lips parting slightly as though words had caught there, unable to escape.

You looked the same and yet different, somehow. Your hair was a little longer, your face softer, but your eyes—those eyes that had once looked at him with so much love—now held something else entirely.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, so loud it was deafening.

Spencer’s throat felt dry as he finally managed to whisper, “Hi.”

It was so small, so simple, but it was all he could get out before his voice cracked.

You blinked, the mask of composure you had thrown on beginning to fracture. Your voice came out quiet, wary, almost disbelieving. “Spencer?”

He swallowed hard, trying to find the words he had been practicing for weeks, for months. They were all jumbled now, falling apart in his mind.

“I… I needed to see you,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “I need to explain.”

Your hand tightened on the doorknob, your knuckles going white as you looked at him—really looked at him—and the pain he’d left behind resurfaced in your eyes like a wave crashing over jagged rocks.

The second the words left his mouth—“I need to explain”—something inside you snapped. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal that had been simmering beneath the surface for months came roaring to life like a fire you could no longer control. Before you even realized what you were doing, your grip on the doorknob tightened, and with a force you hadn’t known you were capable of, you slammed the door.

The sound was deafening, the crack of wood against its frame echoing through the hallway. It felt final, like a gavel coming down to deliver a sentence. And for a moment, all you could hear was the rapid pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

On the other side of the door, you heard nothing.

No knock. No footsteps. Not a single sound.

For a long moment, you stood there, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Your hand was still on the doorknob, fingers trembling as though the residual shock of what you’d done was finally catching up to you.

Spencer Reid.

The man who had left you, abandoned you in the cruelest way possible, standing you up at the altar without so much as a word. The man who had disappeared from your life, leaving you to pick up the pieces of a heart he had shattered. And now, now, after all these months, he had the audacity to show up at your door and say he needed to explain?

Explain what?

How he left you humiliated and broken? How he had walked away from the life you were supposed to build together, without giving you the decency of closure?

Your jaw clenched, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you turned away from the door. A bitter laugh escaped your lips—short, hollow, and humorless. You felt like screaming, like throwing something, like letting out all the pain you’d been holding in since that day.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you walked away, forcing yourself deeper into the apartment. You wanted to put as much distance between yourself and that door as possible. Your mind was racing, every thought colliding into the next, until all that was left was a whirlwind of anger and grief that threatened to consume you whole.

And yet…

You stopped in the center of your living room, your eyes drifting to the door as the silence stretched on. You wondered if he was still out there, standing on the other side, stunned into silence.

You hated that part of you cared enough to wonder.

What did he think was going to happen? That he would knock, say a few words, and everything would be okay? That you would just forgive him? He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve you.

But the thought of him still standing there, heartbroken, made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Slowly, you sank onto the couch, dropping your head into your hands as the weight of it all settled over you like a storm cloud. You took a shaky breath, then another, trying to ignore the tears that were threatening to spill.

On the other side of the door, Spencer remained frozen.

The door was still vibrating faintly from the force with which you’d slammed it, and he stood there, staring at it like it might suddenly open again if he just waited long enough. His breathing was shallow, his face pale as his mind tried to process what had just happened.

He had expected anger. He had expected hurt. But the door slamming—so final, so absolute—hit him harder than he thought possible.

His hand hovered in the air, just inches from the wood, as though he might knock again. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he exhaled shakily, leaning forward until his forehead rested lightly against the door. His eyes squeezed shut as a wave of nausea washed over him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, though he knew you couldn’t hear him.

After a few long moments, he forced himself to straighten. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, turned slowly, and walked away—each step heavier than the last.

And inside, you sat alone, the sound of that door slam replaying in your head over and over again, louder than any explanation he could have given.

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

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[ryewwww]

Crowns & Chains

Attack on Titan

Pairing: Yandere!Prince!Eren x F!Maid!Reader

Genre: Smut & Angst

Requested

Word Count: 3.8K

CONTAINS DARK THEMES

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Warning(s): NON CON, ABUSE (physical, and emotional), degradation, choking, baby trapping, bondage, dacryphilia

THIS FIC CONTAINS NON CONSENSUAL SEX!

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Every morning, you rose before dawn to watch the sun rise over the grand castle. The royal family’s home stretched across 500 acres of land, perched right beside the sea.

You could only imagine the breathtaking view from the highest tower—watching the golden sun peek over the horizon, casting its glow over the calm ocean, the salty breeze brushing against your face.

But at last, you could only leave it up to your imagination. Work needed to be done if you didn’t want to go hungry today. Your parents were already awake. Your father took on whatever labor he could find—some days helping farmers in the fields, other days hauling crates of fish at the port.

Your mother worked from home, weaving textiles, but it never brought in much. Money was always tight.

It was up to you to help.

Your mornings were spent tending to the gardens of the castle grounds, pulling weeds, watering plants, and making sure everything looked pristine for when the nobles took their leisurely strolls. The work was tiring, your hands often caked with dirt, but at least it meant a little coin in your pocket.

Some days, when the head gardener was in a good mood, he’d let you take home leftover vegetables that weren’t deemed “perfect” enough for the royal kitchens. Those were the good days. Other times, you simply had to make do with whatever scraps your mother could barter for in the market.

You were fortunate to have secured this position. Your father’s friend from the port had a son employed as a gardener for the royal family, and it was through his kindness that you found yourself here.

Your mother had been overjoyed at the news. She had even sewn you new dresses to wear, though there was little point in such finery—by the time you returned home each evening, your clothes were torn, your hands calloused, and your face smudged with dirt. Still, her excitement was understandable. To serve the royal family was to have stability, a steady wage each week.

At least, that was what you had thought, until you realized your parents had no mind for managing coin.

Though your wages were meager, they were meant to be spent wisely. And yet, your father squandered silver on fine ales, while your mother purchased honeyed bread from the market, a delicacy far too dear for your means. By the time you returned home, what little food remained was hardly enough to sate your hunger.

Still, your days carried on as they always had. There was always work to be done at the castle, and rest was a luxury you could ill afford.

It was upon one such day, whilst tending to the gardens, that Marco—the very friend who had secured your place here—approached with an air of barely contained excitement.

“You won’t believe what news I bring!” he declared, his chest puffed with pride.

You set down your tools, eyeing him warily. “Go on, then.”

He straightened, placing one hand upon his heart, the other clasped behind his back. “You stand before a newly appointed royal guard.”

Your brow arched in surprise. To serve as a royal guard was an honorable post, not to mention the pay was fairer and they housed their men within the castle walls.

“That is fine news indeed,” you remarked. “I had not heard they were seeking new men.”

“Indeed, they are making great changes, dismissing many among the older staff. You would do well to consider seeking a post yourself,” he suggested. “The maids’ wages are fairer than a gardener’s, and you would be given chamber and board besides.”

You hesitated but found little reason to refuse. Your family needed the coin, and the thought of warm meals and a proper bed was too great a temptation to ignore. No more nights spent shivering from the cold, nor evenings spent with naught but scraps to fill your belly.

And so, before you had time to second-guess your decision, you found yourself kneeling before the queen, head bowed, awaiting her word.

She granted her approval, and you were soon introduced to your new post. Petra, the head of the maids, was to be your superior.

The work itself was no great burden. You had cleaned all your life, and this was no different—save for the grandeur of the castle walls. At least it was an escape from the blistering heat of the sun, from the aching exhaustion of digging and planting.

You had traded one life of toil for another. Yet, somehow, this felt like an improvement.

But oh, how foolish you had been.

Your life changed the moment you met Eren Yeager. The crowned prince, and the legitimate child of the king and queen, unlike his elder brother, Zeke.

He was a sight to behold, a man sculpted by the gods themselves. His hair, dark as chestnut, fell past his shoulders, often tied in a back in a bun. His eyes, emerald and piercing, held a charm that made many weak in the knees. He was tall, towering at 6’4, with a build both lean and powerful.

Women fawned over him, longing for his attention, dreaming of the day he might court them. You understood well enough why, but you were no fool. To waste time on such frivolous fantasies was pointless.

Eren belonged to the highest tier of the hierarchy, destined to rule, while you were fated to remain at the very bottom. You were fortunate enough to serve this family, to have stood before the queen herself, to have glimpsed the king and princes from afar.

And that, you had thought, would be the extent of it.

How wrong you were.

You were wandering the corridors when you spotted Marco, now fully dressed in his royal guard uniform.

It had been some time since you last spoke, and the conversation, though brief, was a welcome chance to catch up. You were glad to hear he was faring well in his new position, even if your meetings had become scarce.

The exchange carried on until, all at once, Marco’s expression shifted. His eyes widened before he straightened, standing rigid in perfect posture, his hand resting firmly over his heart in salute.

Confusion flickered through you till you turned.

There, mere steps away, stood the crowned prince.

Your breath caught as you immediately dropped into a deep curtsy, eyes fixed on the floor. “Your Highness,” you murmured, head bowed. “Forgive me.”

He paid you no mind at first, his sharp gaze instead settling on Marco. A single glare was all it took to send your friend scrambling away, returning hastily to his duties.

And now, you stood before him alone.

Keeping your head low, you crouched to retrieve your bucket and rag, eager to return to your work and escape his presence.

"Did I say you could move?"

His voice was smooth, yet laced with authority, a quiet command that sent a chill down your spine.

You straightened at once, hands clasped behind your back, eyes fixed on the floor. You dared a glance upward just in time to see him swipe a finger across the nearby table, lifting a thin layer of dust onto his fingertip.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Then tell me."

"I am here to clean."

"Correct," he drawled. "You are here to clean. So explain to me, then, why this table is coated in dust while you waste your time whoring yourself away to the guard."

The words struck like a blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from your lungs.

"I-I was about to—"

"You were about to?" His voice cut through your stammering, "Tell me, do we pay you to whore yourself out to the guards?"

His tone rose slightly, each word carrying a weight that made your stomach churn. He took a step closer, the air between you growing thinner.

"Enlighten me," he continued, voice laced with disdain. "What, exactly, do you do here? Because this corridor is filthy. Are you nothing but a leech? Siphoning coin from the crown, thinking we wouldn’t notice?"

Before you could even think to answer, his hand shot up, fingers wrapping around your jaw. He forced your gaze to meet his, emerald eyes ablaze with anger or amusement, or perhaps both.

"N-No! No, Your Highness," you gasped, struggling to form words under his grip. "I—I beg your forgiveness. I shall see to it at once!"

He released you, and you nearly collapsed to the floor.

“Go on, then,” he said, stepping back. “Clean. I’ll watch.”

True to his word, Eren fetched a chair and sat, book in hand, as you scrubbed every inch of the corridor. For six agonizing hours, you worked under his sharp gaze.

The moment your pace slowed from exhaustion, his voice lashed out like a whip. “Scrub harder.”

A missed spot did not go unnoticed. “Are you blind, or just incompetent?” he sneered. “Even a child could do better. Tell me, what purpose do you serve here if you cannot even clean properly?”

By the time he finally dismissed you, your arms burned with exhaustion, so heavy you could barely lift them. You dragged yourself back to the maids’ chambers, took a quick shower, and collapsed into bed, too drained to even think about food.

The next morning, Petra had everyone awake by five. The sun had yet to rise, but work in the castle never ceased.

At six, breakfast was served to the staff. Stomach aching from the night before, you joined the line, eager for your first meal in nearly a day.

But before you could take your plate, a hand snatched it away.

Eren.

“I’ve decided you won’t be eating breakfast today,” he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

Silence fell over the room. The royal family was never awake at this hour, unless there was an emergency. But for the crowned prince to rise so early just to deny you a meal? Whispers began to spread like wildfire. What had you done to warrant such punishment?

You had no time to dwell on their murmurs before he seized your wrist, dragging you toward his wing of the castle. Your arms screamed in protest, aching from yesterday’s torment.

This was only the beginning.

The beginning of Eren’s cruelty.

It didn’t take long for him to push past every boundary.

Eren watched you like a hawk, his presence suffocating. You could hardly breathe with his eyes always on you. The slightest speck of dirt sent him into a rage, his voice sharp and relentless as he tore into you.

He wouldn’t stop until you were crying.

At first, it was your work he criticized, your cleaning, your pace, your so-called incompetence. But soon, his words cut deeper. He spoke of your status, your family, your home, the very way you lived.

"Tell me, did my mother take pity on you? Is that why a filthy, lowborn rat like you was given a place here?" He sneered, looking you over as if you were something foul. "You can’t even clean properly—perhaps you should start with that hovel you call a home before you dare step foot in mine. Or is it beyond saving? Just like the pathetic family you come from?"

