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kasagia · 5 months ago

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Dancing With The Devil

Pairing: Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem! royal!reader Summary: Your whole life revolved around court intrigues, gaining influence, and extracting the darkest secrets from important nobility. As a woman, there wasn't much you could do or count on. Unless you provide yourself with status and position through a good marriage. You've made your life perfect. You had a complete plan and vision for your future—even after the unexpected loss of your fiancé, you managed to rise up and find another good match—until the Na-Baron decided to interfere with it and ruin everything you had been working for. You were about to find out for yourself that dancing with the devil never led to anything good. Even if the consequences of this come after some time... Warning: kind of royal au!; 18+; violence; blood; Feyd Rautha; death; smut; Inspired by: Bridgerton and "Would've, could've, should've" - Taylor Swift Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ PART II ~•♤♤♤•~

"What do you mean by saying that Paul Atreides is dead?"

"Exactly that." Your mother replies with her typical calm, adjusting the crown on her head in the mirror. "He and his family went on a diplomatic mission to Arrakis. They were attacked by… a group of rebels. More specifically, it was probably Sardaukar, but we all know who benefited more from the death of the Atreides." You shudder at the mere mention of the Harkonnens. However, you still can't get over the shock of the revelation you've just heard.

"It is impossible. They couldn't kill them all, after all... what about Caladan? And the plans of the Bene Gesserit? The Emperor would never…"

"The Emperor is not the same man you knew. As he grows older, he grows not in wisdom but in fear. He is more afraid of maintaining his throne than of the good of the empire. And, as we all know, Paul was his most likely successor. So he killed him before he could kill him." She explains this to you, making sure that her appearance is impeccable. She turns from the mirror and nods to the maid, ordering her to give her a coat in your family's colours and embroidered with the decorations and symbols of your house.

"I... are you just trying to tell me that I don't have a fiancé?"

"Unless you want to marry his corpse, yes, that's what I am trying to say to you from the beginning." Your mother snorts in amusement, watching you as you are still in shock, trying to process this unexpected, terrible news. The shock in you slowly gives way to anger. This wasn't how things were supposed to look.

"Mother, you should know how tragic this situation is. After all, the season is almost over; when will I get any suitors? Should I be without any for a year? And then another one? You know perfectly well that most of the descendants of high families have already announced their courtship. Am I supposed to end up as a spinster?"

"Calm down. The season isn't over yet. Since... Caladan has an unstable political situation, Princess Irulan suggested that we take over the main, final celebrations. All you have to do is dress nicely, present yourself well, and catch whatever poor young men come here." You snort mockingly at her feeble attempts to comfort and reassure you.

"I won't have a better husband than Paul. He was the perfect match! Not ugly, easy to control, filthy rich, only son who was supposed to inherit everything—where will you find me another husband like that?" You ask furiously, more concerned about the consequences of his death for you than the fact that you will never meet your fiancé ever again. You couldn't end up as a spinster. You couldn't marry just anyone, either, or, worse, end up as a mere concubine. You didn't spend all these years beautifying your appearance and studying politics, martial arts, economics, and biological sciences to marry some insignificant idiot from an unknown family and planet.

"It's going to be hard, I won't lie, but we'll get through it. We are Y/L/N. We never give up and always achieve our goals. You're too beautiful, darling, to become a spinster. And too smart to marry some insignificant lord."

"You too were, and yet you ended up with my father."

"I married him out of love and love... love makes us do stupid things. But you are smarter than me. You can do much better, I have no doubt about that. We'll give you a week of mourning before we throw the first party. During this time, we will review... available men. To know who to focus on." You nod, agreeing with her plan. You couldn't immediately rush out to find another suitor when your previous one had just been buried beneath the sands of Arrakis. You had to pretend you were crying for him.

It wasn't like you didn't care about Paul at all. You liked him. He was a good conversation partner and a nobel man. But in this situation, you felt more sorry for yourself. You were left with no fiancé, no suitor, and no other alternative.

And if there was anything worse for a woman in this world than death, it was either infertility or becoming a spinster whom no one paid any attention to. You could have handled every other situation perfectly well, but not such humiliation.

Or at least that's what you thought until you crossed paths with the one and only Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

You stand against the wall, sipping your champagne with probably the sourest expression on your face. The masquerade ball had already started an hour ago and you still couldn't find anyone whose attention you could attract.

You and your mother had looked through... all the possible options, but none of the men who came here were fooled by your sweet swan appearance. And if he did, he proposed after just a few minutes of conversation. You may have been in a desperate situation, but you weren't looking for a desperate man.

Standing against the wall allowed you to take a closer look at the nobles present at the ball. You caught a few rumours and scandalous behaviour—touching too long, stolen kisses, and a few other things—but you didn't feel like thinking about them at all when the vision of your future looked so bleak.

Your bad mood is only fueled by Irulan's presence and how she's clearly having a great time at your funeral. As if she had achieved another one of her many victories. Lucky bitch.

You sigh and place your glass on the tray of a passing servant. You are about to leave the masquerade ball when your attention is caught by a man standing alone on the other side of the room.

His outfit is… unusual. His black coat is finished with sharp metal decorations, making it resemble more of a fancy armour than a classic formal outfit. The black mask completely covers his face and the back of his head, leaving only his full lips and part of his defined jaw to your eyes.

And you really like those lips. Very much. You decide that today you will test their softness when the stranger's cold blue eyes meet yours. A shiver of excitement runs through you as you imagine the things you could do with this intoxicatingly beautiful man. And maybe it's the alcohol you drank or your pathetic longing to be the centre of someone's attention that makes you feel brave enough to approach him.

As you slowly approach him and look at him closely, you realise what he's disguised as. The black swan. It was so good for you that you decided to be the white one tonight.

However, the man suddenly disappears in the crowd of people. You frown and look around, searching for him, but somehow you can't. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. You freeze when you suddenly feel someone's presence behind you. A shiver of excitement runs down your spine as the man's husky whisper echoes in your ear.

"Looking for someone, my lady?" You turn your head to meet the same icy blue irises up that were watching you from across the room a moment ago.

Goosebumps run through you as his gaze inexplicably hypnotises you. This could be your opportunity; you just had to play your cards well and make him more interested in you. The circumstances and scenery were perfect—downright romantic, like from a book. You just had to make this handsome devil equally enchanted by you. You must have caught his attention if he decided to play with you and chase you to get to you first.

You also need to find out who owns those captivating lips and eyes whose colour rivals the ocean waves. Oh, and how you desperately wanted to immerse yourself in them...

"My lord." You curtsy, turning fully to face him to study him even more carefully. He was tall, with a muscular figure visible under his clothes that you wanted to explore with your fingers. You lick your lips, shifting your gaze back to his, and catch him assessing you with his eyes, just like you had just done with him. "I couldn't help but notice how... coincidentally, we fit together with our choice of outfits."

"Indeed, we do. Although I personally think you would look better in black, little swan." The nickname he gives you and the arrogance in his voice make you snort mockingly, raising an eyebrow at him defiantly as you become even more fascinated by this mysterious man.

"Why is that?"

"You may look like a tiny, innocent bird in this white, pretty dress, but your eyes—your eyes give it all away, my lady. You can try to deceive men with this... undoubtedly beautiful sight for the eyes, but not all of us fall so easily to the false mirage—maybe only lesser men—but you're not desperate enough to seek the attention of a mere duke or count, who would be easily led by you, are you?"

"And who are you to make such bold assumptions?" You ask furiously, glaring at him as he gently strokes the collar of your dress with his fingertip, playing a little with the white feathers that were attached to it. He smirks, his white teeth gleaming dangerously, reminding you of the smile of a wolf before it catches its prey.

"Definitely not a lesser man." He replies, undaunted by your anger. His hand slides from the collar of your dress over your shoulder as he grabs your gloved hand and presses a soft kiss on it, and you can barely keep yourself from closing your eyes and giving in to the pleasant feeling of having his plush, full lips so close and yet so far from your skin. "May I? I believe that this beautiful dress will look better while moving…"

At this point, you should refuse. Thank him for his company and go find a... more suitable one. But you can't deny that he's read you accurately so far and that he's touched a part of you that you haven't shown to anyone. You were too curious to just let him go; you wanted to stay with him longer and see what would come of this acquaintance with him.

So you nod and let him lead you to the dance floor. A few heads turn towards you, but you can't reach anything other than him, and the feeling of his larger hand gently holding yours in a strange way makes your heart flutter slightly.

You feel like he's put a spell on you, and strangely, you don't want to break out of it at all.

His eyes never leave yours. You're almost dizzy from how intensely he's looking at you. He places his hand on your waist, pulling you a little closer to him. He holds you tight enough so that you can feel his touch on you, and it isn't painful for you. He leads you into a dance with incredible grace for a man, spinning you around to the rhythm of the music.

He's so close to you that you can smell his scent, which is as addictive as his burning attention. The smell of anise, musk, and hot spices assaulting your nostrils makes you involuntarily lean towards him, wanting to be as close to him as good manners allow. However, you know that if you spend another few minutes longer in his presence, all your mother's teachings will be forgotten in favour of... getting closer to this compelling man.

"So what do you believe in then? If you don't believe in coincidence? Destiny?" You ask, trying to shake off this strange feeling of loss of control he's giving you.

And you almost fail miserably, barely keeping yourself from blushing as his low chuckle makes you burn even more for him. You had to find some flaw in him—something that would turn you off if you didn't want to lose your mind completely, because for now, everything about this man was sinfully pleasant.

"We create our destiny. Don't you agree?"

"Sometimes things are beyond your control, my lord." You disagree with him, keeping your searching gaze on him as his hands move to your hips.

You bite your bottom lip as he lifts you up in one fluid motion, following the steps of the dance. The ease with which he shifts you and spins you so that your back is against his chest as he sets you down on the floor again makes your cheeks blush as you think of all the ways you could use his large, strong hands. You feel like a horny teenager in her first season. And you don't like it at all.

"And sometimes, all we need to do is take a step and reach out for what is rightfully ours." He whispers in your ear, wrapping his hands around you, never stopping his movements.

You swallow thickly as he places your joined hands on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your bare collarbone. You bite your tongue, trying to hold back a moan when you feel the rough skin of his hands, confirming your suspicions that his toned physique is built from years of training and fighting. This fuels your desire for him even more.

"Possible. But our reputation suffers because of it. You can't escape the eyes of society. No matter how hard you try, my lord." Your eyes fall on the couples dancing around you.

You gasp when he suddenly wraps his arm around your waist and turns you around, forcing you to face him again. You almost bump into his chest, completely unprepared for such a sudden move from him. He gives you a mischievous smirk and a wink, amused at how he managed to catch you off guard and off-balance. You purse your lips, causing his eyes to shift to them.

"Do you know what freedom you can achieve when you throw off the yoke of your reputation? How many opportunities are open to you?" He whispers hoarsely, leaning towards you. You lift your chin, meeting his gaze as your heart beats frantically against your chest. You get the feeling he has in his mind... something much less pure and decent. And you almost trembled in his arms with excitement.

"Do you know how many doors close in front of you? No one wants to associate with a vile person rejected by society."

"Oh, but those nefarious always seem to get their attention, don't you think? They are invited out of sheer curiosity about how they will behave and what exciting and forbidden things they will do. They are the source of the most virulent gossip; you won't deny it, right, little swan?"

"Possible. Are you one of them?" You ask, curious about his identity.

He gives you a mysterious, mocking smirk as he chuckles throatily. He leans down and brushes his lips against your ear. You sigh as his lips press a small kiss to your earlobe, your heart racing as you feel him so close to you. You wait in suspense for what he will do next, completely oblivious to the people around you, who, fortunately, are too busy with themselves to notice what is happening around them. You'd never been so happy about wearing a mask before, even though it was a way to protect your identity and allow yourself... to do a little more in such a public place.

"Oh darling… what if I told you that I'm the worst of them all?" He whispers seductively, biting your ear. You gasp, digging your fingers into his arm, holding on to anything as he plays cruelly with you.

At this point, you should thank him for this dance, turn around, and find another company. But there's something... magnetic about this man that draws you closer and closer to him.

Maybe it's the thrill of the unknown—the excitement of how different this man seems from the rest of the people here. And even though your mind is screaming at you, and rightly so, to back away before you burn yourself with the fire that burns from him, you want to follow him like a moth, desperately wanting to bathe in the glow of these new sensations he is giving you.

So, without thinking about it for a long time, you grab his hand and lead him out of the room. Surprisingly, he obediently follows you, not questioning you as the two of you walk through various corridors. You lead him towards the exit—straight to the palace gardens, where there should be much fewer people who couldn't... overhear you.

You drag him into the maze, taking him to one of the dead ends. Before he can say anything, you lean in and kiss him lustfully. You moan at the feeling of his soft lips caressing yours, and you tighten your hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. The metal trim of his outfit digs into you, but you ignore the feeling, completely absorbed by the way his tongue slips into your waiting mouth.

Under different circumstances, if it were known to him who you were and there was no mask covering half of your face, you would never have dared to take such a... bold step. But now, with him so close to you and your identity safe under the white feather mask, you moan into his mouth, letting yourself bask in the feeling of desire.

You and Paul... fooled around a few times, but the furthest you went was touching each other. But with this man, the man whose name you didn't know and who was currently sucking the air from your mouth, you felt completely different.

All your nerves were on fire. Every inch of you was begging for his touch and undivided attention. You couldn't help but moan and melt into his hands as he possessively tightened his grip on your hip, pulling you much closer to his body.

Your bodies fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle, and you couldn't help but wonder if your souls were also two halves that fit together thoroughly.

Just when you feel like you can't go without air any longer, his mouth stops attacking yours, instead caressing and nipping at the skin of your jaw and moving to your neck.

Suddenly, the corset you're in becomes too tight, and breathing becomes increasingly difficult for you as his lips mark your neck, making your already lust-crazed heart beat faster. You whine, your hands tracing his muscular torso, as you find yourself in extreme conflict. You know you should push him away and that you shouldn't let him mark you so clearly, but on the other hand, he brings you so much pleasure and makes you shiver just from the feeling of his lips on your neck. You dread to think what he would do to you if he moved a little further south of your body—if he kneeled in front of you and did to you things you only read about in the privacy of your chamber.

You quickly cover your mouth with your hand as you are about to scream when his teeth dig into your neck. He sucks on the sensitive skin, making sure to leave a clear mark on you. Your eyes widen in shock when you hear a threatening growl from him. His hand grabs yours tightly, removing it from your mouth, and his icy blue eyes flash with anger, giving you a furious glare.

"Hold back your moans and screams one more time, and I will make sure the people in the palace hear you crying because of me, little swan. And believe me, I can make it only pleasant for me, so don't test my patience and mercy and be a good girl for me." He growls, tightening his grip on your hand that he pinned to the hedge behind you.

He kisses you hard, chastisingly, as he takes a step towards you, closing any space between you. Your breasts rub against his chest as he presses against you, and you think you can feel his hardness through the layers of your clothes.

A short gasp escapes you as his hand travels beneath the layers of your dress. His fingers take their time caressing the skin of your legs, slowly climbing up to where you needed to have him as soon as your eyes fell on him. You decide to compromise with him and pull him into a kiss so as not to attract unwanted attention from any of the guests.

You gasp as his fingers brush against your clothed core. His raspy chuckle as he discovers the undeniable flood between your legs makes you blush with embarrassment and anger. Your breathing quickens as you reach out to grab his cock, squeezing him painfully tight for teasing you. A loud moan leaves his lips swollen from kissing, making you want to extract other, equally temptingly beautiful sounds from him.

But before you can do anything, he drops to his knees in front of you and lifts the folds of your white dress. You shiver, feeling his breath between your legs as he takes his time stroking your thighs, caressing them with his soft lips.

You moan as he sucks and bites the skin of your inner thighs, teasing you as he blatantly ignores your needy pussy. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, biting your lip as you try to pull him to your clothed core. He growls while spanking your pussy. You scream at the sudden, burning sensation, your legs shaking, so only his strong hands are keeping you upright.

You tilt your head back, resting it against the hedge, and moan softly as he presses a teasing kiss on your clothed core. His fingers gently slip under your panties, only to rip the fabric off of you in one quick movement.

You sigh as his nose brushes against your folds as he inhales your scent, stuffing your torn panties into his pants pocket. His tongue gently and teasingly tastes your wetness, making you even more frustrated. You push aside the fabric of your dress and take his hand that was exploring the curve of your ass and pull it to your pussy which is screaming for his attention.

His chuckle stimulates your clit, making you moan and pushing your hips into him in a desperate attempt to find a release. He growls angrily at your impatience and grabs your hips in an iron grip, positioning you to his liking and plan.

You hold your breath as his fingers gently enter you, soothing the burning feeling of emptiness inside you. His tongue plays with your clit, sucking every last drop of your juices out of you, as if he's as addicted to your taste and sounds as you are to the feeling of his touch and the way he fills you.

You feel your orgasm building. You close your eyes in blissful relief, allowing yourself to moan, not caring if anyone can hear you. Your fingers dig into his neck. He growls against your pussy as you draw his blood from him and intensifies his ministrations. His fingers move in and out quickly as he sucks on your most sensitive spot, as if he's trying to mark you there and leave you a hickey there.

Your fingers run up his neck. You want to pull his hair—hurt him as much as he hurts you. Your fingertips find their way beneath the black fabric of his mask covering his head, but when you reach out to grab his hair, you're met with bare skin.

And then everything falls into place in your head.

When the realisation comes to you, you freeze, you lose all feeling, and all you can do is stand there and think about who you let under your dress and between your legs.

Harkonnen. You were being eaten by a fucking Harkonnen, and judging by his body structure, voice, and the guest list you've looked through hundreds of times, by one and only Feyd-Rautha, Na-Barron of Giedi Prime.

You tremble, not at all because of the feeling of how his fingers and tongue work continuously on your orgasm, intensifying your sensations as he lets out soft moans at the taste of you, but because pure terror overwhelms your whole body. You unconsciously tighten the hug on his neck, which only increases the intensity of his… efforts on your wet folds, as he wants to take you over the edge.

You take advantage of the fact that he's too... distracted and push him away from you. You grab the skirt of your dress and run fast, as far away from him as possible. Your heart races as you hear his soft growl before, to your even greater dismay, he chases after you.

You run through a maze, trying to lose Harkonnen among many paths, hoping he will reach a dead end and lose your trail, or at least to find some group of people. After all, he won't be able to do anything to you in front of witnesses—or maybe he could?

You tremble at the thought that the same hands that cut the throats of servants and concubines, hands that killed prisoners in the arena and people in battle, touched you and were the cause of your... your pleasure.

How stupid you were! How could you allow yourself to be seduced by Harkonnen and carried away by your stupid emotions and desires? You mentally curse him, his family, and Paul Atreides, whose death made you have to chase men again to find a suitable husband. And especially you curse how amazing and extraordinary you felt under the touch of this bloodthirsty beast, whose house has been nefarious for centuries.

You run forward, not daring to turn around to see if he's still chasing you. You're so lost in your thoughts and so scared that you accidentally run into someone. You gasp as a hand grips your waist tightly, preventing you from falling. You have a heart attack, thinking that it could be him and that he has somehow outsmarted you. But when you look up, you don't see blue irises, but green ones.

"Forgive me, my lord. I didn't mean to..." Your words stop as you take a closer look at the man. He wasn't wearing a mask; he apparently abandoned it when he entered the garden, and you have to say, he's... handsome. Very.

“Of course you didn't mean to. You couldn't see me when you were running so fast, which makes me wonder: From what are you running away, my lady?"

"I... To be honest, I'm running away from my maids. And that ball. It's just… too much excitement for one evening." You lie, quickly making up an excuse.

Obviously, you won't tell him that you're being chased by the horny Harkonnen heir, with whom you were ALONE in the garden. That would be a scandal. Just talking to this man now could be considered that way too... let alone what you allowed Feyd-Rautha to do to you.

"I think so too. Viscount Y/L/N throws good parties, but… they're a little too loud for my liking. Too vibrant." He comments, offering his arm to you. You can't help but smile as you place your hand in the crook of his arm.

Luckily, he leads the two of you in the opposite direction you were running from. You see that his brown and gold mask is tied to his arm, and on his finger he has... the ring of the Luwael family, a close family of Emperor Corrino. You just talked to the emperor's cousin, the pretender to his throne since he has no son.

You can't believe how lucky you are.

"Tell me about it, I've been enduring it since I was 15." You say it jokingly, giggling when you see his eyes widen as he realises he's gossiping about your father, and you think he looks adorable and cute in his state of little panic.

"Lady Y/N Y/L/N?" He asks, shocked. You nod and reach for the ribbon of your mask, removing it. You see his pupils dilate slightly as he takes in your appearance, his cheeks turning pink—whether from embarrassment or lust, you don't know, but you still like his reaction to you. "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend…."

"You did not." You interrupt him quickly with a charming smile. "It's... refreshing to be able to talk to someone who has similar opinions and feelings. At least when it comes to those terrible balls."

"Sometimes I feel like they force us to participate just to have something to gossip about later."

"Don't you like gossip?" You ask curiously, raising an eyebrow as you continue your walk through the gardens. You completely forget about Harkonnen and your... mistake, as you are trying to gain the interest of the man next to you.

This could be your big chance.

True, you heard that he and Irulan were to marry so that power would remain in Corrino's hands, but... if you make him want you, no one will stop him from taking you as his wife.

"I don't like court intrigues. The way ladies throw themselves at lords just to gain a higher title."

"Maybe for you men, marriage is more than just a financial transaction, but unfortunately for most of us, it's all about stability. The security of our lives is the most important thing here, and love—love is a complex and difficult thing; most often, unfortunately, it is only in books. Won't you agree?"

"Possible. But I would rather my wife love me than the power I give her." You smile in understanding. So you have a romantic in front of you... You have to adjust your role well, so you keep your true thoughts to yourself. You innocently hang your head, feigning uncertainty.

"This is completely understandable. Don't all of us dream about it? Have someone of your own, trusted, to whom you can confide all your dreams and fears without being afraid of being laughed at or ignored?" You ask, turning your head to look at him as you ask him your final question.

By the way he watches you with a burning light in his eyes, you know you've come to the right place and have successfully sold your image of a weak, defenceless woman dreaming of a real courtly romance. Pathetic. However, you will do anything to get a husband, you'll even pretend to be a helpless lamb.

"Yes... I assume that's what all of us want. Maybe expect the Harkonnens." You laugh at his joke, feeling very awkward at the same time as the memory of a certain Harkonnen's lips comes back to you.

You curse yourself for how damn good he made you feel. They may not have known love, but if they were all like Na-Baron, they knew damn well how to please their women—a thing you couldn't say about all the lords of the great houses.

You and Lord Luwael walk around the garden for a while before you both decide to head back to the ballroom. You put on your masks, and the man escorts you back, all the while being a perfect gentleman, including dancing, which he later asked you for.

You have fun maintaining your image as a hopeless romantic who wants to find true love and break away from the courtly conventions that overwhelm you—a perfect match for the emperor's heir. He doesn't tell you his identity until the end of the evening, but you don't mind. You know you've charmed him. And that he will seek your company at the next events of this season.

What you don't know is that certain icy-blue irises are watching you two furiously as you are led back into the ballroom by Lord Luwael. You also don't know that the Harkonnens are persistent and ruthless people who can wait years for their plans to be implemented, and that their devilish Na-Baron is truly the worst of them all...

Or that Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen decided a long time ago that you would become his wife. It didn't matter what he had to do or how to achieve his goal.

In the future, you will often regret this night and dancing with the Harkonnen devil. Very often.

