#it's a hilarious amount of absurd | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovezbrownies · 1 month ago

Text

They make me laugh. (Yandere!Queen.)

General Masterlist - Nia’s Masterlist

Synopsis: You come in from a distant land as a gift to the queen of Xelera. You are a ester of high stature, an amazing jester with skills and talents no average person would dream of, yet these skills come back to bite you in the ass as they are the cause of the obsessive queen’s newfound interest in you.

PAIRING: Queen Nia Bloodwen x Gn!Reader

Warnings: Darling depicted as energetic and naturely happy, no use of y/n, slow burn, 11k words, darling kind of an ass but doesn’t show it, I’m so sleep deprived I forgot what I wrote I can’t lie to u idk if there’s anything else I need to warn you abt. Request can be found here.

“A court jester? Really? How pretentious do you think I am?”

Queen Nia’s voice rang through the opulent chamber, sharp with disbelief, her amber eyes narrowing as she cast a scrutinizing look in your direction. The sheer absurdity of the proposal seemed to offend her, as though the very idea of a jester in her court were an insult to her dignity.

You, on the other hand, stood with a wide, beaming smile—so tight against your skin it almost hurt, but you didn’t mind. If anything, you were ecstatic. Here you were, standing before the Queen of Xelera, presented as a so-called ‘gift’ by your own king, Finley of Luminia. Of course, you had no say in the matter. It was meant to be an honor, a diplomatic gesture, but to Nia, it was evidently nothing more than an inconvenience.

It was almost amusing, really. The contrast between your homeland and Xelera was as stark as the sun and the moon. In Luminia, jesters were cherished, a staple of the court—an embodiment of wit, laughter, and lighthearted mockery. But here? Here in this stiff, silver-clad kingdom halfway across the world, you might as well have been an alien creature. The nobles around you looked at you with thinly veiled disdain, their sharp gazes cutting into you like the edges of their finely tailored coats. Even now, murmurs rippled through the grand hall like an incoming tide, whispers of derision and disbelief slipping past pursed lips.

But you didn’t care. In fact, it was downright hilarious. Their disapproving stares, the uptight posture of Xelera’s nobility, the way they sneered as though you and King Finley had sullied their pristine halls—it was all too much. More than once, you had found yourself smothering laughter during important meetings, only to be met with Queen Nia’s razor-sharp glare. Those piercing, crimson-hued eyes could flay a lesser person alive.

King Finley, however, had never once scolded you. He never tried to suppress your flamboyance, never told you to rein yourself in or act ‘properly.’ If anything, he reveled in your antics, often turning to you whenever his primary jester was away. He liked having you around, found your company enjoyable rather than grating. And you? You liked your king.

Which made this whole situation all the more frustrating.

You had no desire to be shipped off to the other side of the world like some bargaining chip, especially not to a queen who clearly had no appreciation for your craft. The thought of spending your days under the rule of a woman who saw no value in entertainment, who looked at you as though you were an insect crawling across her marble floors, was nothing short of unbearable.

A gift? No. You were no gift. And you certainly weren’t planning on making things easy for Queen Nia Bloodwen. That was neither here nor there. Your joy was contagious—you knew that much for certain—and you were more than ready to put on a show once again. This was your craft, your art, the very thing that made you who you were. And no amount of disdain from the Xeleran court could change that.

King Finley, ever the showman himself, sat beside Queen Nia at the long, opulent dining table, draped in silk and glistening with the shimmer of golden candlelight. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine curled through the air, an indulgent contrast to the tension thickening between the two monarchs. He leaned forward with his usual charismatic ease, a charming smile curling at his lips as he moved to defend your honor.

“Oh, my dear Queen! No, I would never assume such a thing,” he said smoothly, lifting his goblet with a flourish. “You are a woman of great taste, and I would not dare insult you with mere frivolity! However, what I mean to say is that we royals—hardworking as we are—deserve some measure of entertainment now and then.” He paused, letting the words settle between them like a well-placed melody. “I have my own jester, and I must say, they have been quite the delight. So, I thought—why not extend such joy to you? A gift, not out of condescension, but care. Someone to liven your halls, to ease your burdens, to bring laughter into your days of labor. They are one of my finest, and I offer them so that you might find some solace amidst your many responsibilities.”

Queen Nia did not react immediately. She remained perfectly still, her posture unwavering, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows across her high cheekbones. There was a stillness to her, something unreadable beneath the measured elegance of her crimson gaze. Slowly, she turned her attention to you, her piercing eyes raking over your form with quiet scrutiny, lingering for a breath too long. If she had found you lacking, she did not say. If she had already made up her mind, she gave no indication. Instead, she exhaled, slow and deliberate, before resting her cheek against the knuckles of her gloved hand.