Those were things beyond your control. You knew that.

But with Eren barking in your ear, spitting venom as if it were all your fault, it became harder and harder to believe otherwise.

You never responded. Because if you did, you knew it would only make things worse.

So you kept your head down, silently scrubbing his quarters while he prowled behind you, spitting insults, tearing you apart with every word.

Then came the first time he crossed an even darker line.

At first, it was small. Fingers brushing where they shouldn’t. Then it quickly turned into his hands, kneading the flesh of your ass, testing the give through the thin fabric of the dress provided by the royal family.

The moment it happened, every instinct screamed at you to run.

But you couldn’t run.

You had been foolish, signing a year-long contract without truly understanding the weight of it. If you broke it, the royal family would take everything from you. And with how little you already had, that wasn’t an option.

So when the touches became worse, when his hands roamed freely, when he pressed you against the cold stone walls, grinding his arousal against you, groping your breasts through the thin fabric—you did the only thing you could.

You cried. You begged with your silence, with the tremble of your body, hoping, praying, that he might feel a shred of pity.

But it never came.

Not when he threw you onto his bed, bound your wrists to the frame, and forced himself between your legs.

Not when he robbed you of your purity with no mercy.

Not when you buried your face in the pillow, muffling your sobs as you pleaded for him to be gentle, that it was your first time.

For some reason, that only spurred him on.

He moved faster, rougher, each brutal thrust knocking the air from your lungs, tearing you apart.

And so, the cycle began.

Again and again, it repeated

He took you whenever and wherever he pleased.

It didn’t matter if you were working, if others were near, when Eren decided he wanted you, he simply bent you over and claimed you.

And with each passing day, his control tightened. You could no longer eat or drink without his permission. You were his personal slave, his possession, and no one dared to intervene.

Even if they wanted to, what could they do? Speak against the crowned prince? Everyone knew how that would end—with a noose around their neck, their body swinging in the town square as a warning.

Your fellow maids could only watch in silence the day Eren stormed into the servants' quarters, dragging you by the wrist, and forcing you to pack what little you owned. He pulled you away, back to his wing of the castle.

"You belong to me now," he had said, voice leaving no room for argument.

During the holidays, the queen permitted the staff to take turns visiting their families. With Christmas approaching, it was finally your turn.

For the first time in nearly ten months, you would see your mother and father. The thought filled you with rare excitement, not just for their embrace, but for the brief escape from Eren.

But when you arrived home, your excitement turned to confusion. Three unfamiliar faces sat around the dining table.

Your mother rushed to you first, your father close behind, pulling you into a warm embrace. But as soon as they pulled away, their joy became something else.

"Come, come," your mother urged, beaming as she gestured toward one of the strangers. "This is Jean."

Jean was a young man of decent stature, his clothes finely made, his posture proud. His father owned land, cattle, and a home that was far more than a crumbling shack.

You knew why he was here. It was obvious by the way his mother and father were smiling at you.

They wanted your hand.

Your stomach twisted. You had returned from a living hell, given just one fleeting holiday, only to be thrust into another fate you had no say in.

You knew that you weren’t ready for marriage but a sliver of hope crept through your mind.

Marriage meant escape.

Once you were wedded, Eren would have no claim over you. Even if he tried, his family would never allow it. One thing was certain, Eren Yeager would never give up his title for a maid.

So you agreed.

When you returned to the castle, you sought an audience with the queen, careful to do so without Eren’s knowledge. Standing before her, you informed her of your engagement and that you would not be renewing your contract.

She listened, expression unreadable, before simply nodding. “Very well. You have my blessing.”

Relief washed over you. You had done it. You were free.

Or so you thought.

Word traveled quickly in the castle, faster than you had ever anticipated. Somehow, Eren found out. You were slipping from his grasp.

He could have commanded you to stay. He could have used his authority, forced you to sign another contract, crushed your foolish dreams of escape.

But this time, his mother stood in his way.

The queen knew exactly what Eren was plotting, and she would not allow it.

She had seen this story unfold before. When she first wed the king, she struggled to bear him an heir. She failed—again and again—until the king took a mistress.

And from that betrayal, Zeke was born.

The queen despised royal mistresses. She loathed the very idea of them. And with a princess arriving within the week to meet Eren for an arranged marriage, she would not allow history to repeat itself.

So getting rid of you was an easy decision.

The queen had ordered you to stay away from Eren, a command you were all too eager to obey.

She had also given Eren a firm warning, scolding him for his distractions and reminding him of his duty—the princess would be arriving soon, and he was to prepare for her.

For the first time in months, you were free of him.

The queen kept you close, assigning you to her wing where she could keep a watchful eye. And for the first few days, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time. Relief.

Then, at last, the princess arrived.

You had seen her before at royal balls—an ethereal beauty, elegant and soft-spoken. A woman fit to be queen.

Eren played the perfect gentleman, following his mother’s every command. Throughout the day, he entertained the princess, speaking with her, walking with her.

Through the window, you caught a glimpse of them outside, standing in the royal gardens, admiring the very flowers you had planted yourself.

Everything was going as it should.

For the first time, Eren even wore a smile, one you had never seen before.

But when the clock struck six and the evening bell signaled dinner, Eren never arrived.

He never arrived because he had you.

You barely had time to react before he grabbed you, dragged you into the laundry room, and twisted your arm behind your back.

His grip was bruising, his breath hot against your ear as he hissed, "This is all your fucking fault."

You struggled, but it was useless, he was far stronger, his hold unyielding as he forced you against the table.

"I’m not marrying her," he growled, voice shaking with fury. "And you’re not marrying him."

"Please, let go!"

Panic consumed you, raw and suffocating.

Eren didn’t listen. He never did.

With ruthless hands, he lifted your dress, ripping your undergarments aside, his intentions clear.

Terror gripped you, not just for what he was about to do, but for what would happen if someone walked in.

If the queen saw this, if anyone did, you would be the one condemned.

Eren, the crowned prince, would suffer no consequences. He never did. But you? You would be hanged. Labeled a whore. Your name would be spat upon, your family disgraced.

Your parents. God, your parents.

So you begged. You sobbed, desperate for him to see reason, for him to care.

"Please, Your Highness, if the queen—ah!"

A sharp cry ripped from your throat as a hand clamped over your mouth.

Then, agony.

He forced his way inside you with no regard, his arm locking around your neck, cutting off your air.

You clawed at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but it only made him tighten his grip.

The world blurred at the edges, darkness creeping into your vision.

You thought this was it. This was how you would die.

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until your body was limp, until your legs gave out beneath you, until your tears soaked into the cold wooden table beneath you.

And when he finally let go, leaving you trembling, broken, and used, you could only think of one thing.

Why did he hate you so much?

He cleaned himself up and left without a word.

You lay on the floor, body trembling, sobs wracking through you as you struggled to breathe.

A few more weeks. Then you would be gone for good.

You repeated it like a mantra, like a prayer, clinging to the thought as if it could undo everything that had been done to you.

But then the sickness came.

At first, it was just the mornings. Violent, gut-wrenching retching that left you weak and empty. The others reassured you it was a passing illness, and for a time, you believed them.

The following week, you felt fine. You thought you were in the clear.

Until the night you served the royal family dinner.

The scent of seafood hit you like a wave of nausea, and before you could control it, bile rose in your throat. You barely set the dish down before you spun on your heels, bolting from the dining hall, desperate to find the nearest bin.

You collapsed beside it, heaving, purging your stomach as Petra rushed to your side, stroking your back, whispering soft reassurances. Another servant handed you water, and you drank, hoping to wash away the awful taste.

But the moment you lowered the cup, it was snatched from your hands.

A chill ran down your spine.

Petra and the other servant stepped back, their gazes dropping to the floor, making way for him.

Your Highness.

His grip latched onto your wrist, yanking you upright and dragging you back into the dining hall.

And then, in front of the entire royal family, he declared, “The marriage is off. She’s pregnant, bearing my child.”

Silence.

Cold, suffocating, inescapable silence.

The princess’s eyes welled with tears, Zeke looked positively amused, the king’s expression remained unreadable, and the queen’s gaze burned with disapproval.

Panic clawed up your throat.

“No! No, that’s not true!” you cried, voice desperate. “I’ve just been sick in the mornings, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

The queen’s voice was sharp, demanding. “When was your last course?”

Your stomach twisted. “I—I haven’t gotten it yet. It’s not due for another week.”

And so, the wait began.

A week passed.

Your course never came.

Eren’s relief was palpable as he pulled you into an embrace, whispering that this was meant to be, that fate had decided for you.

You only cried.

The queen demanded it be taken care of, demanded you be taken care of. But the king overruled her. After all, he had a child with a mistress, too.

Your belly grew, undeniable proof of your entrapment.

You expected your parents to be angry. To weep for you. To fight for you.

But you were carrying the heir to the throne. To them, it was an honor.

The princess was dismissed, her purpose obsolete.

Because Eren had asked for your hand.

And you had no choice but to give it.

Bound to his bed, bound to bear his children.

Bound to him forever.

Hope you liked it <3 👁️👁️

[milkloafy]

YOUR DEAR FRIEND, DAN HENG — DAN HENG

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: friends don’t buy each other matching necklaces, right? especially not ones with blatantly romantic undertones… ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: fluff, gn!reader, matchmaker!street vendor in the luofu LMAO ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.1k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: written for @starlitsawamura's garden of eden collab! :> i chose camellia as the flower!! just a lil fluffy drabble with best boy dan heng

If you had to choose only one thing you adored about the Xianzhou Luofu, it would be the multitude of booths and vendors that lined the bustling streets. The Luofu had its many sanctuaries of peace, but the areas of chatter and liveliness was what really caught you attention. 

This time, much to your pleasure, Dan Heng had offered to accompany you on your latest visit. 

“Ooh! Isn’t this so pretty?” you exclaimed, eyeing a shiny gold necklace with a dainty pendant of a camellia flower in the middle. In the center of the flower was a sparkly little diamond. It was no wonder the glimmer immediately caught your eye. 

Dan Heng walked up behind you and peered at the necklace over your shoulder. He nodded once. “It looks nice.”

You giggled at his short response. “What a compliment coming from Dan Heng himself.”

“I try,” he remarked wryly. “It’s a camellia flower, correct?”

“That’s right!” the vendor who was lingering nearby butted in. She was an older lady with a bright smile. “The beautiful camellia. A flower the conveys with it the feeling of love and affection, burning passion. I’d say it puts even the grandiose rose to shame.”

Gently, you clasped the pendant between your thumb and forefinger, brushing the golden petals. 

“I like it,” you said with certainty, debating on whether or not you should buy it right now.

Dan Heng looked between the pendant and your neck. “It suits you.”

You hid your smile. Somehow, such simple words were enough to warm your heart. It was only natural when such words came from Dan Heng. Your dear friend.

“But that’s not all!” the vendor cried once more. “Let your Auntie here show you.” She shuffled around to the other side of the cart before returning with another necklace dangling between her fingers. “There’s a matching pair!” 

Your eyes widened in excitement at the sight of the matching necklace. The pendant was the same, but instead of a diamond in the middle it was a small pearl. The chain was slightly thicker and heavier. You thought it would look good on Dan Heng, especially over his high-necked black shirt. 

“I love it!” you chirped, immediately reaching for your coin pouch. “They’re both so cute.”

You paused before giving into your impulses. It wasn’t like you’d have much use for two of the same necklaces.

As if sensing your hesitation, the vendor held the two necklaces together, revealing them to you as if they were a precious treasure. 

“Do you know the language of the flowers, dear?” she whispered conspiratorially. “‘My heart is aflame for you’. ‘I burn for you.’ That is what these necklaces say. And that is why you and your boyfriend should definitely buy these! Your love will be destined to last forever.” 

“My boyfriend?” you said, looking around wildly before your gaze landed on Dan Heng. Once you realized the vendor’s implications, your cheeks heated up. “Oh! Dan Heng? He’s… He’s not—”

“We’ll take it.” 

“Wonderful!” 

“What?” You blinked. 

It all happened so fast. Dan Heng, pulling out his money and paying before you could; the vendor, counting the credits and handing the camellia necklaces over to him. Your eyes could hardly keep up.

“This Auntie thanks you for your patronage,” said the vendor with a proud smile as Dan Heng bowed his head in gratitude and walked away with you in two. “Come again soon!” 

When he reached a spot underneath the shade of a tree, he offered the necklace with the diamond to you. 