~9 years earlier~

“They say he killed his mother. That his uncle and brother are training him to become a killer beast. That he is now devoid of any emotion except anger and bloodlust, and Paul told me that he apparently even has concubines.” Irulan gossips with you as the two of you watch in the distance as Feyd-Rautha trains in the courtyard.

The emperor invited several greater families to discuss something. You weren't too interested about it. Your mother simply packed your things and said you were leaving for a week. But you were happy. You had the opportunity to play with other nobles' children and it was definitely a nice break from listening to your parents' constant arguments.

"Nonsense. He's our age. Let's ask him if he wants to play with us." You decide and stand up to walk over to the hairless boy. Irulan grabs your hand tightly and pulls you back to your hiding place behind the pillar.

"He is a Harkonnen, Y/N. They don't play." She says and leans out to look at him. He swings his sword several times, making several quick movements and turns.

"But he isn't like them. He grew up on Lankiveil. Besides, I still remember him when he had blonde hair. And Harkonnens have no hair, so..."

"Baron made him his heir. Of course he had to... make himself look like them." She interrupts you, wrinkling her nose in disgust. You shiver slightly at the mere mention of the baron and nod thoughtfully.

"Pity. His blonde curls were pretty." You comment and lean out to look at him. You hold your breath as you make eye contact with him. He looks at you coldly, not moving an inch. You wave at him, giving him a hesitant smile. He stares at you for a while longer before he turns on his heel, his back to you, as he continues his training as if nothing had happened. "Still, we should have asked him. He looks quite lonely."

"NO. I won't be nice to him. If my mother gives a son to my father and I have to marry this… Harkonnen, I will throw myself from the tower."

"Why from the tower?" You ask, confused, frowning at the girl.

"I don't know. This is what the main characters in books do when something terrible happens to them. They say they will throw themselves off the tower."

"I prefer it when they fight the dragon." You say this, glancing at the boy again. You don't know why, but something just wouldn't let you walk away and leave him, although you really want to play with Paul, Irulan, and the other kids. You find yourself much more wanting to play with this strange boy.

You frown when you see him accidentally cut his hand. He doesn't cry like Paul did when you slammed his hand in the door. Instead, he puts his mouth on the wound and sucks out the blood. He tears off a piece of his clothes, wraps it around his hand, and continues training.

And somehow, it makes you make a decision.

"Y/N! What are you doing?!" Irulan hisses at you as you pull your hand from her grasp and take a step towards the courtyard.

"Fighting the dragon. Wish me luck." You answer, and without looking back, you head towards the training boy. His pale, bald head almost gleams in the sun, and you can't help but wonder if his lack of hair makes him less tolerant of the sun's heat.

When you are close to him, you stand still, not wanting to accidentally impale yourself on his sword. He notices you out of the corner of his eye, stops swinging his sword, and turns towards you, looking at you closely.

"Hi." You say as you wave at him.

"Lady Y/N." His voice is slightly hoarse, as if he had sandpapered it. You frown, surprised by such a formal greeting. Usually, only adults greet you like that.

"Um... my lord?" You answer hesitantly and shake your head, trying to ignore how strange he's acting. "Do you want to join us? We are playing hide and seek." You say, pointing your thumb at the pillar you and Irulan were hiding behind a few seconds ago.

"It's fun for kids." He replies dismissively and starts swinging his sword again.

"Are you not one?" You ask in surprise, still looking at him. He growls in annoyance and turns towards you, giving you a furious glare as you interrupt him.

"No. I am a man. And men are supposed to fight in battles and train to become stronger."

"Why?" You ask and frown at him, following him as he walks over to the fountain where he left his water and towel. He wipes the beads of sweat from his head, giving you a confused gaze.

"To keep their women and country safe." He replies like it's an obvious thing everyone should know.

"Well... do you have any in danger right now?" This time it's him who furrows his hairless eyebrows at your weird question. He thinks for a moment, observing you, and then shakes his head.

"No."

"Great! Then you can play with us." You say it excitedly and grab his hand. He hisses under your touch, and it's only then that you realise you've grabbed his injured hand. You want to apologise, but his mad glare quickly silences you.

"I already told you that I am not going to play any stupid game, woman!"

"Hey! I am not a woman, I am a girl! And you are a boy, so stop pretending to be an adult and play with us." You respond to his furious growl with your own and shoot him your evil glare. But instead of caring about your outburst and maybe even complying with your demands, he just laughs, making you even angrier.

"I will do whatever I want. You won't order me, little bunny. It doesn't matter how cute you look when you're angry." He mocks you and turns his back on you. You stamp your foot, furious at his behaviour and the fact that he is dismissing you.

"I doubt that sitting all alone is what you prefer." You say, unconsciously hitting his sweet spot. You see him tense as he reaches for his sword. However, his attitude quickly turns indifferent again as he turns his head to glance at you briefly.

"You should go."

"Why?"

"Before anyone notices me with you. Why are you asking so many questions?" He asks irritably, and he starts his training again.

Even though he tries to ignore you, you can see him glancing at you every few moments as you continue to stand there, watching as he swings his sword and cuts through the air.

"Is that yours?" You ask him curiously, sitting on the edge of the fountain.

"Yes. My uncle gave it to me for my 10th birthday." He replies proudly and stops for a moment to talk to you. You smile, staring longingly at the metal blade.

"My gave me dolls. Again. It's so boring." You grumble, keeping your eyes on his weapon. "How do you play with it?"

"I don't play. I train." He replies in annoyance and rolls his eyes at you. But you can see in his eyes that he's not mad at you at all. On the contrary, he wants to continue talking to you. That's why you act more boldly.

"Whatever. How do you train with it? Can you show me?"

"These are not things for a woman." His rejection doesn't dampen your excitement at all. On the contrary, you want to train with him even more, to do something that your mother forbade you to do a long time ago.

"Well, that's a good thing that I am a girl, then. Can you show me? Please? My dad wanted to train me, but my mom didn't agree. She is stupid." You complain, causing him to chuckle. You smile widely, thinking that he looks better when he's cheerful and not with that dark and grim scowl.

"She is. You should know how to protect yourself. Your father won't be fighting for your safety forever. And with that attitude, I doubt you will ever find a husband to protect you."

"Good. I don't want one. Can you show me then?" You ask, ignoring the fact that he's trying to insult you. You look up at him with your beautiful, pleading eyes and stick out your lower lip.

He watches you for a moment, frowning as he feels his heart beat faster when you give him that cute look he simply can't resist. He sighs, barely taking his eyes off of you, and nods.

"Fine. But only if you stay away from me after that."

"Okay." You reply excitedly and nod enthusiastically. He smiles slightly and stands behind you, helping you maintain a good stance with your sword.

"Hold it like that." He says, adjusting your grip on the handle.

"It's so heavy! How can you hold it and move?" You almost collapse under the weight of the sword, but you try to hold it the way he shows you. He laughs huskily, making you smile.

"You can get used to it with time. Now. I will show you some basic movements."

He trains with you and shows you some tricks and moves. And although he was rough and rude towards you at first, over time you both enjoyed each other's company.

You manage to make him laugh a few times, and each time you count it as a small victory considering how grumpy he was. He's obviously extremely fascinated with fighting and seems more than willing to teach you a few things. You think this "training" is fun—at least until you accidentally injure yourself.

"Ouch!" You scream and almost drop his sword. Luckily, he caught it quickly, before you could cut your foot. He furrows his hairless eyebrows and takes your injured hand in his.

"You're as clumsy as you look, little bunny." He mumbles and brings your hand to his mouth.

He licks up your blood like he did with his and tears off a piece of your dress. He wraps the cloth around the wound and looks closely at your hand. You frown, disgusted that he's licking your blood, but you don't move. Well... not until you realise this insult.

"Hey! You hurt yourself a while ago, too. Besides, it's my first time." You are angry at him, pulling your hand away and crossing your arms.

"Because I had an unexpected audience that was talking passionately about me behind my back."

"Oh… I'm sorry. It was mean." You respond contritely, not realising how he must have felt when everyone around him assumed the worst about him and didn't want to be around him.

"I got used to it." He replies in an emotionless tone and looks away from you, almost looking like a beaten dog, even though he tries hard not to show it. And you feel terribly sorry for him.

"You shouldn't. You are cool. When you take the stick out of your ass." You joke, and he chuckles. You smile at him, but his good mood is suddenly interrupted by something. His face turns serious, his muscles tense, and you only hear the growl of some animal before Feyd pushes you behind him.

A large hunting dog runs up to you. He lunges at Feyd, knocking him down. The dog bites him, and Feyd screams in rage. He tries to plunge his sword into the dog's side, but it clamps its jaws on the Feyd's arm, immobilising him.

You gasp in dismay. You reach for a rock and throw it at the dog, trying to distract it. You succeed, but before you can think about what to do next, the dog lunges at you.

You land on your back and use your elbows to get up, but the dog is quickly above you. He growls, foam dripping from his muzzle onto you, and you can only stare in horror into his eyes. You gasp when, just as he is about to sink his teeth into you, Feyd's sword suddenly pierces the dog.

You lie on the ground, unable to move, as you feel the animal's blood dripping onto your dress. Feyd pushes the dog off of you and gives you a worried look.

"Are you hurt?" He asks and offers you his hand. He helps you get back on your feet, looking for any wounds. You shake and shiver as you look at the dead animal. Feyd notices this and places his hand on your cheeks, making you look into his eyes as he turns your back to the animal's body.

He opens his mouth to repeat the question, but freezes when you throw yourself into his arms and hug him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you sob softly. Feyd holds you tentatively and strokes your hair, clumsily trying to calm you down.

"Thank you." You mumble into his neck. He doesn't say anything. He just holds you, letting you cry into him and calm him down. When you finally do, you move away from him. You wipe tears away with the sleeve of your dress, which makes Feyd's heart clench uncomfortably.

He doesn't understand what you're doing to him. He should have felt disgusted by you and been as far away from you as possible. He should have rejected you the moment you threw yourself at him, but... somehow he couldn't deny you this moment of comfort. The mere thought of you seeking comfort from him made his heart flutter a little. And you smelled nice, too. Like ocean. Like Lankiveil. Like home.

You represented everything his uncle wanted him to forget. You were... soft. Too soft. And nice. He should have wanted to hurt you, not comfort you, but all he wanted to do was hold you and protect you from the cruel world.

"Y/N!" Your father's scream reaches you.

The man pulls you further away from Feyd and looks at him warily before his worried gaze shifts to you and your eyes, bloody from crying. A moment later, the Baron and the Emperor join you. The men look at you and the dead dog, frowning.

"My best hunting dog..."

"Feyd-Rautha, what is this about? What have you done?" Her uncle's threatening growl makes Feyd tense. A shiver runs through him, and he opens his mouth to explain himself, but you beat him to it, leaving your father's arms and standing bravely in front of the baron and emperor.

"He saved me."

"What?"

"The dog broke off the leash. It… it would have bitten and torn me if Na-Baron hadn't killed it." The men look at each other, assessing the situation. Feyd watches you carefully, ignoring the surprised, frightened looks from the emperor and your father as you tell them that he killed a nearly three-foot dog.

"I... thank you, Na-Baron. For protecting my daughter." Your father nods to him, but he still has an iron grip on your arm. As if he were afraid that Feyd would turn out to be a worse, more dangerous beast to you than the dog that wanted to bite you to death.

"You're welcome, Viscount Y/L/N." He replies, shifting his gaze from you to your father for a moment.

Your dad is not waiting for the Emperor and the Baron to let you two go. He simply grabs your hand and leads you back to the palace with him. As if he wanted you to be as far away from the Harkonnens as possible.

"You shouldn't let just any dog bite you. You let me down, boy."

You feel sad when you hear his uncle's words. You turn your head, making eye contact with the hairless boy. You give him a small, reassuring smile and wave at him. You see him purse his lips and shift his gaze back to his uncle, who is scolding him. However, he looks much less tense than before.

Unknowingly to you, you gained a secret admirer that day. An admirer who was going to make him the only man who would have the privilege of protecting you and holding you in his arms. He promised himself that this would happen, even if he had to bring hell into the world.

~•♤♤♤•~ PART II ~•♤♤♤•~

Dearest, gentle readers… did you miss me?

The opening of a new season has never been a more exciting and long-awaited event. The great families were impatiently waiting for more scandals delivered by this year's suitors. And this author is bursting with anticipation for the future events and gossips of this season.

This year, we have several unexpected debuts that this author will be watching very closely. However, I am convinced that the undivided attention of the masses will probably be stolen by the Na-Baron of Giedi Prime, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, who this year decided to take part in the great search for a wife.

Lord, take care of the future Baron's chosen one so that she can live up to the expectations and life among the Harkonnens.

However, this author wishes the Na-Baron all the best on his birthday and believes that we all look forward to the opening of the season on Giedi Prime, especially to his signature fight in the arena, which will be the main part of Na-Baron's birthday celebration.

But we also cannot forget about the stars of the previous season, whose story is not even close to the end yet.

Lady Y/N Y/L/N did not decide to plunge into great mourning after the tragic death of her fiancé, Paul Atreides. Lord Luwael was charmed by the young honourable at the end of the previous season, and Lady Y/N turned out to be not indifferent to his courtship. Surprising? A little bit. Unreasaonbale? Of course not. After all, why stand faithfully by a corpse of a duke when you can stick by the side of a potential Emperor?

But this author is deeply disappointed that we didn't get to hear any wedding bells at the end of the previous season. Maybe these two will surprise us all this year, and we will see a real royal wedding that we haven't been able to witness for ages.

We are all looking forward to the ball in honour of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's birthday, which will be opening this year's season. And this author can't wait to bring all the gossip and scandal to our curious readers. Who knows who will win this great race and have a good match this season?

Happy hunting to all the future brides!

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tanuki-kimono · 8 months ago

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Samurai's ranks and dress code in Late Edo period

AMAZING reference chart put together by Nadeshico Rin, showing the different attires worn by the men of the buke class in and about Edo Castle. OP stresses the chart is by no means exhaustive - but it helps picturing things SO MUCH!

For easier reading, I have adapted the chart with english translation. Rin has also created illustrations detailing each attire, I'll translate those in coming days under the tag "samurai kimono".

You'll find the transliteration below cut:

The court ranks - Mibun 身分 or Ikai (位階)

Find more about the exact titles here.

一位 Ichii (First court rank)

三位 Sanmi (Third court rank) and 四位 Shii (Fourth court rank)

Goi 五位 (Fifth court rank)

Omemie ijô 御目見以上, the "upper" vassals allowed to request audience with the shogun

Omemie ika 御目見以下, the "lesser" vassals (not allowed to request audience with the shogun)

Rin does not mention the second court rank (二位 Nii) so I am not sure where this one is supposed to go ^^;

The clan/families - Kamei 家名

徳川将軍家 Tokugawa shôgunke (Tokugawa Shogun clan)

尾張徳川家 Owari Tokugawake (Owari Tokugawa clan), 紀伊徳川家 Kii Tokugawake (Kii Tokugawa clan), 水戸徳川家 Mito Tokugawake (Mito Tokugawa clan), 徳川御三卿 Tokugawa gosankyo (Secondary Tokugawa branch clans: Tayasu, Shimizu, and Hitotsubashi)

三奉行 Sanbugyô, & 下三奉行 Shimosan bugyô (magistrates, governors)

旗本 Hatamoto (general term for upper-rank vassals of the Tokugawa)

御家人 Gokenin (general term for lower-rank vassals of the Tokugawa)

Outfits TPO (Time, Place, Occasion)

第一礼服 (大礼など) Daiichi raifuku (tairei nado) - Most formal outfit worn during State/important ceremonies, etc.

礼服 (正月など) Raifuku (Shogatsu nado) - Formal outfit, worn for events like New Year, etc.

通常礼服 (節句など) Tsûjô raifuku (sekku nado) - Regular formal outfit, worn during seasonal festivals, etc.

平服 Heifuku - Everyday outfit

Type of outfits

Rin has released separated charts detailing the different costumes. You'll find them translated here in coming days.

束帯 Sokutai - old ceremonial court dress, first worn by Heian nobility. Attire includes the 笏 shaku (flat ritual sceptre), and 冠 kanmuri hat.

衣冠 Ikan - old ceremonial court dress, much more simpler than sokutai

布衣 Hoi - "plain" 狩衣 kariginu (which were informal clothes worn by the nobility from the Heian period and onwards)

素襖 Suô - ceremonial dress of the lower-ranked samurai

直垂 Hitatare - ceremonial court robe

狩衣 Kariginu - patterned kariginu (informal clothes worn by the nobility from the Heian period and onwards)

大紋 Daimon - 直垂 hitatare with large family crests

直衣 Nôshi - everyday robes which were first worn by males of the imperial family during Heian era, and then spread among nobility, etc.

長上下 Naga Kamishimo - outfit pairing a sleeveless ceremonial robe called 肩衣 kataginu, with trailing pants called 長袴 nagabakama

半上下 Han Kamishimo - outfit pairing a sleeveless ceremonial robe called 肩衣 kataginu, with ankle lenght pants called 半袴 hanbakama

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anyca786 · 8 months ago

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The Bite That Bound Us

Soulmate!Mikealson brothers x reader (poly)

Summary: One wrong turn into a dark valley and you find yourself turned into a vampire, but wait there's more...

I was barely five feet tall with my fiery red hair that never behaved, a whirlwind of sunshine and curiosity in a world far too big for me, was lost again. A shortcut, you'd called it. One wrong turn down a dark alley which was reeked of damp garbage and worse.

Now, a pair of glowing amber eyes locked onto mine. Panic clawed at my throat, but before I could even scream, a blur of elegant violence filled the air and then darkness, cold, an agonizing thirst that gnawed at my very core.

I awoke to a gasp of a different nature. A handsome man with chiseled features and an air of nobility stared at me, his expression a mix of shock and something deeper, something I couldn't decipher.

"What...happened?" My voice was a mere rasp.

"Forgive me," the man said, his voice a smooth baritone. "I lost control. You're..." He trailed off, examining my small frame with a frown.

Panic surged through me. "Am I dead?"

He hesitated. "Not exactly." His eyes met mine again, the amber depths swirling with guilt. "I turned you."

I stared, processing. Vampire. I was a vampire. A sob escaped through my lips before I could stop it. Then, his eyes pierced the void, followed by a face both beautiful and terrifying.

"I'm Elijah Mikaelson, the original vampire", he knelt beside me, a flicker of regret in his ancient gaze. "Forgive me, little one," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress.

Suddenly I felt the thirst again that I didn't understand, just felt the warmth returning, an unnatural hunger replacing the cold. I lunged, fangs ripping through his pristine white sleeve. He didn't flinch, only closed his eyes as I fed from him, a small, desperate creature clinging to his arm.

When I pulled back, sated and confused, his expression was unreadable. "You're different," he stated, his voice tinged with wonder. He took me to the sprawling compound, a haven shrouded in mystery. I was greeted by three pairs of eyes, each holding a universe of emotions. There was Klaus, the hybrid, Kol, the mischievous brother and Finn, the stoic one.

"Elijah," Klaus snarled, a dangerous glint in his eyes, "what is this?" Elijah ignored him, his gaze fixed on me. "She's a… anomaly. A human turned, yet… different."

Suddenly, Finn stepped forward, his voice trembling. He reached out, a single finger brushing my cheek. A gasp escaped his lips. "The prophecy," he whispered, eyes wide.

Kol scoffed. "Finn, don't be ridiculous."

But Finn shook his head, his gaze locked on me. "The soulmate. The one spoken of in mother's grimoire. The one who can break the curse."

A bewildered silence descended. Then, Elijah spoke, his voice soft but firm. "Tell me, little one, what is your name?". I blinked, my newfound senses overwhelming. "(Y/N)," I managed, voice barely a whisper.

Klaus snorted. "Soulmate? Don't be absurd. She's just a runt of a human he sired."

But Elijah knelt before me, his eyes searching mine. "Are you truly our soulmate, (Y/N)?"

I tilted my head, unsure. "Soulmate? What's that?"

Kol, the mischievous one, stepped forward. "Don't you remember, love? The whole of New Orleans knows. The prophecy? The Originals destined to find their mate, a petite firecracker they called her."

My eyes widened. I vaguely remembered my grandmother's stories, whispered tales of an ancient prophecy about a human who would complete the Original vampires. Could it be true?

A flicker of a smile touched Elijah's lips as he knelt before me, his eyes searching mine again. "This wasn't supposed to happen like this," he admitted. "I never meant to hurt you."

Taking a deep breath, I met his gaze. The fear was still there, but a spark of something else flickered within me too. "What happens now?"

A tense silence hung in the air as Elijah and his brothers exchanged looks. The prophecy. The guilt. And a flicker of a new beginning, all tied to the fate of a tiny human turned vampire.

Few months later....

The morning sun filtered through the thick drapes, casting a warm glow across the antique four-poster bed. I stirred, snuggling into the embrace behind me. Blinking bright sunshine away, I snuggled deeper into the warmth beside me. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer.

"Morning, love," rumbled a sleepy voice right by my ear. It was Klaus, still half-asleep, his hair a mess against the white silk sheets.

I smiled, turning in his arms to face his handsome face. “Morning, Nik.” My nickname for him was a constant battle between affection and pushing boundaries. He hated it, but it always made him smirk. Living with the Mikaelsons was an exercise in perpetual chaos – a chaos I wouldn't trade for anything.

Most mornings started like this – either tangled in Klaus's possessive embrace or waking up tucked against Elijah's comforting chest. Today, however, the familiar warmth was missing. I sat up, stretching my arms, and a wave of loneliness washed over me.

"Elijah?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the vast bedroom. A chuckle drifted in from the balcony. "Always so perceptive, love. Come join me."

I slipped on a silk robe and pushed open the French doors, a cool breeze ruffling my hair. Elijah stood leaning against the railing, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. He smiled as I approached.

"Lost sleep?" I asked, taking a sip of his proffered cup.

"Just thinking," he said vaguely, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "About yesterday."

Yesterday was a typical Mikaelson night. A masquerade ball Kol had dragged us all to, filled with pretentious socialites and enough bloodlust in the air to rival a slaughterhouse. It wasn't exactly my cup of tea, but with Kol by my side, whispering witty remarks and occasionally stealing kisses in dark corners, even masquerades could be fun.

"Was it Marcel again?" I sighed, setting the cup down.

Elijah didn't answer. Marcel Gerard, a vampire they'd turned centuries ago, had become a thorn in our side. He was building power, challenging dominion over New Orleans.

"Don't worry, love," he said, finally looking at me. "We'll handle him." He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was always so gentle, a stark contrast to the fierceness he displayed when protecting his family.

Before we could discuss Marcel further, footsteps approached. Kol sauntered in, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Ah, Elijah, here you are. And my darling! Ready for breakfast?"

Our mornings usually included a leisurely breakfast with Kol, filled with gossip about the latest society scandals (courtesy of Kol's impeccable ear for eavesdropping), lighthearted teasing, and plenty of laughter.

We’d sit at the grand dining table, me perched on a booster seat (thanks to my perpetually human height), devouring pancakes while he regaled me with stories of his mischievous exploits throughout the centuries. Sometimes, Elijah would join us, his stoic demeanor masking the fondness in his eyes as he listened to Kol’s ramblings.

After breakfast, I spent the day indulging in my favorite pastime – reading. Finn, the quietest among the brothers, shared my love for literature. We curled up on the plush couches in the library, lost in different worlds, surrounded by towering shelves of leather-bound books. He’d read aloud in his soothing voice, his passion for history igniting a similar spark within me. Occasionally, Elijah would join us, his commentary adding another layer to the stories. Their perspectives, spanning centuries, were a treasure trove of knowledge.

