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100vern · 17 days ago

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begging for the next | hjs

we could be lovers in the night // we could be strangers in the light.

✦ pairing: joshua x f. reader ✦ genre: strangers to fwb, secret lovers au; smut, fluff ✦ summary: no one needs to know what you and joshua get up to except the two of you. ✦ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ✦ warnings: joshua is some degree of famous but not explicitly stated to be an idol (choose your own adventure), he is also down very very horrendous, use of pet names for reader (beautiful, baby, angel, etc.), reader wears a dress, one brief mention of hair, swearing, other things i have probably forgotten. i am incapable of writing pure pwp so this got a lot softer than i intended but they're in love so fuck it we ball. ✦ smut warnings: gendered terms for genitalia, a lot of kissing, a handjob, fingers in mouths bc it's me and somehow they always end up there, car sex, unprotected vaginal sex, a lot of cum play idk how that happened sorry, hair pulling, fingering, grinding, mentions of facesitting, oral sex in general, joshua spits in reader's mouth, begging and dirty talk, public sex (in a car), exhibitionism, masturbation, very slight edging, shua gets called a good boy one time, reader on top, joshua carries her and fucks her against a wall, they both get a lil possessive in the heat of the moment but nothing toxic. ✦ wordcount: 5.8k ✦ author's note: idk where this came from. i was listening to "english love affair" by 5sos months ago and was like hm yeah joshua. title is from that song; other lyrics are from "lovers in the night" by seori. thank you to bee (@imnotshua) and jess (@starlightkyeom) for looking this over for me along the way. thank u, love u both. i am far too embarrassed to read my own smut so this is unedited and any mistakes are my own.

Joshua is used to having eyes on him.

Fans, paparazzi, strangers—after a while, it all starts to blend together. Always starts feeling hazy around the edges, like there’s something there, just beyond the fog, just out of his reach.

He doesn’t remember whose idea it was to come to this club. Probably just one of those things: owned by a friend of a friend, discretion implied and assured, top-shelf shit handed out without needing to ask. He’s sequestered behind a velvet rope, feels like a king lording over his subjects, has a hawk-eye view of everything.

Everyone.

Joshua is used to having eyes on him, and he felt yours as soon as he walked in.

Cute, he thinks. He hadn’t been looking to pull, hadn’t wanted to deal with all the conversations and all the aftermath, but sometimes he’s easily persuaded. Intrigued, more like. Most people watch him like they’ve got their eyes closed—shy, hiding away, unsure of what they could possibly offer him that he can’t find in anyone else. But you watch him with eyes wide open. Confident, self-assured, know exactly what you’ve got to offer. All but daring him to find something better.

It’s raining when you drag him outside. When you smirk crooked out of the corner of your mouth, plant your hands in the center of his chest and press him to the building’s exterior, drag a groan out of him when the brick bites into his skin. Joshua kisses you like he’s a little desperate for it. Licks into your mouth and swallows all the sounds you make. Hikes your leg around his waist, digs his thumbs into your hips, presses in close enough to have you rolling your hips against his cock.

Imagines the scandal if he got caught fucking you in public—

He asks, between nips at your neck: “Where do you live, beautiful?”

You answer, with your hand halfway down the front of his jeans: “Not far.”

—and lets the thought of it wash over him, make him a little frenzied and wanting. He moans as he grows harder. Thinks about what you’re gonna feel like around his cock, all hot and tight, dripping wet. Thinks about how breathless and fucked-out you’ll sound when you pant his name into the space between your mouth and his own. Thinks about how hot you’re gonna look when you’re falling apart on his cock, when he’s pumping you full of cum.

“Shit,” he whines, “let’s go, then.”

Halfway to your car he decides he can’t wait. Doesn’t want to. Could barely stumble the couple hundred feet to the parking lot with how hard he is, how overwhelming he finds you. Finds himself making any excuse he can to press in close and inhale your perfume. Finds himself thinking that doing anything that isn’t burying himself inside of you seems absolutely pointless.

And you aren’t helping. Can’t seem to keep your hands off of him—lips on his throat, words in his ear, nails digging into his back, pulling at his belt, untucking his shirt, yanking on his hair. You smile when he hisses at the sting and the only thought that registers is he’s never wanted to ruin anyone so badly.

So he says, “Get in the backseat. I’m fucking you right here, baby,” and follows right behind you, desire licking at his heels.

He laughs low and heated as you push him into the seat, your legs spread wide as you straddle him. He pulls his jeans down just enough for you to fish out his cock and spit on it, hips thrusting when you pump him once, twice, pulling small, breathy whines from him each time you twist your wrist, thumb over the head. Embarrassing, he thinks, how close he is to cumming in his pants like a fucking teenager, so he grabs at one of your hands, stills your motions. Moves it to your mouth, tells you to taste the pre-cum coating your fingers just to buy himself a minute, he just needs a minute, and he decides time is meaningless when he sees your tongue move between your pointer and middle, when you moan at the taste of him.

Nearly loses it entirely when you press those same fingers to his own lips, press them against his own tongue.

“Tastes so good, doesn’t it?” you murmur, and he’s struck, not for the first time tonight, by how beautiful you are. Mesmerized by the rain that still clings to your eyelashes, the droplets that run down your temple. Feels dizzy when his brain finally comes back online and he reaches for the hem of your dress, pushes it up and over your hips.

His hand moves to the space between your thighs, rubs over the thin fabric of your panties. He grins wide and sleazy at the wetness he finds there; pushes his tongue into the fat of his cheek as he slides them to the side and touches you properly. Thumbs small circles over your clit just to hear the way your breath hitches, feel the way your hips cant towards his fingers. Any other time he’d take it slow, drag it out, tell you to beg in his soft, pretty voice,, but he doesn’t have the benefit of time when he’s crammed into the backseat of your car.

Doesn’t have the benefit of much of anything when you lower your bare pussy to his cock. Already overwhelmed by your heat, he doesn’t think he can be held responsible for the guttural, instinctual sound that escapes him, the way his hands move to your hips to keep you in place. The that’s it, that’s it, baby, just like that, could fucking come from this that tumble from his lips as you start moving along his length.

Your scoff is aborted halfway as Joshua lifts his hips to meet yours. “Abso—fuck—absolutely not,” you breathe, kissing along his jawline. “Need you to fuck me.”

He groans at the thought of it. Curses the seat belt digging into his back as he readjusts to move you where he wants you, where he can bury two fingers deep in your cunt and watch, entranced, as your eyes roll back. “Mm, wa-want you to come like this first.”

“Later,” you bargain. “Gotta be quick, don’t want you to get caught.”

Joshua knows you’re right. Knows he’d thought about it earlier, let the fantasy of it dance at the edges of his vision, knows in the realm of fantasy is where that particular thought needs to stay, but he can’t say he isn’t tempted to put on a show for the entire world. Wants everyone to see both of you sweat-slick, panting hard into the thick air of your car, windows fogged. Wants everyone to hear the sounds he’s pulling from you: the breathy whimpers, your pussy squelching around his fingers, skin on skin as he can’t keep his hips against the seat.

He can tell you’re close. Knows if he angled his fingers just a little more you’d be clenching around them, and he wants to see it—god he wants to see it so bad—but he knows you’re right, knows there’ll be plenty of time to have you come undone in every way possible later, later, later, so he reluctantly removes his fingers. Doesn’t have time to consider what to do with them before you’re sucking them into your mouth and all he can do is watch, slack-jawed. Doesn’t have time to think about how it’d feel if it was his cock instead before you’re grabbing it, lining him up, almost crazed at the way your fingers don’t meet around his girth—and then you’re sinking down on him.

Good thing the two of you don’t have time to drag this out, because he’s on the precipice of a truly pathetic performance.

“God, you’re fucking tight, baby, can barely move—”

Your smile is predatory when you throw your head back. “Don’t need you to,” you say, moving your hands to his knees. “I can get myself off just fine.”

You can—that much is obvious. The way you’re rolling your hips is sinful at best and the absolute end of Joshua at worst, but he’ll accept his fate if this is how he’s destined to go out. Would consider it an honor to die like this between your legs, chasing oblivion. Can’t imagine a life where he isn’t buried to the hilt inside your tight heat every single day for the rest of his life. Feels delirious with the need for it, has to reign himself in when he either starts crying or asks for your hand in marriage, and you must see it, must be able to tell how fucked up you’ve got him, because you seem to delight in it, start moving at a pace that has him gripping white-knuckled at the seat, at the fabric of your dress, at your hips, your chest.

“You gonna cum like this?” you say, breath fanning against his skin. He nods, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. Embarrassment has his cheeks burning, skin hot to the touch, but shit, it feels good, the way you’re digging at him. Pulling him up on how far gone he is for you.

He needs you to meet him at the edge. Needs more, needs it messier, faster, harder than what you’re able to do in the confines of the car, so he plants his feet, grabs so roughly at your ass he’s sure it’ll bruise. Tries desperately to thrust through the mess between your legs, but you’re so wet he nearly slips out each time, and it drives him insane. Has him nearly feral, mindlessly chasing both his orgasm and your own, and he knows it’s close, feels the lightning beneath his skin.

You’re falling apart on his cock as soon as he circles your clit. Shaking, clenching so hard your pussy feels like a vice, grabbing blindly for anything you can to anchor yourself. You find his hands and twine your fingers together—and he’ll never be able to explain it, that that’s what has him gasping, stilling as he spills inside you, but even as he cums so hard it nearly whites out his vision, he can still feel you there.

Anchoring him.

Something stupid is about to tumble out of his mouth, so he quickly presses it to yours to try and stem the bleeding.

Joshua is used to people wanting things from him.

Autographs. Selfies. His undivided attention, his time, a pull quote for an article. Someone always wants something, and it’s exhausting, you know, having to anticipate that kind of thing—having to determine what someone wants before they pluck up the courage to ask for it, having to decide if he’s in a position to give it to them, having to decide, decide, decide, always a fucking decision to be made.

So it’s no surprise he’s here, barely back in the country an hour before he’s stumbling across the threshold of your front door, hat pulled low, not for anyone else to see. Because here, he’s safe; here, all those pretenses come crashing down around him. Here, he knows what’s expected of him, doesn’t have to guess—only has to take the hand you offer him and follow you up the stairs.

But it’s just… a lot, finally being here. All he could think about while he was gone was you. Kept replaying each memory over and over: the first time he’d come here, after the scene in your car—the way you’d smiled at him, hung up his jacket by the door, asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink, maybe a hot shower. And it had felt so sleazy, the way he’d smiled and said, ‘what, all by myself?’ but it’d worked, and then that was something else to replay. That was something else to remember: the smell of you all over him. Your soap on his skin; your shampoo in his hair.

Thinks he’s replayed that—the softness of it, the care, how nice it’d felt to just exist alongside somebody—more than the rest.

Not that the rest wasn’t worth thinking about. He’d nearly cum in his pants remembering the way you’d pinned his arms above his head and sat on his face—the visual of you from below, hips rolling; the taste of you on his tongue; the way you said his name when you came, breathless and fractured. The way he’d slid into you from behind, nearly mindless from the way your pussy gripped him. The way he’d pressed you flat to the mattress and kissed all the knots in your spine. The way your skin looked after he’d pulled out and came all over the small of your back.

He’s got a similar view now. It hadn’t really been planned, his coming here—he’d been worked up on the flight, sent a Hail Mary text asking if he could come by instead of going home, and it had taken you a bit to respond, to say sure, missed you, so it was understandable that you’d greeted him at the door in a pair of flimsy sleep shorts and a cropped tank. He expected it, but it undoes him nonetheless.

You’re better than this, he chides himself. Has a tremendous amount of guilt sitting in the pit of his stomach because he can’t stop staring, takes that gentlemanly reputation he’s got and sets it ablaze, but he thinks anyone who’d dare to criticize him for it would understand.

On autopilot, he follows you up the stairs to your bedroom. Tries to look at anything other than your ass and fails in milliseconds. Swallows down another serving of guilt and cannot, for the life of him, recall another time he ever felt like this—the foothold you’ve got on him, the way you have him believing he’s capable of being a real person, but so untethered at the same time, like any second now he’ll drift away. Tempted. Desperate. Joshua cannot make a life for himself here, both in your home and within your body, but—

“Sometimes I look at you and I understand why Eve ate that apple.”

You pause, three steps from the landing, and your eyes are soft when you turn to look at him. You’ve never looked at him any other way, with any less tenderness and care. “And how am I meant to take that?” Joshua flusters, misses the next step, and when you reach out a hand to steady him, Joshua laces your fingers together. “Smooth.”

“You know me,” he says, laughing like it’s a joke, when what he really means is, not around you, not within these four walls. “I just meant—”

You grip his hand tighter, pull him closer, dizzy him when you lean in close and murmur, “I know. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

This time is different.

All that typical raw, frenzied need gives way to tenderness. Right there on the landing of your staircase, unable to go another step without you, Joshua lays you down, cradles your head in his hands, and drapes his body over yours. Cages you in like he’s trying to keep you forever, like he has any right to, and he kisses you much the same. Wants your breath to be his. Wants to find any opening you’re willing to give him and crawl inside of it. Wants to make a home out of your body more than he already has.

Presses his lips to your neck. Drags his teeth along the curve of your jaw, rolls his hips against you when your head tilts back and you sigh soft and stuttered. Nips at your skin all the way to the lobe of your ear, where he presses in close, thumbs at the exposed skin covering your hip bones. Whispers, “Is it okay right here, like this?” Skims his hands down, down, down—pulls your skimpy little shorts to the side and finds you bare and waiting. “Oh, you wanted this, didn’t you?”

You squirm. Try to get his fingers where you want them. Huff when he teases and refuses even though the need is just as apparent in him. “Shua,” you whimper.

He clicks his tongue. Feigns disappointment. “Angel.” Speaks every word into your heated skin. “You know you only have to tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

You pout. “You’re being so mean to me,” you try. Joshua chuckles, pulls back so he can cock an eyebrow and say oh, really? I’m being mean to you? You nod, sink your bottom teeth into your bottom lip. Dip your hands beneath the fabric of Joshua’s t-shirt and drag your nails down his chest until he whimpers. “You were gone so long. Didn’t you miss me?”

“You know I—you know I did.”

“You did?” Your brows furrow in faux-disbelief, your pout deepens; your hands follow the same path Joshua’s had only moments earlier. You toy with the waistband of his pants and tease your fingertips underneath. “You missed me so much but you won’t even touch me?”

With his free hand, he grabs your chin, forces the pout off your face. Doesn’t miss the way your pupils blow wide before he’s kissing you hard and messy, so intense it feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs. “No,” he says, finally giving you what you want. Circles his thumb over your clit and wants to drown in all the sounds you make—the way you mewl, how you say his name on an exhale, all the words given up on halfway. “I miss you so much I thought about you every second I was gone. Thought I was going crazy with it.” Sinks two fingers into your slick heat. “Thought about the way you felt around me.” You gasp at his words and your pussy clenches, and Joshua hums. Says, “Exactly, baby, just like that.”

He can feel that you’re already close. Has a split-second to decide if he wants to let you come like this before you take the decision away from him. Your deft fingers play at the button of his pants, drag the zipper over the bulge there as he hisses, and then you tilt your head back. Something wicked gleams in your eye. “Spit in my mouth.”

Joshua falters, fucks up his rhythm, but he can’t deny you of anything, so he slips his thumb in your mouth and forces it open. Collects whatever spit he has and watches, enraptured and so close to being out of his mind, as he lets it go, as it pools on your tongue. “Fuck—”

Your smile is dazed, both of you on the verge of delirious, and then it’s gone, replaced by the visual of you licking the length of your palm. Making a show of it. You press two fingers against your tongue and Joshua watches as your eyes glass over. “Tell me what else you thought about,” are the last words you say before you wrap your slick hand around his cock.

“Shit—god, baby, you always make me feel so fucking good.” And you do—you work him over slow just to watch the way his eyes roll back, how his entire body shudders; thumb at his cockhead when he gets carried away and starts thrusting into your tight fist, brainless in the face of what you’re providing and unable to do anything except chase more of it. His hips roll again—one, two more times—and then he’s babbling, nonsense spilling out of his mouth.

Tells you that he thought about your touch and the way you taste. Tells you how he let it consume him and all the nights he spent touching himself to the thought of you. How he’d bring himself to the edge and force himself to stop just before he came and how he’d do it all over again, over and over, until he was breathless and sweat-slick—that when he was in the midst of it, so incoherent and numb from pleasure… that sometimes he’d open his eyes and swear it was you. Swear he could feel your lips ghosting across his skin, your sweet words in his ear, praising him as he came all over his own stomach and trembled with the aftershocks.

With each confession he gets more carried away. Circles his thumb faster on your clit. Slips another finger into you and presses insistently against your g-spot until you’re writhing and frenetic with need, his name sounding like a prayer as it spills from your lips repeatedly, each one blending into the next, a continuous mantra designed to drag him down with you. Joshua has never felt you this wet, soaking his hand, and he knows he isn’t faring any better. Feels how each slide of your fist along his length is easier than the last.

“Fuck, Shua, I’m gonna—”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “Yeah, beautiful, give it to me. Wanna see my angel cum all over me. Fuck, just like that—so fucking beautiful, I missed you so goddamn much. Mm, shit, you’re gonna make me cum too. God, I—”

“On me,” you beg. “Please, wan’ it on me. Please, please, want it so bad—”

He swears as his hips stutter. Feels like his fucking balls are in his stomach as he takes over, uses everything he’d earned from you to jerk himself. Stops you when you move to pull your tank over your tits. “No,” he slurs. He’s so fucking close. “Wanna cum all over your clothes and fucking ruin ‘em. Wanna see you covered in it, in me.”

He sits back on his haunches. Uses his free hand to grab at the meat of your thigh as the force of his orgasm hits and he gives you exactly what you’d asked for. Forces himself to keep his eyes open and watch as his release spills across your pussy, your stomach; as it seeps through the thin fabric of your top. But it’s not—Joshua has never considered himself a greedy man, but it’s not enough, so he keeps fisting his cock. Keeps going until he’s oversensitive and spent and he’s milked himself dry. Until your top is wet and sticky with his release, your nipples just barely visible through the translucent fabric.

He’s breathing hard. Stares down at the mess he’s made of you and tells you you’re a work of art. Drags his fingers through it and can’t decide if he wants to massage it into your skin or press it into your mouth, so he does both. Groans softly when you wrap your swollen lips around his fingers and swallow down the taste of him.

Moves them back to your clit and smirks at the breath you suck in through your teeth—that you’re still so sensitive but don’t dare tell him to stop. “I’m not done with you yet,” he confesses, kissing down the length of your body until he’s eye-level with your cunt. “Is that okay?”

You nod.

His phone sits abandoned on the nightstand.

The text thread is still open and awaiting his reply, but Joshua has long since abandoned it to focus his attention on you. From where he’s parallel on the bed, he can see you in the bathroom: watches as you step out of the shower, no towel, droplets of water running down the length of your body; watches as you only grab one to wrap it around your hair, as you stand naked in front of the mirror and do your skincare. Watches as you slip all of your jewelry back on and the gold glints against your skin.

Watches as your reflection meets his eye.

He feels it immediately, the goosebumps, the way his hair stands on end. Predator watching prey, caught in your web ever since that night at the club, so he sits up straighter, anticipates your next move with bated breath—knows what it does to you to be watched. How powerful you become when you’re no longer weighed down by your inhibitions. How you smirk dirty out of the corner of your mouth and thread your fingers through his hair, pull hard enough to capture his attention. Eyes on me, you purr, but he can never look anywhere else. Wouldn’t want to even if he could. Wants you to always be the last thing he sees.

There’s that same smirk on your face now: provocative and a little roguish, like you know something he doesn’t. All he can do is hold your gaze and wait to be devoured.

“They’re starting to talk, aren’t they?”

Joshua looks for a tell, something that belies your anxiety at finally getting caught out, but if it exists you’ve got it behind lock and key. Instead, you roll your head to the side, run your fingers over the marks he’d left on your neck just this morning, the sun barely above the horizon. He feels his skin grow warm, almost embarrassed as the bright lights of the bathroom highlight all the places he’d sunk his teeth into you, but something furls in his belly that you’d let him do it. That you’d let him possess you.

Feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest as he watches you bend at the waist, as it affords him a glimpse of your pussy; as you lean down and trail your fingers from ankle to thigh, as the expanse of soft, smooth skin pebbles beneath your touch. Watches as you straighten and meet his eye in the mirror again before you raise one leg onto the counter; as you lean forward to grab your lotion and the glimpse of you he’d gotten before returns tenfold. Even from here, he can tell you’re dripping wet; can tell the insides of your thighs are glistening with it.

“That’s who you were texting, right? Your manager?”

He sucks in a harsh breath through clenched teeth. Enraptured once again, unable to look away. Watches as you massage the lotion into your skin—the one he likes the most, the one that always stains his bedsheets the longest. Musk and vanilla. Feels himself growing hard and palms at his cock, unabashed, wanting you to see what you do to him.

Swallows all the whiny little sounds he wants to make and manages to ask, “Does it bother you if they are?”

Whether it’s his question or his tone that piques your attention, you pause, turning to look at him over your shoulder, eyes darkening as you take in the sight of him touching himself. He knows how he looks. Head thrown back, eyes half-lidded, bare chest heaving. How his thick cock looks as it strains against the expensive silk of his shorts. Thinks about all the praise you’ve lavished upon him and knows he’s earned every word of it.

So he gives in. Lets the pleasure wash over him and make him bold as he touches himself with more intention, as he runs two fingers over the seam of his balls, as he tightens his grip and moans, uncaring of who might hear. He registers the dip in the mattress at the same time that familiar lightning starts making its way up his spine. He’s senseless as he chases after it, always a step behind despite wanting more, more, always more; loses himself in the gluttony of his intemperance.

It’s only when he’s on the verge of something truly mind-numbing do you lose your patience—when you straddle his waist and pin his hands at his side. A sob escapes him as his hips thrust uselessly, searching hysterically for friction. Tears prick pathetically at the corner of his eyes, and he knows he needs to look at you, knows you’re expecting it, but every inch of his skin burns with the force and the violence of the orgasm you’d denied him.

You tsk. All condescension as you say, “My poor baby.” All sharp edges when you ask, “Will you be a good boy and keep your hands where they are?”