“Here,” said Dan Heng. “It looked like you really wanted it. I hope you do not mind I bought it for you.” 

You shook your head, touched that he would do something like that for you. There were many things you loved in life, and of those many things, one of them was receiving gifts. “I don’t mind at all. I’m happy you got it for me. Thank you, Dan Heng!” 

Taking the necklace into your hands, you attempted to clasp the chain together behind your neck. After a few tries, you sighed in frustration. 

A few more moments passed before you heard someone clear their throat. “Do you need assistance?” 

He maneuvered behind you as you nodded. “Yes, please.”

Slowly, Dan Heng brushed the loose strands of hair on your neck aside and took the ends of the chain between his fingers. His fingertips felt cool against your skin, and your back straightened at the delicate touch. 

Their was restraint in his movement. It felt as if he was trying his hardest to not make direct contact with you, in fear it would be unwelcome. But that only made the accidental touches even more electrifying. You held back a shiver as his knuckle brushed against your bare neck. 

Dan Heng was soon able to clasp your necklace together and stepped away once he did. “There.”

“Thank you.” You touched the pendant with a smile, secure in its spot at the base of your neck. “Would you like some help as well?” 

He considered it for a moment before nodding. “Sure.” 

Swiftly, you took his necklace from his palm and had him turn around. Placing it around his neck, you fastened the chain together. You decided it was much easier when you could actually see the clasp.  

“There,” you announced, moving back to admire the pretty gold necklace against Dan Heng’s black shirt. “It looks so good on you!” 

He chuckled, his cheeks turning pink. “You as well.” 

“Thank you,” you said, fighting off the bashfulness you felt at his compliment. Clearing your throat, you managed to ask, “So, what do you think of the hidden meaning the vendor mentioned?”

Dan Heng considered it for a moment before replying. “It seems the camellia is a very passionate flower. In that sense, it suits you. In terms of the love and romance aspect…” he trailed off, face growing even more red. “Who knows what the future holds.”

You blinked, your ears burning with heat. That might have been as close to an admission as you would get from Dan Heng. 

“Are you implying that the future may hold something like that for us?” you said slowly and curiously, hoping you weren’t interpreting his words the wrong way. 

He smiled almost hesitantly. “I’m uncertain myself what the future has planned, but I wouldn’t mind taking a chance on us.”

For a moment, you were stunned into a shocked silence before happiness overcame you. You laughed at how Dan Heng could be both forward and indirect at the same time.

“Well, we already have the matching necklaces for it,” you said teasingly, touching the camellia pendant once more. “I’d love to take a chance with you.”

[whiterosesforher]

𓍼 ⋮ A LOVE TO LAST ( L.HS )

𝒾 : may I present to you dearest reader, ethan bridgerton, the gentle viscount, and your childhood best friend. 【 ˚⊱☁️⊰˚ 】

♯ 𝓱𝓮𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 | 𝓌 : 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢.

disclaimer ‣ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🩷 this is a fanfiction inspired by the backstory of violet and edmund originally from the bridgerton series book and show. most elements are purposely altered. ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

❤︎ ... lady whistledown ; dearest readers, i hope you do indulge in this meaningful love story. ۶ৎ / 𝓌𝒸 ┈ • ┈ 14.2k💗

( ‧˚꒰🦪꒱༘⋆ ) write to lady whistledown ✒️៹

You sit in the drawing room, the faint hum of your mother’s words. It is late in the afternoon, and sunlight pours in through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the pale blue wallpaper.

Your hands rest on your lap, clasped tightly, though you feel restless. You’ve been here for an hour, enduring yet another lecture from your mother about duty and expectations.

You are now 17 and just had your debut into the marriage mart, yet you are considered unlucky for you don't have much of suitors, like a wallflower hanging around the edges of the ballroom without a dance partner.

You are the only child to a baron and baroness, it is not surprising for you that your mother is trying hard to secure you a beneficial match.

“Violet,” she begins, her voice sharp, “you must remember that you are not just any young woman. You are a Ledger. Your actions reflect upon this family.”

You nod, though your thoughts wander. The heavy air of the room makes you yearn for the garden outside, where the roses are blooming and the scent of fresh earth and sunshine feels far more welcoming than the constraints of these walls.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your mother’s voice snaps you back to the present.

“Of course, Mother,” you reply, offering a polite smile. It’s a practiced expression, one you wear often when her sharp words cut into you.

Her eyes narrow, but before she can continue, the door opens, and the tension in the room shifts. Your father steps in, his presence filling the space with warmth.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, his tone light, though he’s fully aware of what’s happening.

“Not at all,” you answer quickly, relief washing over you.

Your mother sighs, rising from her seat. “You spoil her, you know,” she tells your father as she moves toward the door. “She must learn what is expected of her if she is to find a suitable match.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, your father smiles at you, his shoulders relaxing. “Don’t let her bother you too much, beauty,” he says, crossing the room to sit beside you.

“I try not to,” you admit, leaning slightly toward him. "But it seems my every move is scrutinized."

You paused for a moment, deep in thought before continuing with a sincere tone as you look up at your father, “I want to marry someone I truly love, Daddy. Not out of duty.”

“That’s because your mother worries for you in her own way,” he says, though you can tell even he doesn’t fully believe it. “But Beauty, if a marriage from true love is what you want, then that you shall get. Hold on to that.”

His words stay with you as the days pass. Your mother continues her efforts to mold you into the perfect young lady with less laughter, fewer whims, more poise. But your father’s encouragement reminds you of what you truly want.

It’s in the evenings, during the rare moments of quiet, when you feel most at peace. You often escape to the garden, where the scent of heather lingers in the air. You close your eyes and imagine a future that feels far away, one that is filled with love, laughter, and freedom.

But reality always has a way of pulling you back. Balls and promenading to attract suitors becomes a routine, each one blurring into the next. The men of the ton always speak of their estates, their wealth, their ambitions, but none of them speak to your heart.

Until one evening, when a letter sent to your father arrives, mentioning the death of an old friend reported by his own son that is now a Viscount, a name mentioned in passing sparks curiosity, and it sounds oddly familiar to you. Ethan Bridgerton. “Oh heavens! Send our sincerest condolences to Ethan! A Viscount after his father, a family friend,” your mother says with approval, her lips curling into a satisfied smile.

“A Bridgerton is a fine match,” she tells you. "They are a family of impeccable standing and tremendous wealth.

But you barely listen, still thinking of how familiar that name is, maybe because he's a family friend. A strange sensation stirs within you, for a reason you can't figure out.

And then it hit you, the last name Bridgerton, a family that is a close old friend to yours, the boy who irritated you to the ends of the earth when you were 8. Oh how you clearly remember the day you first met that wretched young man. You hate him, but you do feel bad for him, for the death of his father who was close to you and your family.

The Ledgers' country estate was abuzz with excitement that morning. The Bridgertons were visiting. A long-standing family friendship it is but these visits are quite rare.

You stood at the edge of the garden, your small fingers deftly moving as you arranged the handpicked flowers into the vase. It is the learning task your governess made you do today. A peaceful breeze carried the scent of the nearby lavender bushes, and the muffled sounds of conversation from the drawing room floated out through the open windows.

“Violet, dear, come meet our guests!” Your mother’s cheerful call interrupted your concentration. You left your vase reluctantly and smoothed out your dress before making your way back toward the house.

Inside the grand entryway, the adults had already gathered. Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton stood near the fireplace, their warmth filling the room as they exchanged pleasantries with your parents. Beside them were their children, a crowd of faces, some shy, some openly curious.

“Lord and Lady Ledger, thank you for having us,” Viscountess Bridgerton said, her voice carrying a note of genuine affection. She gestured to the group of children around her. “And these, as you know, are our children. Billie, Ethan, George, and Hugo.”

Ethan. You noticed him immediately, a boy around your age, his dark hair slightly unruly and his grin mischievous, even as he gave a polite bow. His eyes darted around the room, restless and alive.

“Go on, children,” The Viscount Bridgerton urged. “Take some time to explore while we talk.”

With a collective cheer, the Bridgerton boys were off, their laughter echoing down the hallways as they raced through the house while the eldest sister remained. You hesitated, lingering near the adults, but your mother gave you a gentle nudge.

“Go on, Violet. You may also go play.”

Taking your mother’s advice, you returned to the garden, eager to enjoy the quiet once more instead of playing with them. Settling back into your spot beneath the shade of a willow tree, you resumed your flower arranging. The sunlight danced across your hands as you worked, content in the solitude.

That peace didn’t last.

As the sun climbed higher, you decided to fetch a drink from the house. Gathering your things, you made your way back toward the garden entrance. But as you stepped beneath the archway leading inside, a strange creaking sound caught your attention.

You barely had time to glance upward before it happened.

A cascade of white powder—soft and choking—poured down on you, coating your hair, your dress, and every inch of exposed skin. It took you a moment to realize what it was, well it was flour. You froze in shock, the vase you're hugging falling from your arms.

Laughter erupted above you. You craned your neck to see the source of the chaos, and there they were, the Bridgerton boys leaning over the balcony. Leading the charge was none other than Ethan, his grin wider than ever, his hands gripping the now empty bucket.

“Ethan Bridgerton!” you shouted, your little voice sharp enough to rival your mother’s scolding tone.

The laughter only grew louder. Ethan’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he leaned on the railing. “I think you wear white rather well, Miss Ledger,” he teased, his tone mockingly polite.

Your cheeks burned with indignation, though it was hard to tell if it was from embarrassment or fury. “You are absolutely insufferable!” you declared, shaking the flour from your hair as best as you could.

Ethan cupped his hands around his mouth and called down, “We’ll call it even if you come up here and try it on one of us!”

The audacity of him! You picked up a small stone and was about to throw it upwards to him but your Governess caught you in time and stopped you, lecturing you softly.

You stormed back toward the house, stomping your small feet, determined to find your mother and father and report this appalling behavior while your Governess followed behind, calling out to you while you ignored her.

Your brow furrowed, lips tightening into an unbidden sneer at the remembrance of the memory. You could still hear cackling of the Bridgerton boys as you stood there, cheeks burning, fists clenched. How utterly insufferable he had been.

“Violet, are you quite finished daydreaming?” Your mother’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. She swept into the room with the grace of a swan, her brow slightly pinched in disapproval. “You’ll have no time for idle thoughts this afternoon. There’s far too much to do before tonight’s ball.”

Ah, another ball. You sat up straighter, smoothing your skirts as if that would erase the petulant expression that had betrayed your thoughts only moments before.

“Yes, Mother,” you replied demurely, though you felt a pang of irritation at the constant reminders of your duty.

Your mother was already issuing orders to the servants bustling through the house. One carried a trunk of shimmering gowns to your room; another balanced a tray of jewelled hairpins and satin gloves. “Come now, Violet, let us get you ready,” she urged, her tone brisk but expectant.

You followed her upstairs to your chambers, where your maid had begun laying out a pale blue gown adorned with delicate silver thread. The fabric shimmered like starlight as it caught the late afternoon sun streaming through the window. “This will suit you perfectly, miss,” your maid said, smoothing the gown with practiced hands.

The preparations began in earnest. First, the gown, layers upon layers of skirts, petticoats, and corsets. You stood patiently as your maid and another servant laced the stays tightly, drawing your waist into the fashionable silhouette of the time.

“Breathe, Violet,” your mother instructed coolly, though the tug of the laces made it nearly impossible. You did as you were told, though you swore under your breath as the final knot was secured.

Next came the hair. You sat still as your maid worked swiftly, brushing, curling, and pinning each strand into place. Your hair was swept high, adorned with small pearls and a few artful curls left to frame your face. The faint scent of rosewater clung to the air as she finished, a gentle spritz ensuring everything stayed in place for the night ahead.

When it came time to choose your accessories, your mother’s discerning eye moved over the options laid before you. “Not the sapphires,” she said, waving them away. “They’re too heavy for such a delicate gown. The diamonds will do.”

You allowed her to clasp the glittering necklace around your neck, the cool weight of it settling on your skin. A matching bracelet and pair of earrings followed, their brilliance almost blinding in the late afternoon light.

Finally, your gloves were pulled on—soft, white silk that reached just past your elbows. You flexed your fingers to test their fit, feeling a sense of finality as the preparations came to an end.

Your mother gave you a once-over, her critical gaze softening into approval. “You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the ball,” she said.

You caught your reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at you looked polished, elegant, every bit the young lady society demanded her to be. And yet, there was still a flicker of unease.