Klaus, possessive and protective (sometimes to a suffocating degree), would spend nights dragging me to dimly lit clubs or lavish parties. He’d scowl at anyone who dared glance my way for too long, his hand possessively wrapped around my waist. It was annoying at times, this need to control everything around me, but there was a tenderness in his possessiveness that I couldn't ignore. Sometimes, he’d surprise me with a stolen moment in the garden, capturing my likeness on canvas with surprising skill.

Despite their differences, they all had one thing in common: their fierce protectiveness of me.

Whenever a dark cloud hung over me, Elijah, with his calming presence, would scoop me into his lap, whispering reassurances and pressing gentle kisses to my forehead. He understood my anxieties as a human turned supernatural, my loneliness in a world they’d inhabited for so long.

One afternoon, while browsing a quaint bookstore with Rebecca, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck – a feeling I’d come to associate with danger. Looking back, I saw Marcel, a former protégé turned enemy of the Mikaelsons, flanked by his vampires, his eyes glinting with malice. My blood ran cold. He was here, inside the French Quarter, the supposed haven.

Fear momentarily forgotten, I lunged towards him, a primal urge to protect my family surging through me. Of course, my vampire powers were a mere blip compared to Marcel’s ancient strength. He caught me effortlessly, his grip tightening around my throat. Panic rose, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin.

“Leaving the Mikaelsons pet unattended?” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.

Before I could respond, a blur of white and blue swept past me. Elijah’s hand clamped around Marcel’s wrist, his face a mask of fury. “Leave her be, Marcel,” he growled.

“Now, Elijah,” Marcel mocked, his hold on me tightening. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown attached to the little rabbit.”

I struggled, kicking my legs and lashing out with my hands, a pathetic display against his superior strength. A surge of pride washed over me when I saw Kol and Finn materialize at Elijah’s side, their faces reflecting a similar fury.

A tense silence stretched between them. Just as Marcel opened his mouth to speak again, Klaus materialized behind him, his eyes blazing with an unholy fire. “You dare touch what’s mine?”

Marcel seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second, a flicker of fear crossing his face. It was enough. With a coordinated attack, the Mikaelsons overpowered Marcel and his goons. It was a brutal ballet of fangs, claws, and super speed. I watched it all unfold from the safe.

You'll can send requests and suggestions-

#tumblr #klaus mikealson x reader #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #elijah mikealson x reader #tvdu #kol mikealson x reader #kol mikaelson #finn mikaelson #the originals #y/n

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sleepynoons · 2 months ago

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Locked Eyes

Jing Yuan finally returns from his Grand Tour, but by the bounds of society's customs and traditions, you cannot marry him. This is a romance story told through letters exchanged, secret rendezvouses, red silk embroideries.

jing yuan x afab!f!reader, regency!au, sfw

word count: ~15,300

cw: explicit language, slight suggestive content, minor character death

notes: the regency era is too complex, and i got lazy with my research, so this is not accurate!!! best read on desktop because there are some long paragraphs... would also appreciate reblogs + comments!!!

infinite thanks to @staraxiaa, for always being a fantastic and incredibly insightful beta-reader, and for watching me lose my sanity over the past 1.5 weeks. and to io, wherever you may be, this is for you. you made this piece possible, and even if we do not talk anymore, i hope you are well and happy. every day, i am so grateful we met, and i hope you can enjoy even bits and pieces of this story.

YOU HAD met Jing Yuan in your early years, by chance, peering at each other through the relentless beating of the sun’s rays and the glittering of the sea’s many jeweled crests. At the time, the boy had, you thought, equally dazzling eyes, as golden as the chains that adorned your mother’s neck and wrists, the same in reflecting your curious, admiring gaze.

Now, the gold is shades darker, matured and cured, a reflection of his much more grown state. Even from across the room, past the rotating crowd of other noble families, where you peer at him over the top of your lace fan, you can deduce his transformation, his broader, fitted shoulders and chest, inappropriately loose, long hair, tall stature that dwarfs those lingering near him. Most importantly, though, you cannot help but smirk at the flicker of red when Jing Yuan adjusts the collar of his tailcoat. The flash of color is meant to be discrete, though to observant eyes, it might as well also serve as a challenge.

For now, this will do.

A call of your name from your older brother pulls you from your watchful perch. Beside him is another man, another introduction, another attempt at your mother’s instruction. Your foxy satisfaction melts into your typical countenance, and you curtsy as the two gentlemen approach you. You know this conversation will result in nothing, but you entertain your brother and the baron he has brought over anyway.

–

You have never been the daughter your mother wanted. Perhaps, when you were once little, you were on course to becoming favored, but you have grown, enough, at least, to develop a pointed sense of your own being. Your brother says you think too much, that you are unable to see the bigger picture, and perhaps that is why your mother does not take too kindly towards you. After all, why would anyone favor another that watches, observes, judges their every move?

Even now, as she sits across from you, informing you of the baron and his lineage weeks after your introduction to the man, your mother is aware that while her directions may escape your memory, her movements do not. The shuddering of her fingers, an instinct that comes with age; the adjusting and readjusting of the pleats of her nightgown, a glean into her deep-set fear of abandonment; the twitching arch of her brow, the permanence of her distaste and disappointment in you.

“Mother,” you interrupt, “I suppose you are willing to sacrifice the nobility of our family name in order to satiate your sole desire to marry me off?”

She harrumphs. “Incorrigible.” The word is equivalent to being spat on. You give her some reprieve by pulling out your handkerchief and dab at your forehead, as if she really did. “You dare to claim you exhibit even an ounce of the dignity and lavishness you have been raised in?”

“Not at all.” You cease your acting, slipping the cloth away, and stare straight into your mother’s eyes. The briefest thought, that it is your fearlessness, a lack of tact, that your mother wholly detests you for, flickers in your mind before you extinguish it effectively. No matter. You say, “But we must not forget I still bear your husband’s last name. Regardless of your personal feud,” and you raise your chin towards her, “your husband would never allow even the likes of a woman such as myself to tarnish the family’s honor.”

You can see the tightening, working, grinding of her jaw. She grits, “You must have someone in mind, do you not?” She throws down her fan, the lacquered wood snapping in half when it collides with the ground, and rises on her haunches, towering over your seated figure. “You whore. Who is this man that you are seeing? Do you not understand what a scandal –“

You tilt your head, less than impressed. “There is no other man. That is your job, to find your only female kin a suitable proprietor. I would never do something on your behalf.”

Your response simultaneously placates yet enrages her further. “See yourself out now. And do not appear in my sights again tonight.”

“Of course, Mother.” You finish the last sip of your tea before standing to curtsy and exit the drawing room.

You pad through the darkening halls of your father’s manor with purpose. Instead of returning to your bedroom, you make your way to the third of four floors, veer towards the right end of the hallway, and knock on the last door.

The door cracks open before you can identify yourself.

“I am no postman, My Lady.”

“Oh, Fu Xuan!” You giggle and clasp her hands in yours, holding her fingers up to your cheek. “You are absolutely wonderful to me.”

“I would prefer if you kept your correspondences to a minimum. The servants are already gossiping about the frequency in which letters are delivered to me, and in due time, your mother will begin to pry into this matter.”

“Please, it is only every fortnight!”

Fu Xuan huffs, retracts her hands, and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You would not believe how bored your servants are.”

“Well, then, I do apologize. Perhaps I should have a more extravagant fight with my mother next time? At least she might knock over a teapot or something. That should occupy the maids for a day or so.”

“My Lady, if I may presume, it seems you will no longer have to meet that baron?”

You flash a wide grin at your governess. Born in an unconventional household, Fu Xuan is educated, beginning her academics at the age of no less than three, and prepared her whole life to work as a teacher. At first, your mother was against employing Fu Xuan because you were already struggling to conform to the set of traditions and expectations she had placed upon you then, but after meeting the young academic for a brief hour one morning, Fu Xuan and her adept way with words convinced your mother otherwise.

To you, Fu Xuan is more than your governess. She is also your closest confidant, similar enough in age to understand your perspectives yet more than practiced to offer wisdom when required. Though she was shaking her head as you proposed your strategy, Fu Xuan nonetheless agreed to help send and receive letters on your behalf to avoid the hawkish gazes incessantly monitoring you, to deprive them of another chance to pierce and tear at your person.

You walk over to her desk, cleared of everything except for a paper envelope and a small butter knife. You pick the former up, running a pointer finger across the wax seal, and release a soft, muted sigh. “You have always been so keen, Fu Xuan. How could you tell?”

“My Lady, your strengths have never lied in deception.”

“Oh, please!” You feign offense, dramatically setting the back of your hand to your forehead with faux urgency. “I am always excited to see you!”

“Please read the letter, so I may rest.”

Fu Xuan pulls out her desk chair for you to sit in, and you take the small butter knife in your unoccupied hand. Carefully, you prod the tip underneath the seal, gently pushing and easing its grip, until the wax plucks off neatly.

The envelope is thin this time, slimmer than many of the previous letters you have received, and you feel a pang of disappointment, resounding and clear in the hollows of your chest. You pull out a single sheet of paper and unfold it carefully, as if it might tear and dissipate into dust if you so much as brushed a finger a degree too harshly against the fiber.

Dear Lady,

I would like to foremost extend my condolences regarding your father’s condition. Word has reached the far edges of my relatives’ stays in Bath, and when I had visited a week ago, my family had discussed the news over lunch. I should have returned for a brief stay by the time this letter arrives in your hands, and do give Lady Fu Xuan my utmost thanks. I believe I shall see you at the dinner party that is occurring in just a few days time, and, if the chance arises, I will see to it that I am introduced to your brother.

Regarding your question in our previous exchange, my thoughts on the matter vary. Perhaps we may reach an impasse on the issue, but it is an overwhelming hurdle to pass such aggressive tax revisions without unanimous agreeance from many of the other men on the Royal Council; this is hardly achievable in the current instance, and I would advise My Lady and myself to not fancy ourselves with ill-conceived hopes. However, I do concede that your suggestions come from willful intent and are what is best for the common people, and therefore, I will do my part and pass on word to my father and his heir. I sincerely apologize that that is the extent of my powers. I am also aware that this writing may be shorter than before, and I hope My Lady is not discouraged, though, it may be presumptuous of me to assume My Lady would ever have such moments of wavering.

Once my tour has been completed, I can assure that there will be plentiful recounts of my journeys and more debates to be had about the state of affairs I come across. I bring your embroidery with me at all times.

– Your most faithful friend

Jing Yuan, ever thoughtful, always considerate, never one to miss a single detail. Jing Yuan has always been thorough, that has been clear ever since you witnessed those dense, molten golds, and you are glad that he actively reciprocates your efforts in conversation, despite how inexperienced and eloquent you may be in comparison. On cue, Fu Xuan pulls out a drawer to grab a quill, a sheet of paper, and a well of ink, setting them beside your dominant hand. A maid will come to check on you very soon, judging by the rising of the moon, so you must write with precise decisiveness.

Sir,

Many thanks for your condolences to the Marquess. He is recovering and should be able to return to his post in a few morns. I did, indeed, witness you at the dinner party, and I am a little dimmed at the lack of correspondence between you and my brother. Instead, I was subjected to quite a drawling meeting with this baron from somewhere in the South, and the Marchioness has been encouraging his affections for me since. I managed to escape the impending engagement, after inciting a fit from her, but good Sir, while I do not mean to expedite our efforts unnecessarily, I would prefer if we could bring our exchanges elsewhere soon. Paper simply does not compare to the excitement and passion one feels in speech and gesture. Miss Fu Xuan is also beginning to fall under scrutiny, and I would never put her in harm’s way.

As for my simple questions regarding the rumored tax revisions, I thank you, truly, and can only implore My Lord to use the full extent of your ability, despite slim chances at approval. I hope your travels are safe and felicitous, and do write to me next month. I will be awaiting your full return.

– Your most affectionate friend

There is very little time for you to look over your reply. Quickly scanning, you pause only for any glaring errors, and at the lack thereof, you set your quill down and fold the letter in half.

“I must go now,” you tell Fu Xuan as you stand.

“I shall see you tomorrow, My Lady.” The two of you share a soft embrace, cheek to cheek, before you creak the bedroom door open and traverse with light steps to your own chamber. You make it in time, already shuffling into bed when one of the servants arrives to snuff out the candles lighting your room.

–

You remember the soft pulses of warm wind against your arms, the crisp, slightly briny scent of the sea and sand the breeze wafted to your nose. There were many families, children and women and men alike paddling in the sea, while others lied underneath umbrellas on the shore. If there is anything you and your mother have ever agreed on, it is that the beach is truly a healing, almost spiritual location.

Although your mother forbade you from wading into the waters, in fear of the sun burning your visage and hands, you did not mind staying behind on the sands in the first place. The feel of the dirt and grains and cracks of shells felt foreign against your palms, your nerves much more accustomed to the smooth, flat texture of grass blades and rough cobblestone. The beach sands were harsh, sometimes sharp, sometimes rounded from years of natural erosion and other children’s curious touches. You also took delight in the colors of the shore, glittering hot white and beige and speckled pink, winking at you as you scoured for conches and clams. The large sunhat you were wearing kept perturbing your digging, constantly sliding down your forehead and obscuring your vision, yet every time, you would pull it back into place and continue shoveling with curled fingers, until the sand transitioned into wet, moist sediment.

Your mother could not prohibit your burrowing for she was under another umbrella with her acquaintances, and you took much delight in being able to cause some mischief right in front of her without repercussion. But more than petty vengeance, you wanted to find a memento to bring home. Though young, you were already aware of some rift between you and your parents, and you were not guaranteed attendance on such trips in the future. The only way you could comfort yourself was by digging for that perfect shell, with its spirals and grooves and gradient of pearlescent white and baby pink, the ones described in the simple novels Fu Xuan lent you.

But the area around your feet offered little reward, and you were dissatisfied by the chips and scraps remaining in your palm as you sieved through the sand with your fingers. You gave up a little saddened and frustrated, as children do before they lose interest. Then, suddenly, you felt a soft tap on your shoulder, and you peered over to see an outstretched hand with a piece of something bright and orange. You glanced up, and that was when you first laid eyes on Jing Yuan.

“What is this?” you asked, voice muted and withdrawn in the face of a stranger.

“A piece of coral,” he answered. His voice was light and energetic, warm and welcoming, what you imagined playing and frolicking in the sea might feel like.

“What is coral?” He grinned wide, and you decided then that you liked this boy with wild white hair and generous hands. He did not shun you for speaking in questions, did not criticize your lack of knowledge, did not comment “little girl” under his breath.

“My mother says it is a type of rock, found on the ocean’s floors.”

“How did you get it?”

His grin softened into a gentler simper. “She gave it to me. She has these beautiful coral necklaces, and one broke two nights ago. She and her maids could not string it back together, so she gifted me the beads.”

The way he spoke so adoringly, lovingly, about his mother was foreign to you. But even then, you knew how important this woman was to him, and you could not understand why he would give you a present that was meant for him.

“Should you not keep this bead for yourself?”

He shook his head adamantly. “I can share.”

“But this is not something to be shared, yes?”

He paused for a moment, considering his response. He cocked his head to the side, rubbed at his temple with a knuckle, carefully stringing and knitting together the words he wanted to say.

“I want to,” he decided, with a tone of finality. “That way, I will not be the only one to remember my mother.”

You would later find out that Jing Yuan is the illegitimate child of one of the honorable dukedoms. Your brother had informed you but elaborated no further. It was then that you learned that it is customary for those of different castes to separate themselves from each other.

–

Jing Yuan listens to you well. You receive his next letter exactly a month later, timed intentionally no doubt, during a luncheon with Fu Xuan. Your father was still recovering in his chamber, and your mother was away for the weekend to spend some time with her younger sister. It has been a while since the last time you could so openly indulge yourself.

Dear Lady,

I believe I must offer my condolences to both Lady Fu Xuan and My Lady herself; I hope this report is delivered not even an hour too soon. Alas, I am also deeply perturbed at the notion of you being engaged to a baron, of all potential suitors. Though I will not fault the Marchioness, for you are of age and she must feel the pressures from the Marquess and other prying persons, it truly is deeply troubling that she has had to resort to such dire methods. Rest assured, however, that I will do my best to build an alliance with your brother.

I am to complete my tour before the New Year, in time for the coming Season, leaving us ample time. I only pray that the Marchioness does not rush My Lady into another introduction in the meanwhile.

“My Lady,” Fu Xuan interrupts, “your countenance is slipping.”

Without removing your gaze from the letter, eager to continue reading, you simply reply, “He will be back in less than two months.”

I am eager to see the familiar fields of the Duke’s estate when I return, but more than that, and I hope My Lady does not take my affections so lightly, I am delighted to reunite with you. As of this writing, I have only just arrived in Rome, with its famed colonnades, brilliant masonry, and fine arts. If my travels allow, I shall ensure that I bring some trinkets back with me to present to you. I will say no more regarding my tour, as My Lady and I will have more than sufficient time and space to discuss all that I have seen and experienced in the past three years.

However, this is where I have to mark the end of good news. My communications with my father have been unsuccessful, and the revisions we have agreed upon will not even reach the table of the Royal Council. The Duke has made it clear in his returned correspondence that he will speak no further on the issue, and therefore, that is the limitation of my influence. While this outcome may be discouraging, I hope My Lady’s interest in the politics and machinations of our nobility will not wane, and I will continue to improve upon myself to aid in seeing your efforts to fruition.

Before I forget, I must say that I had arrived late to that evening party and could not identify you or your brother at the hall. Next time, I will be more vigilant. Do tell how My Lady is faring, and perhaps we are only a letter or two away from being able to speak to each other in person.

– Your most faithful friend

You do not even bother to respond to Fu Xuan’s calls for you to finish your meal. Rushing out of your seat, you head straight to your brother’s study to write your letter in answer. Fishing through the drawers, you manage to find a dwindling well of ink along with an old, ragged quill, but they shall suffice.

Sir,

How excitable that My Lord is to return so soon, but surely, you jest. Upon the conclusion of your tour, you will have met many characters of people, and therefore, will not feel a need to see such a lively creature as myself. If I had the privilege of my own tour, I know I would lock myself in my room upon its finishing for three days or longer, with no disturbance, not even from Lady Fu Xuan, to record and digest all that I have experienced. There are also the remnants of your mother’s garden; though they may be bare in the midst of the winter snow, I am sure the winding branches and thick brushes are welcoming, familiar sights.

That said, I will hold My Lord to his word and shall comment no more on the matter of our formal introductions. I will continue to educate myself, to silence any hesitation or doubt you may have of my fancies towards academics. It pleases me to know that My Lord has such adoring concerns for me, as I to you.

– Your most affectionate friend

Just as you seal your envelope, waiting for the wax of your family seal to harden, a knock comes from the door.

“This is your own room. You ought to walk in and out as you please.”

Your brother laughs, always amused at your quick wit, and pads over to the front of the desk.

“You behave as if this room belongs to you. It looks like someone has ransacked my drawers for ransom and treasure.”

You roll your eyes. “There are none of such wares here. Your most pitiful sister could only employ an abandoned quill and a leaking pot of ink.”

“But you finished writing, nevertheless. To whom may I inquire?” He attempts to peer at the back of the envelope, hoping to catch a glimpse of a name or an address, but you slide it off the table before he can see.

“A friend.”

You know this answer will not satiate your brother’s endless curiosity, one of your many similarities. “Do I know of this friend?”

“You will,” and you wave at him to dismiss his other queries.

Unwavering, he says, “I see my ‘most pitiful’ sister has tricks up her sleeve. I am eager to see what surprises you have in store for me.” You nod cheerfully in agreement.

Aside from Jing Yuan, your brother is the only other male figure in your life that encourages your willingness to explore and learn. In the first place, he distastes the act of patronizing or critiquing you, and only provides guidance when even Fu Xuan cannot convince you of your wrongs. So when he brings up the debates and discussions that have occurred at the Royal Council, you are ever grateful for his generosity.

“I am sure you have heard recent word of the revolts happening in the slums. Such news has reached the ears of those in the Royal Council, and the Dukedoms have unanimously agreed to patiently wait for silence to befall the common folk.” He glances at you to see if you have anything to say. You blink, urging him to continue. He takes a deep breath, and suddenly, leans forward, bending at his waist so you two are now nose to nose. In a hushed voice, he says, “In fact, in the upcoming Season, they plan to raise the taxes again.”

You huff, frustrated. You mutter, “Relentless, they are.”

Your brother echoes your sentiments, wearing a solemn expression as well, and mumbles, “Indeed. How cruel, too, to decide the fates of so many right before the New Year.”

“I am confident Father agrees?”

“Regardless if he does or not, a Marquess cannot possibly rebuke the demands of a Duke.”

Both of you can only sigh. Without lingering for too long, though, you rise, preparing to send off your waiting response.

“Be well,” your brother says as he accompanies you to the study door, “for I have heard this winter will be sinister.”

Rather than feel a chill in your bones, though, your blood rushes with renewed warmth and vigor. An initiative, a motivation to take action, something you have never experienced before, appears in your mind, burning into your thoughts so you will never forget. This is a chance, you think. An opportunity I will never be bestowed again.

–

In and out, through and through, back and forth. You wet the tip of the thread with a flick of your tongue and string it through the silver of the needle. In and out, through and through, back and forth. You tie a small knot at the end of the thread. In and out, through and through, back and forth.

Stitching did not come naturally to you. If one studied the pads of your fingers at length, one could discern the faint scars of scratches and pierces of the tender skin, remnants of your debacle with the needle before you learned to seamlessly wield it. Now, after many years of practice, you have come to enjoy the meticulous process of creation, watching as each push, pull, and tighten amounts to a stroke of an image.

At first, it began with tambouring, straightforward enough for a young girl to grow accustomed to the pricking and stringing motions of a needle, decorating spare handkerchiefs and old dresses that you could no longer fit in. Then, when you received some canvas and a circular wooden frame from Fu Xuan for your birthday, you transitioned to the needle and began to acquire knowledge of the many different types of stitches and patterns. From there, your practices extended beyond the frayed edges of cut cloth. From lace trimmings of your skirt to the cuffs of your brother’s shirts and coats to the reticules your mother had long abandoned and forgotten about, your work started to resemble that of the many renowned seamstresses in town. Of course, many did, still do not, look favorably upon this talent of yours. Embroidery is considered a lower form of art, incomparable to the ways of music or sketch or paint. But, still, you seek comfort, when your mind is much too tense and worn, in the rhythm and coming together of fabric and lines.

“What is it?” Disinterested, convinced that whatever you have conjured up is of no importance, will always never be important, your mother looks outside of the window panes, more content to watch flakes of white drift from the graying sky.

You are not swayed. You clear your throat and say, “We are mother and daughter. Occasionally, the blood that binds us does show in our behaviors.”

Your mother sighs. “Out with it, foolish girl.” She casts a glare at you before her eyes flick back to the scenery outside. “I require total peace, so hurry with your speech.”

“I simply want to request a tea party with a few of the other ladies.”

Eyebrows furrowed, your mother peers at you as if you have sprouted the Devil’s horns atop your head. Incredulous, she asks, “Why such a change in heart and mind?”

“Well, to ease some of your concerns, I think it is best that I learn from those you deem proper enough. Further,” and you stare at her intently now, “your dearest son has informed me that this winter will be particularly harsh. How can we entertain our guests when we are all inside for so long?”

“Is the usual routine of games and food and good laughter not sufficient?” Your mother is fully facing you now. Inwardly, you chuckle with much delight.

You speak slowly, stretching out the silence between each phrase to heighten pressure and suspense. “Fair,” you muse, “but all of our fathers are getting older, too. See your husband, Mother, his state is faring worse and worse. Perhaps... us ladies can spend the time more wisely.”

“I see.”