Despite both of you knowing he’d promise you anything right now, Joshua nods, nearly feverish and rabid with the need to cum. Wants to fill you up until it’s leaking down his shaft. Wants to fuck it back into you with his fingers. Wants you on all fours, back arched so only your hips and ass are in the air, while he eats his load out of you from behind.

Of course, you have ideas of your own.

You trace over the wet spot of his shorts just to watch his cheeks ruddy. Leave bruises on his hips before your fingers move to the waistband, toying with him as you snap the elastic against his skin and relish in the way he whines, how he grasps at the sheets to keep his hands still. Pleas fill his mouth and never make it past his lips, and he’ll beg if he has to, if you make him, but you don’t. Slowly and deliberately, you work his shorts down and off; don’t waste a second before you’re sinking down onto his cock.

Every inch is agonizing, blinding heat. Joshua cries out, both unable and unwilling to censor himself. Doesn’t see the need for it when it feels like every atom in his body is being rearranged, like you’re collecting pieces of him to replace with you, embedding yourself beneath his skin. And he’ll let you—fuck, will he let you; wants to carve out a home for you within his body, wants you ingrained in him forever. Doesn’t ever want to be buried this deeply inside anyone else.

When you kiss him it tastes like devotion. He seals his mouth over yours so it can’t escape, so it has nowhere to go but down into your chest to fill the spaces between each of your ribs. And to hell with listening, he thinks, because he can’t go another second without touching you. One hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you closer, closer, impossibly closer, keeping you where you are, with your lips on his and your tongue in his mouth; the other digs into the meat of your ass, dimples the skin there, helps guide your cunt along the length of his cock, so soaked every thrust nearly has him slipping out.

He knows every time he hits the spot that makes your vision white out, feels how you clench around him despite the sopping mess between your legs. Slows his pace. Pulls back only far enough to say, “Back and forth, angel. That’s it. Grind that pretty pussy against me and get yourself off—fuck, you feel so good.”

He groans. Feels his grip on reality begin to falter with the noises falling from your lips; all your breathy, fractured whines. “That’s it, that’s it—god, you’re close, aren’t you? Yeah, shit, I can feel it. So fucking dirty, baby, love it when you fuck me like this—”

You come with a sob, body pulling taut, panting his name into what little space exists between you. Joshua swears, tries to fuck you through the aftershocks, but you’re wrapped around him like a vice, cunt so tight he can barely move.

He’s delirious. Always gets lightheaded watching you fall apart: the way your eyes squeeze shut, how dazed they look right after you open them again—how Joshua is always, always the first thing you make sense of when everything comes back into focus. And he’s going to say something stupid, something he can’t take back even if he means it, so he situates the two of you, uses all the strength he can muster to carry you across the room.

In the midst of his self-indulgence he forgot he’d left the door to the balcony open, wanted the sticky July breeze to blow in from the lake, and the wall next to that open door is where he places you. The backs of your knees in the crooks of his elbows; his lips on your neck, tongue tracing over the bruises he’d left. You’ve barely come down from your high before he’s fucking back into you, and he can tell it’s almost too much, that he’s towing a very fine line, so he eases his pace and rolls his hips slow.

Tells you, against the space just beneath your ear, how beautiful you look, how well you take him. “I should fuck you out on that balcony. They should see this,” he murmurs, voice deceivingly soft, all those possessive tendencies flaring in his gut. “All those people out there, they should see how well I fuck you, how you only come for me, only come around this cock.” His words are accentuated with a harsh snap of his hips that has you crying out—a rasping, guttural sound that douses the last threads of his discretion in kerosine and sets them on fire. “Let them hear you,” he urges, words slurring together, “let them know who I belong to.”

It’s faint, but he hears it anyway: “Me. Me, you belong to—shit, to me.”

“That’s fucking right.”

You clench around him again, eyes rolling back, and Joshua knows he’s approaching his own end as his thrusts grow uncoordinated and sloppy. He asks if you can come again and tells you to touch yourself when you nod. Wishes he could see it, but he feels each swipe of your fingers against your clit as your walls flutter around him, and it’s enough to drag you both over the edge.

Once he catches his breath, he drops to his knees in front of you. Places one of your legs over his shoulder and kisses every inch of skin he can reach until he’s once again eye-level with your pussy, each one of his senses overwhelmed—the way your skin feels, the way you smell, the sound of your breath hitching when he flattens his tongue against your cunt and tastes himself, the disbelief and adoration in your eyes as you gaze down at him.

You finally answer the question he forgot he’d asked: “No,” you say, the word coming at the trail end of a blissful sigh, “it doesn’t bother me. Let them—let them talk. I’m not going anywhere.”

Joshua smiles. Bites at the juncture of your thigh just to watch you squirm. “Good, because I wasn’t planning on letting you leave this room.”

If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

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spacerockfloater · 1 year ago

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The way people switched on Tamlin the moment Rhys was introduced is diabolical.

“Tamlin never really loved Feyre, it was all a trick from the start”: It is stated that Tamlin was disgusted by the idea of forcing someone to fall in love with him and considered it slavery, but ended up being so in love with her that he ultimately lets her go and choses her freedom and safety over that of his own people. Rhys confirms that Tamlin loved Feyre too much. And he loved her truly. Not because he had to. Tamlin treated Feyre with dignity when she was engaged to him. He introduced her as his lady, to be respected and cherished by all. And she really was loved by his people, too. Rhysand uses her as his lap dog to scare Hewn City and parades her as his whore.

“Tamlin never did anything for Feyre, he just used her”: He improved her and her family’s life in every aspect and offered her everything he had.

“Tamlin had sex with someone else in Calanmai”: Out of duty and responsibility because he didn’t want to force Feyre, who still wasn’t sure about her feelings, into it. All of the High Lords perform the Calanmai. Lucien says so. How convenient that this is never brought up with Rhysand. He surely does perform it as well. All the theories in here, “Lucien doesn’t know what he’s talking about/ This is a SC ritual only/ He probably just passes the duty on to someone else” are just a way for people to villainise Tam and glorify Rhys again. All of them inaccurate. The Calanmai is canonically performed by every High Lord. There’s no evidence that proves otherwise. As the son of one High Lord and the ambassador of another, Lucien would know. He is 500 years old. It’s just more convenient for SJM to never bring this up again because it raises the question of “Who was Rhysand fucking all these years?” and it makes her favourite character look bad. And once he is engaged to her, Tamlin flat out refuses to do it. Let’s be real for a second.

“Tamlin didn’t help Feyre under the mountain”: He literally could not. He was bound by a curse. He was forced to be Amarantha’s consort and a consort cannot oppose you. His powers were bound. Alis warns Feyre that Tamlin will not be able to help her. Stop acting as if he didn’t want to help her. He decapitated Amarantha the moment he got his autonomy back. Claiming that there’s no proof that Tamlin was under the influence of a spell when he literally didn’t break the curse and Amarantha’s magic didn’t allow him to use his powers is crazy. And even if he tried, he could never provide actual help. We see this when he begs Amarantha for Feyre’s life. Him showing he cares about her would only make Amarantha more jealous and vicious towards Feyre.

“Tamlin made out with Feyre instead of helping her”: He couldn’t help her run away. No one could do that. She would never make it, Amarantha would find her. In fact, Tamlin specifically could not help her in any way. He could only assure her he still wants and loves her. And she wanted that just as much. Rhys abused her physically, mentally, verbally, drugged her and much worse. And he enjoyed all of it. If he didn’t want to raise suspicions, he wouldn’t have placed a bet in her favour. Rhys is a sadist, SJM just decided to mellow him down in the next book so that we’d all like him over Tamlin.

“Tamlin ignored Feyre’s wishes and only wanted her to be his bride, he didn’t let her be High Lady”: Both Tamlin and Feyre were bad communicators going though trauma and Tam had a whole court to care for. Tamlin was unaware of how Feyre felt because she barely spoke up once. Rhys knew because he literally lived inside her head and had all the time in the world to focus his attention on her since his court suffered zero consequences during Amarantha’s reign. And Tamlin simply told her the truth: there’s no such thing as High Lady. Even her current title is given to her by Rhys, the magic of Prythian has not actually chosen her to be High Lady. The title and its power are decorative. And she said she didn’t want that anyway.

“Tamlin locks Feyre up and uses his magic to harm her”: He locks her in his humongous palace to keep her safe, after she just came back from the dead and his worst enemy is kidnapping her every month, while he runs off to protect his borders. Rhysand locks Feyre in a fucking bubble. Tamlin loses control of his magic. He doesn’t want to harm her. That’s not abuse. Abuse is intentional. Feyre and Rhysand lock Lucien and Nesta up. They lock the people of the Hewn City up in a cave. Feyre loses control of her magic and harms Lucien’s mother. Double standards I guess.

“Tamlin is a bad and conservative ruler”: Tamlin is such a beloved ruler that his sentries literally begged to die for him. Feyre had to fuck with their minds to finally turn them against him. They were his friends. He was so progressive that the lords fled his court once he became their ruler because he wouldn’t put up with their bullshit like his father did. He loved all of his people. He is against slavery. The Tithe was just tax collection. Rhysand practically rules over just one city, while ignoring Hewn City and Illyria. He treats 2/3 of his realm like shit and everyone except the residents of Velaris hates him. He collects tax, too, but we conveniently never see this. He ranks the members of his inner circle (my 1st, my 2nd etc.) and reminds them every moment that they are his slaves first and anything else second, while Tamlin treats them equally and even gives Lucien an official title by naming him Ambassador.

“Tamlin conspired with Hybern”: He was a double agent and his short lived alliance, two weeks all in all, not only didn’t harm a single soul, but ultimately saved all of Prythian as he was the only one who brought valuable information to that meeting. He dragged Beron to battle. Rhysand’s alliance with Amarantha harmed thousands and only helped save one city, Velaris.

“Tamlin is responsible for turning Nesta and Elain into Fae”: No, that was Ianthe, who got the info from Feyre. Tamlin was fooled by her, just as Feyre obviously was, or she wouldn’t have trusted her. Tamlin was disgusted by that act.

“Tamlin is less powerful than Rhysand”: Rhysand himself says that a battle between them would turn mountains to dust. Tamlin killed Rhysand’s dad, the previous High Lord of the Night Court, in one blow. He is just as powerful as Rhysand. SJM again just wants us to believe otherwise. And he is smarter, too. He was the only one not to trust Amarantha. And he was a good spy for Prythian against Hybern.

All of these takes are cold as fuck. SJM was testing the waters with ACOTAR and she made sure the main love interest, Tamlin, was insanely likeable, so that the book could be a satisfactory standalone story in case she couldn’t land a trilogy deal. She didn’t know it would be such a big hit. But once she realised she could turn this into a franchise, she had to figure out a new story to tell. She may claim otherwise, but there’s just too many plothotes to convince me. And in order to make her new main love interest seem like the best choice, she had to character assassinate the old one. There was no other way. ACOTAR Rhys was too much of an evil monster to be loved by the majority of the audience. But Tamlin was introduced to us as such a heroic and passionate man that is literally impossible to turn him into someone despised by all. Feyre’s relationship with Rhysand reads too much like cheating on Tamlin. That’s why anyone with basic analytical skills is able to realise the flaws of the narration.

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bitterkarella · 1 year ago

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Midnight Pals: Spicy Stories

JK Rowling: hello children Poe: oh Poe: oh joanne Poe: you're back Rowling: i have concernss Poe: uh we're mostly about just telling stories here Poe: you have your own campfire for your terf stuff don't you? Rowling: yess but they've really been getting on my nervess lately

Rowling: you know how it iss with terf deatheaterss Poe: not really Rowling: alwayss agreeing with everything i ssay Rowling: all "oh yes dark lord" this and "oh spare me dark lord" that Rowling: ssometimess you jusst get tired of hearing "masterful gambit dark lord"

Rowling: i tell you, you don't know how hard it is to run a cult L Ron Hubbard: oh yeah woof big mood Hubbard: people think its all fun, but its actually a lot of work Rowling: I know right????

Poe: regardless, joanne, i'm going to have to put my foot down Poe: this campfire is just for stories Rowling: uhhh actually i do have a new ssstory Rowling: i wass insspired to write after having an argument on the internet Barker: oh damn no shit? Barker: that's wild

Rowling: it's a new harry potter ssstory King: oh man! it's about time, i've been hoping for a new potter story for ages! Rowling: itss about hermione going back in time to help grindelwald, who actually had sssome good points if you think about it

Rowling: i call it Rowling: the time turner diariesss Barker: wow this is not really funny anymore Baker: its like INTENSELY not funny Lovecraft: catchy title tho!

Rowling: i'm retconning grindelwald into a misundersstood idealisst Rowling: who was only forced to make hard choicess because of the unreassonablenesss of decadent weimar society

Rowling: oh also you know that thing where people kept criticizing me cuz technically grindelwald's "evil" plan was to prevent the holocaust? Rowling: well good news Rowling: i've rectified that little mistake

Rowling: like, why would the naziss target transs & queer people, traditionally the most powerful and widely accepted memberss of ssociety? Rowling: would not the naziss, famouss for their love of diverssity, actually approve of them? Rowling: i'm jusst asskin questions

King: actually joanne there's a lot of well-documented evidence Barker: give it up steve King: no no i can fix this King: i'm sure if i just lay out the facts in a logical, well-reasoned manner- Barker: oh god that's so cute Barker: don't you just love him? Poe: that's our steve

King: so you see the nazi book burning of the institute for sexualwissenschaft- Rowling: nope Rowling: didn't happen King: King: well it kinda did, see, as i was saying- Rowling: thiss iss missogyny

Rowling: i don't undersstand you lot at all Rowling: i come into your campfire, i make a sstatement that i really want to be true & you all refuse to accept it Rowling: thiss issn't the way it works over with my terf deatheaters at all Rowling: they love accepting things i ssay!

Rowling: it'ss actually really missogynisstic that you all refusse to accept what i'm ssaying asss truth Rowling: even though you all know how badly i want it to be true King: but joanne, it isn't true- Rowling: ssave it for court ssteve!

Mary Shelley: sup fuckers Shelley: i got here late wot's going on? Barker: joanne is doing holocaust denial Rowling: EXCUSE ME it'ss only holocausst denial if you quesstion the murder of jews Rowling: tho now that i think about it i do have some questionss

Rowling: like, would they not have ussed their goblin magic to essscape? Lovecraft: ya know, she makes a good point Sonia Greene: i'm right here howard Lovecraft: Greene: see, this is why i don't talk much

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #hp lovecraft #mary shelley #jk rowling #l ron hubbard #sonia greene

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vivwritescrappythings · 5 months ago

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anything you ask

knight!könig x plus-size!fem!reader

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5

despite all odds, it is your wedding day (final part)

tw: fem reader, afab reader, plus size reader, body image issues, drinking, kissing, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, loss of virginity, breeding kink, creampie, not proofread.

wc: 10.2 k

masterlist

Your father sequestered you to your chambers immediately after your makeshift proposal, a knight you did not recognize posted outside your doors to keep visitors away.

It was remarkable how quickly you turned into a prisoner, only allowed to fetch books from the library and have dinner with your father in his private study. The meals were silent, his disappointment in you clear as you kept your gaze trained on your plate.

You tried to speak to him once. It was a pathetic attempt at an olive branch, some silly apology for ruining his plan with Lord Fischer. You stumbled over the words in your efforts to sound sincere. On some level you were sincere, knowing you embarrassed him and hurt his reputation. But you were rebuked just as quickly, his glare silencing your stammered excuses.

His disappointment was hard for you to swallow. While your sister was your mother’s favorite, you had always been your father’s. When you were little he took you riding and told you stories to fall asleep and always had the patience to play with you. Your personality had never irked him, he simply called you spirited. He said you got it from his side of the family.

To be outcast from his good graces hurt more than you could describe.

The days in your confinement were long. There was only so much time you could spend reading before you wanted to gouge your own eyes out. You found yourself missing your idle conversations with the other ladies at court over your embroidery–you had taken talks of dress styles and weddings and how to properly put together a dinner party menu for granted, always rolling your eyes and sticking your nose up in the air. You missed the other girls, the way they anxiously giggled at your sarcasm and how Mary always made space for you.

Above all, you missed König. His crystal-colored eyes and smile had been haunting you ever since your father yanked you up off the staircase by your arm and escorted you to your room himself. The knight had been your constant companion for over half a year, it was odd to no longer have him by your side.

Although, you had no idea what you would say to him if you were able to speak with him. You were still reeling from all that had happened, it felt like you had been thrown from a horse rather than gotten engaged. Of course, you had fantasized about marrying him, but you had never imagined it to be under these circumstances.

You still could not decide if you wanted to embrace him or rebuke him. His plan had risked everything for you–your reputation, your freedom. Rather than let you two marry, your father could have easily just sent you off to a convent for the remainder of your days.

König would have lost nothing. He was too skilled of a knight to be executed, and you were not important enough for his titles to be stripped. Even if he had not been permitted to marry you, he would have been let off with a slap on the wrist.

You never knew there was a part of him so selfish. Or so calculated.

It was not until after that you realized everything he did had a purpose behind it. If getting his mouth on you was his goal, he could have just as easily knelt before you where the two of you had been tucked behind the curve in the wall.

Instead, he spread you out on the stairs in plain view of any passers by. But he allowed himself to nearly suffocate beneath your skirts rather than hike them up around your waist and sacrifice all of your modesty.

It was an enigma to consider his motivations: did he actually want to pleasure you or just force your father’s hand? You knew he was a second son and that you had foolishly informed him of your absurdly high dowry amount. The two of you got along reasonably, and matches had been created on less. The leap to marrying you was not a difficult one to make.

You often found yourself sitting at the window seat, counting the days away as you watched the flurry of motion in the courtyard. König was out there with the other knights and squires once. Your eyes had nearly popped out of your head when you spotted him, your hand flattening against the cool window pane as you pressed your forehead against the glass.

He was only wearing his black hood and trousers, his thick torso on display as he showed one of the younger squires how to spar with wooden swords. It was unfortunate that your room was too far to see the fine details of him clearly, you could see the covering of dirty blonde hair on his forearms and chest, the faint line of it beneath his navel that disappeared into the laces of his trousers. You should have been ashamed by how you were ogling him, watching each movement and the way his skin moved over the ridges of muscle.

But, he was your soon-to-be husband, after all.

You could ogle as much as you wanted.

An odd sort of thrill ran through you at the thought. Your husband. In all your dreams about being married, you had never considered that you could marry someone you would want to ogle at. You expected a man like Lord Fischer: far your senior with no other prospects. But König was unlike anything you had considered realistic.

He looked up at you from the training field, making you nearly fall back from your window in shock. You were too far to make out any expression in his eyes, only able to see the way he tilted his head a bit to one side. A laugh, you guessed.

It had even been a week since that one shred of contact with him. You sat at your window every day since then as you vied for another peek of him. But you had no such luck, just knights and squires you had never bothered to pay attention to before. You kept looking, hoping to see a man who towered over the others.

You were at your window when your father came to your rooms to tell you to pack your trunks. He hardly spoke to you, informing you that you were both headed east to the Kilgore estate for your wedding.

–

The week before your wedding went by in the blink of an eye.

It was a blessing your mother and sister had arrived at the Kilgore estate before you did. It was a flurry of activity when you arrived, they had gotten the servants into a frenzy cleaning for guests. They had taken over most of the planning, ordering flowers and sampling bolts of fabric for your gown and putting together a menu for the feast.

You had been told that the eastern peoples enjoyed festivities as fantastic as their monumental architecture and rolling hills of green, so your wedding ceremony surprised you.

The hall was grandiose: tall buttressed ceilings and two long rows of pillars along the main walkway. A breeze carried in through the open terrace doors, fluttering the hem of your deep blue gown. The air smelled thick of oakmoss incense, you could see the smoke floating through the rays of orange sunlight.

You steeled yourself, forcing yourself to tear your gaze from the polished marble floor and look up.

At the end of the hall, König was there with the priest.

The ceremony was nothing you expected, only your family and your sister’s husband were present. König’s brother was overseas on some trade expedition and he had no other family, so a knight he had grown close to during his time in battle stood on his side of the room.

König’s shirt was of the same blue fabric you wore, embroidered elegantly with silver thread. His hood was nowhere to be seen, a mask covering his face from forehead to nose. His hair was the color of sand, half of it drawn back away from his face into a thick bun with the rest curling around his shoulders. A few loose pieces fell over the silver forehead of the mask.

It was more of him than you had ever seen before, your gaze greedily taking in the shape of his profile. His nose had been broken a few times, the ridge of his Roman nose exaggerated from being set in the field. His jaw was sharp, the familiar scruff of his stubble covering it.

You finally willed yourself forward, the fabric of your dress heavy as the train dragged behind you. Each step was measured and careful, your mother and sister had drilled into you the correct walking speed over the week. It seemed ridiculous at the time. But you found yourself counting each step in your head.

The aisle was long, it gave you far too much time to think. THe still had not uttered a word to you since that day in the hall. There was so much you wanted to say to him, the words bubbling in your throat as you swallowed thickly.

You stepped onto the dias, turning to face König.

His smile surprised you. It was faint, it almost felt like a secret between the two of you. His eyes were so open, every flicker of joy clear to you as you found yourself grinning back.

He reached out and clasped your hands, the rough scrape of his callouses against the tenderness of your skin. Your hands told of a life of privilege, his told of a life of work despite the luxury his family’s estate exuded.

Thumbs ran across the backs of your knuckles, feeling the delicate bones of your hand shift under the gentle pressure.

The priest began to speak in a language you did not understand, the same lilting accent and harsh consonants recognizable from König’s voice. You glanced at the gnarled old man, trusting König to guide you through the ceremony that was so foreign to you.

You could hardly hear what the man was saying over the thundering of your own heart. It just took a squeeze of König’s fingers to prompt you when to nod and agree, to clumsily repeat his words.

He slipped a beautiful ring set with an emerald onto your left hand, its weight already feeling familiar on your finger. It was easy to admire, your lips parting as you watched how it sparkled in the sunlight. The air felt thick with marjoram and incense smoke. You struggled to breathe.

It took the priest clearing his throat to pull you from your reverie. The room cleared, breath coming easy once more. König’s gaze was on you, eyes sparkling with fondness as they dropped to his own ring finger and back to your face.

Oh. You clumsily produced the thick silver ring from the pocket sewn inside your dress sleeve. There were etchings in the metal, swirls of filigree pressing into your fingertips as you grabbed his hand to bring it toward you. A drop of molten lead moved through your stomach as you realized that you could fit both of your hands into one of his.