Tonight is another night of dipping your toes onto the marriage mart, waiting for offers of dances from gentlemen that could turn into suitors if luck is on your side.

The grand ballroom was a symphony of color and light, the hum of lively conversation mingling with the delicate strains of the orchestra. You arrived with your parents, your mother adjusting the hem of your gown as you walked through the crowded entrance.

The ton was out in full force tonight with their glistening jewels, perfectly coiffed hair, and practiced smiles everywhere you looked. Your father exchanged pleasantries with the hosts, and your mother ushered you forward with a whispered reminder “Stand tall and do not turn down any gentleman who approaches.”

You offered polite smiles and nods to those who greeted you, but inside, the familiar feeling of unease settled in your chest. Balls like these were meant to dazzle, to enchant, to connect young ladies like yourself with eligible gentlemen.

But for you, they had always been the same, just a long night of standing alone, sipping lemonade, and looking like as if you're guarding the table, while the rest of the ton danced.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself exactly where you had expected to be, standing by the refreshments table, watching the couples glide across the polished floor with sad envious gaze.

You held a glass of lemonade, its cold condensation dampening your gloved fingers, and sipped it quietly. Your dance card remained empty even after some time of being in the party.

The music swirled around you, a beautiful tune meant for twirling skirts and clasped hands, but to you, it only underscored your role as a wallflower.

You sighed, watching a young lady laugh brightly as her partner spun her in an elegant arc. It wasn’t exactly envy—no, more like a quiet resignation. You weren’t the kind of girl who turned heads or inspired dashing gentlemen to ask for a dance. You were the quiet one, the one who faded into the background.

The air inside the ballroom began to feel stifling, and you longed for a moment of reprieve. Deciding you’d had enough of being a wallflower, you maneuvered through the bustling crowd, clutching your lemonade as you made your way toward the terrace. The promise of fresh air was enough to spur you on.

But as you rounded a corner, your path abruptly collided with someone else’s. Your glass tipped in your hand, its contents spilling forward in a sticky cascade.

“Oh no!” you gasped, stepping back in shock. The man before you, dressed in an immaculate white suit, now bore a large, unmistakable stain across his chest.

He blinked down at himself, then at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and amusement. “Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose I’ve been baptized using a lemonade.”

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you immediately fumbled for your handkerchief. “I am so, so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t mean to—oh, let me—” You reached forward, your hands trembling as you dabbed uselessly at the fabric of his jacket.

“Please,” he said, his voice gentle as he caught your wrist. “It’s quite alright. No harm done.”

You stilled under his touch, your eyes finally lifting to meet his. Dark brown eyes stared back at you, warm and kind, with a spark of humor that made your heart skip. His face was striking, with sharp features softened by the faintest hint of a smile.

“I still feel dreadful about it,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand but keeping your gaze on his. “You must think me terribly clumsy.”

“Not at all,” he said, stepping back slightly to ease the tension. “I think it’s one of the more memorable introductions I’ve had this evening. If I'm being honest, I've grown tired of the flirty introductions of single ladies tonight encouraged by their eager mamas.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Introductions?”

He gave a small bow, his grin widening. “Ethan Bridgerton, at your service.”

The name struck you like a bell, and for a moment, the ballroom seemed to blur around you. Memories of a boy holding a bucket of flour, laughter echoing from a high balcony, rushed back to you.

“You,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly as recognition dawned. “You’re the one who—”

“Dumped flour on your head?” he finished for you, his grin now bordering on boyish mischief. “I do believe that was me. Though, in my defense, it was rather funny.”

Despite your embarrassment, a small laugh escaped you. “I’m not sure I’d agree with that.”

“Well, then,” he said, gesturing to his stained jacket, “I suppose this makes us even. I dumped flour on you, you dumped lemonade on me.”

You tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Perhaps.”

You suddenly realized, with a slight jolt of embarrassment, that you hadn’t even introduced yourself properly yet. Straightening your posture and clasping your hands lightly in front of you, you gave a polite, practiced bow.

“Violet Ledger,” you said, your voice soft but clear. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Viscount Bridgerton.”

Ethan inclined his head with a smile, but before he could respond, the moment between you was abruptly interrupted. A group of young ladies, unmarried and eager, with their mamas trailing behind them had suddenly swept into the scene like a wave. Their eyes sparkled as they took in the handsome Viscount, his presence drawing attention like a moth to a flame.

“Viscount Bridgerton! What a surprise to see you here tonight,” one of the young women gushed, a dazzling smile lighting her face.

Another chimed in, “We didn’t expect to see you so soon after your family’s return to London. How delightful!”

The women surrounded him, their voices a symphony of pleasantries and gentle competition. You stood off to the side, momentarily forgotten, your heart sinking as the reality of your position settled in again. This was what always happened, wasn’t it? Ladies like them, with their bright smiles and effortless charm, were exactly the kind of women gentlemen like Ethan Bridgerton were drawn to.

Ethan, however, didn’t seem particularly charmed by the sudden onslaught. His smile, while polite, no longer reached his eyes. He glanced at you for a brief moment, as if searching for something. Then, in a voice just loud enough for you to hear, he leaned slightly toward you and murmured, “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Your eyes widened in surprise, but before you could respond, he had already begun to step away. He offered the ladies a gracious bow and a few kind words of parting. “Ladies, you’ll have to forgive me. I find myself quite parched after the journey here.”

The mamas behind the girls exchanged a flurry of glances as they urged their daughters to follow him, but the group hesitated just long enough to allow Ethan and you to slip away.

He gestured toward a side door leading out onto the terrace. You followed, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure whether it was from the attention you’d just received or the audacity of his actions. The low murmur of the crowd faded behind you as the cool night air embraced you both, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the ballroom.

As the door closed behind you, Ethan turned to face you with a grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well,” he said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket, “I daresay I haven’t made an escape that dramatic since my childhood days.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “I think you may have just caused a minor scandal in there.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he replied, his tone light and amused. “But I assure you, Miss Ledger, it was entirely worth it.”

The two of you stood side by side on the terrace, gazing out over the moonlit gardens in a peaceful, companionable silence. The cool night air was a relief from the overwhelming noise of the ballroom, and for a moment, neither of you felt the need to fill the quiet.

Finally, you gathered your thoughts and spoke, your voice soft and tentative. “Viscount Bridgerton—”

He turned to you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he interrupted. “Ethan.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“Call me Ethan,” he repeated, his tone warm and easy.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at him uncertainly. But his expression was earnest, and you found yourself nodding. “Very well... Ethan.”

The name felt foreign on your tongue, but also strangely natural, as though it was meant to be spoken in this moment. You adjusted your gloves, casting your gaze down briefly before meeting his eyes once more.

“I wanted to offer my condolences,” you said softly, your tone sincere. “For your father. My family received the news in a letter this morning. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Ethan’s expression faltered, the light in his eyes dimming just slightly. He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint attempt at a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s been... a difficult adjustment, but I suppose it’s to be expected. My father was a great man. Filling his shoes is no small task.”

You nodded solemnly, not entirely sure what to say. “It must have been hard to inherit the title so suddenly.”

“It was,” he admitted, his gaze drifting back toward the gardens. “But as the eldest son, it was always expected of me. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

The weight in his voice was unmistakable, and for a brief moment, you glimpsed the burden he carried—one that went far beyond the responsibilities of being a viscount. You wanted to offer some kind of comfort, but words felt insufficient.

So instead, you reached out hesitantly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. Unruly for a lady who's all alone with a man, but you couldn't care less. He looked at you then, and the sadness in his expression softened into something quieter, something more grateful.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice low. “Truly.”

You offered him a small smile, hoping it conveyed everything you couldn’t put into words.

Ever since then, you were never able to get rid of the man. A beautiful friendship blooming between the two of you.

Ethan had been nearby, escorting a dance partner to her seat. As she departed, he turned to you, his smile playful.

“Miss Ledger, are you always this determined to blend in with the curtains?” he teased, glancing at the floral drapes behind you.

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned, before you chuckled softly. “It’s called being observant, Viscount Bridgerton. You should try it some time, I bet it would help in making you wiser.”

“Ah, but you see,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes bright with amusement. “The observant ones always have the most to say. They simply haven’t been asked yet.”

You laughed lightly, surprised at his wit. “And what would you like me to say then, my lord?”

His grin widened. “That you’ll grant me the honor of this next dance, of course.”

The following week, your paths crossed again during a morning promenade in the park. Ethan had joined you unexpectedly, claiming he needed a distraction from the paperwork piling up on his desk.

As you walked along the gravel paths, he pointed out the ducks waddling near the pond, remarking on how they seemed far more organized than the members of Parliament.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You truly have a talent for finding humor in the most mundane things, Ethan.”

“And you,” he replied, his tone softer, “have a talent for making even the dullest promenades feel like a grand adventure.”

The morning sun casts a golden glow across the stables as you made your way toward your horse, the light filtering through the wooden beams and glinting off the rows of neatly arranged saddles.

Ethan was already there, his sleeves rolled up and his jacket slung casually over a nearby post. He greeted you with a bright grin, one that always seemed to make your heart beat just a little faster.

“You’re late,” he teased, his tone warm and familiar. “I was beginning to think you’d left me to ride alone.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I’m not late; you’re just too early. Honestly, don’t you have anything better to do than loiter in the stables?”

“Nothing better than helping my favorite partner in crime prepare for a ride,” he quipped, grabbing the saddle and hoisting it effortlessly onto your horse’s back.

You chuckled, though the flutter in your chest was impossible to ignore. He moved with an ease that spoke of years of riding, his hands deft as he adjusted the straps and tightened the girth. Watching him like this, so at home and so...him, made you forget for a moment how much he’d come to mean to you.

As you worked together, the conversation turned light and aimless, a pleasant back-and-forth of teasing and shared stories. But then, as he led your horse out into the sunlight, the topic shifted.

“So,” Ethan began, his tone casual as he patted the horse’s neck, “have you noticed how everyone seems to assume we’re something we’re not?” He laughed, the sound soft and carefree. “It’s ridiculous, really. Can you imagine? You and me?”

Your heart sank, the words hitting you like a cold gust of wind. You forced a laugh to match his, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt. “Ridiculous,” you echoed, though your voice faltered ever so slightly.

Ethan didn’t seem to notice. He was already climbing onto his horse, the sun catching the golden strands of his hair as he settled into the saddle. “They’ll talk about anything, won’t they? It’s absurd. You’re my closest friend, Violet. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”

Your grip tightened around the reins of your horse as you climbed into the saddle, your fingers trembling slightly. His words replayed in your mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.

Closest friend. Nothing more.

You smiled anyway, because what else could you do? “Yes, absurd indeed,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced over at you, his expression soft and unassuming. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” you said quickly, too quickly. You tugged on the reins, urging your horse forward. “Come on, let’s see if you can keep up with me for once.”

Ethan grinned, the same easy smile that always lit up his face. “You’re on.”

And just like that, the moment passed, but as the wind rushes and the landscape blurs around you, the ache in your chest remained, showing you the reality of how you expected something more from nothing.

At another ball, you found yourself at the edge of the dance floor again, but this time, Ethan’s gaze found yours across the room. He was engaged in a conversation with a group of gentlemen, yet his attention seemed to waver as he glanced your way.

You have been sneakily avoiding him after that day, always finding an excuse to be busy just so you could turn his invitations down. You did what you had to do. You had already fallen deep for the Viscount, and he's nowhere near reciprocating your feelings. He made that clear.

The strings of the orchestra swelled, and all of a sudden, someone swept you to the dancefloor, and you found yourself in Ethan’s arms once again, gliding across. His touch was gentle, his movements effortless as he led you through the steps of the waltz.

“You’re avoiding me,” he remarked, his voice low and just for you.

You glanced up at him, searching his face. “Am I?”

He nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. “Do you find my presence disturbing now?”

“I suppose I do,” you lied, feeling the warmth of his hand resting lightly on your waist. You do not want to tell him the real reason.

As the music continued, you felt a shift in the air between you, something unspoken yet palpable. Then, as the dance neared its end, he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Violet,” he murmured, his tone both hesitant and sincere, “I think I feel something more for you.”

Your breath caught, but before you could respond, the music reached its crescendo, and the dance ended. The partners switched, and suddenly, Ethan was gone, replaced by another gentleman.

You moved through the motions of the next dance, your mind racing and your heart pounding. The moment the music ceased, you turned, scanning the crowd for Ethan’s familiar figure.