All you can do is wait as your mother mulls over the idea, letting your suggestion sink, ruminate, digest. You cannot push anymore, so you bid a good night and return to your room. Even without the tea party, even if you have to bear the burden yourself, your work awaits you.

The next morning, you are surprised to find one of your mother’s maids carrying several letters outside.

“What are these messages for?” you ask.

The maid does a brief curtsy before answering, “The Marchioness is sending out invitations for a tea party, My Lady. It is set to happen immediately, a week from today.”

The outcome is even better than you had anticipated.

You rush to the morning room, where your mother is eating bread and chocolate.

“Mother, thank you,” you say, a hand over your heart as you bow.

She huffs and finishes chewing her bite. Dusting her fingers, she replies with arrogance, knowing you owe her a favor, “I have also gone ahead and asked for layers upon layers of cotton, linen, and wool to be delivered to the estate. Let this be a reminder that you owe everything to your noble upbringing.”

You are much too giddy to smartly reproach her.

–

The tea party is loud and boisterous, filling the usual silence of your family’s manor with tall tales, news on the men’s recent fox hunts, and scandalous romantic couplings. You hear that a baron was caught with his mistress of several months. A Duke’s son fell off his horse because he was severely inebriated, but thankfully only broke his dominant arm and nowhere else. An older earl and countess were blessed with another daughter.

You sit in a rocking chair and let the conversation float freely in your mind. For once, your mother has truly outclassed your expectations, presenting you with an occasion, an opportunity, so bountiful that you are almost compelled to forgive her historical grievances towards you. You sew together sheets of linen, piling in wool and cotton, before closing the seams. The other ladies also work with unparalleled diligence at having been given a purpose.

“What a wonderful idea!” one praised with joy. Another said you were “incredibly thoughtful.” You smirk within your thoughts, concealed by a pleasant countenance on the outside. Even the accompanying men nodded approvingly at your intentions.

At the beginning of the party, you announced to the many guests, “Please, do enjoy your time here at the manor. I am incredibly gracious towards you all for making the cold journey to this distant estate. However, I urge all of the ladies present to work as quickly yet dutifully as your hands can, for we need to make as many coats as possible. There is no such thing as too much warmth in this never ending cold.” Everyone agreed with solemn expressions before breaking for Chinese green tea, gingerbread, and walnut cake, filling the air with festive cheer.

You pause for a brief break. As you curl and uncurl your fingers, stretching out the strained joints, you glance over at a couch. In a day’s work, the couch is covered in layers upon layers of coats and thicker shirts. Some are small, others are longer, few haphazardly put together, but all will still do. Then, you look around the room, passing your eyes over the faces of all of the guests. The women, more than there usually are at such parties, sit in armchairs around the room. The men stand in between, wherever there is space, holding onto glass cups of wine and emptied coffee cans. Though you have never felt like you belonged in such groups and communities, you cannot help but find today’s gathering rather agreeable and successful. Is this what it feels like to start something and see it through to the end?

Well, not that you are at the end. You count in your head and conclude that there is still a month before Jing Yuan returns. When he does, then you will be able to see your work to completion.

At the thought of him, though, you feel a faint flicker of concern. It has been a month since your last letter, and you have yet to receive one in return. You try to comfort yourself with reminders that Jing Yuan is busy and there is always the possibility of mail getting lost or delayed in transaction. But, in that case, you must try again.

Later that evening, when all of the guests have dismissed themselves and the drawing room brims with clothes, you slip to Fu Xuan’s room and draft a quick message by melting candlelight.

Sir,

My sincere apologies for disturbing your journey. As I have not received a reply since my last letter, I wanted to send another one to let you know that I am, at least, faring well. Winter is rapidly approaching, and I hope My Lord is not experiencing any disorder or illness yourself, that is, if Rome is experiencing such volatile weather as well, I would not know. If possible, since you insist, shall we wait in your mother’s garden when you return, as we did years ago?

I patiently await My Lord’s presence.

– Your most affectionate friend

–

A knock on your window wakes you from your restless sleep. Already half-awake from tossing and turning, you hear the curt raps against the glass pane and slowly blink awake. The person is patient and remains silent, as if knowing you would require a few minutes to get dressed and prepared.

You pull on another two layers of gowns and a thick shawl. You also grab one of the coats you sewed. Finally, you grab two pairs of gloves, one much larger than the other, and pad over to open the curtains covering your windows.

The sky is overcast, large clumps of clouds blocking the moon and stars from your vision, but occasionally, faint streaks of light pour through the cracks of the grim overhang. And right as you see him, a single ray casts its brightness over the man waiting outside, as if to anoint him prince or king or some holy spirit. His hair gleams the purest silver, and he adorns a coat, one that is seemingly a little too small for him, with floral patterns adorning the length of its sleeves. He flashes a close-eyed smile, and you cannot help but also beam at him.

Firmly, you hold the top sash of the window while pushing the bottom panel up. As soon as the bottom panel is lifted even slightly, a gust of biting air enters your rooms and flurries around your figure. You shiver at the chill but continue to lift until the window is fully open and slip through.

Holding onto your arm with one hand and your waist with the other, he helps you out of your room and onto the tiny balcony with him. When you stand, you two are pressed chest to chest, but by now, the streak of moonlight has disappeared and you can only make out faint traces of him.

“Good day, My Lady,” the man whispers.

You take a deep breath, basking in the sturdiness of his frame against yours and the ticklish sensation against your ear from his breath. “Should it not be ‘good evening,’ My Lord?”

“The day is anew, so I shall be the first one to greet you in this early morn.”

As your eyes adjust to the darkness, his features come into clearer view. The strands of each hair, the creases of his lapels, those molten golds. You cannot stare for too long, lest you blaze and melt as well.

“I will go down first,” he says, “and be there to catch you when you jump down.”

“Yes, yes,” you agree, though, not without a tinge of sarcasm. “As we have done before.”

He nods, maintaining his grip on your waist for another moment, before he releases you, leaps into a nearby tree, and swiftly climbs down to the ground. You, on the other hand, pull yourself up to sit on the balcony railing, and when he motions with waves of his hands, you take a deep breath, feel the pounding of your heartbeat against your ribcage, and propel yourself off with a push of your legs, holding onto your belongings. He catches you, arms knowingly finding their way around your waist and under your knees, as if he did not simply perform a feat of great strength and balance.

“Jing Yuan,” you gasp.

“Oh, now we are using names?” he jests. You are still too excited to reprimand him, and he laughs at your awestruck state before saying your name. He carries you over to where his horse stays, neighing and nosing at the ground, and helps you get on. By now, you have recollected your breath and can say much more.

“Jing Yuan,” you call out. “Your coat is much too small for you. Wear this one instead.” You toss the one you have been clutching onto this entire time, along with the larger pair of gloves, into his arms. “It may not be as comfortable, but it should keep you warm.”

“It seems My Lady has become quite cold-hearted in the years we have spent apart.”

“No, I know why My Lord chooses to wear what he has adorned. But I cannot have you falling ill on me. I need you.” The sound of your last three words seem to soften something in Jing Yuan because when he looks up at you, his gaze is full of longing and yearning.

“Then, we must leave here immediately,” he replies as he mounts onto the horse, sitting in front of you. “Hold on tight.”

And with a tug of the reigns, the two of you are racing through the fields and roads that surround your family’s estate. You bury your face into Jing Yuan’s back, feel the scratch of the linen against your cheeks, and submit to the roaring of the wind in your ears.

Three long years since you have been on the back of this very horse, holding onto Jing Yuan as so. Mimi, a most peculiar name that Jing Yuan imagined, was only a young mare at the time, but she could at least withstand the weight of your younger selves, quite strong for both her sex and age. In the past, the two of you often made such arrangements, every fortnight or so, him greeting you at the window as he did this evening, you leaping into his arms, the two of you escaping to the safety and privacy of his mother’s garden.

You do not know how long it takes to reach his estate from yours, but Mimi must have gotten faster because you arrive before you can fully adjust to the jostling of horseback. With a tip of his chin, the gatekeeper of Jing Yuan’s manor obeys and cracks the gate only enough to let your party slip through. Mimi’s hooves clop against the gravel of the driveway as Jing Yuan slows her down to a slight gallop and guides her towards the left side of the estate, where one can enter his mother’s garden after jumping past a few evergreen hedges.

He gets off first before helping you down. From above, you can see the tips of his reddened ears and scoff, frustrated.

“What is the matter, My Lady?” he inquires, attentive to even the smallest shifts in your disposition.

“I must apologize, My Lord. I should have brought a tippet.”

“Do not concern yourself with such trivial matters. Yanqing has already prepared warm clothes and food for us.” He sets you down and guides you to an open space nearby that is hidden behind granite pillars and dry rose vines, where, on top of a picnic sheet on the floor, lay two oil lamps that illuminate a spread of covered tableware and articles of muffs, coats, and blankets. If you recall correctly, this area used to host a small table and two chairs, allowing Jing Yuan and his mother to nibble on biscuits and talk about the day’s events during spring dawns and summer dusks.

“Yanqing must have grown considerably,” you say as you take a seat. Jing Yuan nods, sitting right beside you, and drapes a blanket over your shoulders.

“Much has changed,” he muses. “He is at my shoulders now. He has taken great care of Mimi.”

“You did not bring her along with you?”

Jing Yuan tilts his head, as he always does when he is about to tell an interesting story. “I had to travel by boat several times throughout my tour. There was no way to bring Mimi, for she is terrified of the ocean.” You perk up at and listen intently, eager to drink in all of the details of his travels.

Jing Yuan speaks of meeting the British envoys and French royals. He recounts the myths behind the statue of the Tiber. He speaks of the many hurdles he experienced as he made his way from one country to the next, once needing to barter with a driver over ten cents for an additional mile, another time having to locate a luggage that slipped into a raging river. He describes the cuisines he ate in masterful language, the fragrant breads, seasoned fish, decadent pastries, hearty stews. He lists cultural differences, how the Austrians bond over musical theatre and opera, the way Italians pore over their massive collections of literature, the Portuguese’s peaceful lives separate from war and political strife.

“I wonder how Portugal does it,” you mumble.

Jing Yuan leans down to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “My Lady,” he mutters, “there is no such thing as a complete utopia in this world.”

“But did you not just prescribe their land as such?”

He hums, tracing his finger from behind the shell of your ear, down to your pulse point at your neck, back up to the under of your jaw. “A Grand Tour is still only a tour. One does not visit the slums or the rural villages or the dirty outskirts of cities, if it can be avoided. We will never fully see or understand how the common people live. How they survive.”

You can feel the intensity of his stare. He is testing you, urging you to look back, to taste the raging of flames and anger and frustration in his golden eyes. But you cannot, or rather, you should not. It would be too presumptuous of you to act like you still know how he thinks, understands, perceives the world.

“You are right, My Lord,” you manage to croak, throat somehow parched, despite the cup of warm milk you only just finished. “We will never truly know.”

You want to say more, but you do not know if you should. Instead, you shut your mouth and lean against Jing Yuan’s shoulder.

Unexpectedly, he shrugs you off. He even pulls away from you. Then, he taps at the middle of your spine, causing you to sit still and upright.

“Speak,” he instructs, voice low yet stable, as if he is waiting with bated breath, patience wearing thin. “I know you have your own thoughts, so speak your truth.”

“My Lord, I…” You falter. It has been a while since you have been allowed to speak so openly about such serious matters, and you are no longer accustomed to late hours past your curfew, neither of which aid you as you attempt to string together some semblance of eloquence. “In reality, I… I will never have the chance to know. To know how it feels like to go without food or shelter. Or to withstand this severe weather in the barest of threads. Or any degree of suffering and hardship, truly. But…” You take one hand out of the muff and place it on top of his gloved ones, running the pads of your fingers over the glazed leather. “But I cannot sit idly by and do nothing, no?”

Jing Yuan interlaces his fingers with yours and asks, “What can you do?” It is not an admonishment or an ironic jab, but instead, a genuine question with hopeful intentions.

“Jing Yuan.” The punctuated way you utter his name alerts him, and he tightens his grasp on you to let you know he is listening. “Forgive my impertinence, but perhaps, I have found a way. Your coat.” You nudge your chin towards his chest, and he finally examines the thick wool keeping him warm.

“Did you make this?”

You nod. “And many other ladies. I hosted a tea party a few weeks ago where we gathered together to make many. Though they may not be lined or hemmed properly, they should last a few winters.”

Jing Yuan shuffles to look around at the coat that he is wearing. You watch as his eyes dart from the collar to the sleeves to the buttons. As if coming to some sort of internal agreement, he nods and releases an interested hum.

“I wonder how you convinced such noble families to partake in charity?”

You chuckle, shaking your head before resting it on his shoulder. This time, he does not shake you off. “They do not know that it is for charity. I simply requested that we do it under the guise of my father’s illness, and bless their hearts, they agreed to assist in making as many winter pieces for the noblemen as they could. My Lord, women can be quite determined if given a meaningful task.”

Jing Yuan laughs at your last comment. “That I know well, for My Lady is a prime example of such fortitude. But will they not realize some of the clothes will be missing?”

“Oh, of course, I addressed that as well. I told them I would be sending the pieces we made to the seamstresses to get it properly fitted, which would require some time and patience. My Lord, you ought to know that, while many noble ladies know how to embroider, that is the extent of their talents. None of them even know how to put together a dress for themselves! At the very least, they can do rudimentary work in sewing together large pieces of fabric and stuffing cotton. Regardless, in the meantime, I will continue to sew as many as I can to substitute for the missing amount, and I will be sure to distribute the coats to their intended owners before the New Year. Speaking of which…”

You nudge at his chest with the point of your elbow. It takes Jing Yuan a second to react, the exhaustion beginning to penetrate and muddle his senses, before he realizes.

He chuckles again, softer, quieter. “I understand why My Lady said she needed me earlier this evening.”

“Would you be willing to support such an endeavor, My Lord?”

Without a single word, he brings his arms around you and sets his head atop of yours, embracing you with comfortable tightness and security. “Of course, anything at your behest. Let me know when, and I shall act upon your instruction immediately.”

“On Saint Thomas’s Day. Visit as many families as you can, especially those with children.”

“Then it shall be done.”

With that, silence fills the space around you. You should be even a slight bit cautious and careful, with the way Jing Yuan surrounds you whole. You both are much more grown, after all, and if someone, anyone, were to see the intimacy the two of you are sharing, it would tarnish your reputation irreparably. But three long years it has been since the last time you felt his touch. Three years since you could feel his hair graze against your cheek, his fingers hold at your waist, his chest press against your back. And more than anything else, these past three years have cost you the sound of his voice. He sounds different now. More worn and fatigued, yet simultaneously confident and articulate. You have been deprived of his lips ghosting your ears, his hot breath trailing against the lines of your neck, each of his words sending tremors through the flesh and bones of your body.

“Are you warm, My Lord?”

“Yes, much due to this coat of yours.”

You huff. “You should not have worn such an ill-fitted coat in the first place. It does not fit you anymore.”

He strokes at your side and banters, “My Lady, I truly do hope that you are not, in reality, ignorant as to why I chose to.”

Of course, you know. The way the coat stretched to accommodate Jing Yuan’s growth is only another sign, in testament to how much he has transformed since your last encounter three years ago.

You still remember doing, undoing, redoing many of the countless florals that are strewn across the expanses of the sleeves. The red thread is bold, in contrast to the crisp white of the article’s linen, and you remember how, at the time, you were embarrassed by your brazenness to choose such a distinct color. You had wanted to change it to something else, perhaps a muted blue or yellow, but it was too late, and you had to see Jing Yuan off before his tour.

Seeming to know where your mind is wandering off to, he says something that steals your breath and sets your heart ablaze. “I wear this coat whenever I can.”

You can only roll your eyes, and you are grateful that your frostbitten nose and ears do not give away the warmth in your face. “You foolish man, Jing Yuan.”

Somehow, his hold on you becomes stronger, and you feel as if he is swallowing you, overwhelming all of your senses with only him. “I think it is romantic. It is My Lady’s first gift to me, after all.”

That is true. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to be coddled, and think back to when both of you were much younger and even more so naïve, not yet fully aware of fate’s unfoldings.

After your encounter at the beach, you did not meet the boy again until a few years later at a party. Your parents were unacquainted, but as soon as you saw him, you escaped your mother when she was too busy meeting other guests and pulled Jing Yuan aside to say your much belated thanks. When he was younger, Jing Yuan was mischievous, feisty, energetic. He delighted in your spontaneity as well, and as children do, the two of you decided to meet up after he learned to ride. There was no discussion of details or logistics, only an intangible promise that somehow carried more trust than any vow or oath.

Yet, he found you. And he brought you over to this very garden, to a small shed where his mother was awaiting the both of you.

You remember his mother in vivid detail. One could describe her as the embodiment of the nobility. Her posture exuded dignity and discipline, her choices in fashion tasteful and elegant, a woman of such gentleness and compassion that you had wished many times she was your blood mother as well. Jing Yuan’s mother was also responsible for introducing you to embroidery. Had she not, you are sure you would never have touched the needle and string in this lifetime. You practiced so diligently, hoping to impress and astound her with your talent. But truly, regardless of what came of your fastidious efforts, she always caressed the top of your head and praised you, repeating honeyed words and phrases until you almost believed them. Jing Yuan would watch the two of you work and occasionally try his hand at your activities, though he was never much good, too impatient and easily irritated as young boys are.

But then, in the spring of your twelfth year and Jing Yuan’s fifteenth, she was gone. There were no more traces of her, and the shed no longer stood where it once was. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully. The tulips, pansies, and hyacinths his mother labored over were in full bloom, yet she would never see those sun-kissed petals and brilliant green stems. She would never witness Jing Yuan’s rapid improvements in the sword or your ability to peruse a text meant for grown men. She would never see the two of you grow up to become the man and woman the two of you are today.

And Jing Yuan did not cry when he told you. But you could see the sorrow and emptiness hang from him, outlining the lines of his face, scenting the tear stains on his button-up, creaking in his joints. You stood behind him, watching as he raised his head to look up at the sun, so bright and gleaming and proud. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully. And he told you everything, answering all of the questions you never voiced or had.

His mother was the mistress of a Duke, making Jing Yuan an illegitimate child. But because his father was a Duke, no one batted an eye, and it never caused a stir, simply a passing comment made as the nobles greeted each other over mealtime before moving onto more extravagant rumors. And, as Jing Yuan described, he did not suffer much either. The Duke still gave him the education and training befitting of a high-ranking noble’s child, and he was granted unrestrained freedom and privileges. But the one thing Jing Yuan deeply, wholly wanted his whole life was never satisfied.

Although Jing Yuan was allowed to do whatever it is he wanted with no dispute, his father maintained distance and never showed much of an interest towards him or his mother. His mother had always been sickly and was often in isolation, yet despite the circumstances, the Duke only slipped farther and farther away. Jing Yuan had longed for a complete family, but to no avail. And his mother passed away, accompanied only by a physician and two maids, when Jing Yuan was away for a hunt. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully.

Afterwards, the two of you became an inseparable duo. You visited more often, almost once or twice every week, and though you never cared much for, or rather, did not know much of, affection, you began to let your fingers linger on his shoulders as he helped you down from Mimi and to sit in a way such that the cap of your knee would brush against his. And when you were not in the presence of each other, the two of you established a line of communication via letters. These letters would bridge the physical gap between the two of you and proved extremely useful when Jing Yuan went on tour.

Aside from letters, when he was away on tour, Yanqing would deliver some clothes to your estate, hiding a bag of shirts or tailcoats in a bush, of which you would collect when you and Fu Xuan would return from your afternoon strolls. These were articles prepared for Jing Yuan during his brief returns, usually due to some family emergency or duty for the Parliament. At this point, you fully embraced the color red and its flare and passion, choosing to take on the burden of a crimson so bright that you are left with no choice but to ensure that every stitch is perfect. You adorned his clothes with the subtlest of details, only meant to elevate them around the collar or cuffs or pockets.

And that is how those three years passed. Now that he is beside you, the time apart feels both painfully enduring yet incredibly effortless. Though he was not by your side, it never felt like he was far away, definitely not across oceans and mountain ranges and plains with names you have never heard of. Regardless, all that matters is, in the present moment, Jing Yuan is truly here, and you are with him.

–

The events leading up to Christmastide and the holiday itself flurried by. As planned, Yanqing had come to collect the coats you and Fu Xuan had left in bags behind a bundle of trees, and on Saint Thomas’s Day, Jing Yuan went out to deliver them, spending the day outside and reporting to you promptly when he returned home later that night. Through the grapevine, you heard of the countless praises the nobles showered upon Jing Yuan and his father, and from Jing Yuan himself, many of the common folk were at a loss for words, shocked that the son of a Royal Council member would dare to tread into their territory.

The end of such festivities also signaled the beginnings of the new Season. January was spent preparing the finest laces, silks, ribbons, jewelries you would be donning at the never ending series of parties, picnics, hunts, and other gatherings for the next few months. This time, though, you were eager, hounding all of the maids, Fu Xuan, even your mother to assist in the wake of your unprecedented enthusiasm.

Presently, you are en route to your first ball. You and your mother are in a coach, while your brother rides on horseback. It is dark outside and the snow is incessant, but the ambience is full of excitement, the hopeful chattering between young ladies and lords, as well as the charming music from the band playing inside, drowning out the howls of the wind. As your party nears the assembly room, you can clearly see the size of the gathering, dozens of middle- and upper-class families present and attendants rushing about to answer calls for help.

Your coach stops near the edge of the driveway, and your brother takes your hand as you step out.

“I heard from Mother that you were fervently awaiting today,” he says with a smirk, brushing off the snowflakes collecting on your shoulders. “This is your third season, so what could possibly be so unique about tonight’s party?”

You open your fan, concealing everything below your eyes, and shrug. Behind the fan’s ribs, though, you are smiling widely, unable to feign even an ounce of indifference.

“I simply hope this is your sister’s final season,” your mother remarks as she exits the carriage.

As soon as the three of you step into the hall, your brother is hounded with warm greetings and impatient requests. Your father had fallen ill once again, and given his series of absences, many have turned towards your brother as the patriarch of the family.

“I shall tend to these matters. Do enjoy your time, dear Sister!” your brother calls as he gets pulled away.

You and your mother walk over to a group of ladies, many of whom attended your tea party and took part in your ambitious project. One lady in a pale pink gown, in particular, seems to be at the centre of the conversation, as all the rest are peering at her with palpable expectation. You can hear bits and pieces of the conversation as you approach.

Another in tea green pokes at her. “Miss, please share! We are begging you to tell us how!”

The lady blushes deeply, fanning at herself. “Friends, there is no how! I simply met the man at a closed gathering the week before.”

“What is his demeanor?”

“Is he of your rank or above?”

“Have you garnered affections for him yet?”

Questions are flung at her, and she simply responds by closing her fan and tapping at one of her cheeks at each query.

When the arguably most important question is asked, whether or not she wants to be engaged to the man, she places the tip of her fan against her right cheek, and everyone breaks into surprised gasps and delighted murmurs.

Then, as if staged, the music in the room diminuendos until the band tapers into silence. There is a brief shuffling of sheet music before the musicians break into the first country song of the evening. A gentleman comes over, a son of an earl from a glance, and bows in front of the lady in the pink, holding his right hand out in search of her left. The other ladies, you and your mother included, watch with intent and rapture, and follow the extension of her elbow as she lets herself be taken. As the pair slip away, mutterings break between the remaining women before they, too, are asked, one by one, to dance with other single gentlemen.

As usual, you excuse yourself to the corner of the ballroom, finding a seat that ensures an adequate view of the dancing attendees. There are rumors that you do not participate because you are not well-trained, but truly, it is only because you have very little interest in dancing with men you have never met before.