Buzzing filled your mind as you pushed the ring onto König’s finger, relief warming you as it settled into place.

The priest tutted, tongue clicking against his teeth as he was seemingly satisfied.

He moved off the dias first, König taking your hand in his and leading you to follow the painfully slow pace. “Meine frau,” he murmured in a low rumble.

You hardly even looked at your family, feeling lightheaded as you glanced up at König. “What does that mean?” you asked softly.

“My wife.” He brought your hand to his lips, placing a kiss as soft as a petal on the back of it. You warmed at the term. Wife was a word that you were convinced would never belong to you.

His knuckles ghosted along the gooseflesh lifting on the back of your arm before lifting it around you. You tucked into his side easily, naturally. His hand settled on your waist, drawing you close as he steered you into a private room. The doors clicked shut behind you.

“Are we wed?” you whispered, brows drawing together as you looked up at König. You could see the distorted reflection of your face in his mask, the silver polished handsomely.

He laughed and nodded, his smile genuine as he tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear.

It was the first moment the two of you had been alone. After a moment you pulled your hand from his grasp, taking a few steps back. You could see the confusion in his expression as he stood, watching you curiously.

Your anger had not dissipated, your arms crossing over your chest. “You could have informed me of your plan, you know,” you said, your glare earnest across the room. “I confided everything to you, trusted you with my life and you repay me by risking my reputation and what little freedom I have as a woman to force my father to accept your proposal.”

It was hard to pinpoint the moment when you started to shout at him, gesturing wildly with your hands.

König was smiling, aggravating your further. You huffed, lurching forward and shoving at his chest. His lack of an answer made you want to scream. “It was selfish! You knew that and you did it anyway.”

His big hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking along the bone as you snarled at him. “There she is,” he murmured, voice soft as he directed your gaze up to him. His smile was soft, the scars on his lips pulling taught. “I missed seeing the fire in my mäuschen, it has been quite some time.”

You scoffed, caught off guard by his words. Disbelief made you shake your head slightly, the warmth of his palm still curved to fit your cheek. “König…”

He stepped closer, his other hand curling around to the small of your back. “It was not my intention for your father to catch us,” he said, dipping his head toward your own. A kiss was stamped to your forehead, another to your cheek. “I was going to ask for your hand in marriage without any dowry–he would have been a fool to deny it.”

The skin beneath your earlobe prickled with sensitivity as König’s teeth nibbled at it. “The other day… I simply was too eager to give you pleasure,” he whispered into your ear, walking you back until your spine pressed against the stone wall and he loomed over you. “And I have thought about it almost constantly ever since.”

Your cheeks heated up like they were set on fire, your hand covering your mouth as you glanced away from König. “Constantly?” you asked, the word muffled in your palm. Something between embarrassment and flattery pounded in your chest.

His fingers nudged your jaw until you were looking at him once more. “It has been hard to focus on much else,” he murmured, a smirk twisting his mouth. The pad of his thumb ghosted along your lower lip, making you part them slightly. “You tasted so much better than I had ever even dreamed of, I could have kept my mouth between your legs all day.”

He may as well have lit you on fire.

“König!” you scolded lightly, shocked that he would say something so scandalous. “What if someone is listening?”

His laugh was warm and affectionate. “Well, mäuschen, then they will hear how much I desire my wife.” The pride in his voice was so obvious that you felt like you were glowing.

König finally bent to capture your lips with his own. You hummed into the kiss, letting your eyes close and your hand find his neck. The curls at his nape were soft as you tangled your fingers in them, pulling gently.

You had never kissed him without the bulk of his hood before, the smooth press of the silver mask covering his nose far different than the scrape of canvas fabric you had become used to.

His hand seized the fabric of your skirt, bunching it in his fist as he started to lift the hem. The feel of the embroidered edge sliding along your leg invoked your ire as you remembered why you had started the conversation in the first place.

You pulled away, shoving your husband’s chest to put some space between you. He let you, taking a step back and releasing your wedding dress. The air felt thick as you took a breath. “Do not think you can just kiss me and compliment me and I will forgive you,” you said, brows drawn.

König nodded, lips twitching as he tried to school his grin. He stepped toward you, palms lifted toward you like you were a cornered animal. “I will beg on my hands and knees if you wish.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. König took your hand and brought it back to his lips, letting them skate across your knuckles. “I will spend the rest of my days attoning for it if that is what my beautiful wife desires,” he murmured, looking up at you through his blonde lashes.

He disarmed you easily, making you turn your face as you fought the urge to grin. “Perhaps I do desire that,” you mumbled, the threat of a laugh tickling your throat.

There was a warm puff of air over your hand as König snorted softly. “The rest of my days, I swear. But first we must get through our wedding feast.”

You had forgotten there was still a feast to get through. The anxiety of walking down the aisle had taken up the forefront of your mind, the rest of the day had hardly occurred to you. The feast. The consummation.

Thoughts about consummating your marriage made you feel dizzy. Your mother cornered you a few days ago to discuss it with you, whispering in low tones as you both sat close on a window seat. Her words floated in your head: no man wanted a weeping, unexpired bride on his wedding night. She told you that if he showed you his face to tell him he was handsome even if you did not believe it, and to hide the fact that it hurt.

But she would not say what would cause you pain.

König gently tugging on your hand pulled you back to the present. “Yes, the feast,” you said, scraping your teeth over your lower lip as he brought you under his arm.

You leaned into his warmth as you exited the room, letting him pull you toward the large double doors at the end of the hall.

At his nod, the footmen pulled the large doors open to a room full of raucous clapping and shouts.

—

The feast was lively–far more people than you expected were present. The great hall was full of long tables, they even spilled out into the courtyard through the open doors across the room. Lords and locals and family and friends sat amongst them, eating and laughing and talking as though they had known each other their whole lives.

It had run long, hours upon hours of feasting and drinking and talking. You watched the plates before you were filled and cleared and filled over and over again. Seemingly without end. The food was delicious. Roasted meats and basted potatoes and honeyed pears, bread that flaked apart with the most gentle of touches. Cups remained full of ale and mead and wine, your drink strong enough that you were forced to sip it slowly.

People keep coming up to wish you both well, you and König sitting at the center of a long wooden table. The somber man you knew him to be was replaced by a man who remembered the name of each person who approached and clinked together mugs and laughed in loud barks.

You had been processing the ceremony still when you noticed the local blacksmith asking how König was liking the mask with a genuine smile on his face. It had been forged specifically for the wedding.

It was easy to feel smitten with König, the more you learned of him over the course of the evening making you soften from your previous anger.

His big hand landed on your thigh, squeezing gently as he turned to face you. Your eyes went wide as you looked up at him. “Is the food to your liking?” he asked softly, head dipping low toward yours so he could whisper over the din of the room. “You have not eaten much, it is unlike you, mäuschen.”

You almost felt embarrassed, warmth coming to your face. It was hard for you to eat when you were so anxious. “It is wonderful,” you assured, inclining your head toward his shoulder. There was no way you could share your anxiety for what comes after with him. “The honeyed pears are divine.”

He smiled, leaning in to press his lips against your temple. They were soft and warm, his breath puffing against your hairline before he shifted his weight back into his seat.

Before you quite realize it, another plate of honeyed pears sit before you on the table

–

It was only when the moon was high in the sky that König whisked you away from the feast, an arm looped around your waist as he pulled you from your chair and out the side entrance to the room without so much as a farewell. He shushed you softly when you stammered that you needed to say goodbye, assuring you that the party would still be going on for the next few days as was his people’s custom.

The next few days, you could hardly imagine being able to stay awake for it.

Your feet were already stumbling, you struggled to keep up with König as you leaned against him. He took you through what felt like a labyrinth of stone hallways, making you get hopelessly turned around.

“It has been a long day,” he murmured, stopping for a moment to pull you closer to his chest. You sighed, sagging against him and taking in his familiar scent. It was pleasant to feel the slight give of his flesh as he embraced you–you had only ever encountered him when he was wearing armor. Without it he finally felt real beneath your touch.

You nodded, forehead pressing into his sternum as you let your eyes shut. Only one thing was left, your mother had impressed upon you how important it was for you to let König take you to bed no matter what. She feared he would wake up and change his mind in the morning.

You found your feet after a few moments, fingertips wiping at the corners of your eyes as you stood up straight. He only released your arms once he was sure you were steady, tucking a piece of hair away that had escaped your elegant braided style. You leaned into the scoop of his palm, letting your cheek squish into it.

You stretched to your toes, hands linking behind König’s neck to pull him down. He answered your silent plea eagerly, mouth slanting against yours. The crackle of lightning behind it reminded you of the first kiss you shared in the library of the royal palace. It took no coaxing from him for your lips to part, the flavor of the spiced mead he had been drinking all night filling your mouth as he licked into it.

His hands settled on your hips, fingertips digging into your soft flesh as he pulled you close. One of them migrated dangerously, smoothing over the curve of your ass just before taking a handful of it. You giggled into the kiss, pressing your body against his as you moved in toward him. His pinky dug into the line where your ass met your thigh, pulling a genuine laugh from you.

“I am ticklish there,” you protested between your lips meeting, trying to defend yourself with a hand. König chuckled, using the newfound knowledge to his advantage as he hooked his fingers into the crease.

You lurched, scrabbling at the thick muscles of his arms as you tried to escape his grip. “You should not have told me that, mäuschen,” he threatened affectionately, continuing his assault in spite of your protests. Your laughs turned breathless as you weakly shoved at his shoulders, your legs kicking as you attempted to twist from him.

Voices echoed from around the hallway corner. “He was quite eager to pull her away from the feast.” There was a bout of conspiratorial giggles as unseen companions agreed with the man who spoke.

The distraction stopped your husband from tickling you, letting you stamp your lips to his once more. You would have been content to stand and exchange open-mouthed kisses without worry, no longer caring of who stumbled upon the two of you.

But König pulled away, blue eyes meeting yours before he took you by the hand and you raced breathlessly next to him to his chambers.

–

You sucked in desperate breaths as the door clicked shut behind the two of you. His chambers were opulent and extensive, furs and velvets and fabrics embroidered with silver thread strewn across the furniture. The fire crackled merrily across from the large, four poster bed along the center of the largest wall of the room. It was still unmade, the twisted mess of quilts making your body warm to the tips of your fingers and toes.

König began to undress himself as instinct took over, kicking off his heavy boots and removing the belt secured about his waist. You were in his rooms after all, the thought a molten ball of lead in your stomach.

You stood in the center of the room, hands clasped together in front of you as you looked around. The smell of marjoram filled your nose, undercut by a familiar musk that always seemed to cling to König’s skin. Goosebumps prickled along your arms as you considered the room, unsure whether to disrobe or not. Your confusion forced you to freeze in place.

A sigh from behind you forced you to turn to look over your shoulder. His shirt had been entirely removed, tossed over a plush settee with little care as he raked his fingers through his hair. Your lips parted, mouth drying as your gaze shamelessly fell to the thick muscles of his torso.

He noticed your admiration, letting his hands fall from his curls as he stepped closer to you. “Is there something you wish to ask, meine frau?” His head tilted to one side, his form towering over yours as he stopped before you.

You swallowed thickly, lips parting as you tried to find words. Scars crossed over his torso just as they did his neck and lower half of his face. You hesitantly reached forward to touch one, the gnarled skin smooth beneath your fingertips as you traced the slash mark down the center of his sternum. There were more slashes and stab wounds, a burn mark over the meat of his hip and disappearing into his trousers.

The ridges of his abdominal muscles were firm beneath your touch. You were breathless, wetting your lips with your tongue as your forefinger followed the trail of thick, curling hair beneath his navel.

You looked up to him through your eyelashes, still feeling like you were choking as you tried to think of something–anything–to say. The room felt too warm, the fire burning in your belly hotter than the one in the hearth.

His blue eyes were dark as he met your gaze, mouth twisted into a smirk that made it feel as though the ground had dropped out from beneath you. It was easy to see that he was pleased.

The silver mask reflected the glow of the room back onto your face, hiding the rest of his expression from you. Your fingers itched to take it off, to untie the strap of leather that held the metal snugly to his face and reveal it after so long.

“Will I ever know my husband by the entirety of his face?” you asked in a moment of boldness, gaze flickering from his eyes to his mouth and back again. “Or shall I only know you by your eyes?”

König hummed, seemingly contemplating as his large hands brushed over your shoulders and down your arms. “And if I did not wish to show you?” His thumbs circled over your wrists, slipping beneath the sleeves of your gown. Affection seemed so natural to him, as though he had spent the previous few months touching you whenever he desired.

“I would not force you to.” You allowed him to turn your hands over in his hold, thumbs pressing along the fine bones of your inner wrist before massaging the meat of your palms.

He was looking at your hands, blonde eyelashes fluttering against the bottom rim of the eyes in his mask. “And if you do not find me handsome?” he asked, so quiet that you almost missed it. Your heart ached, the fear undercutting his tone making your brows bunch together.

“I find you handsome now,” you assured him, cupping his cheek. It was hard to imagine a man like König to be insecure. He had always seemed so assured of himself before, exuding confidence in the halls of the royal palace.

“Promise you will not leave.”

It felt like he had seized your heart in your chest, fingers squeezing around it as you stepped closer to your husband. Your brow furrowed as you nodded. “I promise, König,” you said softly, trying to soothe the flicker of fear in his expression. “I am your wife, I will not leave.”

He sighed, a slight nod bobbing his head as he leaned toward you. You bit your lip, reaching up carefully to the knotted leather cord. It was easy to pull apart, your stomach turning with anticipation as the two halves of the cord fell away. He moved the mask away from his face, hardly breathing as he set it down on the same settee he had discarded his shirt onto.

You stopped breathing altogether, hands flying up to cover your mouth.

König was handsome.

Almost ridiculously so.

Of course he was rugged. His bright blue eyes were framed by thick, straight eyebrows and high cheekbones, his nose crooked from being broken so many times. It suited him, your husband both exactly what you expected him to be and nothing at all. One scar cut from the left side of his nose and curved up toward the outside of his eye, this skin jagged and puckered. The scar on the other side of his face looked like lightning, bisecting his eyebrow and meeting the cut running from the inner corner of his eye into a Y that dragged almost all the way down to the corner of his lip.

You must have been silent for quite some time, König clearing his throat prompting you to blink and shut your mouth. His cheek matched the cup of your palm, a shiver running up your arm as you touched his face for the first time.

“I am glad you did not take your hood off before now,” you murmured, watching him lean into your touch.

His eyes shut tightly, his expression bracing for you to say something worse. “I would have had to fight the other ladies at court off of you if they knew this is what you were hiding underneath that fabric.”

You grinned as his broad shoulders slumped, his relieved exhale puffing over your face. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours as he wrapped his arms around you. “You exaggerate,” he mumbled, almost sounding bashful. Color flooded his cheeks, dusting them with pink as the firelight illuminated him in gold.

It was hard to tame your fascination, your fingertips tracing the shapes of his features just as your eyes did in a foolish attempt to memorize them. You were greedy, wanting to make up for every moment you had wondered what he looked like.

“I would not exaggerate,” you whispered, wetting your lips once more. He shivered beneath your touch as you traced a scar across the bridge of his nose.

He grumbled something beneath his breath, bending his knees to grab you at your thighs and lift. “König!” you yelped, the sensation of the floor no longer beneath your feet making you balk as your hands pressed against his bare shoulders to keep yourself steady. “Put me down! I am far too heavy for you to lift like this.”

His laughter was genuine as he carried you with ease. For the first time in your life you felt as light as a feather, not even a hint of strain visible in König’s expression. “Too heavy? You seem to underestimate me, mäuschen.”

He turned, sitting on the edge of the bed and arranging you so your knees were on either side of the broad expanse of his thighs. König’s hands slipped beneath your heavy skirts, pushing the royal blue fabric out of the way so he could smooth his hands over your bare thighs. You still had the urge to shove his hands away from the dimpled flesh on the outside of your legs.

If your insecurity was obvious, König did not let on that he knew. His expression melted into one of desire as he squeezed handfuls of your soft thighs. The press of his hand on the small of your back pressed the two of you close.

Your bodies slotted together like they were made to, your thighs spreading wide over the bulk of him as he tugged you down hard. A whine pulled from you as you felt the swell of his clothed erection between your legs, snug against your quickly dampening undergarments.

The feeling of arousal was still new to you, your heart fluttering as König rolled his hips against yours. You tangled your fingers into his hair, now loose from the half-up style he had worn during the day. Twisting the soft strands around your fingers kept you tethered to earth as your bodies moved together, quiet moans filling the charged air between you.

Your nose dragged against his scarred cheek as you clumsily found his lips, teeth mashing against his as your hips rocked to the pace that he set.

The thin fabric of your undergarments started to stick to your inner thighs, the ache between your legs starting to make you desperate. You leaned back to better look at him, his eyelids heavy and lips parted as he took you in.

His gaze dropped from your face to your chest, tracing the square neck of your gown. There was a flash of his pink tongue as he licked his lips. Your fingers curled around his wrist, pulling his hand from your thigh to the bodice of your gown. It was all the permission he needed.

König’s thick fingers slipped into the front of your dress, pulling it down enough to make the stitches creak before your breasts spilled out of the fabric. Pride flickers through you at the way his eyes widen, jaw going slack as he stared with an expression that resembled awe.

It seemed he did not notice the stripes of stretch marks along the skin, the calloused pad of his thumb already strumming across your nipple in a way that made you sigh. His mouth moved to the other before you could quite register, lips closing around your nipple and sucking. You whimpered, arching your spine as you used your grip on his hair to pull his head closer.

“Christ,” you sighed, head tilted back and eyes screwed shut. He nosed along the thin skin of your sternum, his hot breath making gooseflesh rise on your arms. A bite on the side of your breast made you squeak, his tongue laving over the sting.

His big hand between your shoulder blades anchored you to him as he flipped the two of you over gracefully.

A few attempts were made to just pull your dress off like a brute before you were scolding him and flipping onto your stomach. “Be careful or you will rip it like that,” you hissed, moving your hair off the back of your neck. “There are such things as buttons, you savage.”

He only laughed, already working each button through the loop of thread holding it in place. “It should be a crime to have this many buttons on a wedding dress,” he mumbled, fumbling with them.

It gave you a moment to breathe. Despite not having touched a single cup all day you felt tipsy, the edges of the room a bit fuzzy as you tried to calm your heart.

Hands hooking beneath your shoulders flipped you over onto your back, earning a giddy laugh from you. König moving you like a ragdoll felt hard to reconcile with–you had grown up thinking that you were simply too heavy to be treated like the petite thing he saw you as.

Eagerness was glowing in his eyes as he pulled the sleeves of the gown off your arms, exposing your upper body to his greedy gaze. You had to calm yourself, breathing in and out and reminding yourself of your mother’s words: he had no time for a weeping bride on his wedding night–you just needed to make him happy.

You lifted your hips to help him pull down your dress and undergarments in one swoop. He tossed the gown onto the same settee with his shirt, the royal blue fabric ballooning in a heap.

His profile was outlined in the golden light of the fire, making him look ethereal for a moment.

You were thankful that he looked away to untie his trousers, letting you take in the rolls of your body without his reaction. You sucked in your stomach, breath locking in your chest. Perhaps sitting up would help, if you pulled your knees up it would at least cover the softness of your belly. You wished the firelight was dimmer, the shadows catching in each crevice of your body and exaggerating them.

You decided upon sitting up, awkwardly holding yourself with your arms as you tried to twist into a position that seemed natural. The press of your belly against your thighs took up too much of your focus, the rest of it preoccupied by the crease of extra flesh you knew existed just above where your hip met your back.

It was hard not to hyperventilate, each stretch mark and dimple on your skin magnified so much that you hardly remember that König was in the room with you.

You had no idea how many times he had to repeat your name before you actually heard him, blinking slowly as you looked up at him. His brows were furrowed as he observed you, a slight frown pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Sorry, I was preoccupied with my thoughts,” you murmured, smiling sheepishly. Your throat felt like it was squeezing closed, the anxiety you had been forcing out of your mind all day finally rearing its ugly head. The smile on your face tightened, your discomfort obvious.

His frown deepened. The laces of his trousers were forgotten, hanging open as he knelt on the mattress. Fingers nudged your jaw up to look at him, blue eyes seemingly staring through you and into your soul.

“What is bothering you?” he asked, thumb pressing your lower lip.

You felt like you were choking, your eyes wide as you tried to think of a plausible lie.

König’s gaze dropped to your body, lust shadowing his expression. His fingers twitched beneath your chin. “I am so lucky you accepted my favor that day at the tournament,” he said, a faint smile on his face.

He moved closer, slowly forcing you onto your back beneath him. His touch was delicate as he moved the hair out of your face. You let your eyes close as he pressed a kiss to your brow. “I worried that I would make a fool of myself and lose, I thought you were so distracting. So beautiful.”

It was hard to pay attention to his words when his mouth was dragging down the column of your throat, his teeth scraping over the delicate skin as he spoke.

He continued down your body, taking care as he felt the fullness of your hips and stomach and thighs. You grabbed his wrists, trying to pull them away as he shushed you. “I have been lucky enough to marry the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, please allow me to touch her,” he pleaded softly, voice muffled against the skin next to your navel.

His expression was so earnest you could hardly deny him, slowly letting go as you lay back. You could feel his smile as he lifted your legs onto his broad shoulders, smattering kisses and bites onto your inner thighs.

There he was, looking at you and still wanting you, still pressing his mouth to the ache between your legs. You gasped, grabbing a fistful of hair at the crown of his head as his scruff scraped against the insides of your thighs. He flattened his tongue over your sex, muscular arms curling around your legs to grab your waist.

He dipped lower, tongue teasing your entrance as he collected the wetness pouring from you. You bucked against his face, heel digging into his shoulder blade as you twisted to press the sensitive bundle of nerves against the ridge of his nose.

You were keening, biting your lip to keep from moaning too loud. König moved to wrap his lips around the bud and sucked with small pulses of his tongue. His fingers pet over your entrance, making you clench around nothing as your spine arched. “Please, König,” you begged through clenched teeth, not quite sure what you were asking for.

Then one of his thick fingertips caught at your entrance. Your whole body buzzed as he thrust up to the second knuckle. Breathing was hard, the tightness a foreign feeling as you tried to relax.

He never even bothered to pull away as he hummed contentedly, surely suffocating by now as you kept pulling him impossibly closer. The press of his finger inside you eventually became comfortable, your muscles releasing as you willed yourself to relax into the feeling.