He was walking away, his tall frame weaving through the throngs of guests. You quickly stepped forward, attempting to follow him, but the sea of people seemed to conspire against you.

“Miss Ledger, how lovely to see you,” someone greeted, blocking your path.

You forced a polite smile and nodded, excusing yourself as quickly as you could. But by the time you reached the edge of the ballroom, Ethan was nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, you stood still for a moment, the crowd swirling around you. The evening’s events replayed in your mind, leaving you with a mix of exhilaration and uncertainty.

Where had he gone? And why had he chosen that moment to reveal his feelings?

The morning light streamed through the windows of the drawing room as you carefully played a simple melody on the piano, the gentle notes filling the air. Your mother, Baroness Vivian Ledger, stood behind you, silent but watchful. Her gaze lingered on you for a moment before she sighed deeply, breaking the quiet.

“Violet,” she began, her tone calm but firm. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Viscount Bridgerton?”

You froze for a moment, your fingers hovering over the keys. Turning to face her, you blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, Mother?”

She folded her arms, her expression unwavering. “You’ve been promenading together, dancing at countless balls, and I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Do not play coy with me, Violet. Why hasn’t he called on you yet?”

Heat rose to your cheeks as you quickly turned back to the piano, your hands fidgeting with the keys. “Why would he call on me?” you muttered, attempting to downplay the fluttering in your chest. “We’re just friends.”

Your mother let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “Just friends? Don’t be ridiculous, a gentleman doesn’t spend that much time with a lady, nor look at her the way he looks at you, if he only sees her as a friend.”

Before you could respond, the doors to the drawing room creaked open, and a servant stepped in, bowing slightly. “Miss Violet Ledger, you have a caller.”

Your heart leapt to your throat as two footmen entered carrying extravagant bouquets of flowers, bright colors with delicate arrangements. They placed them carefully on the table. It was heathers, your favorite flower, filling the room with their sweet fragrance.

And then he appeared. Ethan Bridgerton stepped into the room, impeccably dressed and wearing his usual polite smile. His eyes flicked to yours, warm and steady, before he turned his attention to your mother.

“Baroness Ledger,” he greeted with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Your mother’s face lit up with genuine delight. She had always been fond of Ethan, treating him almost like a son during the times the Bridgertons had visited your family. “Ethan, my dear boy,” she said warmly, gesturing for him to sit. “Come, you two have a seat. I’ll have refreshments brought in for you.”

Ethan offered a nod of thanks as your mother ushered you both to the couch and sat beside each other. Your mother lingered for a moment before retreating to the other side of the room, a clear signal that she intended to give the two of you some privacy while still keeping a watchful eye.

“I hope the flowers are to your liking? They're your favorite, Heathers,” you stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re calling on me?” you blurted out, disbelief clear in your voice.

Ethan turned to you, his smile softening into something more personal, more earnest. “Of course I am,” he replied simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart raced, and for a moment, you struggled to find words. Everything about this felt too surreal to be true.

“Well,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think—”

He chuckled softly, leaning in just enough for his voice to lower, though not enough to cross the boundaries of propriety. “You didn’t think I’d call on you after all this time?” You blinked, at a loss for words, as his gaze held yours.

“But you made it clear to me,” you said, your tone soft but tinged with disbelief. “You would never see me as something more than a friend, and last night after telling me that you actually hold deeper feelings for me, you just… vanished.”

Ethan’s gaze softened, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. “That’s true,” he admitted, leaning slightly forward. “And for that, I owe you an apology. It wasn’t my intention to leave you wondering. But, Violet” his voice steadied firm, “I left because I already knew what I had to do.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to make sense of his words. “And what was that?”

“To court you,” he said simply, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I knew from the moment we met that you were unlike anyone I’d ever known, yet I kept denying it, wanting to preserve our friendship. But last night, as we danced, after weeks of you ignoring me, it became clear to me that I want more than just your friendship, Violet. I want your partnership, your trust, your love. I wasted no time this morning because I knew I needed to see you and make my intentions clear.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and you were certain he could see the way your hands trembled slightly in your lap. Before you could respond, Ethan reached out, taking your hand gently in his.

“And so,” he continued, his expression sincere and unwavering, “I am here now to ask for your hand in marriage.”

The room seemed to fall silent, the weight of his proposal filling the air. Your heart raced, your mind spinning. Marriage. It wasn’t just an idea or a possibility, it is here now, being offered by a man who had somehow become everything you’d ever wanted. A marriage of love match.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

His smile broke into something brighter, almost relieved, as if he’d been holding his breath. “You’ve made me the happiest man in all of England, Violet.”

“Ethan? Why me?” you couldn't help but ask, the question escaping your lips before you could stop it.

His smile grew even wider, and he let out a soft chuckle, his brown eyes glimmering with warmth as they fixed on yours. “Why not you?” he replied, his tone light but full of conviction.

You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of his answer. Before you could respond, “Violet,” he started, his voice growing softer but no less certain. “At first glance, you seem quiet and boring if I'm being frank. But the more I watched, the more I realized how wrong that was.”

His words made your breath catch, and you felt the familiar warmth creeping into your cheeks.

“You aren’t just quiet, Violet,” he continued, his tone deepening with emotion. “You’re thoughtful. You observe, you listen, and you understand things most people overlook. Your mind is a place of quiet wisdom, and your heart—” He paused, his gaze softening as he searched your face. “Your heart is deeper than the ocean. Once someone has the privilege of knowing you, truly knowing you, they realize just how extraordinary you are.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The sincerity in his voice, the intensity of his gaze, it was all warming.

“I admire how you care for the people around you, even in the smallest ways,” Ethan continued, his voice steady but full of feeling. “The way you remember the things that matter to them, the way you make them feel seen, even when you don’t say much. How your kindness isn’t loud or showy but so deeply rooted in who you are.”

He took your hand then, holding it between both of his, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “And I admire you because, when I’m with you, I feel like I’ve finally found something I’ve been searching for my whole life.”

You felt your chest tighten, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. His words were unlike anything you’d ever heard, his love unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

“So, why not you?” Ethan said again, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “Why wouldn’t I choose the woman who’s shown me what it means to truly love and be loved?”

Your voice broke as you finally whispered, “Ethan…”

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your fingers. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Violet. Everything I never knew I needed.”

Before you could say another word, the door to the drawing room opened, and your father stepped inside. His eyes quickly swept over the scene, Ethan holding your hand, the bouquet of flowers on the table, and the unmistakable atmosphere of a momentous occasion. Right behind him is your mother, who stood up from being seated in the other side of the room, her sharp gaze instantly assessing the situation.

“What’s this?” your father asked, his tone curious but warm.

Ethan stood immediately, straightening his coat and offering a respectful bow. “Baron, Baroness, good morning. I hope you don’t mind my calling on your daughter.”

Your father’s gaze flickered between the two of you before landing on Ethan. “I take it this visit is of a particular nature, Bridgerton?”

Ethan nodded, his confidence unwavering. “It does, Lord Ledger. I’ve come to ask for Violet’s hand in marriage. She has already given her consent, and I would be honored to receive yours as well.”

Your father paused, his expression unreadable as he regarded Ethan. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his face. “I must say, Bridgerton, you’ve caught me by surprise. But I can’t say I’m displeased. You’ve been like a son to us for years, and I can think of no one more fitting to marry my daughter.”

Ethan’s shoulders relaxed visibly, his smile widening as he extended his hand. “Thank you, sir. I will do everything in my power to make her happy.”

As the two men shook hands, your mother stepped forward, her sharp eyes softening as they settled on you. “Is this truly what you want, Violet?” she asked gently.

You nodded, your voice steady as you replied, “It is, Mother. Very much so.”

Vivian’s lips curled into a faint smile, her voice losing some of its usual edge. “Then I’m happy for you, my dear. You’ve made a fine choice.”

With a nod of approval, your mother returned to stand beside your father, her expression soft yet resolute.

“Then it’s settled,” the baron declared, his smile broadening. “We have a wedding to plan.”

Ethan turned back to you, his eyes shining with affection and excitement.

Ethan gently tosses you onto the bed, making you laugh. He licked his lips as he stood by the edge of the bed, watching as your chest heave up and down in anticipation, "You know," he said softly, "This is our honeymoon. I can finally do whatever I want to you,” he gives you a mischievous grin. Tonight is the night after your wedding, a memorable occasion that officially bound you and him as husband and wife.

He yanked his top free with impatient, fumbling hands. The fabric strained against the hurried movements, a few threads snapping as he tore the shirt open.

The buttons popped loose, some scattering to the floor, but he didn't stop to care. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders in one swift, almost frantic motion, tossing it aside like he was so eager to get rid of it.

Slowly, he leaned forward, one knee sinking into the mattress, followed by the other. His movements were deliberate, almost predatory, as his hands pressed into the bed to steady himself. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he crawled forward, and hovered on top of you.

Ethan cupped your face gently with one hand “I’ll be gentle, just follow my lead, alright?” you nodded your head in response and he kissed you carefully as if you're a fragile thing.

It was slow and romantic, but you needed more, so you let out a muffled soft moan, pulling him closer by the back of his neck and you felt his lips curl up into a smile while kissing you more eagerly now.

Your breathing got heavier as he licked and explored the insides of your mouth, shoving his tongue further to taste you, his warm breath mingling with yours, making you dizzy.

Your combined spit soon started dripping down your chin. His warm hands caress your sides in a way that it ignites a fire inside you. The both of you leaned back to catch your breaths, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

He dipped his head down to pepper kisses all over your skin. He's had enough of you being fully clothed in your white dress, “Can I take this off you?” he asked to which you lazily nod.

He helped you out of your corset and dress, leaving you with nothing but your underwear. His eyes twinkled once he set his gaze upon your exposed plump breasts.

Out of nowhere, you were shying away from his hungry gaze, your hands quickly covering your breasts in embarrassment, cheeks blushing profusely. However, he was still quicker than you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head swiftly using one hand.

“Don’t, don't hide your pretty body from me. It's beautiful and I'm here to worship it.” He whispered, erasing every doubt in your head. You can only nod in response, staring into his eyes while your foreheads touched each other, as if in an unbreakable trance.

You feel the excitement and arousal bubbled up in you, your thighs instinctively pressing up against each other as your underwear soiled.

Ethan smirked, “You’re wet, aren't you?” he asked, forcing your legs apart using his strong arms, eliciting a loud whine from you. You never expected intimacy would feel this good.

He dipped his head again to nuzzle on your neck, licking the skin with his warm tongue before sucking on it, purposefully leaving marks.

Your back arches and he took advantage of this to attack your neck more, grinding the bulge on his pants against your covered core. Oh how you love the things he's doing to you right now.

He trails wet kisses down until he reaches your chest, sticking his tongue out and licking up your cleavage. You were almost certain your heart clawed out of your chest from how hard it's beating, and he only looks up at you with those eyes you love so much all while pressing the most tantalizing kiss right on your left nipple, silently telling you that all of you, even the most private parts, now belongs to him.

You couldn’t take your eyes away from him even if you try to, you watch every bit of his movements down your body. He envelops your nipple using his soft lips. He swirls his tongue around it and sucks hard, his other hand coming up to play with your other breast.

The moans coming out of your lips only encouraged him more as he shamelessly sucked your tits like a hungry man, lustful eyes looking up at you, corner of his lips smiling. He delivered a strong squeeze to your boob just to see your pained expression.

He switched his mouth, sucking the other one and playing the wet breast using his hands. He circles the swollen nipple before pinching it right after. You whined in pain at his harsh play on your mounds, making him tweak your nipple gently to soothe it.

Grazing your nipples with his teeth as he started alternating between the two in a fast manner had you whimpering and squirming underneath him. When you continued to squirm around, he firmly held you in place, gripping your waist.

“Stop moving, darling,” He instructed, hands sneaking down from your waist to your panties. For a moment, you had no idea what he was about to do, but an audible gasp left your lips when he ripped your underwear with such ease, immediately throwing the torn fabric away.

He placed his head in between your legs, kissing your inner thigh. He sucked in a breath as he heard your sweet helpless whimper. You grab a fistful of his hair, pulling on them and crying out when he pushed your legs up to bite and suck harshly on the soft flesh of your inner thighs. You are sure that you'll wake up tomorrow with your thighs and legs decorated in purple red marks.

Ethan is shameless when it comes to his possessive nature, even mumbling the word ‘mine’ nonstop underneath his breath. He stopped as he reached up to your private part, taking a deep breath and inhaling the aroma of your wetness, “Goodness, you smell so fucking delicious, darling.”