“Entertain me?” she echoed at last, her voice smooth as velvet, yet edged with something sharper, something unspoken. Her gaze flickered over the table, over the gathered nobles who had been watching this exchange with barely concealed amusement. “Entertain others?” The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, as though she found the very idea amusing, as though she wished to see you falter before the weight of expectation.

Then, finally—

“Fine.” The word fell from her lips like a challenge, low and deliberate, the weight of the room shifting with its utterance. “Show me what you have in terms of entertainment, jester.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and electric, the tension of the court’s scrutiny pressing down upon your shoulders. But you did not wither beneath it. No, quite the opposite. Your grin, already wide, stretched further, a rush of exhilaration bubbling beneath your skin. You had performed before kings and queens alike, had stolen laughter from the lips of the sternest men, had turned entire courts into captive audiences with nothing but your wit and a well-timed flourish. And now, here in the cold and stifling halls of Xelera, in the presence of its indifferent queen, you would do so again.

Without hesitation, you moved.

A fluid motion, effortless, as though the very air bent to your will. The heavy silence that had settled over the court was about to shatter—because whether Queen Nia wanted it or not, you were about to put on a show.

You leaped and twirled, each movement a calculated risk, your body twisting through the air with effortless precision as you danced along the edge of danger. Jokes spilled from your lips between flourishes, sharp and self-deprecating, weaving humor into the spectacle as you hurled yourself into stunts that made even the most composed nobles shift in their seats. You balanced on precarious edges, vaulted over obstacles with reckless grace, each feat more daring than the last, knowing full well that tonight demanded something greater—something new. And so, you pushed yourself further.

The air in the grand dining hall pulsed with anticipation as you took your place at the center of the polished marble floor, the flickering candlelight glinting off the golden filigree of the chandeliers above. With a dramatic flourish, you sprang into motion, your body a blur of effortless grace. You launched into a backflip, the embroidered hems of your jester’s attire flaring like the petals of an opening flower before your feet met the ground in perfect silence. Without hesitation, you kicked off again, twisting into a flawless aerial, the world spinning around you as gasps rippled through the assembled nobles.

"Try not to blink, my lords and ladies," you called as you landed smoothly, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from your sleeve. "I’d hate for you to miss the one entertaining thing about this evening." A few stifled chuckles rippled through the crowd, though some nobles shot wary glances toward Queen Nia, who merely raised an eyebrow, lips curving just slightly at the edges.

You didn’t give anyone time to dwell on it. Pivoting on one foot, you hurled yourself into a handspring, balancing on a single palm before arching your back into a controlled walkover, your spine bending like a willow in the wind. "Now, I’d wager none of you could do that," you mused as you straightened, dusting your hands off. "But then again, I suppose it takes a certain lack of self-preservation to hurl yourself at the floor and trust it to be kind."

Laughter and scattered applause erupted as you transitioned seamlessly into a series of rapid cartwheels, each landing precise, each movement flowing into the next as though you were weightless. Then, in one final flourish, you sprinted toward the banquet table, using the edge of a chair as a springboard to launch yourself into a breathtaking mid-air twist, your body coiling like a ribbon before you landed atop the grand dining table in a crouch—one knee bent, arms outstretched, the flickering candlelight casting dramatic shadows across your face.

Silence. A breath. Then a ripple of hushed conversation.

You straightened slowly, surveying the sea of nobles with a lazy grin before your gaze landed—deliberately—on Queen Nia herself. Dark, unreadable eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between you. "Your Majesty," you murmured, dipping into an exaggerated bow, your grin sharpening. "I do hope I’m not overstepping, but if you wanted me on my knees before you, all you had to do was ask."

A flicker of something—amusement? Surprise?—crossed her face before it smoothed into something unreadable. She tilted her head, studying you as if trying to decide whether you were bold or simply foolish. Intrigued, but not yet charmed. "I see my court has invited in quite the performer," she mused, voice measured, though her gaze lingered just a second too long. King Finley shot you a look of utter joy and pride, happy that you went beyond the expected.

With a final flourish, you spun, twirled, and leaped, each movement as theatrical as the last, your bow exaggerated to perfection. The performance might have ended, but you were far from finished. As you landed gracefully on the opposite side of the room, you positioned yourself beside a stoic palace guard, seamlessly slipping into a game of mimicry. Every tilt of his head, every subtle shift in stance—you copied it all with uncanny precision, an artful display of absurdity meant to amuse those still lingering at the table. It was a quieter kind of entertainment now, something light to accompany the soft clinking of silverware and murmured conversations as the nobility indulged in their evening meal.

But still, there was the Queen. Watching. Measuring. Considering.

Since she had yet to decide whether you were to be part of her court, you made your exit with all the ridiculous grandeur you could muster, each step a deliberate display of absurdity, knowing full well that her eyes followed your every movement. And if she wanted to judge you, then you would give her something to judge.