As soon as you felt comfortable with one, he added another. Both curling inside you made your breath punch from your chest, his digits feeling each and every ridge inside of you as he worked you higher and higher. The building feeling he had introduced you to last time was starting to knot in your stomach.

Two fingers turned into three, making you sob as your arm covered your face.

It was hard to get used to the feeling of being so full. Your moans were pathetic, pitchy and breathless as he found a spot inside of you and curled the tips of his fingers over it mercilessly. His other hand held firm just above your navel in an attempt to force you to be still.

It was too much, the rhythm of his fingers matching the tightening of your muscles until everything finally just released. The relief was instantaneous, all-consuming as euphoria buzzed from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. You pulsed like a heartbeat around König’s fingers, still feeling dizzy as he pulled them from you.

His lips were wet with your slick as he pressed a kiss to the crease between your thigh and hip, wet fingers smearing against your waist. One leg fell to the bed, then the other as he crawled over your body.

You were limp on the tangled sheets as you looked up at him, his downturned eyes partially lidded as you ran your hand over the scrape of his stubble. It was wet around his mouth, his lips still shiny with your arousal as he buckled over you. His forearm braced next to your head, holding him above you.

It was hard to say who moved into the kiss first, but noses pressed into cheeks and teeth clicked together as you licked the taste of yourself off his lips. You ached for more, trying to pour your request into König through the touch of your lips.

He used his free hand to shove his trousers down his legs, kicking them off and onto the stone floor. The backs of your thighs were snug against his hairy quads as he shifted back over you.

You were almost scared to look at it–the only naked man you had ever seen was a drunk man who had been arrested just outside the palace gates. Even then, it was just glimpses and flashes through the bars.

The feel of a hot brand against your thigh caught your attention. You sat up slightly, propping yourself up on an elbow as you looked down at the gap between your legs. The flushed tip bobbed against your thigh under your gaze, smearing wetly against you. It was hard for you to tear your eyes away.

He fisted his cock, groaning as he worked the length of it in his hand with a practiced stroke. The girth was impressive, still looking thick even in his own hand as you watched clear slick trickle from the weeping head and over his knuckles.

This was the only part of the consummation that seemed to match what your mother warned you about. It was supposed to be the painful part, when she advised you to simply imagine you were somewhere else until your husband decided he had enough. You had no idea how his cock was supposed to even fit inside of you.

“Do you… do you think it will fit?” you asked, naivety coloring your tone. You never intended to flatter him, but the breathless laugh you earned made your cheeks warm. He dropped his head forward, lips pressing against your temple.

“Yes, mäuschen, it will fit,” he assured you gently as he tried to fight his grin.

Smooth callouses swept to the back of your thigh, your knee pressed toward your chest beneath his firm grip. The wet sound of your sex splitting against the press of his cock made you want to hide, arousal twisting deep in your abdomen as you lifted your hips toward his. You both sighed as he rubbed himself up and down the seam.

The blunt catch of the head at your entrance made König groan, his eyes screwing shut. He moved toward it on instinct, slowly pushing against the ring of muscle. The feeling was not painful as much as it was uncomfortable, the pressure of you stretching wide around him made you draw tight like a bow.

Your hips tilted through each strained press, trying to find a position that felt more comfortable as he kept pressing into you. It was hard to understand that he just kept going, seemingly taking up all the excess space inside your body.

Heat burned between your legs when he was finally seated fully inside you, the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickling the backs of your thighs.

Your breaths were shallow and quick, the intrusion overwhelming as your fingers twisted in the bedding beneath you. The press of his fingers was not enough to prepare you for the width of his cock, the length feeling like he was buried all the way through you and in your throat. He filled every inch of you, plugging you up until you felt like you would burst.

“Relax,” König breathed, his voice sounding strained as he kept himself still. He rubbed two fingertips up and down your sternum, the motion eventually coaxing your breaths to slow to match the rhythm.

He shifted against you, a minute movement jostling the two of you against one another. The sensation made the world drop out from beneath you, muscles tightening as your sex bore down around him. You were stubborn in your attempts to grind your hips against him. There was a strangled sound from his chest, deep and rumbling as he squeezed your thigh so hard you were sure it would bruise.

“Please, meine frau, you must calm down.” His hand moved to splay over your hip, forcing you against the mattress as he pinned you down. He nodded approvingly as you stopped moving, your head starting to clear as you settled with each breath.

Sweat dampened his forehead and the nape of his neck, wisps of his hair stuck to his pale complexion as he hovered above you. It was still hard to wrap your mind around the fact that König was your husband, the band of the ring on his finger digging into the flesh of your thigh to serve as a reminder. The scars marking his features already seemed so familiar to you, the tilts of his head and pinch of his eyes lending themselves to memorizing the expressions he had kept secret under his hood.

His thumb moved to press tight circles against your sex, a satisfied smirk contorting his features as he watched you gasp. The discomfort was quickly pushed to the back of your mind, your sex squeezing tight around him as you mewled. You kept squirming, making him groan each time your hips moved.

Another hot squeeze of your core had his head sagging forward on a groan. He rooted deep, hips stuttering as he nudged even further inside you. His eyes were dark as they found yours, your nod of encouragement frantic.

“Yes, please,” you breathed, hand finding the curve of his jaw. Your thumb traced the jagged line of the scar near his lip. “Please.”

He hummed his agreement, turning his head to press a kiss to the center of your palm. His breath was hot over your fingers as his hips bunched against yours.

It was only the first taste of him inside you, gentle rocks of his pelvis to get you used to the feeling. The hot slide and press of his cock deep inside you unlocked something in your mind, something primal and instinctual you never knew existed.

You clutched at his bicep, gasping for air as he got more confident in his movements. The squelch was loud in the room, you were absolutely soaking. You could feel yourself leaking all over König and the bedding and your inner thighs. But the way he looked at you like you hung the moon in the sky made you forget your concern.

He leaned back, his wide palm smoothing over the back of your other leg and pressing until you were nearly bent in half. You almost choked, surprised your body could even contort so much. His lips were parted, his breaths labored as he stared at where you were stretched tight around him. The swell of your stomach made it impossible for you to see so you settled on watching his expression grow heavy with lust.

A long, sinuous motion made your eyes roll back. König pulled out and plunged back inside you in steady thrusts from tip to base, his skin slapping loudly against yours. The muscle of his hips bumped hard against your pelvis, his hands pressing down on your knees to rotate your hips up toward his.

He looked up at you, the sight of your nod making him bear down further. You had to force yourself to keep breathing, each hard thrust making you sigh softly as you tried to keep your head above water and stay with him.

He rutted into you so firmly that your teeth clacked, sweat starting to form at every juncture of skin touching skin. You reached for his shoulders, making him gather the backs of your knees on his biceps as he moved in closer to you. His brows were drawn, cheeks flushed pink as he grunted softly.

The air in the room was humid, your shared breaths dusting over one another as your eyes remained locked together.

He fucked into you with grit teeth, sweat starting to roll down his temple. Each thrust of his hips made the knot in your belly tighten, a syrupy warmth blooming through you. The pressure of him around you scratched an itch you never knew you had–you would crave this for the rest of your life.

You lifted your hips even further, his cock reaching a spot that made lightning start to build between your legs as you cried out.

“König, there, please…” you begged, voice breaking.

He obliged, pressing his belly to yours as he caught your mouth in a searing kiss. The merciless rhythm of his hips continued, the ocean waves building in your belly starting to crest and break. His lips opened over yours, hot tongue twisting into your mouth and licking along your teeth.

His weight shifted, head of his cock pressing so firmly inside you that the frantic wave of pleasure smashed into a million pieces as you fell.

Your legs twitched as you came with a scream, back arching stiffly off the bed. It felt like you were on fire, hot and unbearable as your muscles locked up. You struggled to think, your pleasure syrupy and warming as you floated somewhere else.

König stilled above you, keeping you speared on his cock as you writhed beneath him. His moan was deep, vibrating against you as your sex squeezed down on him like a vise. The press of his hands held you there, as strong as steel as he ground into you through the throes of your orgasm. You surfaced, your eyes wide as they met his, the sight of him forcing a moan out of you.

He looked like a predator above you, eyes gleaming with arousal. They were the color of lightning, the blue so intense that it was almost crackling as he searched your expression.

Your body started to jolt, your orgasm wringing you dry as you panted beneath him. He ground into you, cock twitching inside you as your hips stuttered of their own accord. The bedding twisted in his fists as his knuckles turned white, forehead dipping into the hollow of your throat as his breath fanned over your chest.

It occurred to you that he was close to spilling his seed inside of you, the whole point of consummating your marriage returning to you as you thought of carrying König’s child. You gasped, hand flying to your stomach all at once as you rubbed the skin there and imagined.

Soon you would be pregnant. He wanted you to be. You wanted to be.

His eyes followed the movement of your hand, his own fitting over yours, thumb stroking over the backs of your knuckles. He groaned, pressing your hand down against your soft flesh as it became clear to you he understood.

Your name was on his lips, repeated like a prayer as his hands fitted to your waist and pulled you further onto his cock.

“König,” you replied, your voice breaking as he set a reckless pace.

Your world spun, fuzzy around the edges as you drew harsh breaths that ended in soft ahs. The full wave of his body was gone, a staccato rhythm that was quickly turning sloppy replaced it. He stopped withdrawing fully, fucking into you with an urgency as he pounded you deep.

Delirium took over you as he used your body for his own pleasure. Overstimulation made tears well up on your lashline and slowly roll down your cheeks, you moaned your husband’s name as you fought to keep your eyes from squeezing shut.

König was running his mouth in his native language, guttural words twisted around your name with his harsh breaths. You loved listening to him talk, you found yourself wishing you understood what he was saying as he muttered words under his breath. He snapped his hips against you once, twice, and then he made a wounded sound as he finally found his release.

He kept shoving into you, hard and unrestrained as he fought to get even deeper inside you as his cock spit come that felt like molten iron deep. His hips stuttered thoughtlessly to fuck it even deeper inside of you.

You were awed as he held you there, watching his eyes squeeze closed as his breaths came hard. One hand left your waist, pressing into the sweaty bedding beneath you to stabilize himself. He moaned under his breath, exhaustion and satisfaction mingling in the sound as he bowed toward you.

It was only a moment more until he collapsed, pressing you into the mattress with the bulk of his body as his nose pressed just beneath your jaw. You were both suspended in time as you gasped, your eyes wide as you stared at the ceiling.

His hand pressed beneath you to the small of your back, holding you close as he remained buried deep inside you.

The weight of him on top of you made you wheeze, your palm pressing against his shoulder finally bringing König back to life. “You are crushing me,” you said with a laugh, voice breathless.

He was moving before you could say anything more, arms curling around your waist and over your back as he rolled. The world shifted as your cheek came to rest on his barrel chest, ear pressed against his strong heartbeat. His arm fitted around you, pulling you closer as he stamped kisses on your damp hairline.

“My love,” he sighed, almost sounding awe-struck. You looked up at him through your lashes, your palm pressing over his ribs.

He shifted, both of you hissing as he slowly pulled out of you. His fingers traced down your body, gathering his come as it started to leak from you and pressed it back inside of you. You yelped, nerves frayed as you squeezed around his digits.

“Get that smirk off your face,” you said, your smile betraying your tone as you attempted to scold him. He looked satisfied with himself, eyelids heavy as he shifted his gaze to you. His eyes were back to the color of a clear pool of water, his calm affect returned.

“You did not seem so upset with me at the moment,” he teased, calloused fingertips tracing up and down your arm.

You rolled your eyes, mashing your cheek into his chest again as you curled into him.

The silence between you two was comfortable, your gaze roving over his chambers. There were shelves with trinkets from travels, books and scrolls amongst them. It was so cozy, furs and rich fabrics across the furniture and tapestries on the walls. You lifted your head slightly, the rounded ear of a stuffed bear visible behind a basket with odds and ends of fabric sticking from it.

“I have to ask,” you started, a wide grin on your face as you propped yourself on König’s chest. He smoothed his hands over your waist, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin as he looked up at you, waiting. “Did you make that bear you gave me at the tournament?”

You had always found it hard to imagine him stitching it together, big hands working a needle through the fabric.

König laughed, a sharp breath of air leaving his nose as he nodded. “I did,” he said softly, cheeks turning pink as he looked a bit sheepish. “After the war I needed something to do with my hands that did not feel like murder. That was the best one I made, I wanted it to go to my future wife.”

You hummed, biting your cheek as you tilted your head to one side. “You thought I would be your future wife?” you asked, nose wrinkling. Affection warmed your cheeks, your hands pressing flat on his chest as you looked down at him.

“Oh yes,” he breathed, reaching up to tuck some of your mussed up hair out of your face. “I knew I would have no other. It seems that the gods agreed with me.”

You leaned into the touch of his hand, his thumb stroking over your eyebrow and down your cheek. “Would you make another one of those bears? For our child?” you asked softly, resting your chin on his sternum. You traced hearts on his chest with your fingertips.

König smiled again, his scarred face looking soft in the firelight. He bent down to kiss you, fingers hooked beneath your chin to lift your mouth to his. It was sweet, just a stamp of his lips to yours.

“For you, my lady?” he asked, eyes roaming over your face as he spoke. My lady. You were elated that he would now be calling you his wife. “Anything you ask.”

#konig x plus size reader #könig call of duty #könig #konig x reader #könig x reader #konig x you #konig cod #konig smut #könig smut #könig cod #knight!konig #könig x fem reader #konig x fem reader #konig x reader smut #könig x reader smut #cod x reader #reader insert #medieval au

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daimus · 1 month ago

Text

looking for Heaven, found the devil in me

In the beginning of your marriage, Kaiser never touches you. He only tells Ness how to do it.

wc — 1.6k

tags — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, fingering, medieval au I guess, Lord! Kaiser, Knight! Ness, title from shake it out by Florence and the Machine

You had not known you were leaving home for the last time when you said goodbye. You suspect this was intentional. They knew you wouldn’t have gone otherwise.

The woods are eerily silent around you. Patches of old snow, half melted into pools of crystalline and liquid silver, dot the still landscape. Turn itself feels sluggish and frozen.

They have sent you to the very edge of the world.

You jolt when quick, nimble fingers do the laces of your cloak tighter. He chucks you under the chin briskly when he’s finished, a flash of affection, there and then gone.

“It’s cold, miss,” Ness says. “You need to wear your furs.”

You didn’t even notice him behind you. He’s like another creature of the woods. His eerily quiet footsteps are a sign he belongs. You, on the other hand, are an outsider, and nature wants you to know it.

“Maybe we should head back inside,” Ness muses. “Kaiser will be home soon.”

You say nothing, but let him guide you back to the castle. His arm is warm around you, a shelter from the storm.

Ness feeds you soup in the kitchen while you wait for your husband. You hadn’t expected him, this sweet, bubbly knight, more like a handmaiden than a manservant. He spoons broth into your waiting mouth and dabs at your mouth with a napkin, cooing at you to “be careful, it’s hot.”

The fire is roaring and you’re sleepy from nothing. Ever since you got to Kaiser’s manor, you’ve had a shortage of work to do. Lesser nobles like you are only separated from peasants in name. That’s why your family was so delighted when the offer for your hand came from the North, even though it meant you would be going so far away.

You still don’t know why it was you.

The door bangs open.

Ness runs over to help Kaiser shed his coats and boots, running a familiar hand over him with a quickness. You still don’t understand their relationship, their strange closeness. They haven’t taken the oath of blood brothers, but they seem closer than even the knights that are sworn to each other. Despite his lordship, Kaiser seems content to let Ness handle everything: his property, his taxes, even his wife.

There’s a level of trust you’re not sure you could ever achieve with another human being, but Ness makes it so easy you can almost imagine it. Yes, if it was anyone, it would be Ness.

“Wife,” Kaiser beckons. “You won’t welcome me?”

You push your chair back hurriedly and follow in Ness’s eager footsteps. He laughs, gentle, and strokes a hand over your hair - quick, as he does everything. You barely notice it.

Fleet-footed, your grandmother would call him. He moves like a startled fawn, always with a jolting start, yet he doesn’t seem like prey. Or at the very least, you know he’s not the bottom of the food chain.

You are.

You keep your chin tucked down, face turned away. You’re not attempting to be demure, you really don’t know how to act. No one trained you in your duties before they sent you up here to be buried by snow. The only teacher you have is Ness.

He would be a better wife than you are, and he’s close to Kaiser - you don’t know why your husband didn’t just marry him instead. It would be so much less work than procuring you and dragging you back to the North, just for Ness to explain how to cook and budget to you in the solarium during daylight hours.

And at night, he teaches you something else.

“Don’t be scared,” Ness coos, nudging your legs apart.

He’s nestled with you in the sheets. It's almost like being in a cocoon, tucked in those thick blankets and soft wool. The North doesn't use silks. They don't trap heat well enough.

You clutch at his arms for support, frightened but trusting. Kaiser sits in an armchair at the foot of the bed. There's a watchfulness to his waiting that makes it seem purposeful.

You suspect your husband isn’t of as few words as he makes it seem. Rather, he wants to frighten you. His reticence makes him hard to predict. You can’t tell what will please him, relying on Ness for clues.

Ness presses a kiss to your cheek, peppering you all over with soft, butterfly brushes of his nose, before he tucks you under his chin. You like the way he touches you. It’s soothing, skin to skin. And he’s warm.

You’re always cold in this freezing, bitter land. It’s inhospitable.

Ness arranges you so that your legs are hooked over his. Your fingers release their death grip on his biceps so you can shove your skirt, which has gotten rucked up, down.

You hold it there in place, trembling from embarrassment. It feels like you’re a zoo animal on display. There are too many eyes on you, and Kaiser is still silent.

Ness rubs his cheek against yours. “Shh, shh,” he hums. “Don’t be scared. Would I hurt you, pretty? My liege lord’s wife? Would I?”

You shake your head, bumping into his nose. He’s too close, all tangled up in you. Your limbs are strung out against him.

Reluctantly, you let go of your skirt, drawing your hands back up. You don’t know what else to hold on to now.

“Good girl,” Kaiser finally says, watching you retreat. “Let Ness take care of you.”

You squirm at his words, feeling something thicken in your stomach. You want to press your thighs together, but Ness’s legs are holding you open.

They talk, for a moment, over your head like you’re not there. They’re discussing what to do with you, while you grow meeker and meeker in Ness’s grip. He pets your hair idly while Kaiser makes dirty suggestions involving tongue and teeth.

Ness’s hand slips under your skirt.

You jolt up against him, but it doesn’t seem to hurt him. He toys with the white lace of your undergarments while Kaiser switches the topic to, unbelievably, farming. You’re not quite following the thread of the conversation.

“Yes,” Ness says agreeably as his fingers slip under the soft white fabric. “I’ll look into it.”

The first graze along your clit could almost be an accident. He acts like it too, shushing you with soft kisses against your temple when you make a complaining noise, an apology murmured against your hair. But then he keeps doing it, purposefully drilling his fingers against your clit, watching you whimper and whine helplessly in his lap.

“What is it?” Kaiser asks you, a smile playing on his lips. “What do you want, my wife?”

You shake your head.

“Nothing?” He shrugs. “You heard her, Ness.”

The conversations turns away from you again. You bury your face in Ness’s shoulder and shut your eyes as he keeps playing with you, his fingers slipping through now wet folds as he tap-tap-taps at you insistently, the sensation too little to get you anywhere, but too much to ignore.

He dips below, gathering slick from where you’re leaking, and returns to trace tight little circles on your clit. You gasp, your core tightening as your legs kick out.

Ness stops talking to adjust you once more. “Behave,” he chided you lightly, amused. “A lady doesn’t interrupt conversations.”

“Yes, my lord,” you whisper.

“I’m not-“

“Very good,” Kaiser says. “You should address Ness as you address me. He is, like you, mine after all.”

Ness kisses your cheek. “Look what a gift you are,” he murmurs, his voice darkening. “Look what you do for me. Can I reward her, Kaiser?”

Kaiser frowns.

Ness revokes it immediately. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry. I’ll wait for your permission.”

Your head drops back against Ness’s chest, trying to control yourself, trying to breathe evenly through bursts of pleasure. It’s not enough. There’s a hot itch under your skin. Something in you clamors for more like a trapped animal, gnawing and biting and unwilling to give you a moment of respite.

“Ness,” you start. He shakes his head.

“Kaiser, please.” He looks like a predator and a king and your lord, the master of all that dwells within this manor, including you. “Please, I’m so-“

“So?” He says smoothly, laying a heavy hand on your ankle.

“So-“

You choke on it, your face burning with embarrassment. You can’t say it. You weren’t raised with their refined manners but you were still raised in a noble lady’s house.

“Mercy, my lord,” Ness intercedes for you. “Look at the poor thing, she’s trembling.”

“She needs to learn to ask for what she wants,” Kaiser says hungrily.

“Listen,” Ness says, and they both fall silent. The squelch of Ness’s fingers is audible. He toys with you, slipping one inside. Your spine seizes, stiffening instantly as you clench down on him. “She’s so wet,” he hisses.

“Fine,” Kaiser says. “What do you say, my sweet?”

“Thank you, my lord, Kaiser-“ your words break on a moan. “Ness! Thank you!”

Your voice turns garbled as Ness presses a second finger into you. His thumb applies steady pressure to your clit as he pumps his hand slowly. Something is building inside of you.

You cling to him, the shelter in the storm. In desperation, your animal brain remembers that he is safety and harbor and fire, everything comforting.

“Cum for me, dear one,” Ness says, watching your face hungrily. “I want to see it.”

Kaiser says nothing, but you can feel his hand tightening around your leg.

You break against him, shaking through it. It feels like fear, if fear was addictive. Heat courses through your veins, desire pools between your legs, and Ness works you through your orgasm on steady fingers until you’re keening, but you never tell him to stop.

Only Kaiser can call him off.

“Enough,” Kaiser says, rising from his seat. “My turn.”

#sera writes #kaiser x reader #kaiser smut #ness x reader #ness smut #blue lock x reader #blue lock smut

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axelsagewrites · 8 months ago

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could you make a robb stark x baratheon reader where they grow up together as friends and were promised to each other, at the beginning reader thinks robb doesn't wanna marry her but then he tells her he loves her

if you could please add smut at the end (afab reader btw)

Robb Stark*Arranged

Pairing: arranged marriage!robb stark x princess!reader

Word count: 2272

Warnings: arranged marriage, anxiety, talks of running away, making out, (smut in part two but this is mostly wholesome), fluff

Masterlist here

A/N: sorry this (and everything else lol) has taken so long but part two with the smut will be up in the next couple of days :)

despite being a Baratheon by blood, by title, and by name most days you felt more like a Stark than anything else. Your father had sent you up to the North on your eleventh name day to become a ward of Ned Stark as part of an alliance of sort. Marrying his eldest daughter to a well-respected and established house only strengthened your fathers claim.