You propped yourself up using your arms to peek down at your husband, the sight of him staring in awe at your core, smelling it while licking his lips. He then purposely blew hard on your soaked cunt, surprising you and making your body jolt at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Ethan please,” you pleaded desperately, “Yes, darling? What do you need? Say it.” He asked breathily, dark eyes still fixated on your pussy as he whispered directly on it, “How beautiful.”

In a desperate attempt, you took advantage of having his hair fisted on your hand and pushed his head into your pussy, bucking your hips forward to shove it on him. He growled and immediately started lapping at your pussy as if it's his last meal. You throw your head back, eyes closed at the euphoria you're feeling.

“Fucking sweet pussy” Ethan groaned, going completely feral, not holding back as he devoured you, licking, sucking, biting, and slurping on your folds, while holding your legs apart to make sure you remain bare and open to him.

His nose nudged on your clit as he slipped his tongue in your clenching hole, wiggling the wet muscle around your walls. “All mine,” he groaned with each lick, sending vibrations on your cunt.

The last straw was when he slurped your folds before biting your clit gently, sending you over the edge with a loud scream, eyes rolling back and legs shaking as he teased you by torturing your poor clit more.

He laps up your juices happily, making sure to catch every drop on his mouth. Even if your legs were already shaking in his hands while he holds them up, your cunt clenching around his tongue. He shoved it as deep as he could.

He couldn't stop, it's like he's trapped in an enchantment, or perhaps he's just really too pussy drunk to even stop and give your poor cunt a rest.

With his movements getting rougher, you took it upon yourself to snap him out of his trance and push his head away with all the remaining strength you have. Successfully prying his head from your swollen overstimulated core and closing your legs to prevent him from diving back in.

His mouth all the way down to his chin glimmers with your essence as he gives you a playful grin, almost laughing at the state you're in.

His big bright eyes observed you, wanting this image of you to imprint on his brain. You looked like an absolute goddess brought down by heaven for him. A flower he is to help bloom more and to cherish forever.

You, his now wife, laid there bare to him, body having slight trembles of aftershock from the orgasm he just gave you, your cheeks tinted with natural blush, skin sweaty, lips parted while panting, eyes closed, and your hair a mess on the pillows on your head.

What a heavenly sight, and Ethan’s raging hard on is a testament to it. But he’s nowhere near done with you yet, for the show is only starting. Now that he finally tasted you, he is more than eager to know how you would feel wrapped around his length.

As you felt him move around, your eyes snap back open curiously, only to see him getting rid of his last piece of clothing, his pants and drawers in one go, discarded onto the floor with no care.

Your eyes widen at the sight of his manhood, slapping his abdomen with how hard it is, the tip is red and leaking so much precum, it shows just how much he's been waiting for this moment. You sit up clumsily even if your legs were still shaking just to get a closer look of it.

Your shaky hand slowly reached out to it but stopped mid air, hesitating, you really have no idea what to do. So you looked up at your husband, “Ethan, may I?” you asked shyly.

Thank god your husband was able to understand you without making you say it out loud because you might just die in shame, “Of course, darling. Go ahead.” He smiled down at you and you could've sworn he got more handsome with his hair messy and sticking to his wet forehead, lips pink and glistening with your juices and that stupid gentle eyes he has on right now.

He took your hand and guide it to his length, wrapping your hand around the thickness of the base, “Start slowly, move your hand up and down,” he instructed and you followed, moving your hand up and down in a slow pace.

He groans softly as your hand pumped his cock, he offered you a satisfied smile, his eyes half-lidded as he enjoys the gentle stroking. "You're going to make me cum so much, darling... I can feel it already.”

Encouraged by his words, you gained more confidence and started pumping him faster, "Shit... you're gonna make me bust like this?" He groans loudly, throwing his head back against the rock as you pump his length aggressively. His hips lift slightly to meet your strokes, his length hardening like steel with each pump of your hand. "You wanna see me nut, baby?”

You nodded, your eyes eager which only had his length twitching on your hold. He sucked in a sharp breath as you leaned down to press a gentle kiss on his tip before trailing kisses down the rest of his length.

You swirled your tongue before taking him inside your warm mouth, a loud guttural moan escaping his throat when he saw your lips envelop his length and hollow your cheeks sucking him in so desperately.

“Shit, play with my balls,” he commanded, guiding your hand to massage his balls while your mouth eagerly sucked half of his length. Suddenly he grips the back of your head, shoving you down, his length hitting the back of your throat making you gag, “Fuck yes, choke on my dick, darling.”

The sight of you gagging, your eyes wet with tears as you look up helplessly at him. You moaned around his length, the vibrations shooting straight up his cock.

He’s sweating profusely all over, taking big deep breaths while looking down at you. His eyes lustful but filled with fondness. But before he could even reach his orgasm, you took his length out of your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his length.

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asked, caressing the top of your head, “Need a second to breathe,” you admitted softly while panting, sitting up to recollect yourself.

He smiled understandingly at you, a gentle smile that contrasts his sinister words, “That’s fine, but I'm nowhere near done with you.” He said and your eyes widened, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

“W-wha–” You tried to ask but he cut you off as he slammed his lips against yours again, licking the insides of your mouth with his tongue before pulling back, “You think I’d let you go now that I got a taste of you? Without feeling that sweet cunt grip my length?”

“But–” you protested but he shushed you with his finger, leaning his face so close that your warm breaths mingled, “Shh, you can take it. Trust me, yeah?”

His tone is seductive, wooing you to trust him even though you already knew that the moment you say yes, he'll pounce on you like a wild animal. But deep inside, you wouldn't really mind, right?

“Yes,” you whispered so quietly it was almost inaudible. He pushed you back down, his body caging you in. Your body responds to him fast, legs spreading wide and wrapping around his waist, his hips grinding against yours.

Ethan asked, grinding the tip of his cock up and down your folds, your juices lubricating his length. “Ready, darling?” he asked and you gave him a nervous nod in response, your hands pressing on his chest to brace yourself.

He didn't waste any time, he entered your needy hole, his length pushing past your hymen and splitting you open. He immediately bottomed out. Your back arched, your eyes shut tight, while you screamed at the uncomfortable pain. You tried soothing yourself by clawing at his chest.

Ethan moans out loud, giving no care about the servants around the mansion who could all probably hear the coupling. The way your walls clenched his huge size, “Jesus darling, you feel so good,” he sighed in relief.

He gave you some time to adjust before teasing you again, “Look, darling,” he helped you raise your head a bit to make you watch where you both are connected. He pulled back all the way to the tip only to slam back in harder as you gasped. His hand pressing your lower stomach where the outline of his cock is prominent, “It reached so deep.”

“You’re so big,” you cried out, and he only laughed softly at you, “You love it, darling.”

He started ramming into your hole, making your breasts bounce and jiggle with each thrust. He reached forward to suck your left boob once again with no gentleness. Growling and grazing his teeth on the sensitive nub while fucking you like a wild animal.

“Mine, all mine, my beautiful wife,” he mumbled while he sucked your mounds.

“Goodness– Ethan!” you panted heavily, hands moving to grip the bedsheets as he abused your pussy, pushing so deep and hard as if he's shaping your walls into that shape of his cock.

You felt pure bliss, like you're in heaven, and just when you thought it couldn't be any better, Ethan reached his hand down to use his thumb, rubbing your clit in tight circles that made you cry out and squirm on his hold.

“Don’t you dare move. You're gonna lay there and take what I give you.” he sternly said as his free hand gripped your hip in a bruising hold, holding you down and preventing you to squirm away from this touch.

“Good girl, stay still for me, yeah?” He coo before pushing himself impossibly deeper, you swear you could feel him in your womb now, his hips flush against yours while still circling your clit.

Ethan kept mumbling about how good you feel around him, it was addicting how he seems to lose his mind over fucking you.

The room echoed with the sounds of wet skin slapping, and the combined moans and groans from you and him. Everything feels so hot and your nostrils were overwhelmed by the smell of sex.

You felt another coil in your lower stomach that's about to snap and you could no longer hold it, “Ethan, I'm gonna–” you warned him but before you could even finish, the coil snapped and your juices came gushing out all over his length, soaking his abdomen and balls.

You arched off the bed and your eyes roll to the back of your head so hard. You cried out, tears rolling down your cheek that he immediately licked, the taste of your salty tears knowing he's the cause of it in a good way pushed him closer to the edge.

Your spent pussy pulsated while he continues to aggressively pound you, trying to reach his own high. With one final thrust shooting ropes after ropes of cum inside your womb.

He stills inside you while filling you up, his length twitching while you both tried to regulate your breathing.

When he pulled out, his load came dripping out of your fluttering hole. You whimpered at the sudden empty feeling. But your husband was quick to scoop up his cum and shove it back inside you using his fingers.

Ethan rolled over to lay beside you, turning his body to the side to wrap you in his arms, pulling you close, “Are you alright, darling?” he asked in concern, giving your forehead a gentle kiss.

Your body was engulfed in a profound warmth, Ethan being so sweet and caring after fucking you into oblivion. He whispered sweet praises into your ear making you laugh softly.

And you fell asleep in that position, drifting off while your husband whispers sweet nothings into your ear, soothing you and making sure you feel secured and safe.

16 years into the marriage, and the Bridgerton mansion brimmed with life. Laughter echoed from every corner as well as the occasional scolding of multiple governesses trying (and failing) to impose order. You stood by the grand staircase, a hand resting protectively over your swollen belly, your other hand gripped the banister as you surveyed the chaos with an amused smile.

“Atticus!” Your husband’s voice boomed as he stepped out of the study, his tone caught between exasperation and pride. “How is it that you can manage the accounts better than half the estate staff, but you cannot get ahold of your siblings that are on the verge of turning the house into a battlefield while I'm busy?”

Atticus, now a strikingly handsome and serious young man at sixteen, appeared from around the corner with a calm expression, though his lips twitched in amusement. “They need to keep busy, Father. It’s an essential part of their education.”

“Perhaps,” Ethan replied dryly, “but I doubt orchestrating another impromptu chasing game qualifies as productive.”

Atticus shrugged and turned, nearly bumping into Caleb, who was sprinting down the hallway with a mischievous grin.

At thirteen, Caleb was all energy and unpredictability, and he carried himself like a boy constantly on the verge of some grand adventure—or disaster. “Out of my way, Atticus!” he shouted, clutching a poorly folded map as if it contained the secrets of the world. “I’m exploring!”

“You’re going to explore a broken vase if you’re not careful!” You called, shaking your head but unable to hide the smile on your lips.

Not far behind, seven-year-old Giovann charged after Caleb with a makeshift sword, his laughter ringing out like music. “You can’t explore without a knight, Caleb! I’m your protector!” he declared, wielding the wooden sword with as much ferocity as a child could muster.

Benjamin, at fourteen, strolled into the drawing room, humming softly as he carried an armful of paper and brushes. His kind and artistic nature stood out starkly amidst the chaos, and he settled himself by the window, carefully setting up his materials. “Mother,” he said brightly, glancing up at you, “I think I’ll paint the garden today. Dorothea’s been complaining that the roses don’t look vibrant enough.”

“You’re going to paint the garden again?” Dorothea’s voice chimed in from the doorway. At eleven, she exuded poise and wit, her beauty and sharp intellect often leaving her siblings scrambling to keep up. She arched a brow as she crossed her arms, a knowing smile on her lips. “Why don’t you paint Caleb tripping over his own feet instead? That would be far more entertaining.”

Benjamin smirked, dipping his brush into the paint. “I’d need to create a series for that, Thea—it happens far too often to capture in just one painting.”

“Very funny,” Caleb shot back, his head poking into the room just long enough to glare at his older brother before he vanished again, Giovann still hot on his heels.

Dorothea shook her head, her long dark hair swaying elegantly as she moved to make you sit beside her in front of the piano, “Mother, I don’t know how you manage all of us,” she said softly, though there was a hint of teasing in her voice.

You chuckled and gently stroked your daughter’s hair. “I manage because I have to. And because I wouldn’t trade any of you for the world, even when you drive me mad.”

Ethan appeared beside you then, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist as he surveyed the scene. “Do you think this little one,” he said, nodding towards your rounded belly, his hands caressing it ever so softly, “will be just as much trouble as the rest of them?”

You let out a sigh, leaning against him. “I have no doubt about it.”

Ethan smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. But the soft moment was quickly interrupted by the disturbance of your restless children.