From here, you can observe the subtlest of details without disturbance. You notice a younger boy slip into the room with refreshments, bound to gorge himself on bread and butter even though dinner is scheduled in two hours or so. An old couple stands at the tailend of the dancing line, half a beat behind everyone else, chuckling to themselves as they attempt to keep up with the steps they know by heart. The mothers of many of the debutantes are lined against the walls, their eyes not on their respective daughters but rather on the many potential suitors in the room, cherry picking the perfect son-in-law.

And then, a flash of red. You see it at the edge of your periphery, and your head whips to the left. You do not see the red again, but instead, a dense cloud of white. You are about to leap up and pace forward, but you catch yourself and hurry to rearrange your expression to one that is more neutral and acceptable.

Jing Yuan comes to stand before you, followed by your brother.

The latter says, “Dear Sister, this is Lord Jing Yuan.”

You bite at your lip to prevent yourself from reacting to the comedy of the situation, and curtsy towards Jing Yuan as he bows to you.

“Pleased to be in your presence, My Lord.”

“I should be thanking My Lady.”

Your brother chuckles. “The two of you are too stiff. Sister, Lord Jing Yuan has just returned from his Grand Tour and is the son of Duke…,” and he prattles on, listing facts and details you are already aware of. Jing Yuan is also amused and glances at you every so often, but you avoid returning such stares and focus your attention on the sound of your sibling’s voice.

However, soon thereafter, the Master of Ceremonies interrupts all activities, including your trio’s brief exchange, and calls for mealtime. Jing Yuan dismisses himself, returning to his step-brother’s side.

Suddenly, your brother grabs you by the shoulder. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you shake your arm in response, urging him to loosen his grip.

“What a miracle!” he exclaims. You furrow at him with confusion. “Sister! Lord Jing Yuan himself rushed to greet you. That is unheard of!”

It takes you a second to understand, to remember that there are customs and traditions in society’s place, and the oddity of the situation finally dawns on you. “Brother,” you respond, “tell me how you encountered him.”

“Well, I paid the Duke, his father, a quick greeting on behalf of our family, and Lord Jing Yuan was there as well. When I was about to take my leave, he followed after me, and asked if I had any time. Can you believe it? He asked if I had time!”

“Yes, yes, please proceed.”

“I was worried I had done something imprudent in front of him and the Duke. I began saying a flurry of things, but he simply asked if I knew of any ladies that are seeking engagements, as he is in a rush to get married himself. I should have asked why –”

“Brother.”

“Ah, dismiss that thought. Anyway, of course, I had to say that you are of age, and he requested I direct him to you. I resisted, because as our father is only a Marquess and him a part of a Dukedom, it is only proper that I bring you to him, but he said he needed to be somewhere quieter and hurried us off.”

Your brother takes a deep breath and waits for your response. With much effort, you remain stoic.

“How peculiar,” you muse, with as even a tone as you can muster.

“Dear Sister, perhaps…” The two of you share a quick look, his expectant, yours knowing.

After a lingering moment of silence, you can only sigh. “We shall see.”

Ecstatic, your brother takes your shoulders with renewed vigor, lightly shaking you back and forth. “How auspicious! Of course, I will miss you, but Sister, you would be much happier away from our estate! You must seize this chance!”

You go along with his antics and incessant chattering, making slow progress towards the dining hall.

–

The third month of the year promises a multitude of changes. Primarily, fox hunting ends in March, therefore the men are rushing to organize their final hunts. As the men are occupied during their outings, the women pass their leisure time inside, rather impatiently, too, for Easter and the height of the Season, which will be at full throttle within a few weeks’ time. For noblewomen in particular, they also have the option to accompany the hunts, and on this late morning, you and your mother stay in a carriage to support the participants from afar.

Today’s hunt is small, exclusive to a few select Dukes and Marquesses of the nobility. Your father, now recovered, and your brother are present, and you notice Jing Yuan and his step-brother are also members among the group.

Truly, Jing Yuan stands out amongst the crowd. Again, you are reminded of his towering and broad stature, and even when he is not speaking, he carries a solid aura of authority and a command for respect such that the other attendants do not dare to mention, let alone mock, his birthright. At the moment, he is running his hands through Mimi’s mane, and even his trust and care for her alone are superior to the mediocre handle the other men have of their horses.

The hunters seem to be strategizing, plotting out routes and dividing themselves into smaller groups, and with each passing second, your interest dampens, and it seems your mother is also growing disinterested.

With a flick of her wrist, glass-beaded bracelets clinking and clanking, she speaks, “The white-haired man, is it?”

You nod.

She huffs through her nose, but she is not unhappy. She is silently beckoning you to question her.

And so, you inquire, “Mother, what are your judgments of Lord Jing Yuan?”

She leans towards the window and narrows her eyes. “A man of benevolent nature… Quite handsome as well… But a bastard child, is he not?”

You shrug. “What does it matter? His father is a Duke.”

“It does not change that he is born from the womb of a wicked woman.”

A striking flash of anger and urgency erupts in your gut, and you are close to hurtling uncouth insults at the woman sitting before you, but there is no need because your mother finishes her thought before your outburst can materialize.

“That brings me great pleasure,” the absurd woman says, with a twisted snark, “for you do not deserve happiness in your marriage. While I may be gone, misfortune shall always befall you. You will always suffer from your ill nature.”

Without a word, you swing the door of the carriage open and step out, in need of space. You strut to a group of barren trees, sparkling with melting dew, and lean against the trunk of one, looking off at where the hunters and their hounds are racing after the scent of foxes.

The biting cold does nothing to cool your raging internal heat. The echoes of your mother’s spiteful words act as fuel, a permanent well of dark, staining oil, spinning and stubborn in your mind. In fact, you become more bitter and sensitive at their persistence, and if anyone were to say one wrong phrase or make one wrong move towards you at this very instance, they would, for sure, catch your ire.

How dare she. Even in your most distant memories, the thought of Jing Yuan’s mother brings warmth, a tight embrace, an affirming kiss on your forehead. In comparison, your own blood parents have done nothing more than bring you into this world. Even the jewels, fabrics, food, shelter they provide you are done out of obligation; given the option, they would abandon you without hesitation.

The taste of acid and iron surprises you. You are usually tame, capable of extinguishing any sign of anger or disappointment, so to find yourself so outraged that you have bitten open the inside of your cheek serves to worsen your temperament. You refuse to let that woman, only bound to you by blood and flesh, grate at your nerves, but it seems, this time, she has poked at your most sensitive vulnerability.

Suddenly, a loud neigh from a horse rings through the field, and you turn your head just in time to see Jing Yuan, a crumpled body, and Mimi leap through the air and land near you.

“Jing Yuan!” you cry, hands clutching at the sides of your skirt, annoyance and frustration set aside.

He tugs at Mimi sternly, and with a kick of her front legs, she rears to a halt. You rush over as Jing Yuan hops down with a man on his back, the latter wearing a deep-set frown and releasing low groans.

“What happened? Someone, please –”

Jing Yuan intervenes with a call of your name, shaking his head. “No need for your people. I shall bring the Marquess to his carriage and stay with him till he reaches his estate.”

You could care less about the injured man. “And what about you? Are you injured, Jing Yuan?”

He nods. Then, under his breath, he mutters, “Careful, for we are being watched. But thank you.” Something in his eyes glitter, a light diamond yellow, a new color so beautiful and mesmerizing. You force yourself to tear your gaze away. “I am fine, My Lady. Please, take care.”

You clamp your mouth shut. With that, he paces away, doing his best to carry the injured Marquess steadily.

You do not see him again for the rest of the day. But his heroics, over the course of an evening, become the talk of the town.

Two days pass, and for the first time, Jing Yuan and you meet during the daytime, accompanied by Fu Xuan. A nearby promenade has been kept cleared, as more and more folks spend time outside, and it is only proper that the two of you extend your public interactions beyond simple greetings, primarily to discourage and drive away any suitors who still retain hopes in having your or Jing Yuan’s hand.

“My Lord has certainly come under scrutiny,” you say, playful and amused in tone.

“Ah, the nobles do love their entertainment, I suppose.”

“Do not be so bashful, My Lord! I have heard of everything, and what you did during the hunt is truly an accomplished feat.”

“Tell me, then, My Lady, what you have heard.”

You switch your parasol to your other shoulder and tilt it up so that you can better see in front of you. There are other prospective couples, as well as their respective chaperones, but all eyes seem to be on you and Jing Yuan. With no fan in hand, it is difficult to signal to your partner, but he, too, already seems aware of the prying stares.

You begin to tell, “I much prefer the noble ladies and their recollections. Their recountings began before the hunt even started.

“You were steering the conversation, as if you were a general and the others your cavalrymen, planning every possible move and route.”

Jing Yuan stifles his fit of laughs with the back of his hand, and you do as well.

Resuming, you say, “Then, the group broke into partitions of four or five men each. The hunt seemed already destined and fated for success, with you in charge. However, many of the noblemen are elderly, yes? So as you and Mimi galloped so freely under the blue sky, the other men in your group struggled to keep up, and one Marquess with very little talent in horseback did not jump over a jutting root in time and came tumbling down with his English thoroughbred.”

Jing Yuan claps when you finish. “I am surprised you know what a thoroughbred is, My Lady.”

“I do not. To me, a horse is simply a horse. But, more importantly, what does My Lord think of my rendition?”

You glance up, only to see that he is watching you, and immediately, you turn your cheek the other way.

“I think,” he muses, “that My Lady is an excellent bard.”

“A bard?” You feign shame, because you already know how hyperbolic the noblewomen are in their gossiping.

“Indeed.” He continues to tease. “My Lady seems unmatched in her lyricism, rhythm, and most importantly, exaggerations. A true bard in nature.”

You cackle out loud, at which Fu Xuan shoots you a swift glare. You calm yourself and ask, “Exaggerations? A bard only makes songs of tales they hear from their journeys. My Lord, then, must tell the truth himself, as he is the protagonist of this one.”

“It pains me to say, then, that the story would no longer be as interesting.”

“My Lord does not aspire to be a bard or a court jester, so please speak.”

He sighs. “I did no such leading or commandeering. I simply listened from the side. Though the noble ladies are not wrong that it was an older Marquess who felled, it was not due to his own carelessness. Rather, one of the younger hounds must have caught the trail of a fox, and ran in front of the Marquess and his horse. His Lord was only trying to protect the little one, but injured himself in the process. I happened to be riding behind the Marquess and assisted him in returning him home.”

Jing Yuan, ever observant, always humble. You do not know if he is dismissing the finer details of his saving the Marquess, but you cannot even pinpoint where to press him further.

You settle with a simple platitude. “My Lord’s kindness knows no bounds.”

He does not say anything, only closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the winter-spring air.

“What plagues My Lord?”

“My Lady, tell me another story, one from your childhood.”

You still, and he takes two steps forward before he pauses as well.

You turn around to face your governess. “Fu Xuan, shall the three of us sit somewhere?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Fu Xuan replies. “There is a bench around the bend.”

Between you and Jing Yuan, neither of you speak until you both sit down. Fu Xuan finds another spot, a shady patch underneath an old willow, to supervise from afar.

Your bench is located beside a fountain, a large stucco vase with carved borders, emblems of flowers and reeds, gilded bronze around the circumference of the bottom. The water splashes past the rim, wetting the surrounding pavement, amusing the toddlers that belonged to some of the lounging women.

It is not rare for Jing Yuan to ask about yourself, to request to learn more about who you are in the moments when he is not by your side. While it is not always enjoyable, especially when you reflect on the less joyous memories, you do like that he is the only person in the world that knows so much about you, your strengths, weaknesses, likes, dislikes, fancies, displeasures.

But on occasion, he asks you to share because he does not want to speak about himself anymore. Today, as you judge the crease between his brows, the white of his knuckles, his hair free of its usual braided cord, this seems to be the case.

You speak of the many sleepless nights you had in December, how you had pricked the pads of your fingers several times from trying to sew by dim candlelight, hurrying to finish as many coats as possible, lest the noblewomen became suspicious. You speak of the shelf of books your brother had lent you when you were only ten years of age. You finished the literature within a fortnight, and your sibling was shocked, jaw agape, from your intellect and efficiency. Lastly, you speak of the morning of Jing Yuan’s departure, how you refused to come out of your room because of how distraught you were from bidding goodbye, needing to lie to the maids that your tears were only a result of a gut-wrenching stomach ache.

The entire time, the two of you sit side by side, shoulders brushing against each other, staring straight ahead, never at each other. But you do not need to see to know that he is listening with rapt intent to each and every one of your words, and you feel empowered to continue and please him with whatever he wants to hear.

Many hours pass, from high noon to late afternoon, finishing well past lunchtime. The atmosphere has relaxed, and Jing Yuan himself seems more at peace, and you are grateful that you have an eternity to indulge him.

When the three of you retrace your steps back to your family’s coach, he grips onto your hand as he assists you into the vehicle. His grip is tight, restricting you from sitting down, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his forehead against the back of your hand, nose brushing against your fingertips.

“A fortnight,” he mutters, loud enough for only the two of you, and promptly releases his hold.

You bring your hand, the one Jing Yuan held moments ago, to your cheek, basking in his lingering, escaping warmth, and nod in understanding.

You repeat, “A fortnight,” and he closes the coach door behind you.

–

It is uncharacteristically cold for April. Frost forms a thin sheet over all of the foliage and herbage, the rabbits and woodchucks still slumber in their dense burrows, the moon silvery and thin in its wake.

You tuck yourself into Jing Yuan’s hold, where he sits behind you with his legs propped on either side of your figure. He grabs another blanket and lays it over your knees down to your feet, and sets his chin on your shoulder.

“I wish your mother’s shed was still here,” you admit through gritted teeth.

A little sleepily, he agrees. “I, as well, but please bear with our conditions for tonight.”

You are grateful, though. The worst of winter is past, and there are no clouds to conceal the stars or moon, meaning outside, you can make out his features and expressions with little effort. Before, you would have to strain and squint at his visage, but there is no need anymore and you think Jing Yuan appears softer, younger under the placid moonlight.

“My Lady,” he says, “if it is not inconvenient, I have an inquiry to make.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Why is it that you never look at me?”

You startle, jumping in your skin, not expecting such a jarring interrogation at this hour and place.

“Of course, I look at you. What can you possibly be insinuating?”

If you sound offended, you do not mean it. Rather, you are, to a minor degree, disgruntled at being caught. Internally, you have been well aware of your sudden shyness towards Jing Yuan. Before his departure, you had no such fears, but since his return, upon seeing all of the ways in which he has transformed and grown, you can no longer allow yourself to be so bold. You cannot look at him with wholly pure intent.

“Apologies. I meant that My Lady does not seem to look me in the eyes anymore, as we used to. Have I done or said something to deserve such avoidance?”

“Do not be foolish, My Lord.”

“And what is with the use of ‘My Lord’?”

“Do you not refer to me by ‘My Lady’?”

“Only because you seem so insistent on such etiquette. If I had a choice…” He takes a sharp inhale. “I would call you by your name all the time.”

The chill of the atmosphere does not seem so acute anymore. You feel a rush of heat, from the crown of your head all the way down to the lengths of your toes.

“How improper,” you mumble.

He laughs. He knows you could care less.

To drive his point further, he enunciates your name, rolling the letters and phonetics out with the curve of his tongue and a caramel sweet, taffy-stretched tone. He then whispers, “You seem to only use my name when you are quite agitated or excited.”

You swat at his arm. “Jing Yuan!”

Your reaction causes him to bark out true laughs, ones from the gut and stomach, and he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck. You want him to press further into you, to bite and nibble and mark at the tender skin, to meld into you so you always have him with you. You need more of him, all of him. Being by his side as a confidant in public, a lover in private, for eternity will never satiate your greed.

“My Lady, you never cease to entertain me! You are absolutely darling.”

“You are totally arrogant.” You shrug his head off of your shoulders, to your own disdain, only for him to place his chin on top of your head, entrapping you once again.

“My Lady, I believe I am not so arrogant. Rather, my actions are demonstrations of my affections for you, and the latter seems to grow at an astounding rate with every moment we spend together.”

He utters your name again, so sincere, full of unconditional respect. This time, you are forced to look at him, scooting yourself forward and twisting your back halfway around to soak in those melting, incandescent golds, brimming and spilling over with unfiltered love, loyalty, trust. You cease, completely bewitched and spellbound.

Slowly, he leans forward until the peaks of your foreheads touch. He is still staring at you, you are still unable to breathe. His hands have come up to cup your cheeks, and by sheer instinct, yours grasp weakly at his sleeves.

“Finally,” he breathes, “you are looking at me.”

Shuddering, you try to nod, but his hands keep your head in place. Regardless, he knows.

Jing Yuan, ever knowing, always understanding. He can see through you at all times, and you do not mind that it is him. In fact, you want it to be him, always him, and you have been waiting for this moment. Since you saw him on that sandy beach, with the orange coral bead and crystal clear waters and damp earth. Since you saw him standing alone in the garden, his back turned to you, tearless yet grief incarnate. Since these three long years, where he was seas and mountain ranges and plains separated from you, only brief moments of respite when he would return for business, yet never to interact.

You, who have waited this entire time, can finally see him again. You have no reason to disallow yourself. You have an eternity to indulge him, and an even longer infinity to indulge yourself in him.

The oil lamps flicker no more. The hawks and owls no longer cry. The vines and stems of the flora no longer sway in the wind.

The only movement is from Jing Yuan, when he purses his lips and takes a deep breath.

He whispers your name, as if it is a prayer, an oath, full of promise and reverence. He says it once more, twice more. Then, he closes his eyes briefly before looking up at you again, a fire and determination now smoldering in bright gold.

“I have kept you, yet you have patiently, without any complaint or excuse, waited for me. You, the only person in the world who has witnessed me a mischievous child, a brooding boy, and now, an older man. I cannot fathom being with another, and this has been true since I first met you.”

You can only gulp, and staring wide-eyed, anticipate his next words.

“You cannot imagine how many times I begged my mother for permission to visit you during the day. At the time, I could not understand her unshakeable refusal, and even now, I am still resistant in some ways. Did you know I became jealous of my mother? I have never been adept with delicate work, and at one point, I was convinced you only came so you could sew with her. I would leave the shed to shake off my anger with the sword. And then my mother was gone, and I thought you, too, would disappear. But, of course, in light of all of my deepest fears, you stayed.”

There are traces of tears in his eyes, but he is more preoccupied with brushing away the ones that stream down your face. You do your best to cease the trembling of your lower lip, the blur of your vision, the cries that threaten to spill out.

“I was frightened once again, when my father announced the beginning of my Grand Tour. I knew you would come of age as soon as I was scheduled to leave, and I wanted to propose right then and there. But my father does not know who you are, and not even the illegitimate child of a Duke could get away with marrying someone of a lower caste. A coward I was, am, indeed. Yet, we maintained correspondence, and we wrote to each other at length. Many times, I wanted to abandon my Tour, but your curiosity and eagerness convinced me otherwise.

“It has always been because of you. I am who I am today because of you and your endless affections. And it is my turn, now, to let you know that my love for you goes beyond words and actions. My existence is solely yours.

“May I?”

You nod vigorously, desperately, longingly.

He presses tender kisses to the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips. After, he takes your hands in his palms and kisses at your wrists and knuckles and joints and fingertips.

Finally, he sits up, and you raise your chin to follow his eyes.

He says your name, this time firm, grounded, determined. “I love you. Please, let us never part again.”

–

The Season has reached its peak, and at long last, June permits enduring hours of sunlight, hot, humid evenings, a myriad of blossoms of all distinct shades and colors. Your brother guides you into the ballroom, your mother trailing behind the two of you, feathered fan concealing her rather displeased disposition.

“I still cannot believe it,” he gasps with incredulous wonder.

“No? Will I have him come to ask for your permission again?” you reply, indifferent, more concerned with identifying Jing Yuan amongst the crowded halls.

“No, no, no need for that, Sister! I am, well, rather, well –”

“See, Brother! There he is!”

Adorned in a handsome cream ensemble, Jing Yuan stands near a table of refreshments, collecting two glasses, one of which you presume is yours. You rush to his side, your brother in tow, and curtsy when he notices. And, as you suspected, he bows and hands one of the cups over to you and the other to your brother, already turning around to grab another for your mother.

Your brother takes a nervous sip before exclaiming, “Lord Jing Yuan! Good evening!”

“Good evening!” Jing Yuan greets, festive and light-hearted.

“I wanted to give you my thanks, again, Lord Jing Yuan. I have never thought my younger sister would marry anytime soon, but you have truly done her a wonderful service. How could I –”

Your mother coughs and interrupts your brother. “Son, cease with your rambling. I could hardly stand the fuss you are making, let alone imagine how exhausted Lord Jing Yuan must be.”

Jing Yuan shakes his head and intercepts. “Not at all. Brother-in-law, I understand that our engagement has only been newly confirmed, so your surprise is inevitable.”

The boisterous chattering and guffawing seem to quiet down, passersby slowly redirecting their attention to your quartet.

Your mother seems to notice as well and fans at herself. “How could the son of a Duke possibly have taken an interest in the daughter of a Marquess?”

The encompassing crowd falls into a hush. All are thinking the same question, almost bloodthirsty in their intrigue to know the answer, and they flit their eyes between you and Jing Yuan, wondering who will speak first.

You, for one, have no interest in such public or dramatic gestures. You put your glass back down on the table and comment, “Mother, Brother, My Lord, the dancing is about to commence.”

Someone whispers that they have never seen you dance before, adding another layer of suspense.

Jing Yuan extends an arm out, and you take it without a shred of doubt or hesitation.

But before the two of you leave, you pause to speak with your mother. “Oh, Mother, please, take my fan!”

She glares at you, and you smile back, taunting and urging her to keep watching you, to see what you can and will do.

You can imagine the way the room will uproar with shock and rage as soon as you step out. You know your mother will splinter your fan in her wrenching grip, and your brother will have to figure some way to placate her. You know you and Jing Yuan will reminisce on this memory with much jest and delight.

And so, you do it.

Committing to putting on a show, everyone watches the flick of your wrist, the extension of your index finger along the frame of your fan. You direct your gaze to Jing Yuan, who is already looking at you with unreserved adoration, and slowly draw the fan across your cheek, dragging out the moment for as long as you can.

You hear the gasps, the cries, the confused mutterings. But the Master of Ceremonies, always in a timely fashion, calls for everyone’s attendance in the ballroom, and you drop the fan in your mother’s upturned hand before Jing Yuan whisks you away.

Now everyone knows you and Jing Yuan are lovers, to be married in a little over a month. Though you would prefer to be married already, you remind yourself that your shared happiness has already begun, and nothing will change that.

Hand in hand, you and Jing Yuan, along with many other couples, approach the middle of the ballroom, taking your positions in the dancing circle.

“When was the last time My Lady danced at a party?”

“Never before, actually.”

“Then, I must be blessed to have your first dance.”

“And many more, of course.”

“How many more? And just dances?”

You raise your head to stare at him, right as the Master of Ceremonies gestures at the band to begin. Jing Yuan’s eyes shine a brilliant gold underneath the glow of the chandeliers, clear and proud in their affections for you. Jing Yuan, always loving, forever yours.

As the waltz begins, you rise en pointe, and he clutches onto you so that your chests press together and your faces are only a breath apart.

You speak, the words you articulate only for him to hear.

“My existence is entirely yours.”

#honkai star rail #honkai sr #hsr #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan #honkai star rail jing yuan #honkai sr jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan fluff #hsr x reader #hsr fluff #honkai star rail x reader #honkai sr x reader #jing yuan honkai star rail #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan honkai sr #nereids' realm #house of solis occasum #carrot cake!