It had benefits for you, well at least he told you all his reasons in the letters. You’d be safe under lord starks protection, able to grow up alongside Sansa Stark who was only a year younger than you, become the future lady of Winterfell, and most importantly, to you at least, marry your childhood crush.

Yes, that’s right from the time you met him at four, him being five, you were smittened. Your father had travelled north on business but also happened to attend the wedding of one of the northern lords. He and ned laughed loudly, clinking their glasses together, as they watched you force Robb to walk down a pretend aisle with you that Jon helped you set up with chairs.

Of course, it was just a silly crush. It’s not like four-year-olds understand what a wedding is. By the time you moved to the north at eleven it was just a fond memory of your fathers he would tell at dinner parties.

In the nicest way possible when you first arrived Robb didn’t even care you were there. He was twelve and running about with wooden swords to practise with Jon and Theon while you and Sansa would practise hairstyles in each other’s hair.

However, by fifteen something dreadful happened. You fancied him.

Sure, in theory it sounded great but there were so many awkward moments. After all you were only fifteen. You couldn’t help that your face went beat red when he gave you a necklace for your birthday and when he told you that you looked ‘pretty’ one day you could barely muster out a thank you, you were so shocked.

You did your best to shove it down and pretend everything was normal over the years, but the crush never went away. You got better at hiding it. you had to as you’d grown closer over the years. Since Sansa had no interest in horse riding you were left to go with the trio, as you called them, instead. It soon became one of your favourite past times and you quickly grew close with the three boys. Especially Robb.

You figured it was a good idea especially as the talks of your marriage began cropping up more frequently. Your parents started pushing you to go on chaperoned excursions to markets and walks through the gods’ woods. They had no clue, or at least pretended, about the unchaperoned ones. Often you disappeared into the gods wood for some peace or the fields behind Winterfell to race. Robb began to bring food in his satchel so your excursions could turn into late lunches in the few sunny days of Winterfell.

“I definitely won,” he grinned as he dismounted his horse.

“Yeah right,” you scoffed as you jumped down, “you cheated,”

“How?”

“You went before I said go!”

“It’s three, two, one, go on one,”

“No, it’s not. Its three, two, one, go,”

“As in go already I said one,”

“As in you’re a cheat,” you huffed as you sat down against a thick oak tree.

Robb laughed at your antics as he sat down beside you, pulling his satchel out, “Truce?” he offered as he pulled out a parcel of sandwiches.

You pretended to think it over before nodding, “Truce,” For a few moments you sat in silence eating the sandwiches before you finally decided to tell him the news that had been weighing over you for the past week. “My mother sent me a raven,”

“Oh?” Robb paused, mid bite with concern written on his face. Your father sent you letters on a weekly basis but so far, your mother had only sent three since you left. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, well, I think so. I’m not sure,” you paused for a moment before just blurting it out, “She’s coming next week. With a seamstress,” Robb stared at you confused, “For the wedding,”

“Oh,” the word shattered your heart. While you had become friends over the year neither one of you ever spoke about the impending nuptials. Sure, you wanted to marry him, but you were terrified. Not of marriage. He was a good man. He would treat you right whether he wanted this marriage or not. But that’s when the fear came in. what if Robb could never love you? “Aren’t most girls excited about fancy dresses?” he tried to joke, lighten the mood like he always did. Its what he always did whenever the wedding was brought up. Play it off, make a joke, laugh. It was all an awkward joke to him.

“I suppose, Sansa will be,” you laughed. She really had become like a sister to you over the years, “I suppose though this means it will be arranged soon,” you tried to look at him, but Robb just stared down at his food. “Unless we escape somehow,” you joked, copying his defence mechanism.

He looked up a smiled a little, “Quick you grab the horses, I’ll pack the bag. We’ll ride at dawn,” he joked.

“Imagine. Take all the back roads till we get to Riverrun,”

“Bribe the Frays into letting us cross,”

“Then straight down to Dorne,”

“Sounds like a plan,” he smiled, knocking his knee against yours. “Jon would never forgive me if I left him behind,”

“Him and Arya can come with. We’ll become sellswords,”

“Sounds like we’ve got it all planned out,”

When you returned to Winterfell Catelyn ran up to you both in a tizzy, “Where have you both been?” she whispers shouted, smiling at a passing lord before scouring, “A messenger from the king has arrived,”

You knew she meant well but your stomach dropped. you both followed her to the hall but soon the sorrowful look on your face was replaced by a grin, “Uncle Tyrion,” you rushed up to him immediately.

“Ah my favourite niece. Finally returned from some dingy pub I assume,” he joked though Cat couldn’t help but frown a little. They were both protective just in their own ways. “Don’t worry I’m not here to stay long. Just come down on your father’s behalf to organise the wedding. Speaking of, Lord Stark I do believe this is the first time we’ve met,” he extended a courteous nod to a very nervous looking Robb.

“Lord Tyrion,” he bowed.

“It goes without saying if you hurt my niece, I will have to have my men kill you,” he said, head tilting to the side making Robb gulp, “But other than that it’s lovely to meet you,” he grinned widely like a jester.

“Don’t tease him uncle,” you shook your head, but Tyrion just laughed, “I’d say you’ll get used to him, but no one has so far,”

“You’re so kind niece, truly,” he laughed, “Now onto business The king has organised his travels and shall be in Winterfell by the first of next month so we shall have to act swiftly,”

Panic set on all three of your faces. Though Robb and yours was far different than Catelyn’s. “My lord that’s awfully soon. We may not have the provisions to afford so many guests so soon- “

“No fear my lady. I was also sent with my father’s gold. No Lannister shall have anything less than a golden affair,” you could see the relief melt from Catelyn but yours was just setting in.

For the next three weeks every discussion you had was about the wedding. cakes, flowers, food, music, dresses, veils, and most daunting of all; organising the preparation for Robb’s and yours new chamber. Tyrion even sent a seamstress to your room to organise an outfit for your wedding night. It was all quickly becoming too much.

You’d barely even seen Robb since the planning began. There was no time to calm down and no one to remind you to breathe. That was his job. Whenever you got nervous, he would gently grab your wrist under the table, running his thumb over the back of your hand. But he was nowhere to be found.

You eventually managed to find Jon who told you Robb was under the same stresses. His mother had him arranging with traders and mingling with the growing number of lords appearing at Winterfell’s gates. “Suppose this is the stresses of being a lady,” Jon joked.

It was only then it hit you. Soon this whole castle would be yours to run. How would you ever have time to breathe let alone enjoy your husband’s company if he would even have you.

Despite missing your family, the night before their arrivals, you cried quietly in your chamber. Their arrival tomorrow only marked the three remaining days you had left as a maid. Perched on an open windows ledge, the cold air stung your cheek but at least as you watched the birds fly you could feel a little of their freedom.

Then there was a quiet but rapid knocking. The faint sound brought your attention to the door which was shut less than a second after it was opened. “Hey sorry I’ve not come sooner- “Robb’s voice entered the room, for some reason making your tears sting more. Robb shivered from the cold, “Why’s the window open? You’ll freeze princess,”

Robb rushed to your side, leaning past you to shut the glass to preserve what little heat he could. His confusion fell from his face when he saw your tears, “What’s the matter?” his voice was soft and tender as he sat across from you to hold your hands, his thumbs stroking over the back on them.

“I don’t know,” you lied in a whisper.

Robb knew. He always knew when you lied. He just nodded gently though. “I’ll start a fire,” he was on his feet again.

“I can fetch someone if you wish- “

“But I’m already here,” he teased as he knelt by the fireplace.

As he got to work in silence you padded across the floor. The stone floor felt like ice against your bare feet making you quicken your pace till you could sit on the small sofa in front of the fire Robb had started. “Easy, see,” he said, joining you on the couch, “We’ll get a heat in you,”

“Thanks,” you sniffled.

You sat in an easy silence though when you left out another sigh Robb was compelled to place an arm around your shoulder. You leant into his touch, your head rested on his shoulder and his on yours. A few moments passed before he spoke, “Jon said you were asking for me,”

You weren’t sure why you tensed, “I just worry sometimes,”

“I know,”

You couldn’t stand the next silence that followed so made a joke, “Thought you’d ran away,”

“Without you?” he said, pulling back to grin back at you, “Nah we have a deal princess. Say the word and I’ll get the horses,”

His smile made your stomach drop. It all felt like one big tease, “I thought,” you began to stutter, “You may have been running from me,”

Robb’s face fell, “Why would I do that?”

You sighed, turning to face the flames again as the tears threatened to spill, “It’s not like you chose this marriage. You weren’t exactly ever given the option. I wouldn’t blame you if you objected to it,” you muttered.

When he pulled away you could’ve sobbed but it was quickly replaced by confusion when he knelt in front of you, “Why would I object? all I desire is to be a good and faithful husband to you and may gods help me I will be. I wouldn’t desire another option if I was given a thousand,”

“Why?” you could feel venom briming in your voice, “Because my dowery? Because the king commanded it?”

The hurt on his face felt like a stab to the gut but his words only twisted the knife, “Because I love you,” he took your hands in his, “and I understand that you don’t feel that way for me and may never, but nothing will stop the way I- “

You didn’t even realise you’d moved till you pulled back from the kiss. Without thinking your lips had found his and now you stared into his eyes. It only lasted a second before Robb lusted forward, reconnecting the kiss into a messy, desperate thing.

As you felt him raise, you followed, standing to kiss him as his arms wrapped around your back, pulling you flush against him. Your hands rested on his shoulders, now fully able to appreciate his strength.

You wanted more but he pulled away, your lips chased his making Robb breathe out a laugh. “You’re something else,” he muttered, a grin on his face, “I can’t imagine not wanting to be with you,”

This time your arms tightened, burying your head into his neck as you hugged him close. Robb followed suit, his muscular arms keeping your warmer than the fire, “I feel the same way,” you eventually managed to stutter out, “But I- “

“You don’t have to say it,” he mumbled, kissing the top of your head, “I understand,”

“How did I get so lucky?” you pulled back to smile up at him.

He just smiled back, “I ask myself that each night,”

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#robb stark #robb stark x reader #robb stark imagine #robb stark fic #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fic #asoiaf x reader #robb stark fluff

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moonlitstoriess · 1 month ago

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Heyyy so I saw you wanting to write more for Kallias, and idk I just saw this soul shattering tiktok and the winter faerie actually reminded me of Kallias (yk because.. winter.. yh) … this is not a direct ask but maybe it can inspire you for further Kallias fics https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNeoxbvYr/ much much love, I really enjoyed your latest work with Kallias, you portrayed him so beautifully 🫶🏼

When the Ice Cracks- Kallias x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N, a bubbly healer, is summoned to treat the cold, brooding High Lord of Winter. Determined to befriend him, she pushes past his icy walls—until he finally breaks her spirit with cruel words. When she withdraws, Kallias tells himself it’s for the best… until he realizes he misses her warmth. Now, he must mend what he shattered before it’s too late.

Warnings: angst, mentions of injuries, fluff in the end, also I apologize in advance if you do not like my writing in this one cuz I am currently dealing with a painful eye infection which caused me to delay everything and idk if this will live up to the expectations you guys😔

See masterlist

A/N: Hi! The video was really something, the pain I felt as I watched it…😭 but it did give me an idea, although a different one but with enough angst loll. Also, thank you for the love, it makes me truly happy knowing my work is being appreciated<3

The apothecary chamber was warm, despite the eternal cold of the Winter Court just beyond its frost-laced windows. The scent of crushed herbs and simmering tonics swirled in the air, wrapping Y/N in a comforting embrace as she worked, carefully grinding a handful of dried roots into a fine powder. The mortar and pestle moved rhythmically in her hands, the familiar motion grounding her as she hummed softly to herself.

Healing had always been her purpose. From the moment she discovered her gift—the ability to soothe pain with a touch, to knit together flesh and bone with her power—it had felt like breathing. But talent alone was never enough. She had clawed her way through the ranks, training tirelessly under the best healers of the Winter Court, proving herself again and again until there had been no choice but to acknowledge her skill. Now, she was the youngest to ever hold the title of Master Healer, a position of high honor within the court.

The title had come with its share of challenges. The Winter Court was not an easy place for someone like her—a female who spoke too freely, smiled too easily, and refused to be swallowed by the cold, unspoken rules of the icy kingdom. She knew she was different from the others who served in Kallias’s court. Most healers were quiet, composed, reserved. Y/N? She talked too much. She got too close. She teased the soldiers she patched up, fussed over the sentries when they neglected their wounds, and made even the gruffest warriors crack a reluctant smile.

Warmth had always been her way. And warmth was not often welcomed in a place ruled by ice.

But she had earned her place. Through skill, through sheer willpower, through proving time and time again that she belonged.

She exhaled slowly, tipping the powdered root into a steaming vial, watching as the tonic darkened into a rich amber hue. This one would be useful—an enhanced healing elixir, meant to speed up the mending of deep wounds. She had been experimenting with stronger potions lately, determined to push the limits of her craft.

She reached for another vial, about to measure out the next ingredient, when—

“Y/N!”

The sharp call shattered the quiet, making her jolt so hard she nearly sent the entire potion spilling across the table. She twisted around, heart hammering, to find Healer Maerith standing in the doorway, her usually composed face drawn tight with urgency.

Y/N frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. “Maerith? What—”

“You are needed,” the older healer interrupted, breathless, her thick furs rustling as she strode into the room. “Immediately.”

Y/N straightened, brows knitting. “Needed for what?”

Maerith’s icy blue eyes met hers, and when she spoke, Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“The High Lord has been injured.”

For a moment, she could only stare. The words didn’t make sense. Kallias? Injured? The High Lord of Winter was a warrior, one of the most powerful High Lords in all of Prythian. She had never—never—been summoned to treat him before.

“I—” she started, struggling to process it. “What happened? Is he—”

“There’s no time for questions,” Maerith snapped, already moving toward the door. “Gather your supplies and get to his chambers. Now.”

Y/N barely hesitated. Years of training, of discipline, took over. She grabbed her satchel, shoving in every tonic, poultice, and salve she could think of—something for pain, something for wounds, something for internal injuries in case it was worse than they were letting on.

Her mind raced as she slung the heavy leather strap over her shoulder and sprinted out of the room, Maerith’s words echoing in her head.

The High Lord has been injured.

Her boots pounded against the marble floors as she tore through the palace corridors, weaving past startled servants and guards. The familiar halls felt different now, heavier, filled with an almost suffocating tension.

How had it happened? A training accident? An attack? Was it serious?

The thought made her pulse stutter. She had treated hundreds of warriors, seen males with grievous wounds, but this—this was different. This was the ruler of their court, their kingdom. And she had no idea what to expect when she reached his chambers.

One thing was certain, though.

She was about to come face-to-face with the High Lord of Winter himself.

Pain throbbed in his side, deep and unrelenting.

Kallias sat stiffly in the high-backed chair near the roaring fireplace of his chambers, his jaw tight as he pressed a cloth against the wound that refused to heal. Blood had long since soaked through the fabric, staining his fingers a deep crimson, but still, the gash remained. Even with his Fae healing, even with his magic, the injury lingered—mocking him.

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the chair, ice creeping along the edges of the wound in a feeble attempt to numb the pain. How had it come to this?

A routine patrol beyond the palace walls, that was all it had been. He had been investigating strange reports near the northern borders when a group of rogue Fae attacked. Rogues. In his court. It infuriated him. They had been strong—trained, even—but not stronger than him. Kallias had made quick work of them, his ice shattering bones, freezing bodies where they stood.

But one had gotten close. One had touched him.

A poisoned blade, slashing across his ribs before he cut the male down where he stood. He hadn’t felt it at first, the cold consuming his rage, his focus on eliminating every last one of them. But then, as the bodies lay frozen at his feet, the pain had set in. The wound had burned, spread, and despite every attempt to use his magic to seal it, it would not close.

He clenched his teeth, fingers curling into a fist as frustration curled in his gut. He loathed being touched, and now his own mistake—the one moment he had let his guard slip—had left him with no choice but to endure it.

A healer had to see to him.

Kallias could hardly stomach the idea. He was High Lord of the Winter Court, the most powerful male in this palace, and now he sat injured like some weakling in his own chambers. It should have healed by now. But it hadn’t. Which meant he had to tolerate someone else's hands on him.

He exhaled sharply, preparing himself. At the very least, he knew the healer would be professional—quiet, efficient, distant, like all the others who served under him.

Then, the doors burst open.

"Master Healer Y/N, my lord," a voice announced before the heavy doors shut once more.

Kallias barely had a second to process the name before she stepped in.

His first thought was that she did not look like a healer. Or at least, not like any healer he had encountered before.

The female before him—Y/N—was not reserved. She did not carry the cold demeanor of his court. No, she radiated warmth.

Bright eyes, a quick, eager smile. Her hair was slightly tousled, a satchel slung over her shoulder, filled with an assortment of tonics, bandages, and salves. She was smaller than he expected but walked with a confidence that somehow filled the room.

And then she bowed—deeply, properly—before flashing him that same, blinding smile.

"My lord! An honor, truly. You’re my first High Lord patient, you know? What a milestone! And what a lovely room—I should’ve guessed it would be grand, of course, you’re the High Lord, but still! Very cozy for such a serious place."

Kallias just stared.

She moved toward him with an energy that was… unnatural for the Winter Court. His people did not behave this way. Healers did not behave this way.

Was she… babbling?

She reached his side, dropping to a crouch beside his chair. “Now, let’s see—oh! Wait. Sorry, my lord, I got ahead of myself. Where was the injury again?”

Kallias blinked at her.

What. The. Hell.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, only studying her as his brain tried to process what had just happened. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not a courtier, not a soldier, and certainly not a healer.

She didn’t cower, didn’t hesitate, didn’t treat him like some untouchable force of nature.

And gods help him, a part of him almost found it… endearing.

He shoved the thought away immediately.

Wordlessly, he lifted his hand from the wound, exposing the long, deep gash along his ribs.

Her eyes widened.

A gasp left her lips, so dramatic it made something in him twitch. "By the Cauldron! This is terrible. Absolutely terrible. No wonder your magic isn’t closing it—look at that! That’s not just a wound, my lord, that’s a full-on crisis!"

His nostrils flared as he tried not to react.

She was already rummaging through her bag, muttering under her breath. "My great-great-grandfather had a wound like this once, you know? Not poisoned, but deep enough that it wouldn’t close—granted, he was a fisherman, not a High Lord, but still. Oh! And this reminds me of that soldier from the southern border last spring, nasty gash, nearly lost his whole side—poor guy, cried like a baby, but don’t worry, my lord, I’m sure you’ll handle this much better than he did."

What. The. Hell. Was. Happening.

She was still talking as she placed a warm, gentle hand over the wound. He barely had a second to brace himself before power pulsed from her palm.

White-hot pain lanced through him, burning from the inside out. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth, his body instinctively jerking at the sensation.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry! I know it hurts," she said quickly, not stopping. "It’s the first part of the healing process, the pain means it’s working—”

“Just do your damn job,” he snapped.

Her hands stilled for a second.

Then—to his utter disbelief—she laughed.

A bright, unapologetic laugh.

“Alright, alright, High Lord of Impatience, I’ll be quick,” she teased, carefully pressing her hand back to the wound. “No need to get all grumpy.”

Kallias barely managed to bite back his shock.

No one. No one spoke to him that way.

Yet this strange, bubbly, utterly unafraid healer did so without hesitation.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or intrigued.

She worked efficiently, despite her chatter, cleaning the wound, applying some sort of cooling salve before carefully wrapping the bandages around his torso. Her touch was gentle, careful—not the cold, clinical detachment he was used to.

When she finished, she straightened, brushing her hands off and nodding in satisfaction. "Alright, my lord! You’re all patched up. Now, since this wound is serious, I’ll be checking on you daily to ensure proper healing. You’ll need to rest, no strenuous activity, and absolutely no magic use on the injury—magic interference could worsen the effects. Take this tonic twice a day, avoid anything too cold—oh wait, your whole court is cold, hmm—well, maybe don’t sit in the snow for too long. And—”

She paused, realizing she was still talking.

She gave him a sheepish smile.

“Oh. Uh—sorry, my lord.” She bowed deeply. “I’ll… take my leave now.”

And just like that, she whirled around and left as quickly as she had come, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence settled in his chambers.

Kallias just sat there, stunned, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

His gaze flickered to the door, as if expecting her to burst back in with another round of chatter.

She didn’t.

And yet—for some godsdamned reason, his chambers suddenly felt much colder.

The soft sound of the door clicking behind her echoed down the empty hallway. Y/N let out a long breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she straightened her robe and took a moment to steady her thoughts. The High Lord's chambers were eerily quiet, and now that she was outside, the weight of the moment hit her. She had never, in all her years as a healer, been summoned to tend to a High Lord—especially not Kallias, Lord of Winter.

She had always heard the rumors: Kallias was cold, distant, and completely unapproachable. His icy powers were a reflection of his personality—a male who trusted no one, who allowed only the bare minimum of interaction. She had always thought, maybe even hoped, that she wouldn’t be the one to face him. But here she was, having just treated his wound, with nothing but the cold, sterile scent of the palace halls to remind her of it.

It was strange, really. She had been nervous walking in, of course—who wouldn't be? But when she saw him, sitting there, with that sharp, regal posture, she couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of calm settle over her. She had seen plenty of injured soldiers and nobles in her time, but Kallias was different. His gaze had been piercing, his silence unnerving, but she had managed to push past it. Maybe it was her natural exuberance, or maybe it was the quiet desperation inside of her that made her speak to him so freely. But once she started talking, she couldn't stop. It was as if she couldn’t help herself—he was so cold, so distant, that she wanted to break through that ice, even if it meant talking his ear off.

Her stomach twisted as she walked down the hall, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the stone. The image of him—his sharp, icy eyes, the tension in his posture—kept replaying in her mind. And yet, despite his cold exterior, she found herself thinking about him. Was it the way he seemed so unaffected by her? Or was it the strange feeling that had settled in her chest when she’d touched his skin to heal him, when his sharp hiss had cut through the silence?