A loud and jarring sound from the piano made all of you jump. Both you and Ethan turned your heads in alarm to see Giovann standing by the piano, gleefully slamming his little fingers across the keys with no concern for melody. Dorothea, who had been tidying her music sheets, froze, her expression darkening as her blood pressure spiked.

“Giovann!” she yelled, her voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos. She stormed toward him, her posture rigid with irritation. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you know how long it takes to tune that piano?!”

Giovann, entirely unbothered, shot her a cheeky grin. “It’s not my fault you’re always playing boring old songs, Thea.”

That was enough to send Dorothea chasing after him, her scolding echoing throughout the room as Giovann scrambled out of reach, still laughing. “Come back here! I swear, Giovann, I’m going to—!”

Sighing, you shook her head fondly while rubbing your temple. Ethan chuckled, leaning closer, “And to think, you said this baby would be just as much trouble. I’m starting to wonder if it could possibly be worse.”

Meanwhile, Atticus had settled on the couch, a picture of calm amidst the commotion. He lazily reached for a macaron from a nearby snack plate, casually biting into it.

“Hey!” Benjamin’s dismayed voice rang out. He stood by the window, his unfinished painting of the snack plate now ruined. His brush dropped to his side as he whined, stomping his feet, “I was painting that!”

Atticus only smirked, unbothered by his younger brother’s frustration. “Too bad,” he said with a shrug, continuing to munch on the macaron with no remorse.

Benjamin huffed, his face falling into a pout as he picked up his brush again, muttering something about “barbarians ruining art.”

Before he could retreat fully into his sulk, Caleb came bouncing into the room. The boy tackled Atticus without hesitation, snatching the macaron right out of his hands.

“You–” Atticus protested, glaring at his younger brother.

Caleb grinned mischievously, holding the half-eaten macaron like a trophy. “What’s yours is mine, big brother.”

Atticus lunged after him, sending the two into a playful scuffle as they tumbled onto the floor, much to Benjamin’s dismay.

“Could you not wrestle in the middle of the room?” Benjamin groaned, setting his palette down and crossing his arms. “Some of us here are trying to work!”

Caleb only laughed, dodging Atticus’ grab and tossing the macaron up in the air before catching it in his mouth. Atticus groaned in defeat, flopping back onto the couch.

You turned your head to glance at your husband, lips twitching into a smile, “You see? This is what you started, they all got that stubborn teasing manner from you,” you teased.

Ethan laughed, “I don’t know, darling. I think we’ve created something rather perfect.”

Ethan rose from his seat, brushing his hand on your chin. He turned to his eldest son with a warm smile, “Atticus, come with me. I’ll need your company for some hunting practice.”

Atticus nodded, standing from his chair. The two grabbed their shotguns and headed out of the mansion. They strode along the estate grounds, and their path took them past a patch of vibrant flowers just outside in front of the mansion, where Ethan stopped abruptly.

“Wait here a moment,” Ethan said, kneeling by the flower patch. His hand carefully selected a few sprigs of heather, the delicate blooms swaying lightly in the breeze.

“Your mother’s favorite,” he murmured with a fond smile, holding the flowers up to inspect them, “They’re quite lovely, are they not?”

Atticus, crouched a few steps away picking his own flowers, glancing up as he smiled briefly, “Dorothea would be jealous if we returned with nothing for her.”

As Ethan stood, a low hum buzzed past his face that he tried to swat away, but it only agitated it, stinging him in the neck before flying away. “Ugh this bloody–” he muttered as he caress his stung neck.

Atticus glanced curiously while still picking flowers, “What is it, father?” he asked but got no answer. This made him stop his movements to look up at his father.

Atticus stood up, his own set of flowers in hand. “Father?” he asked, noticing Ethan’s unusual stillness.

Ethan didn’t respond.

“Father?” Atticus repeated, his voice more urgent now. Ethan turned to face him, but something was terribly wrong. His face had grown pale, his lips slightly parted as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Veins bulged along his neck as his chest heaved in an uneven rhythm.

“Father!” Atticus shouted, dropping the flowers to the ground and rushing to his father’s side. Ethan staggered, his legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed onto the grass.

Atticus knelt beside him, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he gripped Ethan’s shoulders. “Help! Somebody help!” he screamed, his voice echoing across the estate grounds.

A shout that reached the insides of a mansion, reaching you and disrupting your focus from reading a book, sitting on the couch. You know your children's voice so well, and Atticus’ urgent shouts alarmed you. It made you rose swiftly despite the weight of your pregnancy.

You immediately hurried out the door, heart pounding so fast in your chest as you followed the sound of Atticus’ panicked voice outside.

The sight of Ethan lying there in the grass made your heart stop. For a moment, your mind refused to accept it—this couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be happening.

Your chest tightened, and it felt as if the air around you had vanished. You tried to breathe, but all you could feel was the sharp sting of panic gripping your lungs. You ran to them in a hurry.

As soon as your knees hit the ground hard, you didn’t notice the pain. All you could focus on was Ethan’s face, pale and strained, his lips parted as he struggled to breathe.

“No, no, don't leave me,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your trembling hands reached for him, holding his body in your arms. His skin was clammy and cold under your touch, a jarring contrast to the warmth you’d known your entire life.

“Ethan,” you choked, your voice breaking. “Breathe, please, just breathe.” The words felt useless, hollow, as though saying them could somehow force air back into his lungs.

Your tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t care. Your fingers brushed his face, his hair, his neck, desperately searching for something—anything—that might save him.

You were powerless, and the weight of that realization crushed you. It clawed at your chest, making it hard to breathe yourself. Your mind screamed at you to do something, but what could you do? You were helpless. Completely and utterly helpless, “No, no, no, no, no.”

When his hand rose weakly, brushing against your cheek, your heart shattered into a thousand pieces. It was such a small, gentle gesture, yet it carried the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His lips moved, but no words came, and his eyes, filled with a pain you couldn’t take away, stared into yours.

“No, Ethan,” you pleaded, shaking your head as if denying it could stop the inevitable. “No, please. Please, don’t leave me.”

His hand dropped to the side, lifeless, and you froze. The silence that followed was deafening, drowning out the world around you. You shook him, called his name again, “Ethan? Ethan!” your voice growing louder and more frantic, but there was no response.

A sob tore from your throat, raw and unrelenting “No! Oh god! Please,” your entire body shook as you cradled him, pressing your forehead to his, as though holding him close might somehow bring him back. The world felt like it was collapsing around you, and the pain—oh, the damn pain—it’s unbearable. It ripped you, leaving you hollow and broken.

When you turned your head, you saw them, your children, standing at the entrance of the house, their innocent faces filled with confusion and fear. A fresh wave of agony surged through you, but you forced it down. “Atticus,” you rasped, your voice trembling. “The children… take them inside. They… they cannot see this.”

He didn’t move, his face pale and stricken. “Go!” you cried, snapping him out of his daze. He stumbled to his feet, his steps unsteady, and hurried toward the others, herding them away.

You turned back to Ethan, your tears falling freely onto his still face. The love of your life, the man who had been your world, was gone. And you didn’t know how you were supposed to survive without him.

The maids ushered you inside the house distant murmurs of servants and the echo of footsteps as they moved about in quiet urgency. Ethan's body was taken care of, and a doctor was already called to confirm his death. You sat at the bottom of the staircase, your body trembling, your mind a storm of disbelief and anguish.

The maids’ hands rested on your arms, trying to steady you, but their touch felt distant just like everything else.

Your tears blurred your vision as you clutched the bannister for support. The weight of Ethan’s absence was unbearable, suffocating, pressing down on you until it felt as if you couldn’t breathe.

His laughter, his voice, his presence, everything is gone. Every memory of him felt like a dagger to your heart, and the pain was suffocating. You gasped, your sobs uncontrollable, your chest heaving as you rocked back and forth, overwhelmed by grief.

“Ma’am, please,” one of the maids said softly, her voice trembling with concern as she knelt beside you. “You must rest.”

But you couldn’t rest. How could you, when the love of your life had been ripped away from you? When the last memory of him was the light fading from his eyes?

And then it hit, a sharp, sudden pain in your abdomen. It was so intense it took your breath away, and your hands flew to your stomach instinctively. The maids stiffened, their faces pale with alarm.

“My lady!” one of them cried, her voice shaking as she grasped your shoulders.

You tried to speak, but the words were swallowed by a fresh wave of pain. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before—an ache so deep it seemed to pull you apart, and yet it paled in comparison to the gaping hole in your chest.

Your breathing became erratic, your sobs mingling with gasps as you clutched your stomach. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. “Not now.” But your body had other plans, and the pain intensified, rippling through you with each passing moment.

The maids surrounded you, their voices frantic as they tried to calm you, their hands gentle but firm as they guided you away from the stairs. “It’s the baby,” one of them said, her voice filled with urgency. “She’s in labor. Quickly, someone fetch the midwife!”

Luckily, the children weren't here to witness all of this. They're all taken care off by Atticus on the other side of the mansion, keeping them away from this traumatic scene.

The realization sent another wave of emotion crashing over you. This was Ethan’s child—the one he would never meet, never hold, never name. He wasn't able to live up to the birth. The thought was unbearable, and you cried harder, the tears falling faster as the pain in your heart joined with the pain in your body.

“It hurts,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. The maids tried to reassure you, their words soft and soothing, but nothing they said could touch the agony that consumed you.

The sharp contractions made your legs give out, and you collapsed to your knees, your body trembling as another wave of pain tore through you. “I can’t do this,” you sobbed, shaking your head as the maids worked to lift you. “He’s gone, and I… I can’t do this without him.”

But you had no choice. The baby was coming, and your body refused to wait for your grief to subside. As the maids helped you to your feet, your heart shattered all over again. Ethan should have been here. He should have been the one holding your hand, whispering words of comfort, and waiting to meet his child.

Instead, you were left with a hollow ache and a pain that would never fade. And as the contractions grew stronger, you clung to the only thought that gave you strength– this baby, this piece of Ethan, was all you had left. You had to keep going for the both of you.

The air in the room was thick with tension and urgency, the voices of the midwife and maids blending into a blur of noise as you lay on the bed, soaked in your own sweat and trembling. Every muscle in your body screamed with exhaustion, the contractions relentless and unforgiving.

You clutched the sheets, gasping through gritted teeth as another wave of pain wracked your body. It was unbearable, almost blinding, yet it still couldn’t drown out the ache in your chest—the hollow, consuming void left by Ethan’s absence.

“Just one more push, my lady,” the midwife urged, her voice steady but insistent.

Your breath hitched as you braced yourself, every ounce of your strength pooling into this final effort. The pain was overwhelming, but you forced yourself to keep going, your thoughts consumed by a single, agonizing truth, that Ethan would never see this child. He would never hear their cries, hold them, or whisper their name with love.

Tears streamed down your face as you let out a guttural cry, pushing with everything you had left. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, the room holding its breath, and then—

A sharp, piercing wail filled the air.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, her tone warm and triumphant as she held up the tiny, squirming infant.

You collapsed back against the pillows, utterly spent, your body trembling from the effort. The maids bustled around you, wiping your brow and whispering soothing words, but their voices barely registered. All you could hear was the sound of your baby’s cries, sharp and desperate.

The midwife approached, carefully placing the newborn in your arms. You stared down at her, your breath catching as you took in her tiny features—the delicate curve of her nose, the soft flush of her cheeks, and the way her tiny fists curled against the blanket. She was so small, so fragile, and she looks just like Ethan.

Your tears came faster now, dripping onto the blanket as you cradled her close. “Heather,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you ran a finger gently along her cheek. “Her name is Heather.”

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. The midwife and maids exchanged glances, their expressions softening with understanding.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as a fresh wave of sorrow washed over you. “My favorite flower” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “He died with them in his hands… for me.”

Your tears blurred your vision as you pressed a kiss to Heather’s forehead, your heart breaking and mending all at once. She was a piece of Ethan, a reminder of the love you had shared and the life you had built together.

Heather stirred in your arms, her cries softening into tiny, contented murmurs. You closed your eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling at you.

The drawing room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves outside the window. You sat on the couch, staring out into the vast, empty garden. The sunset light filtered through the window, but it felt cold to you. Everything did. You’d been sitting there for hours, unmoving.

This is the first time you actually left your room, for you have been non functional since the day your husband died. Even detaching yourself from your children, suffering with the grief paired by your post-partum depression.

The sound of cautious footsteps broke the silence, and you knew before turning who it was. Atticus. Your eldest.