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charliemwrites · 10 months ago

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Part 4 of Nikto’s commandments

Content: Sexual Desire, Dissociation, Depersonalization, Codependency, Acts of Service, Masturbation

You moan his name sometimes in your sleep.

Usually just before you wake up, panting and overheated, shooting wide-eyed glances his way. Lying to you would be a sin beyond redemption so he always lets you know that he’s awake. You often apologize, sometimes you assure him you’re alright. It takes him a while to identify the look in your eyes those nights — he was unfamiliar with it even before: guilt.

You feel guilty.

Puzzling out the why of that takes longer still. You’re a mystery to him, ineffable. The way god is supposed to be. Unlike the Christian one, you almost always have a purpose behind what you do, and you’ll answer Nikto whenever he dares to ask. (He’s not going to ask about this.)

He first thought that you were calling for his help in dreamt pain. That your blown out pupils, trembling hands, and flushed face were products of fear and imagined torture.

But then you started to lean into his neck in your sleep, making soft, high noises. Would press your ass into the cradle of his hips, grind against his thigh. Alien as his body is to him now, he can recognize emotion in others. Lust, desire.

Coming to terms that you feel these things for him has been another challenge altogether. (But you are a loving god, a compassionate keeper. The sweetness and mercy and nobility found in the viscera of his world. If there is anything of him worth wanting, you would find it.) If you are attracted to this… vessel he inhabits, who is he to question you?

The guilt, though. That he is still puzzling out.

If anyone should feel guilt, it is him (though he doesn’t, isn’t even sure if he can). Now that you’ve made him more aware of his body, of his desires, there’s a constant buzz of arousal in his blood. For you. He craves you constantly. Your touch, your voice, your scent in his nose. He could suffocate on you.

It’s selfish, it’s sinful. To desire anything of you when you have given him everything and asked for nothing in return. Not even his loyalty, freely given. It is why he could not say yes when you offered to slake his desire; it would have been akin to blasphemy.

Unless.

Unless you have asked something of him.

“Whoa!” A giggle as you tilt your head back to him, amused and curious. “What was that for?”

He feels wooden as he glances down at you. His arm is around your waist, nearly crushing you to him. Hadn’t even realized he moved. You don’t seem to mind, palms light on his forearm. Still looking to him.

He does not answer. Can’t find the words past the panic clawing at his throat. Lets you go slowly, finger by finger. You don’t step away once free.

You say something else. Something about rain maybe? He’s too busy staring at the deft hands you cup around your mouth.

How soft and gentle they are on his skin, skipping over the worst scars. The first thing you always do is touch him. When he’s out of a shower, just changed, climbing into bed, waking up. You reach for him, as if you can’t bear to be parted with the same intensity he feels.

Do you crave to touch him in other ways? Has he denied you, unwitting as it may have been?

It would be one thing to ask anything of you, especially for his own sake. But to give you something… even if it’s such an unworthy offering as himself…

“Nikto?”

His eyes flick down to yours. You smile at him, point at your own temple.

“Busy up there today, huh?” It’s not even a tease, but he feels as if he’s made another misstep.

“Sorry.”

You shake your head, bump your shoulder into his arm. “I’m just checking that you’re alright.”

“Alright” being relative. He objectively understands that he is broken and damaged. That he does not operate at full capacity all — or even most — of the time.

But with your help he’s established a baseline, a “normal.” Something to measure his body, and more importantly his damaged mind by.

“I am… alright,” he decides finally. “Just thinking.”

“Okay,” you answer, easy as that. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen — but you don’t have to.”

You don’t have to is your favorite thing to say to him. He would laugh if he remembered how.

He grunts an affirmative and follows you to wherever you’re headed next.

—

That night, your ankle is hurting. Nothing serious, you assure Nikto. Just rolled it a bit. You promise it just needs rest, low level painkillers, and a bit of elevation.

Nikto is unpracticed at care. For all he practically lives in your pocket, medical care is unusual for you. He spends so much time keeping you safe, protected, alive and unharmed. He has little direction when it comes to your discomfort.

Luckily, you provide direction in spades.

“Two pills from the bottle with the red cap and a glass of water please.”

His cock twitches hard. Fills out almost dizzyingly fast in the confines of his tac pants.

He fetches both for you, holding each in turn as you pluck the pills from his hand and sip the water. You sigh gratefully and tell him to set the glass on the nightstand. Another bolt of pleasure to obey, while you like droplets from your bottom lip.

“Can you grab my computer and the charger? I want to watch something before bed.”

He brings them, stands waiting while you fiddle with it. Waiting for another request. He’s achingly hard now. Throbbing in his underwear.

“Oh! Hairbrush too, please?”

When he hands it to you this time, hand almost to the point of shaking, you give him a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry, I keep making you run around.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is gruff, but it so often is that you don’t seem to find anything amiss. “More?”

“Ah… well, if it’s not too much trouble, could you grab the extra blanket? It’s cold tonight.”

He tries to pace himself. To balance the pleasure of obeying against the speed of completing the task. You hum in delight as he drapes it over you — a fluffy monstrosity of a thing. Utterly decadent, he’d never even entertain the idea of having one. But you deserve a dozen of them if you wanted them. He’d retrieve them now for you if only you asked.

(He wishes you would ask.)

He is harder than he ever remembers being. (Granted, there are many gaps in his memory, even now. But there is enough there to know this is true.)

“Okay that should be the last thing for a bit.” You’re looking away and don’t see the minute deflation of his shoulders. He’s nearly panting. “Come snuggle in?”

“In a moment,” he says, surprising himself. You seem a bit (pleasantly) surprised too. He’s never denied you anything for even a moment. But if he sits next to you now…

“Ah, gotcha,” you say when he turns for the bathroom.

You start playing whatever tv show you have queued up to offer him privacy. He closes the door after himself and for the first time since regaining his freedom, takes himself in hand.

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#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #nikto x reader #cod nikto

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glassica · 3 months ago

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Outsiders

Notes: M!yan transmigrator x Gn!reader reincarnator, isekai, jealousy, mentions of violence

Continued from Second Male Lead, with a different yan.

"Looks like someone got rejected huh?", your best friend tucked head to the side, eyes full of mischief, didn't bother pretending to sympathize with your loss for a bit. This was why you dreaded seeing him so much. You knew well he would just make fun of your miserable love life.

"Shut up! He didn't. I just realize that I'm no match to the heroine!", you groaned, shooting an icy glare at your friend, "Honestly how am I supposed to compete with the universe's favorite?! I know she's the main character but still... isn't it too unfair for us extras?"

"Unfair only for you, I actually have a blast there. Crazy how relaxing life is when you not aiming too out of league.”

He laughed and teased you senselessly, but inside the man was breathing sighs of relief. You didn't want to know what would he do to the second male lead had you two become a couple. Nothing much, just some little stabs on the chest and limbs ripping apart maybe...

At first he was so scared seeing himself transported to this world. He knew about the isekai stuff, but applying those knowledge to reality was a different story. He had no clue about the worldbuilding nor the plot, thus struggled desperately to blended in high society. Besides, he couldn't tell anyone about him belonging to different world, he would be called crazy and outcasted from all circles.

So it was a miracle that he met you, another soul stuck in same situation. Because you had read the series and been living there since birth, you were able to provide him with necessary information about the novel. Through you, he learned about the Kingdom, the protagonists, the future events, etc. in addition to all the etiquette and secrets of nobility. At one point, you confessed to him about the second male lead, the love of your (now and previous) life.

Who you pined after was none of his business, yet the man found himself growing unbearably irritated the more he heard about that name. Your best friend always bore a bitter grin on his face whenever you gushed about your crush, sometimes he sneaked in snide remarks, suggesting the second lead was probably just a mediocre guy. “If he was really charming like you made him out to be,” your friend argued, “he should’ve been the hero instead of getting shoved outside midway to be honest.” You huffed, who he thought he is to downplay the man of your dream like that? And why did your friend like belittling your feelings so much?

No. He didn’t look down on you at all, he just hated the fact that you were paying attention anyone but not him. He couldn’t accept the sight of you longing for another man when he was right there. The one who was aware of your deepest secret, the one who witnessed all your goodness and uglies, the one who could share your struggles of adapting to new world. He knew you the best, obviously he was the right choice for you.

And perhaps the man should admit deep down, he was also terrified of the future without you. You had come and guided him through the puzzling maze of noble life, be there for him when he was on verge of giving up everything. He had been acquainted with your lovely presence, no way he would let anyone steal it away from him. Little dirt on hands wasn’t a bad price to pay if that means you would be chained forever to him.

You might be a worthless extra in their story, but always the main character in his story.

#yandere #male yandere #yancore #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere male #male yandere x gn reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere fic #yandere oc #male yandere fic #male yandere oc #tw yandere

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thestoryden · 4 months ago

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Changing Winds Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader Jacaerys Velaryon x Strong!Reader Warnings: Angst, Cheating, Violence, Cannon Divergence Words: 2.1k HOTD MASTERLIST

Summary: In a world much different from our own King Viserys has yet to leave this world, but tensions still rise at the capital between Rhaenyra and Alicent. In a battle for truth and legacy you find yourself caught in between two princes. The only question now is: Who will you choose?

As you arrive back to the Red Keep from weeks on the road your mind lingers on the last time you saw Jacaerys. The thought of his soft smile twists your insides with excitement; his lips soft as fresh snow. His body pressed against your, his warmth biting back the cool summer breeze. You cannot wait a minute more to see him. You think to yourself his hair must have grown out in the few months you were apart. You wonder how it will frame his face now. Your carriage comes to a jerking halt, making your dreamy thoughts of him fizzle as you nearly fall out of your seat.

“Hey! I am supposed to make it back to the castle alive.” You shout to the coachmen.

You are helped out of the carriage and there in one person of nobility there to greet you. Aemond Targaryen. You roll your eyes. This blonde fool had been following your around nonstop the last time you were at the castle. Any moment that he was not in court, you could find him trailing behind you. He stands there with a slight smile; he is always up to some scheme. You huff out some kind of greeting as he extends out his hand in invitation. You reluctantly take it.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lady Strong” Aemond muses.

His kisses your hand gently and you retract it as quick as lightning. You look up at him. If he were not a prince you would even bother to greet him. Unfortunately, your fantasy does not match the reality of the present situation. His one eye focuses in on you. Whatever was left of his other eye, he keeps tucked behind a simple leather patch. You purse your lips. He is as unnerving as ever.

“Why is my father not here to greet me?” You ask bitterly.

You already know the answer, the Lord Confessor is always too busy to see you unless he needs something from you. He dealt mostly in information and would scrape out any kind of knowledge you had on the family’s inner workings whenever he saw you. Aemond lips curl in to a devilish smile.

“The Lord Strong is preoccupied at the moment.” Aemond replies, “The queen sent me to greet you in his stead. She said you should have a warm welcome home.”

Of course she did. She had taken a liking to you before she even officially met her. She had summoned you to court once she had come by news of your mother’s passing. As a child you could not refuse her request, so you were uprooted from your family’s home and sent to Kingslanding. From that day forward you were raised with the royal children. You were meant as a companion for Helena, but when you took more to Jace and Luke she did not complain.

Aemond leans down closer to your face, “Did you hear me?”

You snap back to reality and take a step back nearly stumbling into the carriage. Aemond swiftly laces an arm underneath you, and pulls you to his side. Your face burns with embarrassment. You can feel his muscles cradling your waist.

“What is it?” You scoff, as if you could make the tumble seem intentional.

Aemond’s face softens, “The queen would like you to join her for tea after you have settled in.”

You find your footing and push him away. He only releases you once you have steadied. He relaxes and lightly brush his hair back over his shoulder.

“Yes, of course I will.” You reply as you dust off your gown.

Aemond quiets his voice, “I am delighted my dear.”

Your face contorts in disgust at what must surely be a poorly timed jest. Aemond smirks in response, and makes his way in to the keep. You wait till his behind shut doors to stamp your feet in irritation.

“By the Seven, that stupid boy won’t leave me alone.” You seethe.

You head to your room and try to mentally prepare yourself for the upcoming tea. The thought crosses your mind that Jace may have left a note or gift to welcome your home coming. You urge your feet to move faster. When you finally see the familiar room, you check everywhere only to come up empty handed.

“Has anything been left for me?” You question a maid.

She shakes her head no in response.

After all the dirt and grime of the road is scrubbed off you finally look like a proper lady. A blue dress with green finery makes the cut for your tea gown. With your hair styled you head towards the castle gardens. At the far end, a table is set, Queen Alicent and the two of the greatest annoyances in your life are arranged around it.

“Greetings, Your Grace, the seven’s blessings be upon you.” You say softly.

“And to you Lady Strong,” Alicent replies with a cheerful smile.

You shift to an almost dreary tone, “Aegon, Aemond, glad to see your dragons didn’t shred you to pieces while I was gone.”

You bow to the Alicent and take the seat closest to her. Your eyes drag over the dishes and goblets. You are starved for decent food after the dried meats and oats of the journey to Kingslanding. There is a suspicious lack of tea at the table.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but I thought I would be joining you for tea.” You question lightly.

Aemond voice sounds in a sullen tone, “As did I, but there were circumstances”

His words are cut short by Aegon’s slurring, “What my boorish brother means to say is, I wouldn’t come unless there was wine.”

You straighten your face as to not upset the queen and take a deep breath in. You had only left them for a few months and these two had some how gotten worse in your absence. You decide to move on to something more tasteful.

“Will Helena be joining us?” You ask trying to smooth over Aegon’s words.

The queen smiles, “Helena was her already. She grew tiresome of the boys’ antics and is now wondering the garden as we speak.”

“Bugs. She is searching for hideous insects rather than enjoying my company.” Aegon says in disgust.

Aemond quips back, “Well it is certainly more stimulating than speaking with you, Aegon.”

“Boys!” Alicent’s tone shifts, “She has not taken news of Jacaerys’ engagement well.”

Your mouth drops open, “His what?”

Aegon bursts into laughter, “They didn’t tell you?”

The next few moments are a blur. Aegon says something but in blends in with the horror engulfing your body. You find yourself leaving the table without any pleasantries and running off to in to the palace doors. The dark doorway like a gaping maw, you plunge yourself into the darkness of the keep’s halls.

Your dark brown curls cling to your sweaty face as you rush through the halls of the Red Keep. Step after step the words the Aegon had said to you burn into your brain. He’s engaged to Baela. It happened while your away. Your chest felt like it might explode out of your body. Soon you were pushing open the doors to the training yard. The cool air hits your face and you are frozen for just a moment as Jace smile beams with a laugh.

At first the sight of him cools off any irritation you may have felt, but then you realize that smile is not for you. It is for the white-haired girl standing opposite of him. Baela. He take her hand in his and gently kisses it. It is far too intimate to be considered a regular greeting. The fires inside you are once again stoked. You cannot imagine why he would embarrass you like this, and so publicly too. He deserves to feel your pain.

“Jacaerys!” Your voice rings out over the clanging of blades.

Everyone pauses and looks to you and then to the man you called upon.

His face goes ghost white, “You weren’t supposed to be back yet.”

The words dribble out of his agape mouth. You can feel the red-hot anger boiling just under the surface of your skin.

“Seven Hells!” You shout, “Is that all you have to say to me.”

You unstick your feet and plow through the muddy yard. Your colorful dress soaks in the damp earth turning it into a swampy discolored mess. He drops Baela’s hand as you lunge towards him, tackling Jacaerys to the ground.

“I am sorry.” He whines, “It was an accident.”

“An accident! An accident!” You yell back, “Breaking a glass is an accident! You broke my heart, that takes effort.”

You raise your hand and ball it in to a fist, bringing it down hard on to Jace’s face. The motion sends you forward a bit, giving Jace enough time to shield his face from more blows.

“I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.” He begs, “You have to believe me!”

You grab on to his mud-caked curls and pull his head up before slamming it back down. The force of it shoving the crust of the training field into Jace’s mouth.

“Collecting ladies’ maidenhoods!” You screech, “You are nothing, but a bloody bast-”

You are cut short by massive pair of arms wrapping around you and tearing you away. You still clutch on to a few of Jace’s curls that come up with you. Leaving him yowling in pain.

“That’s enough.” The deep voice rumbles through you.

You recognize it immediately as your uncle, Harwin Strong.

“You wouldn’t want say anything more you would regret.” He chastises.

He carries you out of the training field and back in to the castle. When Harwin sets you down he looks you in the eye.

“You mustn’t fault the boy for doing he duty.” He says gently, “There is still love in his heart for you. I am sure of it.”

Your purse your lips. You can’t think of the words you are hearing. Everything is drowned out by a blinding rage. How could he do this to you. After everything he promised, after everything he said. Tears well up in your eyes.

“I am sorry uncle, I must leave.” The words come out in a half blubbering.

You stagger down the hallway. Before slumping down in to an alcove. You let loose a sob and the tears begin flowing down your face. You tuck your head into your crossed arms. Your sleeves become a sticky, gross, sopping mess.

“Gods why,” You cry, “What have I done to deserve such cruelty?”

You feel a hand rest on your shoulder. You look up and try to pry open your swollen eyes.

“Here let me help you.” A voice whispers.

You feel a soft piece of linen move over your face. Clearing away the snot and wetness of your emotional devastation. You blink your eyes till they clear and see an unexpected face. Aemond. He sits down in front of you.

“Is it true?” You sob.

Aemond sighs, “Yes, my brother tells true, for once in his life.”

“How did it happen?” You beg him to tell you.

“After a feast, they were found tangled together in the dragon pit.” Aemond’s voice trails off, “The arrangement came after.”

Your heart dropped. You did not want to believe it true. If it were because of duty, it would be one thing, but Jace having desire for someone else broke you. Water drips from your lashes and runs down your cheeks. When suddenly your thoughts were cut short. Aemond’s hand slips under your chin and tilts it back. He touch is light and cool against your fiery skin.

“Let me take your pain.” He whispers.

You look at his parted lips and close your eyes. Your body guides you closer to him. You feel his lips press in to yours. They were as soft as heather. He moves nearer to you his hair falling to the sides of his face. His scent washes over you. You raise your hand and cup his face with your palm. He pulls back. You whimper at the comfort slipping away from you. A soft blush spread across his face.

“Aemond, I had no idea you felt that way about me.” You say in shock.

He laughs lightly, “After everything I’ve done?”

“I thought it in jest.” Your reply honestly.

He brushes his hand through his hair, “And now?”

“I venture to say your intentions are more serious than I thought before?” Your words have the air of question to them.

Aemond rolls his eye. You have never considered there might be truth to the prince’s word before, but now you saw an opportunity. Revenge. A devious smile creeps up on your face.

“What is it?” Aemond tilts his head.

You lilt your voice, “Aemond, would you be so kind as to escort me to the next feast. I wish to dazzle Jace with the brilliance he has now lost.”

Aemond grins, “It would be my utmost pleasure, Lady Strong.”

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egg-but-with-style · 4 months ago

Text

Okay..what if..ghost was a knight. hm?????????

He'd been told he was going to become a knight since birth, serving the country as a whole, then if he was good enough, the nobility. When his training begun, he hated the idea of being the knight of any old noble that thought people poorer then them were the dirt beneath their boot.

He eventually became hardened by years of training and fighting, not to mention the occasional shipping out to a random village where he had killed more then a few men.

Then one day it was decided that the princess needed a personal knight, for a young lady needed to be well protected. At first he scoffed at the idea. A princess? One that stayed in castle walls like a caged bird? Why did she need protection?

When the day he was supposed to meet you came around, he quickly learned it wasn't for your safety per say, more so to curb your stubbornness. He couldn't deny the portraits of you in the hall with your family made his checks slightly flush. A beautiful round face and plump body. The redness wore off once he found out that, you had refused to come to the meeting to be assigned your guard, which he chocked up to the pretty princess not wanting to talk with a common like himself.

Until as he was getting a tour of the ground for security purposes, he saw a woman gardening. The woman was wearing a much nicer dress then he expected for a gardener. The woman was also quite a bit taller, chubbier, stronger. That's one thing he did like about noble women, their plump forms, but it was unusual for a worker. Maybe she was just a very good gardener. The woman quickly took notice of him and with a hop in her step, went up to greet him. She looked strangely...familiar?

"You're the new knight, yes?" He looked a little surprised, not expecting this person to be so talkative, but he was polite. "Yes..I am. Would you have any idea where the princess might be?" You giggled, taking off your sunhat and wiping your forehead with your sleeve. "You're looking at her."

He was stunned, he hadn't been paying too much attention to you before, but now that he was, the portraits on the walls of the castle matched you perfectly, yet they couldn't capture your beautiful round cheeks and a gorgeous smile as well as the real thing. He then snapped out of his thoughts and kneeled before you. Hearing you scoff at his actions. "You know you don't need to do that, right? Your little tour guide isn't even here anymore, not that he would've shown you around better then I can."

Ghost looked up and around. It's true, he was alone, with you he supposed. He then looked to your face, it being the only shade on his eyes from the blinding sun, making you look like you had a halo around your head. An angel. That's what you looked like.

"Cmon, get up." You said, as you stretched out your hand to help him up. He looked surprised, but grateful, his job was hard on his knees. Taking your hand once he was sure no one else was around, he wasn't sure if you'd be strong enough to help all that much, but you pulled him up with ease. "Now what's your name, oh noble knight?" The words falling from your lips, with a slight sarcasm imbedded. But not filled with ill will. "Ghost, my lady" your smirk fell slightly, and you sighed. You knew it couldn't be helped, honorifics were basically beat into every guard and maid.

"That's an odd name. I don't believe you're a spector."

You giggled, and he became surprised the longer you talked, so sasy, so informal. Felt more like talking to a fellow guard then the to be leader of the country. He stammered again, being put off guard (hahaha, get it?) "It's.. it's a given name by the knights guild."

You hummed in acknowledgement. You had heard of some guards only ever using their given names, but you had never seen it with your own eyes.

"Interesting. Well, I suppose you need a new tour guide, don't you?" He thought about it for a moment, perhaps, from a tactical standpoint, a person who lives in the castle, especially someone as rambunctious as you, would probably know more then the average persons about the castle. So for safety reasons, or maybe it was just him justifying a reason to get to know you better, he agreed.

"I suppose I do." You were still glistening with sweat from the heat of the sun, and the exertion of pulling weeds in a rather tight corset. Skin being smeared with splotches of dirt. He was feeling bold, and asked a question that any other noble would've had slapped him for. "You're quite the trouble maker, aren't you, my lady?" You only giggled

"You bet your shiny ass I am. Now cmon, there's like 20 different places that old fart hadn't show you yet." He only had moments to question your vulgar choice of words, then you were off, walking, almost jogging down the cobble path, with his heart in hand. So he could only follow.

Authors note: you know how I said I had ideas about the 141? Ghost consumed those thoughts. Eat up, babes. Again I don't know who made the knight au for ghost? If anyone knows, please tell me so I can tag them for credit. Cause this idea is so yummy. Thank you for reading, bye bye!!!!

#chubby reader #plus size reader #tall reader #simon ghost riley #knight!ghost #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #i bet he sweats like a demon in church in that suit

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mayullla · 1 year ago

Note

Yandere Ayato 🦋🌸 please and thank you 😊

Title: You continued to look for him

Character(s): Ayato (Genshin Impact) Summary: You could not help but hope that you would be able to meet your fated soulmate. Yet that never happened and you wed the Yashiro Commissioner. You should have given up on soulmates then, but you didn't. Warnings/tags: Yandere themes, Fem!reader, soulmate au (same tattoos), arranged marriage au, manipulation, toxic parents, implied murder

[ - A little present~! Event - Closed - ]

Fated love, in your world, was something like marks on the skin that you were born with. A patterned birthmark that was unique to only you and one other person who was your soulmate.