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. She hadn’t intended to make a spectacle of herself. She had never acted so loosearound a patient before. But something about Kallias had made her lose her usual professionalism. She had simply been… herself. And she couldn’t decide if she regretted it or not.

As she reached her chambers, Y/N quickly removed her healing satchel from her shoulder, placing it on the small table by the window. Her mind was still buzzing, and her hands itched to keep busy. She grabbed a small vial of herb tonic from the shelf, staring down at it for a long moment. The liquid inside shimmered in the low light, a soft blue-green glow. She started preparing another tonic to keep herself distracted, her movements swift and practiced as she crushed the dried herbs. But her mind was elsewhere.

It was silly, really. She had treated countless soldiers, nobles, even the occasional member of the court. But something about Kallias was… different. The way he’d stared at her when she had walked in—no one looked at her like that. It was the look of a man who had lived through decades of isolation, someone who was both imposing and dangerous, but there was also something else. Curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe it was just her imagination running wild.

She cursed herself for allowing her thoughts to wander back to him. Why was she even thinking about him? It wasn’t like he had shown her any kindness. In fact, he had barely spoken to her. That bitter coldness had wrapped around him like a blanket, and she had been the one to dive right into it. It was foolish. But then again, maybe she hadn’t been entirely wrong in doing so. He had let her heal him. He hadn’t called for another healer, and he hadn’t thrown her out. Maybe that was something, wasn’t it?

Y/N suddenly stopped mid-motion, her eyes wide. Was she sighing over Kallias? Her face flushed with embarrassment as she forced her mind back to her work. She would need to check on him tomorrow—his wound was deep, and it was going to take more than just a quick treatment to heal.

She gathered her thoughts, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling swirling in her stomach. Tomorrow would be another day. The High Lord was injured, yes, but he was just another patient. Another patient she needed to focus on. And when she went back to see him, she would keep things professional. No more talking, no more trying to break through his icy facade. She needed to be a healer, not a friend.

Her stomach twisted again as her mind flashed back to the way he had hissed when she touched him, the sharpness of it cutting through the air. It was as if she had momentarily crossed a boundary—one that he hadn’t allowed anyone to cross for a long time.

Y/N bit her lip, pushing the thoughts away. Tomorrow, she’d focus on the wound. Tomorrow, she’d make sure it healed properly, and nothing more. That was the job. That was what she was here for.

Y/N walked briskly down the palace corridors, the scent of morning dew still lingering in the air despite the heavy chill that seemed to follow the Winter Court even in the early hours. Her thoughts were consumed by the High Lord’s injury and how her treatment of it had left a curious impression on her. She had not expected the wound to be so severe, nor had she anticipated the subtle tension that had grown between her and Kallias during their brief interaction.

She had been awake since the crack of dawn, preparing her usual healing supplies, trying to find a quiet moment to gather her thoughts. But now, here she was, making her way to the High Lord's chambers to check on his recovery. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she had missed something. She had treated him with care—surely he would be resting. It had been such a deep injury after all.

But when Y/N arrived at his chambers, confusion struck her first. The door stood wide open, the room empty. The bed was unmade, the thick blankets thrown aside as if he had not even been there. A cold shiver slid down her spine, a strange sense of panic washing over her. Why isn’t he here?

Her brows furrowed. She stepped closer to the window, looking out at the stillness of the courtyard, but there was no sign of the High Lord. Her eyes darted around, searching the rooms for any clue. The last time she had seen him, he had been wounded, fragile, and now—now he was gone.

A sinking feeling settled in her gut. The hell is going on?

With determination, she turned on her heel and began walking quickly down the hallway, calling out to a few servants along the way, trying to catch wind of any gossip or movement that might explain where the High Lord had gone. No one seemed to know anything.

Her steps became quicker, her thoughts swirling with concern. She wasn't worried about his safety—no, she knew Kallias was more than capable of taking care of himself—but the fact that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be nagged at her. He should be resting. He shouldn’t be out there, moving around so soon. What was he thinking?

After a few more moments of searching, she found a servant outside a side door, speaking with another. She stopped in her tracks and approached him.

“Excuse me,” she asked, trying to keep the sharpness from her voice, “Have you seen the High Lord this morning?”

The servant blinked, pausing for a second before bowing deeply. “Ah, Lady Healer. The High Lord is not in his chambers this morning. He’s in the training grounds.” He quickly added, “He insisted on continuing his training despite the injury.”

Y/N felt frustration claw at her throat as she nodded curtly. “Training grounds, you say?” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t have to be told twice. Without another word, she turned and stormed off, her boots slapping against the stone floor with every furious step. She was angry, worried, but mostly, she was disappointed. After everything I said last night, he’s still going out there to train like this?

The more she thought about it, the more infuriated she became. What kind of fae would ignore their own orders, their own well-being, just to look strong?

As she neared the training grounds, the cold, crisp air hit her full force, but her temper kept her warm. She was already fuming by the time she stepped out into the open field. The sight before her was more infuriating than she could have imagined.

There, in the middle of the training grounds, stood Kallias, half-naked, his broad chest exposed to the biting cold. His chest and torso were rippling with muscle—sharply defined, each movement a testament to his power. But what struck Y/N the most was the wound—still visible, still raw, bandaged and still not properly healed despite her efforts.

Her heart raced for a moment as her eyes lingered, taking in his impressive form. But she immediately shoved those thoughts away—there was no time for that. No time to think about how attractive he looked standing there.

“Damnit, Lord Kallias!” she muttered, her voice low but seething with irritation.

She stormed toward him, her anger propelling her forward, and the soldiers training around them watched her approach, their eyes widening at the sight of the healer marching directly into the middle of the field. Y/N didn’t care. She didn’t care about the stares or the whispers that followed her. She didn’t care that all of them were staring in stunned silence as she pushed through their ranks.

Kallias, however, did care.

He turned just in time to see her standing there, arms crossed in front of him, a deep frown etched on her face. For a split second, she thought she saw surprise flicker in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with that same cold, steely expression he always wore.

“Miss Y/N?” His voice was laced with confusion, his posture stiffening.

But before he could say another word, she reached out and pinched his arm, hard.

He shifted away from her with a low growl, his icy gaze snapping to hers. His lips curled in irritation as he finally spoke through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here, miss Y/N?”

Y/N didn’t back down. She stood tall, chin lifted, her eyes filled with both exasperation and frustration. “Me? I should be asking you the same question, my lord!” she snapped, her voice carrying across the training grounds.

The soldiers exchanged stunned glances, some of them gasping at her words. Kallias’s expression shifted to one of cold indifference as he grasped her arm and began pulling her away from the field, his fingers biting into her skin.

“Keep the work going,” he ordered his second in command, who nodded and continued the training as Kallias led Y/N to a quieter area on the side.

Once they were far enough from the soldiers, Kallias let go of her arm, stepping back, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at her. “Listen to me and listen very well, because I will be saying this only once, Miss Y/N. I don’t know what gives you the confidence to act this way, but you may do this to anyone, anyone but me. I am your High Lord, not some sleazyfriend of yours. I demand a professional, respectful approach. Understood?”

Y/N stared at him, her face unchanging, before letting out a long, exasperated sigh. “No.”

Kallias’s icy demeanor faltered for a second, his eyes flashing with disbelief. “No?”

“No,” she repeated defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest. “You got injured just yesterday! And today you’re up and training? Have you no care for your body?”

Her voice cracked through the air as she stepped closer, her anger bubbling over. “Didn’t you hear my orders last night?! On top of all this, you’re training shirtless in the cold! You’ll make the injury worse!”

Kallias raised an eyebrow, his gaze darkening. “Shirtless? In the cold?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Miss Y/N, look around you. We’re in the Winter Court. I’m the gods-damned High Lord of Winter. The cold doesn’t affect me in the least.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her frustration reaching its peak. She marched right up to him and pointed a finger at his chest. “So what?” she hissed. “It still has negative effects on the injury! The wound could get worse! You could develop an infection or—”

Kallias interrupted her, cutting her off in an exasperated tone. “Alright, very well. Cauldron boil me—just shut your mouth!” He rubbed his forehead, clearly trying to hold back his own rising temper. “Wait for me to put on a shirt, and then follow me to my bedchambers.”

Y/N, caught off guard by his sudden change in tone, found herself beaming. “Alright, High Lord,” she said, her voice lighter than it had been all morning.

But before Kallias could even blink, Y/N squealed in delight and threw her arms around him, pulling him into an unexpected hug.

Kallias’s eyes widened, his body tensing as he let out a sharp hiss of surprise. “Don’t ever touch me like that again,” he muttered coldly, pushing her away with an icy shove. “Unless it's for healing purposes.”

Y/N stepped back sheepishly, a flush creeping up her neck as she muttered an apology. “Sorry…”

He shot her a glare, the frost in his gaze never faltering. “Let’s go,” he ordered, turning to lead the way.

Y/N followed, still smiling faintly, the words of their exchange dancing in her mind. The day had barely begun, but she had a feeling it was going to be a long one.

Kallias walked beside Y/N, his movements brisk, and his mind occupied with the tumultuous thoughts that seemed to swirl in the wake of her presence. He kept his gaze forward, trying to block out the sound of her incessant chatter, but it was impossible not to hear her. She was speaking—again.

“I still don’t get why you’re so stubborn about it, my lord. Yesterday, you were practically on the verge of collapsing, and today, you’re already training like nothing happened! Like you’ve never even had a wound.”

She paused briefly for a breath, and Kallias’ lips twitched slightly in irritation. He could feel the weight of her words pressing against him, and even though she didn’t mean to, her concern did something to him. Something he could not afford to acknowledge.

“You’re lucky I’m not treating you like a child, My Lord,” she continued, oblivious to the narrowing of his icy eyes. “I mean, how do you expect to heal if you keep pushing yourself? I’ve heard of high lords being stubborn, but you—”

“I didn’t ask,” Kallias interjected in a clipped tone, his cold eyes flickering toward her for a moment, his breath steady despite the frustration rising inside him.

Y/N, undeterred, responded with a casual shrug. “Well, you should have, because it’s ridiculous, really. You’re supposed to be healing, not playing soldier, and—”

“Miss Y/N,” he growled, his patience starting to thin like ice cracking beneath the weight of her words. “I’m well aware of my body’s limits, but you don’t need to remind me every minute.”

She glanced up at him, eyes full of defiance as always, but he noticed the slight shift in her expression when he didn’t break eye contact. She was starting to pick up on the tension between them, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

The cold silence that followed didn’t last long. She had a tendency to fill it with more chatter.

"Anyway, I’m just saying, if you’re not careful, you might aggravate the injury even more! Did you know that could lead to—"

“I did not ask,” Kallias repeated, his words colder than before, his tone carrying a warning. “Do you ever stop talking, lady Y/N?”

For a brief moment, she seemed to consider his words, but the inevitable happened. “Well, I just think—”

“Enough,” he snapped, not bothering to hide the edge of his irritation any longer. “Please, for the love of the gods, can you hold your tongue for one minute?”

She looked taken aback but held her silence, the stubbornness in her gaze still present, and he couldn’t quite decide if it annoyed him or intrigued him. It wasn’t often that someone dared to speak to him this way. His gaze flickered over her, eyes narrowing as he noticed how she still walked so determinedly at his side, as though everything in the world could be solved by her prattling. It was infuriating, yet... somehow, it wasn’t.

A tinge of something unfamiliar stirred beneath the icy surface of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside, burying it in the deep recesses of his mind. He would not indulge these feelings. Not for her.

When they finally reached his chambers, Kallias stepped forward, opening the door for her without a word, his mind already working on the next set of instructions he would need to give her. He just wanted to get this over with quickly—have her do whatever healing she thought necessary, and then let him be.

Y/N walked inside with a quiet hum, her energy filling the room as she made her way to the table to prepare the healing supplies. Kallias couldn’t help but glance at her again, the way her hair swayed with every movement, the soft curve of her figure, the subtle grace with which she moved. It was like a goddamn pull on him, but he couldn’t understand it. He shouldn’t feel it. And yet—

He forced himself to look away, his thoughts twisting and his mood darkening.

“I’m glad you’re being so cooperative,” she murmured as she gathered her supplies, giving him a teasing smile. “Now, just sit back, will you? I promise I won’t bite.”

Her light tone irritated him more than it should have. His jaw tightened, and without thinking, he sat down on the chair she had indicated, his hands resting on the armrests. He felt her gaze on him again, heard her soft breathing as she moved around him, preparing everything with a hum of concentration.

“Alright, now let’s talk healing,” she began, her voice soft yet insistent. “Tell me if it still hurts, any sharp twinges, discomfort, anything. I need to know how your body’s reacting so I can better gauge what’s wrong.”

Kallias clenched his jaw, staring ahead as she moved closer. His thoughts were fighting him now, the fluttering feeling in his chest rising again as she stood over him, examining him with that endless curiosity in her gaze. His eyes flicked to her hands, noting how carefully she began to touch his shoulder, working her fingers over the injury. He winced slightly at the pressure.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

“No, you’re not,” she shot back, her tone serious now. “You’re hurt. I saw it yesterday. Don’t lie to me, lord Kallias. I’m here to fix this, not let you ruin yourself.”

The way she said his name, the way she took charge without asking for permission—it rattled him, more than he’d like to admit. He clenched his hands tightly, but the knot of frustration in his chest only tightened.

“Stop pushing yourself so hard,” she continued, her voice softening. “You’re not invincible, you know.”

But Kallias wasn’t about to let her know how much her words affected him. He wasn’t about to let himself think of her as anything other than an irritating healer who needed to leave. Now.

Yet still, there was something in the way she touched him—so unexpectedly gentle, yet firm—that made his heart flutter.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply as he focused on the icy indifference that had long been his armor. He would not break. Not now.

And when she finally stepped away, satisfied with her work, he sighed heavily, leaning back into the chair with a cold expression. “Is that all?” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

She nodded with that damnable grin of hers. “For now. I’ll check in on you later, but don’t try to sneak off anywhere, okay? You’ll be back in here again soon.”

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t need her worrying about him. He didn’t need anyone.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered again, though his heart wasn’t entirely convinced of that.

Y/N sat in the bustling dining hall, the scent of warm bread and roasted meat filling the air as she absently stirred her tea. She was seated at a long wooden table with two other healers—Eira and Lillian—both of whom had been working in the palace for years. The conversation had been lighthearted at first, filled with chatter about the usual daily struggles: difficult patients, the upcoming winter solstice celebrations, and the latest gossip about court politics.

“I swear, if I have to deal with another whiny noble complaining about a bruise,” Eira sighed dramatically, dragging her spoon through her soup. “Like, Cauldron forbid they suffer an actual wound for once in their pampered lives.”

Lillian chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, please. The nobles are nothing compared to the warriors. Those brutes act as if they don’t need healers. I had to physically restrain one the other day just to keep him from walking off mid-stitching.”

Y/N hummed in agreement, sipping her tea, until Eira suddenly turned to her with a smirk. “Speaking of stubborn warriors… I still can’t believe you were the one chosen to heal the High Lord.”

Y/N nearly choked on her tea. She coughed, placing her cup down carefully, trying to appear unaffected. “Oh, well. I am a master healer, after all,” she said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. “It’s just my job.”

Lillian snorted. “Just your job? Please. Do you know how many of us would kill to be in your position? The High Lord of Winter, alone, in his chambers, letting you touch him?”

Y/N stiffened. “It’s not like that.”

Eira sighed dreamily. “Gods, I would give anything to see him up close and personal. Just once.”

Lillian nudged her playfully. “Oh, don’t act like you’d be able to do anything if you were chosen. You’d probably faint the moment he looked at you.”

“Excuse me,” Eira said with mock offense. “I would not faint. I’d just… appreciate the moment. His eyes, his voice… that body.”

Lillian let out a snicker. “And his temperament?”

Eira winced. “Okay, fair point.”

Y/N stayed silent, feeling an unusual warmth creep up her neck. She had never been the shy type—she could hold her own in any conversation, throw sarcasm and wit as easily as she wielded her healing magic—but there was something about the way they were talking about Kallias that made her… uncomfortable.

“I heard he hates everyone anyway,” Lillian added after a pause, leaning in slightly. “There was even a rumor once that he probably doesn’t have a mate because of how distant he is.”

Eira hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I mean… I can’t imagine him actually loving someone. He’s like an icicle brought to life. No warmth, no softness. Just duty and power.”

Lillian nodded. “Exactly. It’s like… he was made to rule, not to love.”

Y/N remained silent, staring at her untouched plate of food, her thoughts a tangled mess.

She had only known Kallias for a short while—had only spent a few hours in his presence, really—but something about what they were saying didn’t sit right with her.

Yes, he was cold. Yes, he was distant. But there was something else beneath that icy exterior. Something she couldn’t quite place. A weight he carried, a loneliness he hid behind sharp words and an even sharper gaze.

She thought about the way he had looked at her earlier, how he had reacted to her presence, how his irritation had flickered into something else before he had swiftly buried it away.

She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

And yet…

“…Y/N?”

She blinked, realizing that Lillian and Eira were both staring at her, waiting for a response.

“Oh,” she said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I suppose he is quite the mystery.”

Lillian shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll get an answer to that mystery.”

Eira scoffed. “Unlikely. The High Lord doesn’t let anyone close enough to find out.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her cup as her mind continued to swirl with thoughts she definitelyshould not be having.

By now, she really shouldn’t have been surprised.

And yet, when she stepped into Kallias’ chambers only to find them empty once more, a frustrated sigh tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Cauldron damn him.

She had explicitly told him to rest. He had agreed—or at least hadn’t argued against her orders when she’d last left him. And yet, here she was, standing in an empty bedroom, staring at the neatly made bed that had very obviously not been used.

Her thoughts churned as she whirled around and stormed out, flagging down the first passing servant she could find. “Where is he?” she demanded, not even bothering with pleasantries.

The servant, a young fae male, blinked at her in surprise. “Who, my lady?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The High Lord,” she said through gritted teeth, though she was this close to just calling him that infuriating man who refuses to listen to basic healing instructions.

The servant quickly dipped his head in respect. “He’s in his study, my lady.”

The tension in her shoulders eased—just slightly. At least he wasn’t outside aggravating his injury further. She nodded in thanks before making her way toward the study, still brimming with frustration.

By the time she reached the grand doors, she had almost convinced herself to be patient. Almost.

But the moment she stepped inside, the cool, indifferent voice that greeted her immediately shattered whatever patience she had managed to gather.

“Another checkup?”

Kallias didn’t even look at her as he spoke. His attention remained fixed on the papers in front of him, a single candle casting flickering shadows over his sharp features.

Y/N’s irritation flared all over again. “Well, it’s not like I enjoy chasing after you across this entire palace just to make sure you haven’t bled out somewhere,” she snapped, shutting the door behind her. “But seeing as someone is incapable of following simple instructions—”

She marched closer, and it was only then that she noticed what he was doing. His fingers were smudged with ink, an elegant quill in hand as he moved it across parchment in sharp, fluid strokes. He was writing something—letters, perhaps, or reports. His focus was unwavering, the crease between his brows deep with concentration.

“And what are you even doing here?” she went on, glancing at the neatly stacked piles of paper surrounding him. “Shouldn’t you be resting? I mean, really, you barely listen to anything I—”

She stopped mid-rant, her hands already moving on their own. Before he could protest, she reached forward and gently lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to check his wound.

A quick glance told her that, despite his recklessness, the injury hadn’t worsened. The healing process was slow, but steady. Still, she muttered under her breath as she pulled out the soothing balm she had brought with her, rubbing a generous amount between her fingers before applying it to his skin.

She could feel the way his muscles tensed slightly under her touch, but he didn’t say a word. Didn’t react. Just sat there, the same cold, indifferent mask on his face.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to talk, she would talk enough for the both of them.

“You know, most people actually listen to their healers,” she grumbled as she worked. “Most people don’t make their healer’s job ten times harder by actively ignoring the most basic instructions.”

Silence.

She huffed. “At this point, I should start charging extra for how much trouble you’re putting me through.”

Still, nothing.

She narrowed her eyes, pausing for a moment to glance up at his face. “Are you always this difficult, or do you just save it for me?”

That earned her a flicker of something in his eyes, but he still said nothing.

She sighed dramatically. “You know, a normal person would at least say thank you for all this.”

His only response was an unimpressed glance.

Y/N rolled her eyes and finished up, wiping her hands on a spare cloth before gathering her things.

“There,” she said, standing up and dusting off her hands. “You’re good for tonight. Try to actually stay put this time.”

She turned toward the door, ready to leave and get some well-earned rest, when—

“…Is it true you have no mate?”

The words were out before she could stop them.

Y/N froze.

Cauldron damn her mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned back around—just in time to see Kallias’ head slowly lift. His eyes locked onto hers, cold and unreadable, as one elegant brow arched ever so slightly.

She went scarlet.

“I—I mean—” She let out a nervous laugh, waving her hands in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business! It’s just—um—I heard something, and I didn’t mean to say it out loud but then my mouth just—”

She saw the sharp way his jaw tightened, the way his expression became even icier, and she instantly knew she had made a grave mistake.

“Leave.”

Her breath caught. “I—sorry?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Instead of asking questions that don’t concern you in the tiniest bit,” he said, his voice like cutting ice, “do me a great favor by excusing yourself.”

Oh.

Oh, she really screwed up.

Her heart pounded as she quickly bowed her head. “Of course. I—my apologies, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

“Leave,” he repeated, his voice final.

She didn’t need to be told again.

Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and all but fled the study, cursing herself all the way down the dimly lit hallways.

It was two days later when the harsh blizzard finally descended upon the Winter Court. It wasn’t unusual—if anything, it was tradition. Towards the end of each year, without fail, the worst storm of the season would roll in, blanketing the land in thick, unforgiving snow. A storm that lasted precisely three days, as if the Winter Court itself abided by a law older than time.

For most, this meant retreating into the warmth of their homes, waiting out the storm beside crackling hearths, wrapped in thick furs with a cup of steaming tea in hand. For Y/N and the rest of the healers, however, it was hell.

The worst time of the year.

Unlike the palace, the healers’ ward was situated a little away from the main estate, standing separately within the court’s walls. Usually, it wasn’t a problem. The short walk from the palace to the ward was a simple, if not refreshing, journey. But during this storm? It was nothing short of a nightmare.