He approached slowly, his tall frame carrying an air of hesitation. "You look well," he said softly, his voice gentle as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness around you.

You didn’t turn to him but blinked slowly, registering his words. You responded in a voice that was distant, detached, and empty. “I slept. I bathed. I went for a walk outdoors. I saw the children. I made myself useful in embroidery.” Each word was recited mechanically, as though you were listing chores you had completed, but there was no life behind them.

Atticus gave a tight-lipped smile, though you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “Perhaps you could join us today for a family dinner,” he offered cautiously, his tone carefully measured.

You shook your head once, your gaze dropping to your hands, and your eyes closed tightly against the swell of emotions that were always lurking, ready to suffocate you.

“I know this is hard,” Atticus began again, his voice cracking just slightly, betraying his youth and the burden he now carried as the man of the house. “I know you miss him—but we all miss him.”

The words pierced you, a fresh wound on top of the endless ache. Before he could continue, your trembling voice cut him off, fragile and breaking. “Please.”

Atticus hesitated but tried again, his concern for you outweighing his fear of upsetting you. “Mother, I think—”

“Atticus,” you said as you looked at him for the first time, your eyes wet with unshed tears. “This is it. This—this is my best. I’m doing my best.”

The weight of your grief spilled out, your words trembling as your voice broke. “Every day, I get up. I get dressed. I feed myself. I try to breathe in and out.” You paused, your chest heaving as you tried to steady yourself, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless.

“I force myself to stop by the nursery,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you gasped for air, “But all I keep thinking about is how sorry I am for little baby Heather, because she will never know Ethan’s laugh. Or the way he smiled. Or how it felt to be hugged in his arms.”

The tears fell freely now, and you covered your mouth with a trembling hand, the pain suffocating. “All I could think of,” you choked out, “is how sorry I am for thinking that this baby did not do me the kindness of killing me so that I could be with my husband.”

You looked up at Atticus then, your eyes brimming with sorrow and a deep, unbearable pain. Your voice softened into a whisper, the words barely escaping your lips. “Ethan was the air that I breathed… and now there’s no air. So don’t ask me to do better,” you said, your voice breaking once more. “I’m doing my best.”

Atticus’ expression crumbled as he stood there, unable to respond. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he looked down at his hands, helpless and aching for his mother. He wanted to say something, to comfort you, but there was nothing he could say that would fill the void Ethan left behind.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with grief, until finally, Atticus nodded once, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving you to stare once more into the void, clutching your broken heart as tightly as you held onto the memory of your husband.

Servants flitted about, adjusting gowns, fluffing skirts, and arranging jewelry on the vanity. You stood beside Dorothea, your hands gentle as you fastened the final pin in her hair. Her dark locks gleamed, swept into an elegant updo that framed her youthful, radiant face.

It has been eight years since the passing of Ethan. And today, your daughter is on her second season in the marriage mart.

Your daughter sat poised, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. The soft pastel blue gown she wore was a masterpiece, flowing like water and adorned with intricate lace. It suited her perfectly.

You glanced at her through the mirror, pride swelling in your chest. “You look flawless, my dear,” you said warmly, smoothing a strand of hair that dared to fall out of place. “Today is your day. I just know it.”

Dorothea turned to you, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mama. I truly hope this season will bring what I’m looking for.”

You could see the longing in her eyes, the same longing you had once carried when you were her age. A love match. A marriage not of convenience or obligation but of true affection. It was rare, yes, but you believed your daughter deserved nothing less.

“You will find it, Dorothea,” you assured her, your voice steady and filled with quiet confidence. “I have no doubt.”

The peaceful moment was interrupted when the door to the room burst open with a dramatic thud. “Dorothea!! You. Must. Make. Haste!” Elisa's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative, as she stormed in, punctuating every word with an exaggerated stomp of her foot.

Both you and Dorothea flinched at the sudden intrusion, but when Elisa came into view—her cheeks flushed with urgency, her hands on her hips like a soldier commanding an army—you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Elisa!” Dorothea exclaimed, half in shock and half in amusement.

“What?” Elisa shot back, her tone exasperated. “You’re going to make us late! Again! Do you want every member of the ton to think we Bridgertons have no sense of time?”

Her mock scolding sent Dorothea into peals of laughter, and you joined in, shaking your head fondly at Elisa’s theatrics.

Over the years, Elisa had become as much your child as the others. Though she wasn’t born into your family, you adopted her and loved her fiercely. She also fit right in with her spirited, unapologetic nature.

Dorothea stood, her gown flowing gracefully as she stepped toward Elisa. “Alright, alright, I’m coming!” she said with a grin.

Elisa crossed her arms, satisfied, though a playful smirk tugged at her lips. “Good. You’ll thank me later when we're not late to the ball and the ton won't stare and silently judge us.

You watched them both with a smile that only grew as they teased each other. It wasn’t the life you had once envisioned when Ethan was still by your side, but it was still a life full of love and joy. Your children who are each unique, lively, and wonderful in their own way were your everything.

As Dorothea moved toward the door, you called out softly, stopping her for just a moment. She turned, and you reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Good luck, my darling,” you said, your voice tinged with hope and pride. “May this season bring you everything your heart desires.”

Dorothea’s smile softened, and she nodded, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. “Thank you, Mama.”

The other children joined you as you descended down the stairs with Elisa and Dorothea. The boys immediately offering their arms to link each of the ladies in the family. Atticus coming to escort you with a smile.

Ethan may have been gone, but his legacy lived on in each of your children. And as long as they were by your side, you knew you could carry on.

[bbybhr]

hi! can you please write about ambessa and her wife who braids ambessa's hair before she goes to war soon. although in reality her wife is terribly worried that something will happen to ambessa. if anything, i mean fluff. (thanks in advance)

Woven prayers

MY VERY FIRST ASK THANK YOU ANON I hope you enjoy it :") no warnings just soft lover ambessa

The bedchamber was unusually quiet, the silence heavy with unspoken anxieties. The soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp cast long, dancing shadows across the silken sheets.

She was sitting on the edge of your shared bed, her posture strong and unyielding, as always, a warrior's stillness before the storm. You knelt beside her on the bed to make up for the height difference, your fingers weaving through the strands, each movement a silent prayer, a fervent plea for her safe return, back into the circle of your arms.

Though you spoke no words, Ambessa felt the tension in your touch, the subtle tremor in your hands as you clasped golden beads at the end of each braid, securing them in place like tiny, precious talismans. As you finished, your hand lingered on her neck, reluctant to break the fragile connection, to sever the last tether to this moment of peace.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

You took a deep breath the chamber was filled with the scent of sandalwood and steel, a familiar, blend that spoke of Ambessa's presence. Outside, the pre-dawn darkness pressed against the arched window, a silent, encroaching threat of what's to come.

Ambessa's hand rose to meet yours on her neck, her calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they traced the lines on your palm.

Then, with a quiet reverence, shebturned her head to you and lifted your hand to her lips, her eyes closing as she savored the fleeting moment of intimacy, the weight of your touch against her skin.

The gesture spoke volumes, a silent promise of her return, a vow etched in the very air of the room.

'Keep the hearth,'

she murmured after a long moment, the words was a plea in her warrior's tongue. A plea for you to guard the light that would guide her home, a trust that you would ensure the safety of yourself, her family, and the fruits of her labor, while she forged ahead into the darkness. A plea to hold onto what you shared, for she would surely return to it, to the warmth of your embrace, to the sanctuary of this room.

You answered with a tender kiss to her forehead, a silent vow of your own, a promise to protect the home Ambessa loved.

'I’ll make sure you have everything to come back to'

you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken emotion, a promise to keep the fire that lighten ambessas path to home. Ambessa pulled you into a tight embrace, her arms a steel band around you, a shield against the encroaching darkness.

'I’ll make sure to always come back,'

she whispered, her voice a low, fierce promise, a declaration that echoed in the quiet of the room, a vow that would be kept against all odds

[fear-is-truth]

INTERVIEW WITH THE ANTICHRIST

── michael langdon x gn! reader. || wc: 980

The chamber was eerily silent, illuminated only by the flickering candles and the warm glow of the fireplace. You were seated in a plush armchair, stiff and cold beneath your fingers, your back pressed tight against the cushions.

The air was thin, as if it was being slowly siphoned away. You felt small, trapped. Like an insect in a glass jar. Langdon had only arrived at the outpost a day ago, but already, you could feel the shift in power. Even Venable—the high and mighty bitch who ruled over all—was clearly shaken by his arrival.

No one knew much about him, only that he was important. And dangerous.

The interviews with Langdon had quickly become a topic of annoyance among the other inhabitants. Each person who had been interviewed complained about his cryptic nature and nonchalant attitude. Whatever his purpose here, it felt like a game to him—a clever farce meant to toy with you all.

And now it was your turn to entertain him.

You kept your gaze fixed ahead as Langdon rose from behind his desk, the sound of his boots against the floor the only disruption to the stifling silence as he approached you. He did not bother to sit. Instead, he stood before you, arms clasped behind his back, his expression inscrutable as he studied you.

“You’re the seventh,” he announced, and his voice was smooth, like a glassy winter pond. You nodded, swallowing hard, unable to tear your eyes away from him as he began to circle you. The way he moved was languid, graceful.

You fidgeted slightly, trying to suppress your nerves. Langdon was, undeniably beautiful— angelic, even. He looked as if he had been sculpted from marble, with sharp, almost impossibly perfect features—chiselled cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. Long, golden hair fell in soft waves over his shoulders, and his pale skin stood out against his all-black attire. The dark clothing gave him an air of authority, likely because he was sent by The Cooperative.

“Tell me. How do you feel your life here, at the Outpost?” he purred, his voice curling in the air around you. The question seemed casual, yet there was something in the way he said it that made you feel anything but.

“It's...” You paused, your throat suddenly dry. “It’s fine,” the words felt hollow on your tongue, laughable, given the bleak reality of your existence here. Sure, you were relieved to be alive, the temptation of sweet oblivion often lingered at the edge of your thoughts. Langdon moved behind you, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could feel his bright blue gaze drilling into the back of your skull.

When he spoke again, his voice was a soft, coaxing whisper, like honeyed velvet.

“What do you miss the most?”

The question struck you off guard. It wasn’t what you had anticipated—then again, you hadn’t known what to expect.

“…I’m sorry?”

“Prior to… all of this,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely at the surrounding walls,

“What do you miss most?”

You exhaled shakily, gripping the armrests tighter as you spoke.

“I… I miss the colours. The sky, the sunsets. And the trees, the ones that lined the sidewalks. The way they change in autumn.”

He chuckled softly, and you swore you could detect genuine humour in the sound. Embarrassed at the wistfulness in your tone, you stared down at your lap, at the monotonous gray of your uniform.

“You miss beauty, don’t you?”

he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned closer. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw in the lightest of touches. Stunned into silence, you simply nodded.

He stopped in front of you now, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if appraising your response. The silence stretched, tension pulling at the edges of the room until it felt unbearable. Then, he deadpanned,

“The world outside is a wasteland now,”

There was no trace of emotion, his words as detached as if he were reading from a script. He stepped closer, leaning in. The cool press of his hand settled against your cheek, the metal of his rings biting into your skin. You froze under his touch, your breath catching in your throat.

“But perhaps,” he mused, his voice soft, almost to himself, “some beauty has survived after all.”

Just as quickly as he had touched you, he withdrew his hand and resumed circling. Every step he took only made the knot of anxiety in your chest tighten further.

The questions that followed were innocent but somehow, simultaneously intimate. He asked about your favourite book, about what scared you most as a child, your childhood best friend.

Throughout it all, his piercing blue eyes never strayed from you. They stripped you bare, as though he was peeling back the layers of your very soul. You answered as best you could, because you had a nagging suspicion that he already knew the answers before you spoke.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, the interview ended.

“That’s all for now.” Langdon turned on his heel, striding toward the door with the same measured grace. His fingers brushed the sleek panels, sliding them open with ease. He paused at the threshold, turning back to look at you. His expression was unreadable, yet there was something lingering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite put your fingers on.

“I look forward to our next meeting.”

You blinked, unsure if this was the end. The knot of nerves tightened in your stomach as you stood from the armchair, wringing your hands together.

“Wait,” you called after him, your voice trembling slightly.

“Have I… did I get in?”

Langdon turned fully to face you, a faint, almost amused smile curling at the corners of his lips.

“You were already in before the interview,” he murmured, as if it were an afterthought.

“I just wanted to speak to you nonetheless.”

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.