There was a special connection between both people, the deeper the love the more profound the shade, it was a pride to some lovers, because a mark never lies. Most lovers could rest assured that they have each other in their hearts, however if one side dies, their birthmark will become lighter... less obvious on the skin.

Gone as if they were never there. What felt like only a dream… meeting their soulmate, marrying, and living happily ever after life whatever that dream was has come to an end. But for many aristocratic families, it was common practice to marry out of benefits or money rather than something like fate.

You were born into aristocracy and were expected the same.

Even when everyone saw that little birthmark on your wrist right under your palm, it was either ignored by most or stared with pity for the more sympathetic ones. But they too ultimately ignored it, unable to help you.

Your parents found your birthmark to be a nuisance. If it was somewhere else on the body less obvious, then it would have been far better in their eyes. If you didn't have any from the start, it was the most ideal situation.

But it was not the case, and they could only make do with forcing you to wear gloves whenever you go out or when you were in their eyesight.

You grew up being told that this birthmark means nothing in nobility. Your parents made sure that you didn't get any ideas banning others from talking about it in front of you. Yet you listened, listened to the stories from maids who didn't think others were looking... listening to their little stories and gasps.

A word about it never left your lips about this sensitive topic, it was obvious that your parents would never care if you had found your soulmate. They wouldn't have let you meet him if he was of commoner status or worse shout and yell in anger if he was poor. But you always had this naive hope, there was a happy ending waiting for you.

However, that never arrived, as you wed another man arranged by your parents. They were full of glee and greed when they heard that the head of the Kamisato clan took an interest in you, ecstatic when he had sent a proposal. You watched from the corner of the room as you glanced down at your wrist, your birthmark hidden under the gloves you were forced to wear.

"It seems that you are disappointed." Kamisato Ayato, your fiance touched your cheek lightly when you stared at your wrist for too long, a solemn look on his face. You could see what he would ask next but before he could speak you didn't let him.

You shook your head at his words.

In the garden of the Kamisato estate you and him looked at the waters of Inazuma, "I am only doing what was expected of me. I will become your wife." You told him, leaning in his hand as if to show him affection, that you were willing to do this.

From that moment you should have thrown those silent hopes and dreams away. From the moment it became official that you and he were husband and wife, you should have thrown any thoughts of meeting the person you were supposed to be fated to. That from now on you belonged to someone else.

Ayato was a kind man, you thought. People had many things to say about him. He was hard-working, dutiful, smart and caring. He fulfilled his role as your husband. You were never in need, whether that be food or clothes, instead, you were spoiled as he gifted and dressed you with the finest luxuries that others could only wish to have. He was affectionate, always taking at least a little time off each day to stay by your side. You felt like he thought of you as his equal, a part of him instead of someone foreign, or a sort of trophy. He may not have been your fated partner, but he loved and cherished you nonetheless.

You should have been satisfied with what you have. You should have thrown all those feelings away, yet you were still so curious, eyes still lingering at your wrist when you zoned out in thought. He was alive that much you knew, you knew he was out there somewhere. Was he also curious as to who you were? What would you and he do when you found each other when you were married to another man.

You fulfilled your duties as the Kamisato head's wife. You showed respect to your husband as the leader. But there was a distant feeling that was never mentioned between you and Ayato. A kind of invisible wall that you unconsciously placed. Guilt ate you when you realize that your husband knew of it.

He stayed quiet, never complaining, never accusing as he continued to show affection towards you, as his wife. Everyone saw his love for you, and you heard from others and knew how loving he was as a husband. That he only had eyes for you. You would smile and blush flustered at their words but it felt more akin to stabs at your conscience.

Looking at the falling rain under the umbrella, the tapping sounds when the water drops hit the umbrella shield was relaxing as you took a stroll. Many of the servants tried to discourage you from going out worried that you may get wet, yet you told them you wished to follow Thoma to the market rather than stay home. They relented after a while, Thoma was kind enough to help you out stating that he would protect and help you if something bad were to actually happen.

Reaching the market you watched as people walked along the street, most holding their own umbrellas, others running with a hand or newspaper over their heads or hiding under shelters waiting for the rain to stop. Your mind was elsewhere as you waited for Thoma to buy all the ingredients for tonight's dinner.

Till you saw him.

Many say that it was as if the world had stopped for a moment when soulmates saw each other for the first time. A surreal experience, as you realize that the other person was the one. You could not breathe for a moment, frozen in place, eyes wide as you watched him march past you never noticing your stare. A soldier, based on his uniform but you saw the birthmark on his wrist that was holding his umbrella.

You wanted to stop him, you wanted to see him just once. Get a good look at the man who was supposed to be your fated partner. Talk to him just once to see what it would look like in your future if you married him. What was it like? Where would you be? So many questions consumed your thoughts but something was keeping you still. It was hard to move, hard to even breathe as you unconsciously counted the time, knowing that every second he was getting farther and farther away from you.

However you could not do anything.

A hand placed itself on your shoulder, snapping you back to reality. Time returned back to its normal pace. The umbrella that was on your hand was on the floor and cold were the droplets that hit your hair and your face, soon covered by an umbrella that wasn't yours.

"Are you okay?"

He called out your name, a familiar deep voice. Concerned eyes looked at you questioning why you had been standing in the rain like that. Ayato covered you with his own umbrella bringing you closer to him to shield you from getting any more wet. Words didn't come out for a moment, rendered speechless. You looked away from your husband towards where your fated partner was but the crowd had taken him away from you as you could not see him anymore.

You felt like your heart dropped and shattered into pieces till you felt a warm hand touch your cheek. Looking at the pale hand you looked up to your husband who looked at you in worry. "Do you have a fever? Hmmm... you are cold..." Ayato asked, mumbling the latter part as he moved his hand to your forehead. Some stared at you guys but continued on with their day while others mainly the elderly cooed at such a lovely couple.

"... No..." you told him, shaking your head as you looked down. It was impossible to look him in the eyes. "I am fine. I apologize… I do not know what came over me."

It was hard to think of any excuses...

He looked at you for a moment, the silence dragging on as you wondered if he actually believed you. Yet instead of a reply, you were suddenly covered with a coat too big to be yours. Looking up at your husband surprised he just moved you closer to him. "It seems like you had a long day, dear." He spoke in a soft tone, "Come. Let's get you home."

Telling Thoma who just came back from haggling with the vendors to grab your umbrella, you guys went back in the direction of the Kamisato estate. You looked nowhere but in front of you, hurried to quickly escape this situation. You didn't see your husband glance back at the crowd, his eyes trailing at someone's form.

Ayato always loved you, long before the marriage arrangement that he and your parents made. But it seemed that fate was not kind to him when he found out that you had a soulmate birthmark on your wrist while he had none.

However he knew as nobles, it was rare that one would be able to marry their fated lover as marriage was often mixed in with greed, gains, and benefits. Your parents were just the same, they looked at what they could gain while you were nothing more than one of their pawns. It was easy to sign a contract with them where he gave something that did not benefit him at all for your hand in marriage.

He didn't feel an ounce of guilt in the first meeting when you glanced at his wrist with a little bit of hope in your eyes only to dull when you found nothing. Rather it annoyed him more than anything but he knew that with time you would fall in love with him too even without a tattoo. He had already shackled you from ever leaving him too easily with marriage. And while it might take a little while you would return your feelings to him he was patient with you and gave you everything even when you placed this invisible wall between you and him.

It was slow, but he knew he was getting there. When you looked at him with those guilty eyes and tried to every so often show him the same affection he showered you with, only time would make it more genuine but a little push could never hurt anyone. It was a little later he found out who was your soulmate. An ordinary soldier, one of many and nothing special. This was just the last step till he finally had you in his grasp. Your conscious was still tilting one side to the other, telling yourself to leave those fantasies behind, with this you could finally make your decision.

Just one more step till you fall into his arms, in tears as the birthmark on your wrist slowly faded signaling the death of your soulmate. Till you finally give your heart to him, with nothing holding yourself back.

Only time was needed now till you finally become wholly his.

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overlyspecific · 5 months ago

Text

Part 5 of Merlin Hood

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

Flashback to Magic Reveal!

Even with the number of times that Arthur called Merlin an idiot, he didn’t actually believe it. At least, not fully. Sometimes he was late waking him up in the morning or he would clumsily drop his lunch and have to go get another, but he was reliable most of the time. Today, however, Arthur had not seen his manservant at all.

When George arrived with lunch, Arthur nearly bit his head off.

Arthur: Where is my useless manservant?

George: I don’t know, sire. No one has seen him all day.

Arthur: If he’s at the tavern again…

Arthur barged out of the room and definitely didn’t angry stomp all the way to Gauis’s chambers. To his credit, Gauis doesn’t even look up at Arthur when he barges in.

Gauis: Oh Arthur, Merlin’s just out at the-

Arthur: If you say tavern, I personally put Merlin in the dungeon until there is snow on the ground.

Gauis:…

Just as Gauis is trying to think of a different excuse, Merlin barges in covered in chicken feathers and holding a struggling rooster.

Merlin: *not noticing Arthur* Gauis, I swear, cant they ever make it easy? Do they realize when they come up with these stupid plots that theres a poor overworked manservant that has to go collect whatever random ingredient and study the perfect spe-

Gaius: *cutting Merlin off before he can say anything incriminating* Oh, Merlin, you’re back. Prince Arthur was just looking for you.

Merlin: *eyes wide* Arthur! What are you doing here? *the rooster in Merlin’s arms tries to take that opportunity to escape, but Gauis takes it from Merlin*

Arthur: *rubbing a hand over his face* Merlin, the day I know what all you get up to when you aren’t with me is a day I fear for my sanity.

Arthur starts to leave the Physician chambers, but remembers why he was there.

Arthur: Merlin, I expect you to be up in my chambers in the next twenty minutes to get me dressed or have you forgotten that there is foreign royalty visiting?

Merlin: *a little too sweet to be sincere* of course, sire.

Arthur returns to his chambers with Merlin following soon behind. Merlin starts to dress Arthur for the feast.

Merlin: *working mostly in silence, quietly humming to himself* raise your arms.

Arthur: *obeying so Merlin can put in ceremonial shirt over his head* You’d tell me if you were in any kind of trouble, right?

Merlin: *surprised by the question* Of course, but what sort of trouble would I get into anyway?

Arthur: I’m serious, Merlin. Half the time I don’t know what you are up to and you come back with these ridiculous excuses everytime. what am I supposed to think?

Merlin: I appreciate the concern, but its nothing really. I’ll tell you if I’m ever in any trouble.

Arthur: You’re a bad liar, you know.

Merlin: I know.

Tension fills the room with things unsaid and Merlin quickly finishes dressing Arthur.

The two make their way down to the feast only a few minutes late. When they open the door, however, the prince and his manservant are shocked with what they find.

The long feast table is filled with royalty and nobility wrapped in fiery green ropes. The servants are similarly tied to the pillars of the room slightly out of sight. The visiting queen is at the front of the table next to Uther with her arms outstretched. She looks up at the sound of the door opening.

Lady Canterlily: *smiling wickedly* Prince Arthur, what a pleasure! *she whispers a spell and Arthur is tied to a chair and slides across the floor to join Uther and Morgana at the head of the table.*

Merlin: *suddenly serious and pulsing with authority at seeing the royals helpless* Let them go!

Lady Canterlily: Oh silly me, I forgot to take care of you too dear. I’m sorry, you servants are always so forgettable. *she whispers a spell and Merlin is tied to a pillar* Now that everyone is here, let’s get this party started.

Merlin struggles against the ropes, but he knows there’s no way out without magic and Arthur is looking over at him with worry in his eyes.

Uther: You wont get away with this! You will be brought to justice and burn on the pyre!

Lady Canterlily: Oh, like how to murdered my family? Like how you burned my helpless daughter? She didnt even have magic! Really she wasnt much younger than your son here. *she walks over to Arthur and reaches her hand out to him* How would you feel if your family was murdered, King Uther?

Lady Canterlily starts a spell directed at Arthur, but she is flung into a wall. Everyone looks around for the culprit, but everyone is still tied up. Lady Canterlily gets up slowly and looks around too.

Lady Canterlily: *suddenly scared, but trying to hide it* Emrys, show yourself!

Nothing happens.

Lady Canterlily: *approaches Arthur again saying a spell more quickly this time. Before it can hit him though it dissolves into golden light* Emrys! *she looks at every person at the table but they are all still tied and and are looking for the second magic user as well*

Arthur takes the commotion to look over where Merlin is tied up. Merlin isnt there. Lady Canterlily follows Arthur’s eyes to the pillar.

Lady Canterlily: It isnt possible!

Merlin: *appearing from behind a pillar* Forgetable, wasn’t that what you said?

Lady Canterlily: You can’t be the powerful Emrys! *shouts a spell*

Arthur: *watches as the green fiery ropes rise up to wrap Merlin back to the pillar* Merlin, lookout!

Merlin: *makes eye contact with Arthur and smiles apologetically before raising a hand up and closing his eyes. The ropes dissolve into golden light exactly like what happened to the curse meant for Arthur* I’m sorry for the sake of your sanity, Arthur, I guess that day is today. *when he opens his eyes, they shine the same golden light*

Lady Canterlily screams in frustration and Merlin continues to make his way to her at his own pace. With each step, the magic seems to flow off of him in golden waves. Lady Canterlily stumbles back in fear.

Lady Canterlily: It cant be you, you’re just a servant!

Merlin: *arm outstretched, just a couple steps away* Let’s just say I go above and beyond. Now, release them before i make you.

Lady Canterlily: Emrys! Why do you protect them? They kill every one of our people without any mercy!

Merlin: I dont protect them. I protect the once and future king. Now release them or you will see just how much i will do to protect him.

Lady Canterlily: *knowing she wont win in a magic fight against Emrys, takes out a dagger and holds it to Arthur’s neck* Emrys, please listen! We will never be free under their rule. I’m doing this for you. Help me kill them and we will rule instead. We will bring magic back as it’s supposed to be. We will be free!

Merlin: I can’t let you kill him. If you kill them all and take the throne, it wont change anything. You will go to war with the other kingdoms and the people will not follow you. So many people will die and Camelot will crumble to the ground. Plus, I kinda like having that prat around. Now, release him or your next breath will be your last!

Lady Canterlily: They will be punished, even if its the last thing I do! *she shouts a spell at Merlin

Merlin: *yells a spell back at the sorceress, but the spell catches him before he is done and he drops to the ground choking*

Lady Canterlily: Now where was I?

Before Lady Canterlily can answer her own rhetorical question, the entire feast hall begins to shake. Where Merlin was choking on the ground a minute ago, there is a blinding orb of golden light sending pulses outward toward the room. Everyone’s hairs stand on end at the table and when they look at the sorceress, there is a flash of golden lightning before nothing remains. The green fiery ropes dissolve from the people in the room.

Merlin: Well that was dramatic *Starts to fall unconscious from using so much magic and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to catch him*

Uther: Guards, seize him!

Morgana: Uther, he just saved all of our lives! You can’t kill him. Arthur, say something!

Arthur just looks at his manservant sprawled in his arms, but is frozen in shock. When the guards come to take Merlin away, he pulls him away from them.

Uther: Arthur! Let go of the sorcerer. The guards will bring him to the dungeons.

Arthur: *suddenly aggressive* No! *catches his father’s expectant look* I’ll take him down myself. He is my problem, after all.

Uther: Very well.

Arthur followed closely by several guards hauls his unconscious manservant out of the feast hall. He catches Morgana’s murderous expression as the door close behind him.

Wooo! That was a long one, sorry about that. Next part will be stay in the past for Merlin’s magic trial, but then we will go back to present time.

#bbc merlin #merlin #arthur #merthur #merlin is robin hood #arthur pendragon #magic reveal #morgana #uther

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arc-misadventures · 6 months ago

Note

Vtuber AU. Weiss collabing with her mom or sister?

The VTuber: The Empress of Ice

Today was an unusual stream for one, IHateMyDad2.0. Then again, among any streamers what would be considered normal?

Bot, no today, she could have a very special guest, one that could have disastrous, or highly beneficial implementations to her channel for years to come.

Only time would tell.

~~~

IHateMyDad2.0: Hello everyone, and welcome to the stream!

Her white haired avatar gave a dazzling smile as she addressed her chat. She loved streaming, within this space she could feel the mountain of worries she had built up over years of abuse by the hands of her despicable father slowly being chipped away. And, today was a special day.

For today she was listening to her family councillor, and had decided to take part in a family exercise they had recommended to help reunite her with her family members who had nearly been torn apart by their father’s actions.

IHateMyDad2.0: Okay, chat! We have a special guest with us today!

~~~Stream Chat~~~

Steveo: Whoo! Stream!

Ferbanjo: Hi Snowangel!

Monkittiy: A guest?

StarChild: Is it cookie?

~~~~~~

IHateNyDad2.0: No, no it’s not, Cookie. No today we’ll be joined by a family member, a never before seen family member at that! So, everyone please give a warm welcome to my mother, ‘The Ice Empress!’

Emerging from the corner of the screen was a 2D model of a lady that extruded an air of mature elegance, and a crown of nobility upon her. One could easily tell based upon the models that the duo were related.

Although one couldn’t help, but point out several, physical differences between the pair.

TheIceEmpress: The Ice Empress? That’s a terrible name. I thought we agreed upon the, Sovereign of Snow?

IHateMyDad2.0: What? The Ice Empress is a really catchy name.

TheIceEmpress: And, a derivative name that a preschooler would come up with. SovereignofSnow carry a much more palatable air or royalty to it. Royalty that must be feared, and respected.

IHateMyDad2.0: Mom?! It’s a cool name, right chat?

~~~~~~

Littledino: Sovereign of Snow sounds better

Monkitty: The ice empress is rather bland

Yenta: We can call her, Sovereign for short

Draven: A new queen has appeared!

Ferbanjo: All hail the Sovereign of Snow!

Heartbreaker: Sovereign!

4SakenGodde$$: ❤️Sovereign❤️

Adrastus97: Milf!

~~~~~~

IHateMyDad2.0: Eh…?

IHateMyDad2.0’s mouth hanged wide open as she stared in shock as her chat swiftly agreed with her mother, and the fact that they were already simping for her mother.

IHateMyDad2.0: Okay, fine! The Sovereign of Snow it is…

SovereignofSnow: Now that is far more appeasing to the senses~! Don’t you think so too dear?

IHateMyDad2.0: It is a little better…

SovereignofSnow: Now then my dear, what are we doing for your stream; Are we going to talk about your fellow streamers? I’ve often heard you talk about them, I’m quite curious to learn about them.

IHateMyDad2.0: I… I haven’t talked to you about my friends before.

SovereignofSnow: Well… no you haven’t. However, I do hear you scream something about cookies quite often.

IHateMyDad2.0: Eh…?

SovereignofSnow: She’s a fellow streamer isn’t she?

IHateMyDad2.0: Cookie? Yeah she is a fellow, VTuber I hang out with. Her full name is, CookieMonster. I call her, Cookie for short when we’re chatting, and playing games.

SovereignofSnow: Oh that was what was happening. I thought it was your safe word.

IHateMyDad2.0: MOM?!

IHateMyDad2.0’s model burst into a fierce blush as her mother roasted her so effortlessly. Her chat erupted into a fit of rampant laughter at her expense.

IHateMyDad2.0: I am in no way in such a relationship that with anyone that requires a… a safe word!

SovereignofSnow: That’s no surprise really, you have much left to be desired compared to your sisters.

IHateMyDad2.0: What is that supposed to mean?

SovereignofSnow: That compared to your sisters, and myself for that matter, you are quite lacking in certain physical aspects.

IHateMyDad2.0: What aspects…

~~~~~~

Yenta: Is the aspect that she is flat?

Littledino: No booba

StarChild: Flat booba

Draven: She pads

~~~~~~

IHateMyDad2.0: I AM NOT FLAT?!!

She yelled in rage as she saw the comments her chat was making pouring in as the insulted her body’s shape, and size. A response, that if an expression could be displayed would have shown a teasing smirk from the bottom of her lips.

SovereignofSnow: No, you are not out right flat. But, when you are compared to your older sisters, or myself, a fair comparison would be apples to watermelons.

IHateMyDad2.0: You are not that big?!

SovereignofSnow: B to E, E to F, and F to G my dear~!

IHateMyDad2.0: Your my mother, of course you would be the biggest one among us!

SovereignofSnow: Actually, I am a F-Cup. Your sister, B…?! No, no names… Ahem. The… Black Sheep of the family is the biggest.

IHateMyDad2.0: She’s how big?! I thought she was only a cup size bigger than me?! Not that big??

SovereignofSnow: I thought you were aware of this? Her model certainly displays her sizeable cleavage quite well.

IHateMyDad2.0: Well considering what her streams are like, I thought she was doing it for the views.

SovereignofSnow: That wouldn’t be of any surprise to me. The Black Sheep of the family has always been the most flamboyant, and outgoing of the four of you.

IHateMyDad2.0: Resulting in her being the degenerate of the family…

IHateMyDad2.0 scouled as she remembered the nature of her older sister’s streams, and the rather depraved aspects of them.

IHateMyDad2.0: Why do you let her do those kind of streams? I thought you would be all against her streaming considering what she does.

SovereignofSnow: Oh, but I am against them. I don’t like the videos she does. But, she is a grown woman, and she is allowed to do as she pleases. And, as her mother I have to respect her choices. I don’t have to like them, but I will respect them nonetheless.

IHateMyDad2.0: Oh… That’s really nice of you, Mom.

SovereignofSnow: Thank you.

~~~~~~

Adrastus97: The Sovereign is really growing on me.

4SakenGodde$$: She is quite understanding of her daughters

bumblequeen: I like her

Stevo: Me too

Ferbanjo: I hope we see more of her in the future

Summertimeaadness: Same

~~~~~~

SovereignofSnow: But, there is one thing about my daughter, and her streaming that concerns me.

IHateMyDad2.0: What’s that?

SovereignofSnow: Who is this man she is… obsessed with? The one she refers to as, ‘Darling?’

IHateMyDad2.0: ‘Darling?’ Oh, she is talking about a fellow streamer; His name is, ErrantryPaladin.

SovereignofSnow: And who exactly is this, ErrantryPaladin?

IHateMyDad2.0: Well, he is… Actually, There is a short video that was uploaded of him that I was planning on watching, would you like to watch it with me, Mom?

SovereignofSnow: By all means.

IHateMyDad2.0: Awesome! Okay, here is the video… What?

SovereignofSnow: What is it?

IHateMyDad2.0: The name of the video it’s… It’s called, ‘The Broken Paladin.’

SovereignofSnow: Broken Paladin? Is something wrong?

IHateMyDad2.0: I… I don’t know. This was a bit taken from his stream, but the video was made by a person watching his stream, not, Errant himself. So, I have no idea what it is about.

SovereignofSnow: Then let’s find out what’s wrong with your sister’s darling paladin then.

IHateMyDad2.0: Okay, let’s start the video.

She hit the play button on the video, and watched a story play out that she did not expect to see.

~~~

IHateMyDad2.0’s stream cut away to an image of, ErrantryPaladin; He was in the midst of a simple game of HOI4, building up his chosen nation of, Brazil’s infrastructure for the upcoming war.

ErrantryPaladin: Okay, that should help my production. Hmm… I want to build some railways… What do you think chat, should I build a railway around my whole country, or should I…?

His words were suddenly cut off as a donation was made, followed by the robotic male voice, and the message it had to deliver.

StalwartDoggo: “Hello, Errant! I’ve been wondering something about you, and you fair maidens…”

ErrantryPaladin: This should be good.