The winds howled like raging beasts, slicing through even the thickest of layers. The snow came down in sheets, covering everything in sight, and with each gust of wind, it felt as if the world itself were screaming. And Y/N—idiot that she was—had to trek through this chaos twice a day.

For the past two days, she had been cursing everything and everyone—including herself. Because despite the storm, despite the fact that she could barely see two feet in front of her, she still found herself trudging her way to the palace. The howling winds deafened her ears, the ice clung to her skin, and she felt like she might actually die before reaching her destination.

So when she finally, finally stumbled past the palace gates, nearly collapsing against the guards stationed there, she could’ve kissed them both in gratitude.

She was frozen. A literal icicle. She barely registered the concerned murmurs of the guards before they reached for her, offering warm cloaks, offering to guide her to one of the fires so she could thaw.

She shook her head, her voice crackling with cold. “W-Where’s the High Lord?”

The guards exchanged a glance before one of them hesitantly answered. “In the sitting room, my lady.”

Y/N barely nodded before setting off, her limbs trembling as she forced herself forward. Every step felt heavy, her soaked boots dragging against the marble floors as she made her way through the palace halls.

By the time she reached the sitting room, her entire body ached—her fingers stiff, her face numb. She had half a mind to collapse right then and there, but she pushed through, willing herself to move.

Slowly, she pushed the doors open.

And there he was.

Kallias sat in one of the cushioned chairs, a book in his hand, his expression cold and unreadable. His focus remained entirely on the page before him as he turned it, his voice carrying through the room, sharp as a blade.

“I told you, Talen, I don’t want anyone coming in—”

He cut off mid-sentence.

His gaze snapped up, locking onto her, and she watched as his expression shifted—his usual coldness melting into something sharper, angrier.

Slowly, he shut his book. Set it aside.

Then, in a voice laced with fury, he asked, “Why the hell are you here?”

Y/N tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. She was so cold, her breath uneven as she forced herself to answer. “I—I had to check up on you—”

She yapped on, explaining how she had to come, how his injury needed proper tending, how—

He cut her off, stepping closer, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe. “In this weather?” His voice was dangerously low. “Couldn’t you have waited for the blizzard to end?”

She surprised even herself when she answered, her words quiet but firm. “I could have waited, but the injury couldn’t. If it doesn’t get treated daily, it could fester—”

A frustrated sigh left him. She watched as he turned around, striding towards a nearby chair, grabbing something before—

A thick, fur-lined blanket was thrown at her.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She blinked at him, her frozen hands clutching at the warmth now draped over her shoulders. “N-No need,” she stammered. “I just need to check—”

“Miss Y/N,” he said coolly, his eyes flashing as he moved past her, yanking the door open. “Just sit, will you?”

She clamped her mouth shut.

The servants outside barely had time to straighten before he commanded them to bring in warm tea. And then, just as quickly, he shut the door again, turning back toward her.

His gaze locked onto hers.

“Now,” he said, his voice like ice, “let’s get one thing clear, alright? You do not, ever, risk your life for me. No one does.”

Her brow furrowed. Confusion flickered across her face before something else settled in its place. Anger.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said stiffly, “but it’s my job. My duty. Your health, and the rest of our people’s health, is always my priority—”

He stepped closer.

His presence loomed over her as he looked down, his gaze cold as he cut her off.

“I don’t need your death to then be a burden on my shoulders, alright?” His words were quiet, but they were sharp, unwavering. “So keep the hero complex to yourself and stop risking your life for every damned thing or one. Includingme.”

Y/N opened her mouth, ready to snap back, but before she could, the door opened once more.

The servants entered, setting down the tray of steaming tea before stepping back.

Kallias barely spared them a glance before dismissing them with a nod.

And then, with a firm voice, he said, “Drink.”

She stared at him, bewildered.

“The checkup can wait,” he added, moving back to his seat, picking up his book once more. “You’ll do no healing if you freeze to death first.”

Silence settled between them.

Y/N sat there, the warm blanket wrapped around her, her fingers stiff as they reached for the tea.

She didn’t speak—not yet.

Instead, her mind churned with thoughts, with feelings she couldn’t quite place.

And across from her, Kallias simply turned a page in his book, as if nothing had happened at all.

The warmth seeped into her fingers first, then her limbs, then the rest of her body as she slowly nursed her tea. Each sip melted away the ice that had settled deep in her bones, thawing her from the inside out.

By the time she placed the empty cup down on the small table before her, she felt somewhat herself again.

She sighed, stretching out her fingers before rubbing some feeling back into them. Then, with a quiet exhale, she straightened and—almost like an announcement—sighed, “Alright. Let’s see how your injury is doing.”

She stood, her movements still a little stiff as she reached for her supplies. But when she turned back toward him, she nearly froze again.

Kallias was already shirtless.

Without a word, without even acknowledging her statement, he had discarded his layers, revealing the lean, sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders. The light from the nearby hearth cast shadows along his frame, emphasizing the tautness of his muscles, the pale stretch of his skin, the deep gash along his side that she had been tending to.

But he wasn’t looking at her.

His head was turned slightly to the side, his book still in his hands, his expression unreadable as he continued to read, as if this was all just routine. As if he wasn’t half-naked in the middle of a dimly lit sitting room with a woman standing behind him, staring.

Staring.

Y/N swallowed. Goddess above.

She wasn’t unused to tending injuries—far from it. She had seen countless wounds, countless bodies, countless scars in her years as a healer. But this?

This was different.

Because it was him.

And it was just them.

She forced herself to move, her boots barely making a sound against the floor as she stepped closer, her eyes flickering to the injury on his side.

It had healed well. The once-raw wound had closed significantly, no longer angry and inflamed. But it was still tender, still prone to irritation if left unchecked.

She reached out, gently pressing her fingers to the unbroken skin around the wound. His muscles tensed under her touch, a barely noticeable shift—but she felt it.

“The healing is going well,” she murmured, focusing on her work rather than the way the heat of his skin radiated beneath her fingertips. “No signs of infection. But you still need treatment for a few more days.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t even glance at her.

Only turned another page in his book.

Y/N shook her head to herself, pulling away to grab the salve from her kit. Silently, she worked, smoothing the mixture over the injury with practiced, delicate movements. And the entire time, he remained completely still—silent and composed, as if her touch, the cold ointment, the entire situation, meant nothing.

By the time she finished, she was still half-convinced she had imagined the subtle tension in his frame, the brief flicker of his fingers gripping the book tighter.

She stepped back, wiping her hands on a cloth before beginning to pack her supplies. But before she could finish—

“You’re staying in the palace tonight.”

The unexpected words cut through the quiet, and she stilled.

Blinking, she turned toward him, confused. “What?”

Finally, finally, Kallias shifted his gaze from his book, his cool, sharp eyes landing on her. “You cannot withstand another blizzard,” he said simply. “You’re not leaving.”

Her lips parted slightly. “I—no, it’s fine. I can make it back.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Are you disobeying my orders, Miss Y/N?”

The way he said it—low, quiet, unwavering—made her pulse stutter.

A test. A challenge. A command.

Her breath hitched slightly before she exhaled in defeat, her hands clenching at her sides.

“…Fine.”

Clearly satisfied, Kallias inclined his head slightly before shifting his attention back to his book. A few moments later, a quiet knock came at the door, and he barely glanced up as he said, “The servants will escort you to your quarters.”

Y/N turned, seeing one of the waiting staff standing at the entrance, head bowed.

But instead of following them, she hesitated.

Then, before she could even think about what she was doing, she turned away from the door and walked back into the room, back toward the sofa.

She sat down.

And stayed.

For the first time since she arrived, Kallias actually looked surprised.

His cold, unreadable expression flickered ever so slightly as he turned his head toward her, his brows lowering in silent question.

She settled deeper into the sofa, ignoring the clear expectation that she would leave. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him as he resumed reading.

“I figured I could ask you some questions.”

Kallias didn’t even look up. “No.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t entertain meaningless conversations.”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s meaningless.”

He sighed quietly, flipping a page in his book.

Unbothered, she pressed on. “How long have you been High Lord?”

Silence.

Then—

“…A while.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”

“I believe it is.”

She shook her head. “Alright, let’s try this. Were you trained for it your whole life?”

This time, there was a longer pause. Then—

“Yes.”

Progress.

She settled in further, warming her fingers against the fading heat of her tea. “And did you ever want to be something else?”

That got his attention.

For the first time since the conversation began, he glanced at her, his pale blue eyes assessing.

She held his gaze, waiting.

But after a moment, he simply turned back to his book.

Interesting.

She continued, undeterred. “I wasn’t trained to be a healer, you know.”

He didn’t respond, but she caught the way his fingers stilled slightly against the book’s spine.

“I wanted to be a scholar,” she admitted. “A historian.”

This time, his gaze flickered back to her, his expression unreadable.

“…Then why didn’t you?”

She exhaled quietly. “Because people needed me. My family, my friends, my court—they needed someone to tend to them, to make sure they lived.” She offered a small, wry smile. “So I chose healing.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, to her surprise, he murmured, “I see.”

Encouraged, she tilted her head. “And you? Did you ever want something else?”

Nothing.

She gave him a moment, then tried again. “Come on. You must’ve had some kind of dream when you were younger.”

Still, he remained silent.

She sighed dramatically. “Alright, fine. If you won’t answer that, then let’s go simpler. What’s your favorite season?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You do realize where you are, don’t you?”

She grinned slightly. “So… winter, then?”

He shot her a look but said nothing.

She decided to push a little further. “What about books? You read a lot, clearly. Do you have a favorite?”

His fingers tightened on the pages ever so slightly.

But he still didn’t answer.

Her grin widened. “Are you just refusing to speak now out of sheer stubbornness?”

No response.

She sighed again, feigning disappointment. “Fine, then. I’ll guess.”

She tapped her chin dramatically. “You seem like the type to prefer strategy books. Maybe war tactics? Or—no, wait—ancient philosophy.”

Nothing.

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t tell me you secretly enjoy romance novels.”

His sharp gaze snapped to hers.

And that was all the confirmation she needed.

A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You do, don’t you?”

His expression darkened. “I do not.”

She grinned. “Right. Of course. The icy, brooding High Lord of Winter doesn’t secretly read tragic love stories.”

His glare was withering. “You are insufferable.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

Still, she could see the subtle tension in his shoulders now—the faint stiffness of someone unused to being the center of such questioning.

Good.

She adjusted her position on the sofa, tilting her head again. “Alright, I’ll stop pestering you about books.”

A long exhale left his lips, as if he’d won a battle.

But then she added, “Instead, tell me about your family.”

His body went still.

That was different.

It was a shift, a crack in the cold, unaffected mask he had been wearing.

She watched as his fingers curled just slightly around the book, his shoulders stiffening—not with irritation, but with something else.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t even blink.

The tension was different this time.

And she knew, knew, she had finally pushed too far.

Before she could say another word, Kallias abruptly shut his book with a decisive snap.

“The servants will show you to your room,” he said coolly, rising to his feet. “Good night, Miss Y/N.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

But before she could protest, he was already heading toward the door, already moving past her as if the conversation had never happened.

And just before he left, his voice—quiet, controlled—echoed one last time.

“…Get some rest.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving Y/N staring after him, her mind racing with everything unsaid.

After that night—the night she had stayed in the palace—her days followed a routine.

Every afternoon, she would make the long trek from the healers’ quarters to the palace, the Winter winds biting at her skin. Every afternoon, she would be granted entrance, and every afternoon, she would find Kallias in the same spot—seated in his chair, a book in his hands, his icy demeanor never thawing.

And every afternoon, without fail, she would talk.

Not because he ever encouraged it. No, Kallias had made it very clear from the beginning that he had no interest in conversation. But that never stopped her.

She spoke of her past, of her childhood in the harsh winters of their court, of the first time she had ever seen magic and how it had terrified and mesmerized her in equal measure. She told him of her first patient, a boy who had nearly lost his hand in an accident but had left the healer’s hut grinning, whole and healed. She told him about her mother, who had always scolded her for not dressing warmly enough, and about the first time she had snuck out during a blizzard—how it had been so terrifying, so exhilarating.

Kallias never responded.

Or, at least, not in words.

He would sit there, book in hand, casting her the occasional sharp glance. When she asked him questions—How old were you when you first used magic? Did you always want to be High Lord? Do you have any hobbies besides glaring at me like I’m a pest?—he would shut her down with silence, or a curt, That is none of your concern.

Still, she pressed on.

She asked about his court, his people, his childhood. She made comments about how the palace had the most ridiculously large fireplaces she’d ever seen, about how the food was much better than what she usually had at the healers' quarters, about how he really should get a dog.

And every time, he would just look at her, cold and unimpressed.

She knew he hated it—her endless chattering, her insistence on filling the silence. But the strangest part?

He never told her to stop.

Not once.

Even when he glared, even when he shut her down, even when he looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world, he never told her to leave.

And that was enough for her to keep going.

But then—

Then the injury started healing.

And with every passing day, the realization settled heavier in her chest.

Soon, she would have no reason to see him again.

It was a ridiculous thought. This was her job. She had done this with countless patients before—treated them, helped them heal, and then moved on.

So why did the idea of moving on from this patient feel… wrong?

Why did it feel like a loss?

She tried not to dwell on it.

Instead, she continued her routine—her visits, her stories, her relentless attempts to break through the ice.

One afternoon, as she checked his wound, she found herself grinning before she even realized she was speaking.

“So,” she said lightly, wrapping fresh bandages around his torso. “Now that I’ve been tending to you for nearly three weeks, does this mean we’re best friends?”

She had meant it as a joke.

A small tease.

But when she looked up, she found his cold gaze locked onto her, unreadable.

And then—

A sharp, quiet No.

The word cut through the space between them like a blade.

And even though she had meant the question as nothing more than a playful jab, the answer—his answer—stung more than she expected.

She let out a small, breathy laugh, trying to shake off the odd ache in her chest.

“Well,” she said, forcing a smile. “That was unnecessarily harsh.”

He didn’t respond.

Of course he didn’t.

But for the first time since she had started tending to him, she found she didn’t want to keep talking.

For the first time, she wondered if she had imagined it all—if she had imagined the progress, the tiny cracks in his walls, the way he never told her to stop, the way he let her speak, even if he never contributed.

Maybe she had been a fool.

Maybe Kallias really was just as cold as everyone claimed him to be.

And maybe—just maybe—she cared more than she should.

But did that stop her? Hell no. If anything, it just encouraged her stubborn self more.

The palace glittered with ice and silver, chandeliers casting cold light across the grand ballroom. The music wove through the space like a delicate snowfall, each note crisp and elegant. Nobles in their finest attire swayed in effortless dances, their laughter and conversation blending into the background hum of aristocratic life.

She wasn’t here as a guest.

None of the healers were.

Dressed in her best gown—her only luxurious dress—she stood at the edges of the hall with the others, waiting in case their services were required. It was a simple thing, her gown. A soft, glittering silver that caught the candlelight whenever she moved. Nothing extravagant, nothing adorned with jewels like the noblewomen who glided across the floor, but beautiful in its own quiet way.

Not that it mattered.

She wasn’t here to be seen.

And yet, she still found her eyes drawn toward him.

Kallias stood at the head of the room, exuding that same untouchable air, dressed in regal white and deep winter blue. He was everything a High Lord should be—cold, composed, a vision of power and control.

It had been weeks since she had first begun tending to him. Weeks of sitting by his side, pressing salves into his skin, wrapping fresh bandages, filling the silence with stories about herself while he listened in his usual silence.

The wound was nearly healed now. Soon, she would no longer have a reason to visit him.

That thought had settled uneasily in her chest all evening, but she had shoved it away, refusing to dwell on it.

She had no reason to.

And then—

Her breath caught.

From her place near the back of the room, she watched as a noblewoman—tall, poised, with pale silver-blonde hair—approached Kallias.

And Kallias… looked at her.

Not in passing, not with the cold indifference he usually carried.

No, he took her hand.

And then, with a faint smirk—a smirk she had never seen directed at herself—he led the woman onto the dance floor.

Her world tilted.

She should have looked away. Should have turned her attention elsewhere. But she couldn’t.

She could only watch.

Watch as he placed a hand on the woman’s waist, as they moved together with effortless grace. As the world around them blurred into nothing.

It was the kind of dance meant for lovers.

Slow, intimate, a silent conversation spoken through the closeness of their bodies.

And Kallias—so often cold, so often distant—allowed it.

Welcomed it.

The realization slammed into her, sharper than any winter wind.

She felt the sting behind her eyes before she even understood what was happening.

A foolish, ridiculous pain bloomed in her chest, spreading through her like ice cracking beneath the weight of something unbearable.

It made no sense.

She had no claim over him.

No reason to feel this way.

And yet—

Why does it hurt?

The thought sent her reeling, her breathing suddenly uneven.

She needed to leave.

“I—excuse me,” she murmured, barely even aware of who she spoke to as she turned, walking swiftly out of the ballroom.

The moment she was out of sight, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The air outside was cold, the night wind biting at her skin, but it did nothing to dull the ache in her chest.

She pressed a hand to her ribs, as if she could hold herself together.

Idiot, she cursed herself. Fool.

What did you expect?

Had she really convinced herself that these weeks had meant something?

That she had mattered to him?

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips, and she tilted her head back to the sky, blinking rapidly, forcing the tears down.

She would not cry.

Not over this.

Not over him.

And yet, the thought of facing him again tomorrow, of pressing her fingers to his skin, of pretending that none of this mattered—

It made her feel like she was unraveling.

Taking a shuddering breath, she straightened.

And then, like slipping on armor, she schooled her features into something unreadable.

The fakest, brightest smile she could muster.

Because this was who she was.

Someone who put others before herself.

She was fine.

Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Y/N sat beside Kallias once again, her hands methodically unwrapping the bandages from his injury. She had done this countless times before—press, check, apply, rewrap. But today, it felt different.

Because you’re an idiot.

The words replayed in her mind over and over again. She had barely slept the previous night, her thoughts filled with the image of Kallias on that dance floor, his hand resting so easily on that noblewoman’s waist, the way he had smirked at her.

Had he ever smirked at her?

No.

The thought shouldn’t sting, but it did.

So she did what she always did. She talked.

She talked, and talked, and talked, desperate to fill the silence, to cover up the ache in her chest.

“Oh, and did I tell you about the time I accidentally healed a sprained ankle instead of a broken rib? You should’ve seen the poor man’s face—he looked so betrayed. Honestly, I don’t blame him, but in my defense, he was very unclear about where the pain actually was, and—”

She glanced up at Kallias, expecting the usual impassive look, the distant, unreadable gaze. But instead, she found him… tense.

More so than usual.

His jaw was clenched, his shoulders taut beneath the loose fabric of his tunic. Every word she spoke seemed to wind him tighter, like a string about to snap.

She swallowed, but forced a laugh.

“Anyway, he ended up having to go to another healer because I was so embarrassed I refused to fix my mistake. You should’ve seen my mentor’s face—gods, she was furious—”

“Gods,” Kallias suddenly snapped, his voice low and rough, “do you ever shut up?!”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Kallias had risen abruptly, turning to her with a sharp, ice-cold glare. His usual controlled demeanor was gone, replaced by sheer exasperation—by anger.

“It’s always talking and talking with you,” he continued, his tone laced with venom. “You never stop to consider whether I even want to hear you talk. I tried, for the past month, I really fucking did, Miss Y/N. But I am at my tipping point with you and your useless babbling.”

Her heart stopped.

“This is it,” he bit out. “You may leave. And don’t think of coming back tomorrow because I will have another healer replace you. One that is more quiet.”

The room felt suffocating.

Her ears rang.

She just sat there, frozen, her eyes locked on his face as the words—every single one of them—settled deep into her bones, into the very marrow of her being.

Useless babbling.

Do you ever shut up?

It was like someone had taken a knife and sliced straight through her, splitting her open for the world to see.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, gaping at him like an idiot.

Her throat was so tight it physically hurt.

Then—she forced herself to move.

Forced herself to swallow down the burning sting in her chest, to keep her face as neutral as possible even though her heart felt like it had just been crushed.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, smoothing out her skirts as she bowed her head deeply.

“I… I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She bowed lower.

“It was an honor serving you.”

And then, before she could completely break, she turned and darted out of the room.

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t let herself think.

Her vision blurred at the edges, but she refused to let the tears fall.

Not here.

Not now.

Gods, do you ever shut up?

She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

And finally, when she was alone—when there was no one around to see—

She let herself break.

The new healer arrived promptly the next morning. Kallias did not bother to glance at her, merely gave a curt nod as she set down her supplies and began tending to his wound.

It was silent.

For the first time in over a month, the room held nothing but the distant crackling of the fire and the occasional sound of bandages being unwrapped. No rambling. No unnecessary commentary. No her.

Kallias exhaled slowly. This is better.

The healer finished and stepped back. “Your recovery is progressing well, my Lord. I will return at the same time tomorrow.”

He gave a dismissive nod, watching her leave.

The door clicked shut. The silence stretched on.

This is what I wanted.

He told himself that again.

Then again.

And yet, as he sat there, the silence pressed in—thicker, heavier than it should have been.

It started with the small things.

Passing by the dining hall and hearing a burst of laughter—one that wasn’t hers. It was softer, quieter. Not the kind that filled a space effortlessly, not the kind that made his head snap up in exasperation and… something else he didn’t want to name.

Sitting in his study, book in hand, expecting an interruption that never came. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. He turned a page but read nothing. His eyes kept flicking to the door, as if expecting her to come waltzing in with some nonsense observation or another pointless story.

She never did.

The snowstorm outside raged on, swirling in thick flurries. He stared at it for a moment too long before catching himself.

She got home safely, he told himself. She must have.

And yet—

He caught himself glancing toward the healer’s wing when passing through the halls, his steps slowing despite himself. The air was always still there. Orderly. Lacking the warmth of an insufferable voice filling the space with chatter.

During court meetings, he almost—almost—looked toward the doors, expecting her to be lingering outside, waiting for his schedule to free up so she could tend to him.

But there was no one there.

And the unease settled in his chest like frost, refusing to thaw.

Five days passed. His wound was nearly healed.

The new healer was efficient, competent. There was nothing wrong with her work.

And yet—

Kallias tensed when she touched his arm, entirely too aware that it was the wrong hands. The wrong voice telling him his recovery was progressing well. The wrong presence in the room, one that did not fill the silence the way she had.

The healer worked quickly, adjusting the bandages with careful precision. He barely felt it. She was gentle—too gentle. Measured in a way that did not demand his attention, did not poke and prod at the edges of his patience with endless chatter.

He should have been grateful.

Instead, he clenched his jaw.

The healer hesitated slightly, sensing his stiffness. She withdrew her hands and stepped back, lowering her head.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” she said softly.

It was polite. Respectful. Exactly as a healer should address him.

But it wasn’t her.

The realization struck deeper than it should have. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulder once as if testing the strength in it. Almost healed. Soon, there would be no need for a healer at all. No reason for anyone to linger in his chambers, filling the space with warmth and words he had never asked for.

For the first time since that night, the truth slithered into his mind like a sharp-edged blade.

I should not have sent her away.

Kallias moved through the days in a way that should have been normal. Should have been routine.

Except nothing felt normal.

Nothing felt right.

He told himself it was better this way. That the quiet was long overdue. That his chambers, his halls, his life had returned to the way they were meant to be—undisturbed, controlled, peaceful.

And yet—

When passing through the halls, his gaze flickered toward the healers' wing more often than he cared to admit. It was instinct, unconscious, a part of him still expecting—hoping—to see her. To catch a glimpse of her moving between rooms, head held high, determination set in her every step.

He did not linger. Would not. But the urge to was there.

During court meetings, when his mind drifted for even a second too long, his lips nearly shaped her name by mistake. He caught himself just in time, swallowing the slip before anyone noticed.

But he noticed.

The weight of it settled in his chest, unwelcome and unrelenting.

It was not just a passing thought. Not just a moment of fleeting habit.

He was thinking about her.

Too much.

Far too much.

And that was the most dangerous realization of all.

The ball was in full swing.

Laughter, conversation, and music wove through the grand hall, filling it with warmth and life. Goblets clinked, skirts swayed, gloved hands brushed in elegant passes across the dance floor. It was a celebration, a night of indulgence and revelry.

Kallias barely heard any of it.

His eyes drifted—automatically—to the corner where the healers usually stood on standby, their presence a mere formality.

She was not there.

She should not have been there. There was no reason for her to be present. And yet, something in him had expected her, had searched for her, had been waiting to catch a glimpse of silver and frost.

His jaw clenched as he forced his gaze away. It does not matter.

He did not care.

But when a noblewoman approached, hand brushing his arm in polite greeting, he nearly flinched. The light, easy conversation around him faded to a distant hum, drowned out by the weight settling in his chest.

When someone spoke to him, he did not hear them.

When a toast was raised, he did not lift his goblet.

And when he caught himself looking toward that corner again, some stubborn, unwelcome part of him refused to let go of the hollow absence he found there.

The music swelled, laughter rang out, and yet—

With quiet, shattering finality, the truth settled in.

He had made a mistake.

A grave one.

And now, he did not know if it was one he could ever undo.

Kallias did not look for her.

That’s what he told himself, at least.

Yet, somehow, his feet carried him toward the healers' wing more often than before. A habit, he reasoned. He had spent a month there—of course, it made sense that his body still followed the familiar route.

And yet, every time he passed by, he felt it. The wrongness.

The quiet was different now. Not the comforting kind, but the hollow, lacking kind. He found himself listening, waiting—for what, he did not allow himself to answer. But the realization always came in the same, bitter way: she was not there.

He should not have cared.

And yet, one day, he caught a conversation between two healers in the hall.

"She’s been taking on extra shifts in the lower wing."

"I heard she even requested to transfer out of the palace soon."

The words nearly made him stop in his tracks. Leaving the palace? The thought sent an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation curling through his chest.

But he forced himself forward, forced himself not to react.

She was free to do as she pleased. He had dismissed her. Pushed her away. He had wanted peace, had wanted her endless talking to stop, and now he had exactly that.

So why did it feel like he had carved something out of himself in the process?

The court had begun to notice.

Kallias was sharper these days. Impatient. The weight of his words heavier, his glares colder. The council meetings, the daily court affairs—none of it held his focus the way it should have.

The worst part?

It had been days since he had last spoken to her, and yet she was everywhere.

A joke someone made at a meeting—something ridiculous, something lighthearted. He had almost glanced toward where she should have been, where she would have been grinning at him with that look in her eyes, waiting for his reaction.

She was not there.

She would never be there again.

When the letter arrived, Y/N almost didn’t open it.

A small, plain envelope had been slipped beneath her door, its presence silent but insistent.

She stared at it for a moment, unease curling in her stomach. No messenger had knocked. No one had called for her directly. Just this—this single piece of parchment, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

Slowly, she picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hands before breaking the seal.

The message inside was brief, written in a careful, deliberate hand.

Your expertise is needed in the royal gardens. Do not delay.

No name. No explanation.

Y/N frowned. Healers were rarely summoned without specifics. If someone had been injured, there would have been details—a location, a name, something.

And the gardens? At this hour?

It made no sense.

Her first instinct was to ignore it. To toss the letter aside and stay where she was, safe within the walls of the healers’ quarters.

But—

What if it was real?

What if someone did need her?

The doubt, the nagging uncertainty, was enough to push her into action.

So, she wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, braced herself against the cold, and stepped into the night.

The gardens were empty.

Silent. Still.

A frown pulled at her lips as she stepped further in, glancing around for any sign of movement. No one was here. No patient. No suffering figure waiting for aid.

She exhaled sharply.

This was a mistake.

She turned on her heel, ready to leave—

"Wait."

The voice—deep, familiar, unmistakable—halted her steps.

Her breath caught. She did not turn around.

A part of her screamed to flee, to walk away, to pretend she had never come here in the first place. But her feet remained rooted to the ground, her hands clenching into fists.

She knew that voice.

And she hated that she still recognized it so easily.

"Please."

Not an order. A request.

She swallowed hard as she heard the quiet crunch of boots on gravel. Slow, measured steps.

He was moving—around her, toward her.

She could have walked away. Should have. But she didn’t.

And then—

His chest was right in front of her.

Her eyes stayed fixed on his tunic, on the rise and fall of his breathing. She did not dare look up.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then—

"I regret it."

The words were rough, like they had been torn from him unwillingly. As if they hurt to say.

She said nothing.

"I was cruel," he continued, voice tight. "I—" A sharp exhale. "I should not have spoken to you that way. I should not have sent you away."

Still, she did not speak.

He shifted, uneasy. Kallias, the untouchable. The untouchable, now desperate for words.

"I am not—", he hesitated, his voice quieter now. "I am not accustomed to...to this."

She finally looked up.

His eyes—icy blue, usually so cold, so distant—held something else now. Something raw, something unguarded.

She could forgive him. Right now, she could let it go. She could tell him it was alright, that she would return, that all was well—

But it would be a lie.

A bitter, burning rage stirred in her chest.

"No."

One word. Sharp, final.

Kallias’s brows pulled together, as if he had not expected the rejection.

Good.

"No?" His voice was measured, but she could see the tension in his jaw.

She stepped back, just enough to breathe.

"Do you even understand?" she demanded, voice trembling with frustration. "Do you understand what you did to me?"

His expression darkened slightly, but he said nothing.

So she let the words spill out.

"You humiliated me. You made me feel—like I was nothing. Like I was annoying, like I was some burden that you just had to tolerate." She shook her head. "I served you. I cared for you. And you threw me aside like I was disposable."

Silence.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t excuse himself.

Instead, after a long, agonizing pause, he said—

"I know."

She faltered.

"I know," he repeated, his voice quieter now. "And I am...trying." He exhaled. "Tell me what I must do to make this right."

She studied him carefully.

He was genuine. Perhaps clumsy in his attempt, hesitant in his words, but genuine.

Still—

"I want actions, my Lord."

He stiffened slightly at the title.

"Not words."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Kallias."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Call me Kallias."

His voice was quiet, almost pleading.

Hesitantly, barely above a whisper—

"Kallias."

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, as if he was reliving something.

But she did not let him sink into it for long.

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and cold.

"I want you to prove your sincerity to me, Kallias."

His eyes snapped open.

"Only then may I consider forgiving you."

And before he could say another word, she turned sharply on her heel, moving to leave—

Only to pause at the last second.

She spun back around, meeting his gaze with one last piercing look.

"Oh." She tilted her head. "You only have two weeks."

His lips parted slightly.

"I will be leaving after that."

And before he could argue, before he could try to stop her, she disappeared into the night, leaving Kallias alone in the garden, the weight of her ultimatum pressing down on him like an unforgiving storm.

Kallias did not seek her out again the next day. Or the day after.

But something had shifted.

At first, it was subtle.

When Y/N entered the healers' ward one morning, she nearly tripped over a stack of wooden crates lined neatly by the entrance. Frowning, she crouched down, fingers trailing over the stamped sigil on the side. The insignia of the Winter Court’s official supply chains.

Inside, she found expensive salves imported from distant courts, fresh linens, new sets of surgical tools wrapped in pristine cloth. Even additional firewood to warm the rooms as the cold deepened.

Her fingers curled over the edge of one of the crates.

They had needed these supplies for months. Had been told there were delays, that their requests were lower priority than the military or the palace.

Yet now, all at once, they had everything they had asked for.

Y/N’s eyes darkened.

This was not a coincidence.

She turned sharply, scanning the ward, looking for the head healer. “Who brought these?”

The older healer glanced up from her records, expression tired but pleased. “An order came from the palace. Directly from the High Lord himself.”

Y/N’s chest went tight.

She said nothing as she turned back toward the crates.

This was not an apology. This was not a request for forgiveness.

This was something else entirely.

The second time, she saw it.

She had been passing through the main halls of the ward when a flicker of white caught her eye beyond the archway leading into one of the recovery rooms.

She stopped.

Through the partially open door, Kallias stood before the head healer.

And he was listening.

Not speaking, not giving orders, not ensuring his presence dominated the space.

But listening.

His arms were crossed, posture rigid as always, but his brows were furrowed in concentration as the head healer spoke. Her words were quiet but firm, explaining in detail what the ward required—not only in supplies but in structure. How they needed more hands, how the new allocation of funds should be distributed, how the growing needs of the people could not be ignored.

Kallias did not interrupt. He did not challenge her. He simply nodded once, asked something in return, and listened again.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

This was not for her.

This was not a calculated move meant to draw her back in.

She swallowed hard and turned away before she could hear more.

Then, that night—

It was late. Too late for anyone to be awake.

Y/N had been tending to a restless patient, checking their fever one last time before slipping out of the ward’s main rooms. The halls were quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights.

But then—

A voice. Low and quiet, nearly swallowed by the silence.

“… I was cruel to her.”

Y/N froze mid-step.

It was Kallias.

She pressed herself against the wall just beyond the archway.

“She did not deserve it,” he continued, his voice wrong somehow—too raw, too open. “And I do not know if I can fix it.”

A pause. A long, heavy pause.

Then, another voice—low and steady, belonging to one of his closest advisors. “You wounded her deeply, my lord. That will not be undone with gestures alone.”

A sharp inhale. “I know.”

Something in his tone made Y/N’s stomach tighten.

The advisor exhaled slowly. “Then what is it that you want?”

A longer silence.

And then, so softly she barely heard it—

“… I want her to stay.”

Y/N gripped the fabric of her sleeve.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, breath coming a little too fast.

She did not stay to hear more.

She turned and left, barely aware of her own steps.

Because for the first time, a sliver of doubt crept into her anger.

Maybe, just maybe… he truly meant it.

The knock was soft but firm, barely audible over the crackling of the fire in the corner.

Y/N frowned, setting down the bandages she had been carefully sorting. It was late—too late for anyone to be delivering messages.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing a young servant girl clutching a bundle of parchment to her chest. She hesitated in the doorway, cheeks pink from the cold. “These are for you, healer.”

Y/N wiped her hands on her apron before taking the pages. “Who sent them?”

The girl only dipped her head. “I don’t know, my lady. I was just told to bring them to you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly but nodded in dismissal. The girl quickly turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Silence settled over the room once more as Y/N sat at the small wooden table, smoothing out the stack of documents.

Her gaze flicked over the first page—and then she went very still.

It was a funding request. Her funding request.

One she had sent months ago, listing all the resources the healers' ward desperately needed—better equipment, fresh linens, a steady supply of medicine for the winter months.

Her fingers tightened around the parchment.

She flipped to the next page. Another request—approved. Then another. And another.

She inhaled sharply, flipping through the entire bundle with growing urgency.

Every single one of them.

Approved.

Stamped with the official Winter Court seal.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t how these things worked. Approvals took months, often years. The process was slow, tedious. But this—this had been done overnight.

A pit formed in her stomach.

And then, at the bottom of the last document, she saw it.

A single note.

Elegant, precise handwriting.

You will have everything you need.

No signature.

None was needed.

She knew who had done this.

Knew exactly whose hand had made this happen.

Kallias.

Y/N set the parchment down carefully, staring at it for a long, long moment.

She should have felt relieved. She did feel relieved. This was everything she had fought for, everything she had begged the court to consider.

And yet—

Her fingers curled into a fist.

Because this wasn’t just a gesture. It wasn’t just aid.

It was him.

Trying.

Fixing things.

For her.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her temple.

This was not what she had expected.

Not what she had wanted.

Because now—

Now she had to ask herself a dangerous question.

Was she still angry at him?

Or was she just afraid to let go of the anger?

She should have ignored it.

Should have ignored him.

But when she entered the ward that evening, she saw him.

Kallias stood at the far end of the room, speaking to a young healer. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture as regal and composed as ever—but he was listening.

He was learning.

For a long moment, she just… watched.

Then, before she could stop herself, she turned and walked in his direction.

Their eyes met.

The conversation around them faded.

His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak.

She did not let him.

Instead, she brushed past him, deliberately distant, and kept walking.

But something in his gaze, in the way he looked at her, stuck with her long after she was gone.

She found a small package by her bedside that morning.

Inside—

A pair of gloves.

Finely made, lined with soft fur, enchanted to keep her hands warm even in the coldest temperatures.

She swallowed hard.

She should not accept it.

And yet, later that evening, when she stepped outside into the snow, she wore them.

She returned to her chambers late that evening, exhausted.

And nearly tripped over another package.

This time, it was books.

Her breath caught as she picked up the first one, fingers running over the leather binding. Medical texts. Some of them rare, some of them from distant courts. Books she had wanted, but could never afford.

She exhaled sharply, gripping the book tighter.

She should not have opened them.

Should have ignored them entirely.

But that night, she sat by the fire, book in hand, and read until the candles burned low.

The palace gardens were covered in frost when she passed through them, heading toward the ward.

And then—

A presence behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked beside her, their steps crunching against the frozen ground.

Finally, after a long silence—

“You wore the gloves.”

Her fingers twitched.

She exhaled slowly, watching her breath curl in the cold air.

Then, quietly—“Yes.”

He didn’t say anything more.

But for the first time in weeks, they walked side by side, no longer strangers.

Y/N had been walking through the palace gardens, checking on some of the herbs they had been growing for future treatments. A gust of wind chilled her, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her, turning to head back inside.

The sky had darkened ominously as thick clouds rolled in. Within moments, the wind had escalated into something more furious, rattling the palace windows and sending the trees into a wild dance. The storm was coming.

As Y/N approached the palace entrance, ready to make her way back to the healers’ ward, a sudden calm washed over her. The wind stopped. The heavy air, so oppressive moments ago, suddenly felt lighter. The storm outside, now loud and angry, remained locked in the distance as if the walls of the palace itself were holding it back.

Her footsteps slowed as she glanced around in confusion. She felt… strange. Like something was different.

A deep, familiar voice broke the silence, and she turned.

Kallias stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes fully. His gaze held a quiet intensity.

“You... you stopped it?” Y/N asked, blinking.

“The storm? Yes,” Kallias replied, stepping closer. “It seemed fitting. You should not have to endure the chaos of the world when you are already fighting your own battles.”

Y/N glanced around. The stillness was almost eerie, the absence of wind and thunder filling the space between them.

“You—this is… too much, Kallias.” Her voice faltered, unsure of what to make of the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, but the weight of it hung in the air. “I just wanted to give you peace. To show you that you don’t always have to face the storm alone.”

Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, but she said nothing more, lost in the quiet beauty of the moment.

The storm raged outside, but here, in this small, still bubble, there was only calm.

Y/N had spent her evening sorting through medicinal herbs when a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find a small basket of flowers waiting on the doorstep, along with a note.

I thought you might like something fresh.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Kallias.

Curious, Y/N made her way to the designated location that evening, a part of the palace gardens she had never taken the time to visit before. She had always assumed it was just an old, neglected corner, left to decay.

As she approached the garden’s entrance, she felt something shift. The air felt warmer, and she noticed a soft, faint glow just beyond the archway. The entrance was framed with vines and wildflowers in full bloom, each one shining as if touched by magic.

She stepped inside, eyes wide in awe.

The space had transformed. Where there had been an overgrown, abandoned patch of earth, now there was a garden in full bloom. Trees heavy with fruit glistened under the moonlight, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Every flower seemed to dance in the cool night air. The place was alive, vibrant.

Y/N turned slowly, meeting Kallias’ gaze in the center of the garden. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his presence commanding yet gentle in this new, serene environment.

“You did all of this?” she asked, breathless.

“Not all of it,” Kallias replied with a quiet smile. “But I thought it might be a place you could call your own. A place where you can find peace, when the rest of the world is too much.”

Her eyes lingered on him. “Why? After all the damage…”

His smile faltered for a brief moment, but he held her gaze.

“Because I owe you that much. I owe you more than that.”

The space between them seemed to narrow, the moment stretching as he waited for her response.

“I—thank you,” she whispered, almost unable to speak at the beauty of it all, but more so at the sincerity behind his words.

Y/N had been on edge all day. The tension had been building in the air, the weight of the impending departure pressing on her chest. Each moment, every encounter with Kallias, had felt more and more charged with something she couldn’t place. She had tried to ignore it, but it was becoming harder.

When the note appeared—unsigned, as usual—her heart had skipped a beat.

Meet me at the edge of the northern terrace. There is something you must see.

She couldn’t ignore it. Not this time.

With a mix of reluctance and curiosity swirling in her chest, she donned her cloak, its fabric brushing softly against the stone floors as she made her way to the northern terrace. Her footsteps were steady, yet something inside her fluttered, as if she was walking toward a moment that could change everything.

When she reached the edge of the palace grounds, the familiar sight of Kallias waiting for her did not disappoint. He stood near the stone railing, facing the horizon, but something in the air felt different. A quiet intensity lingered, something almost tangible, weaving between them without a word spoken.

Y/N hesitated, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. “Kallias,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “You’ve… been waiting for me?”

He didn’t turn to her immediately. Instead, he stood there for a long moment, as though savoring the distance between them. And then, finally, he spoke.

“Always.” His voice was quiet, deeper than usual, a note of something almost raw underneath. “Always.”

She felt the air around her shift. Not just the cool evening breeze, but something else—something electric, something that had been building for days. But she didn’t know what it was, nor did she have time to think about it as she stood there, facing the man who had changed everything she thought she knew about forgiveness, about trust, about herself.

The moment stretched, and then, without warning, the ground beneath their feet trembled ever so slightly. Y/N looked up instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

And then, the sky exploded.

The northern lights. They burst to life in the heavens above them, spreading across the canvas of the night with an intensity that took her breath away. The lights shimmered in vivid shades of green, violet, and gold, swirling and twirling like a dance, as though the stars themselves had come alive. The air around them hummed with magic.

But it wasn’t just the lights. The stars above, too, seemed to rearrange themselves, forming patterns she had never seen before—constellations that were new, foreign, like they were being painted just for her, just for this moment. The lights stretched farther, brighter, glowing in every direction, encircling them, filling the sky with a breathtaking display of color and light.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It was impossible. It felt as if the universe itself had shifted, bending and molding the world around her, all for this one instant.

And in that moment, Kallias finally turned to her. His face was bathed in the soft glow of the lights, but it was his eyes that caught her attention. His eyes, dark and stormy just days ago, now held something vulnerable—something sincere.

“I thought… if I could show you something beautiful,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper over the hum of the magic, “something just for you, you might understand that I’m trying.” His gaze softened. “I’m trying, Y/N.”

Y/N felt something inside her stir—a warmth, a flicker of hope, that she hadn’t felt in so long. Her chest tightened as she looked at him, the storm of conflicting emotions within her slowly beginning to settle.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the air itself held its breath. “I—” She didn’t know what to say. How could she? He had given her the impossible—an entire sky lit up just for her.

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “I do have to try. I have to make you see that I regret everything. All of it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove that to you.”

His words hit her like a wave, and for a long moment, she couldn’t speak. The magic in the sky above them seemed to intensify, swirling faster, becoming more vivid as if responding to his words. The aurora painted the sky with such beauty that it was almost overwhelming, a brilliant tapestry that filled the night.

Y/N’s hand trembled as she reached out toward the sky, the shimmering colors reflected in her eyes. “How… how did you do this?”

His hand, almost without thinking, reached for hers. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against hers like he was afraid to break the moment.

“I have my ways,” Kallias said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “But it’s nothing compared to the things I should have done for you.”

Y/N turned to him, and for the first time, she really looked at him. The man who had tried to push her away. The man who had hurt her. But also the man who was here, standing before her, now pouring all his regret and all his hope into this one gesture.

“You’ve done enough,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, as she took another step closer to him. “This… this is enough.”

He was so close now, she could feel his warmth, his presence enveloping her, the faintest trace of his breath on her cheek.

The night sky seemed to fade into the background, the northern lights themselves dimming just enough for them to focus on each other. And in the silence, with the magic of the world swirling around them, Kallias leaned in, just barely, his voice a hushed murmur.

“Y/N… I’m not asking you to forgive me. Not yet. But I want to earn it. I want to prove to you that I am worthy of your trust.”

For the first time, Y/N didn’t feel the need to pull away, didn’t feel the walls she had spent so long building. She was still scared, still uncertain of the future, but something inside her softened—something that had been hard and bitter for so long.

“I’m still not sure if I can forgive you,” she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice almost shocking. “But… I want to try.”

Kallias smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “That’s all I can ask for.”

And as the northern lights swirled around them, filling the sky with a breathtaking, magical glow, they stood there together—two souls caught in the same moment, a moment of tentative hope, of second chances.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—there was something worth believing in again.

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Taglist: @slytherin-pen @buttpoltergeist @tooexhaustedsstuff @aliceinwondwonderland

#acotar #fantasy #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #acotar angst #acotar fluff #kallias acotar #kallias x reader #acotar fanfic

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