Stalwart: “What is it like having all these woman fawn over you? What is it like to be the alpha with a throng of woman hanging over you?”

ErrantryPaladin: …

ErrantryPaladin: Pffft! What fucking bullshit is that?!

If it could have been seen one would see the collective viewers of, Errants jaws drop like an anvil. They had expected him to say many things, but what he had just said.

ErrantryPaladin: Alpha… Pff… what a fucking joke…There are no woman fawning over me, the real me, not this…

Errant’s hand waved in a circle around his face, looking tired at the screed.

ErrantryPaladin: This mask…

He looked to the side of the screen, and despite the fact tgis face couldn’t portray such emotions, one could only see a broken, and tired man as he stared far off into nothingness.

ErrantryPaladin: What I mean by that is, people only know the mask, this face I present to all of you.

ErrantryPaladin: The face of a huntsman, a lone warrior, who fights for the people against the hordes of Grimm monsters that attack the weak, and defenceless. The face of the wannabe hero…

ErrantryPaladin: But, the real me… I am no where near as amazing as him. I’m just me.

He sighed as he seemed to lean back in his chair, his mind deep in thought.

ErrantryPaladin: You see… people could be shown an image of a person, and they think that, that person is cute, and they’d be interested in meeting that person, and maybe go on a date with them. But, then they actually meet that person in the flesh, and totally be turned off by that person.

ErrantryPaladin: I mean, how many of you would still like me if I was five foot two, and a chubby. I will bet money that many of you would lose all interest in me.

Errant looked away as he heard another ping appear before him.

ErrantryPaladin: Ahh, no, QueensBane, I don’t look like that. Actually, I do look a lot like, Errant. 6’2”, blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. I just lack his confidence…

A deep sigh escaped his lips, as he watch his chat feed play by. Getting annoyed by the comments his chat was making.

ErrantryPaladin: “You’re a ten, ErrantryPaladin.” No, I’m a seven, eight at best chat… Listen, I am handsome enough guy to get the girl, and I have the money to support a family… If I was such a great catch… why have all of my relationships ended so horribly…

ErrantryPaladin: I mean… my first girlfriend, was only dating me to get close to my sister! She was just using me… bitch couldn’t ask my sister out herself, she had to use me as a proxy?!

ErrantryPaladin: Hmmm… Now that I think about it, the last time I saw her she was nursing a black eye, a bloody nose, and a broken lip… My sisters are really protective of their little bro.

The vindictive smile that spread across his face was a terrifying sight to many, but it faded as soon as it appeared as a bitter frown usurped his smile.

ErrantryPaladin: The next girl I was dating dumped me because I was boring. Still don’t understand what she meant by that.

ErrantryPaladin: I caught my next girlfriend cheating on me. She tried to play it off as a ‘mistake’ that will never happen again.

He scoffed in indignation as he shook his head.

ErrantryPaladin: Bitch had been banging this guy behind my back for about a month, so this wasn’t a quote, ‘mistake.’

ErrantryPaladin: And as for my last girlfriend… Chat, have you ever seen those videos where a guy comes up to a couple, and ask if they will cheat on your partner for a thousand bucks?

His eyes scanned his chat feed as he saw several dozen variations of the word ‘yes’ scroll by. As well as people asking if that was what happened to him.

ErrantryPaladin: It was for a hundred.

Errant just sighed in defeat as he looked down at his desk.

ErrantryPaladin: We had been dating for three months, and she was willing to throw it all away for a measly hundred bucks… I told her to take the hundred, she could use it to pay for her uber. I dumped her at the pier with that steamer, and cut her from my life. That was about… two, and a half years ago, give, or take a month, or two. I haven’t been in the dating scene since.

ErrantryPaladin: So no, StalwartDoggo… I don’t have any bitches. No one sees me as a catch since they just throw me away in the end for the dumbest of reasons. I don’t have anyone! Hell I don’t have any friends either!

ErrantryPaladin: I’m all on my own… just like always…

Errant stared into the void for a while, his mind not paying attention to his stream before he took a deep breath, and turned to face his chat.

ErrantryPaladin: Now, where were we?

ErrantryPaladin: …

ErrantryPaladin: Ahh yes… Trains~!

~~~

The mother daughter duo stared at the screen as the video ended they did not expect the video to end in such a way. Especially, IHateMyDad2.0, she had always seen, Errant as an indomitable mountain, that always seemed to have everything under his control, and yet he seemed so broken on the inside that she had joined idea how to respond to that.

Her mother however…

SovereignofSnow: Hmm… You don’t suppose he’s into older woman now do you?

IHateMyDad2.0: …

IHateMyDad2.0: Eh?

Her face broke into an expression of wild confusion, and shock as she heard those words leave her mother’s mouth.

IHateMyDad2.0: Y-Y-You can’t be series, Mother?! You’re at least twice his age! Do you seriously think he would be interested in dating someone your age?!

SovereignofSnow: I don’t see why not; Aren’t all men into well endowed, and full bodied woman? He has had many loveless relationships, I have had a loveless marriage, we have so much to connect over about that alone. I think we would make a lovely pair. Don’t you think so dear?

IHateMyDad2.0: I-I…? W-What?!

SovereignofSnow: Oh! I’m also a bonafide, Milf. What young viral man doesn’t want to bed a milf?

The last few minutes had been the most unbelievable minutes of her life, she had expected many things to happen, but to hear her mother say those few words broker her in a way she never expected, and left her with but on response.

IHateMyDad2.0: WHAT THE FUCK MOM?!!

~~~

Meanwhile on, ErrantryPaladin’s stream he was informed that, IHateMyDad2.0’s mother had made certain comments about him. Now he didn’t have the time to watch the full video, so he was stuck with looking at, IHateMyDad2.0’s mothers, SovereignofSnow’s model where he came to a simple conclusion.

ErrantryPaladin: …

ErrantryPaladin: Smash.

#rwby #jaune arc #weiss schnee #willow schnee

249 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 2 days ago

Text

What Died Didn't Stay Dead

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara has been promised to a brutal prince who imagines himself a god. Setting sail across pirate infested waters, she and Nesta Archeron hatch a plan to escape her arranged marriage before they arrive.

A gift for @alohaangels, whose kind words softened some of my grief.

Read on AO3

TW for depictions of sexual assault- reminiscing on the event, but it is graphic so please take care of yourself.

It was a mistake.

Surely some sort of joke.

Gwyn’s eyes scanned the piece of paper before her, looking for some tell-tale clue that would mark the missive as some kind of cruel joke. Some nobleman’s idea of amusing himself with a ruined man’s daughter.

Lady Berdara,

I have made my intentions plain to your guardian, and with her blessing, I intend to make them plain to you as well. I have been unable to stop thinking of you since the ball, hosted now several months previously. Your beauty follows me, an ever present guest I would not be rid of, distracting as your visage is.

Allow me to speak freely—I would like to be wed with haste if possible. I have enclosed two tickets to Alsfeld for you and a lady of your choosing. Send word, make the passage, and I will meet you at the Port of Alsfeld.

Say yes. I will accept no other answer.

Yours, faithfully,

Prince Edward II

Gwyn looked up at Merrill with disbelief, immediately frustrated to find her guardian looking back with a look of supreme smugness.

“I told you,” she said, rising from her chair to walk toward the window. Gwyn had been living under care since her family had been slaughtered, casualties of the ongoing and bloody war being fought by Edward the Senior. She’d been minor nobility, then, though part of the landed gentry all the same.

“This is a joke,” Gwyn replied, pushing away the rising tide of memories. She wished she had perished, then, and often cursed the unknown, faceless man who had spared her a bloody death right at the last second.

“It’s not,” Merrill replied, smoothing out the folds of her heavy cobalt gown. “He was taken with you at the ball, and he’s taken with you now.”

“I have no dowry,” Gwyn reminded Merrill, who must have already thought of that. “I work for my keep.”

“Money was set aside for you. I have been safe guarding it,” Merrill told her. Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that—she’d been told for years that her father had squandered everything, that the only way to continue living under Merrill’s grace was to work.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You have an education, don’t you? Room? Board? Fine clothes and regular meals?”

“I…am grateful,” Gwyn forced herself to say, hardly grateful at all. She was angry—always so, so angry. The feeling was nothing new, just as swallowing it wasn’t, either. She knew all the right words, steps to a dance she’d long memorized. “I am so grateful for you.”

Gwyn wasn’t, though. Merrill had never been kind—a poor substitute for her already flighty mother. At least then she’d had Catrin.

Now she had no one and nothing but memories tainted in blood, smoke, and so much fear. And, apparently, a marriage she could not wiggle free from. Gwyn wracked her mind for anything that might save her—Edward was a prince twice her age who’d ordered her into several dances. His breath had smelled rank, his fingers tight and clammy, and he’d leaned in too close for her liking as he droned on and on about his many war victories.

Did he even know his family’s war was the reason she had to rely on the charity of others?

Gwyn doubted he cared.

“What about his last wife?”

“The Catholic?” Merrill scoffed. It was a rumor, of course—meant to discredit a woman so he could have a divorce without upsetting the general populace that loved her so. “Locked in a convent, last I heard. She gave only daughters and he needs sons.”

“I’m supposed to do that?” Gwyn gaped, blood turning to ice. She had to swallow against the torrent of memories rising through her, threatening to spill over the ornate cream rug in the form of her breakfast. She’d promised she wouldn’t—that a man would never again touch her like that, certainly not if she invited him to, and even that was questionable.

It seemed she had no choice.

“You’ll be his wife,” Merrill said dismissively, clearly tired of the conversation. It was the longest they’d had in waking memory, which meant at any moment Merrill was going to give Gwyn a verbal order to do as she was told, and a silent order to shut her mouth and be grateful.

Gwyn had no gratitude left in her. Certainly not for a man who intended to use her and then discard her if he tired of her.

“He has a wife—”

“He doesn’t,” Merrill snapped, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. Was she bitter it wasn’t her? Gwyn would trade her. “Nesta Archeron has agreed to accompany you to Alsfeld and I expect you to go upstairs, pack appropriately, and smile at your good fortune. Not many men would consider marrying you given your past.”

“My past.” Gwyn dropped all pretense, her words hollow, voice flat.

“Yes, Gwyneth, your past. You should be overjoyed that a man wants you at all, let alone one so esteemed as the prince.”

“You told him?” Gwyn felt betrayal clawing at her neck. “That wasn’t yours to share!”

“The dowry he demanded was impossible to meet,” Merrill sniffed, eyes icy and unforgiving. “He was entitled to less knowing you were ruined.”

Ruined.

Gwyn rose from the chair she’d been sitting in, skirts ruffling loudly in her ringing ears. How Gwyn hated when Merrill said that to her—as if she were little more than a lamp that had broken and not a whole person that had been stolen from.

She couldn’t speak—she knew she’d cry, her anger making a mockery of her. Inclining her head, Gwyn merely made her way through the parlor, past the servants she’d once been close with. They wouldn’t meet her gaze, though she swore their mouths twisted with pity. She was the last to know, as usual, and it showed.

Making her way to her small bedroom, Gwyn flung herself onto the padded window seat to peer out at the sea. How long before she was on one of the ships in the harbor with only the wretched Nesta Archeron for company? She’d only met the woman once and Nesta had been so wildly unpleasant that Gwyn had immediately dismissed her without another word.

Now they’d be trapped aboard a ship together. Gwyn sighed, turning toward her dresser. She had a large carpet bag and a trunk—she’d put personal things in the bag and the rest in the trunk, assuming someone was going to rifle through the items in the trunk. Better to not give anything away.

Truthfully, Gwyn had very little. Merrill had never deigned to give her anything of value, always with the admonishment that she ought to be grateful. Gwyn’s gratitude died with Catrin, leaving behind only her rage. How a prince had found her fascinating enough to marry was beyond Gwyn—the night they’d danced, she’d been wearing one of Merrill’s gowns, promptly returned while it was still warm.

What would he do when he realized she was practically a servant? Maybe it didn’t matter—perhaps he’d outfit her in finery and remind the populace that, technically, her father had died a decorated war hero. Nevermind he’d been cowering in his final moments, on his knees begging not for the lives of the daughters being dragged away by laughing soldiers, but his own.

Gwyn’s anger grew hotter. She threw her items in the trunk, not caring if they were wrinkled. She let it consume her, balling up gown after gown so she could throw them with force into the trunk until she felt a little calmer. Less fury. She reminded herself to breathe, the same exercises she’d once done with Catrin.

It had been Catrin who’d once been filled with anger and Gwyn who had peace. She’d find her sister, raging about some injustice, and remind her to breathe until they were both smiling again. Catrin’s rage had sent her running from the house to try and save the children next door—and she’d been the first of the two of them to die. Wherever she’d hidden them, however they’d escaped…Catrin refused to say.

Gwyn, trembling and scared, a mere three minutes younger though sometimes it felt like three years, had obeyed when Catrin ordered, don’t say a word!

“We can break you,” the soldier had laughed, reaching for his belt. Catrin had turned her head, arms held over her head by another soldier. She’d screamed and fought, writhing like a wild, desperate animal while Gwyn silently sobbed, watching—knowing she would be next.

Tell us, the soldier had ordered, turning to Gwyn.

Don’t, Catrin had ordered again, fiercer than before. They’d placed a blade to Catrin’s neck and demanded again. Gwyn had looked at her sister, but Catrin only widened her eyes.

“Be brave,” Catrin had whispered.

The last words ever spoken between them. They’d laughed as they cut her throat, and laughed louder as Gwyn screamed, dragged to the same bed her sister bled out on. Gwyn hadn’t been brave at all—she’d begged them to kill her, too.

And they would have, had that man not come kicking in with that lethal looking sword. Walking to her dresser, she found the cloak he’d draped over her folded up at the bottom. Throwing it away would have been the better thing to do, but in the aftermath of what had happened, she’d simply tossed it in the back of her wardrobe. Afterwards, she’d had it washed, unable to stand the smell of whatever cologne that man wore mingled with blood and sweat. She could have thrown it away then, too.

She picked it up, admiring the well-made fabric and the heavy, silver and cobalt clasp that would have kept it pinned around her neck. Gwyn hadn’t dared to wear it, but it felt…wrong…to be rid of it, now. It was a relic of the worst moment of her life. She hated that stranger, his face concealed by a mask, though what little she might have seen had been blurred by blood and tears. He’d carried her out after brutally, and mercilessly, slaughtering every man who’d come into her house.

He’d tried to take her somewhere, but she’d started screaming again and so he’d left her huddled in a heap beneath a tree with a silver dagger laid at her bare feet. He hadn’t said a word, merely vanished back into the ether. Perhaps he’d been a long forgotten god come to seek vengeance. Or perhaps he’d simply been a mercenary unable to witness his brethern pillaging and raping.

She’d never know.

Still, sometimes she caught herself thinking about him, wondering where he was and why he’d intervened in the first place. Gwyn had the dagger, though she didn’t know how to use it, and tucked that into her bag along with a necklace that had belonged to Catrin she didn’t dare wear. She hadn’t been brave.

She didn’t deserve to.

Gwyn skipped dinner that night, which caused Merrill to rant through the halls about how spoiled and ungrateful she was. Gwyn blocked it out with a book, curled back in the window seat as she waited for the inevitable. She couldn’t sleep, chasing the sunrise with drooping eyelids. Merrill wasn’t far behind, bursting in with more energy than Gwyn was certain she’d ever had in her life.

Gwyn had never liked the small city she’d been isolated in. It was just big enough to give the illusion of privacy but small enough that everyone knew everything. Busybodies to the very last, which meant that as Gwyn was paraded through the busy early morning, all eyes fell on her, even if just for a moment. They’d flit in her direction before fans extended and women began chattering behind them, their peals of laughter echoing over the sounds of horse drawn carriages and booming voices announcing the prices of fish and produce.

Gwyn wanted to be the kind of person who’d stare back, eyes shooting daggers as she did. She wasn’t, though, even as her anger and humiliation seemed to reach a writhing fever pitch in her chest. She imagined all the things she’d say, should she have the opportunity—the way she’d cut them into ribbons until they felt as small as she did—but she kept her eyes trained on the muddy cobblestone streets before her. Causing a scene would only result in more problems for Gwyn, who always seemed to be blamed, regardless if something was actually her fault. Merrill simply did not like her, and resented being vaguely related to her father and therefore, responsible for her care.

Gwyn might have liked the docks and the quieter bustle filled with mostly men who didn’t seem to care a single jot about her, were it not for the icy stare of Nesta Archeron. She was alone, standing on the curb with her arms crossed over her chest.

Great.

Gwyn did look at Nesta, hoping her expression conveyed a do-not-try-it-with-me,but who knew how Nesta took it. Nesta was a Duke's daughter and came from wealth so obscene, Gwyn didn’t dare think about it. What horrible lord was waiting for her in Alsfeld—and who was worse, Gwyn mused privately.

It was fun to watch Merrill dip into a respectful bow while Nesta stared down her nose, unimpressed and maybe even bored by the whole display. “Lady Archeron,” Merrill demurred, looking as if she’d prefer to be anywhere else. “You’re looking well.”

“You don’t,” Nesta replied in that brutal way of hers. Gwyn had to bite back a laugh, reminding herself that once Merrill left, Nesta would turn that mannerless behavior on her.

“Well,” Merrill said as the salty air tangled a strand of her hair. “Take care of yourself, Gwyneth. If you have need of me, please write.” Gwyn nodded, certain Merrill would never respond to any letter. This wasn’t goodbye—it was a washing of the hands. Merrill had done her duty and now she was free of it.

“Remember duty,” Merrill added, perhaps guessing the slant of Gwyn’s angry thoughts. Nesta arched a brow but said nothing, lip curling over perfectly straight teeth as she watched Merrill flounce off.

“Her hat was ugly,” Nesta declared the moment Merrill was out of earshot. The own hat, perched neatly atop Nesta coiffed golden brown hair, was very fashionable with its light pink feather and the way it tilted ever so delicately. It paired well with the deep plum of her gown that seemed out of place right before the docks. Gwyn certainly felt underdressed in green, her gown from two seasons earlier and just a tad too big. She felt inadequate in new and frustrating ways.

“So is yours,” Gwyn snapped, stepping around Nesta as two burly armed, barrel chested sailors took her trunk toward a wooden ramp that led to the ship she supposed they would sail on.

Nesta blinked. “I told Elain it was ridiculous,” she grumbled, though she didn’t remove it. Nesta merely marched in step with Gwyn, following the men now charged with their care. Gwyn had expected a sharp tongued insult, not agreement.

“Why did you let her talk you into it?”

Nesta shrugged delicate shoulders, spine impossibly straight as she walked. She looked like the one who ought to be marrying a prince—not Gwyn. Gwyn looked like her maid at best, which annoyed her further. There was something she was missing to this whole arrangement, something that would come back to harm her before she pieced it all together.

“She can be very bossy when she sets her mind to something,” Nesta said, as if Gwyn knew anything about the Archeron sisters. They were sheltered and spoiled, appearing in the city only when something grand was happening. They otherwise kept to their estate, though there were rumors about how wild the youngest of the three were.

She sounded like more interesting company than the scowling Nesta. One thing, Gwyn supposed, was how unafraid Nesta was to give orders.

“Take us to our cabin,” Nesta demanded the moment their feet were on the softly swaying deck. Two sailors exchanged a glance but otherwise said nothing at all—they merely gestured for the pair to follow them.

“We’re not to be disturbed,” Nesta began, her words seemingly well-practiced. “You may bring our meals to us directly, but otherwise no man is to enter our chamber.”

“Who would stop us?” one of the sailors asked, clearly bitter about being bossed around by a woman.

Gwyn’s own temper got the better of her. “I will.”

Whatever they saw on her face kept them from saying much more. Gwyn waited until they were taken into a large stateroom they were clearly meant to share. Nesta turned, and the sailor, guessing her irritation, threw up his palms in defense. “You can share, or you can sleep in the bunks with everyone else. Your choice, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed before slamming the door in his face. “Must you be so…” Gwyn trailed off, unsure what she even meant to say. Nesta understood, though.

“Because otherwise they think they can take liberties. That we’re helpless and soft and sweet—that we won’t say anything if they touch us. Now they know we’ll scream, and when we arrive at port, we’ll tell someone. They’ll think twice.”

“And with Merrill?” Gwyn demanded, arms crossed over her chest.

“Her presence offends me,” Nesta said with a shrug, as if it were a given. Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh, one hand on her stomach to keep herself from doubling over.

“Mine, too.”

“She thinks herself a great humanitarian, but she’s not. She made a lot of money taking you in, for all the good it did. Look at your dress,” Nesta said, reaching for Gwyn’s sleeve. Gwyn slapped her hand away, embarrassed and self-conscious.

“What are you talking about?”

Nesta stared for a moment, hand cradled to her chest. Those icy blue eyes seemed to be a little sad for only a moment before the emotion vanished, replaced with her usual steely gaze. “Lord Rhysand paid her a hefty stipend for your education. His father and your father were friends, I suppose.”

“No one…no one told me that,” Gwyn managed as anger and betrayal clawed up her throat. “I was working.”

So a Duke paid for Gwyn’s education, and her father had left an inheritance, all pocketed by Merrill. Gwyn turned for the door, ready to march off the ship and throttle Merrill but Nesta grabbed her wrist.

“There is no point. She’s not capable of shame.”

“So she gets away with it?” Gwyn demanded with outrage. “Does no one face consequences except me?”

“She doesn’t have to get away with it,” Nesta said slyly. “I overheard father talking, and he seems to think your marriage will elevate Merrill in a way few ladies ever achieve.”

“Of course it does,” Gwyn grumbled, sitting despondently on the floral patterned bed. “She probably orchestrated it herself.”

“I’m sure. That doesn’t mean you have to marry him,” Nesta continued, holding Gwyn’s stare.

“He’s a prince—”

“So?” Nesta demanded. “When we arrive, simply say no and stay with me and my aunt. With the new laws that require a ladies consent, you can simply decline.”

“He’s not just some spoiled lordling,” Gwyn whispered, though the idea was spreading through her like wildfire.

“He’s only a man,” Nesta replied, sitting beside her. “He’s not a god.”

But Gwyn knew what men could do when they didn’t get what they wanted—when they felt thwarted, especially by a lesser woman. It would become a matter of principle to punish her. To control her. He had a navy at his disposal, an army willing to kill on command, and more gold than anyone in the realm. If he wanted to find her, he would.

And when he did, he’d punish her for daring to defy him.

Still.

The idea had roots.

—-

Azriel heard the sound of boots echoing off swaying wood before he saw Cassian in the doorway. His friend flashed a grin, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ship sailed this afternoon.”

Azriel shifted in his chair, boots reclined on his desk while he toyed with his favorite dagger absently. Turning his gaze from Cassian, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Armed?”

“Barely,” Cassian replied, his amusement plain. “It’s a merchant ship.”

“Whose?” Azriel didn’t want to make too many enemies of the merchant class, some of whom paid money for safe passage and protection from other privateers.

“Archeron,” Cassian said. Azriel frowned, though it changed nothing. Rhys wasn’t one of them—not really. He could make his demands, could provide them with funding, could play pirate lord when it suited him, but he wasn’t out there day to day.

He didn’t know how hard Azriel had worked to organize this ambush. How he’d intercepted that letter. The spying he’d done, the dominoes set into motion. It was now or it was never. The walls of the palace were impenetrable, even to him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Azriel decided. It didn’t. He’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission—Rhys would do the same, were he in Azriel’s position. “Sink the ship.”

“Aye, Captain,” Cassian said, his grin returning.

Azriel’s gaze turned toward the window overlooking the sea. With a soft exhale, he smiled, too.

Soon.

#gwynriel #im grieving and making it everyones problem #pirate!gwynriel

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