Once outside, you quickened your pace, weaving through the grand halls until you finally caught up to King Finley and his retinue, falling into step beside him with your usual whimsical gait. With a dramatic sigh, you spread your arms wide, grinning as you turned to him.

“So?” you asked, tilting your head, voice laced with playful exasperation. “What did she say? Does this Queen Nia want a court jester, or shall I keep my clothes in my bags, Your Imperial Highness?” The question carried more weight than mere curiosity—because really, of all people, why was he so determined to offer his second-best jester to some distant queen he hardly spoke to?

It was safe to say you didn’t want to leave Luminia. This was your home, the place where your roots ran deep. The streets, familiar and filled with memories of your family and friends, felt like an extension of yourself. And, of course, there was Nyla. Your beautiful, radiant Nyla.

Seven years—seven long, joyous years you had spent together, sharing moments of quiet affection amidst the chaos of the court. Your love had bloomed in the backdrop of jesters, royal functions, and the ever-present laughter that echoed through the halls of King Finley Sutri IX’s palace. Nyla wasn’t just your girlfriend—she was your other half, the person who understood your heart, your humor, and the very essence of who you were. The life you’d built together felt perfect, and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

You still remembered the first day you’d joined the court. You had been little more than a nameless performer—one of many jesters vying for the king’s attention, just another face in the crowd. The jesters, a lively bunch who lived and breathed performance, were housed in their own section of the palace, a space that resembled an apartment complex but with the underlying sense that you were always a little out of place, a little apart from the rest of the world.

But Nyla... Nyla was different. She had already established herself as the king’s favored jester, cementing her position long before you had arrived. She had her own area of the palace—larger, more lavish, a place where she could live, train, and inspire the new recruits. It was here that she taught the fresh faces how to entertain and delight, honing their skills to meet the palace’s high standards.

Yet when it came to you, Nyla saw something more.

You weren’t like the others. You had this innate ability to bring joy and laughter to everyone around you. It wasn’t just a skill—it was who you were. Your happiness was infectious, even when you weren’t trying to be funny, even when you thought no one was watching. It was clear to Nyla from the moment she saw you outside the palace walls, during a rare break in the routine, that you weren’t just a jester in the palace; you lived for the joy of making people smile, even in the world outside. You were a jester at heart, whether you wore the costume or not, and that natural joy was what drew her to you.

If it hadn’t been for Nyla, you probably would have remained just another performer in the background of court life, another face lost in the sea of jesters. But it was her—a jester who saw your potential—that had changed everything.

You were second only to Nyla in the king’s favor, and it was all thanks to her. She had been the one to take the risk, to put her faith in you, and to encourage the king to see what she had already known: that you had something special to offer. And for that, you would always be grateful.

Maybe, just maybe, if you had toned it down a little, taken a step back and settled for being third favorite instead of second, you wouldn’t be standing here now, stuck in a foreign kingdom, paraded before a queen as if you were some kind of precious trinket. The thought gnawed at you, but you shoved it aside, unwilling to let frustration cloud your mood. With a deep sigh, you forced yourself to snap back to the present, looking up at King Finley, the ever-present warmth of your smile returning despite your inner turmoil. You waited, eagerly, for his response to your question.

“Well, my dear jester,” King Finley began, his voice warm and reassuring as always, “she hasn’t yet made a decision, no. So for now, we can keep your things in your luggage, yes.” He paused, offering a knowing glance before continuing with a hint of amusement. “But I do have high hopes. Queen Nia seemed thoroughly entertained and, dare I say, surprised. Good job teasing her, by the way.” He chuckled softly, a glint of approval in his eyes. “She is… proud. Likes it when someone she barely knows goes out of their way to compliment her.” His tone shifted to one of gentle praise, a nod to your talents. “It’s always good to catch the eye of someone like her. We’ll see where this leads, my jester.”

Despite the lingering unease inside, his words offered a glimmer of reassurance—or at least, they should have. But the truth was, none of what he said actually comforted you. If anything, it only made you more anxious. You could only hope that Queen Nia was too proud, too self-important to ever accept a jester into her court. Yes, that was it—she would turn you down, refuse such a ridiculous gift, and you’d be back in Luminia before you knew it. Right? Of course…

Yet, as the days slipped by, your hopes began to wane. A full week had passed, each day spent performing for Queen Nia, each moment dedicated to entertaining her with your best material. And still—still—she hadn’t made a decision. Every morning, you found yourself standing before her again, flashing your best smile, summoning every ounce of your charm and skill, secretly praying that today would be the day she dismissed you.

But she never did. Instead, she sat there, crimson eyes watching your every movement, lips curved into something unreadable as you danced and spun, cracked jokes and mimicked those around you, did everything in your power to prove yourself unnecessary.

One more day. Just one more day. Tomorrow, King Finley would leave, returning to Luminia, and if the gods had any sense of mercy, you’d be going with him.

Even the king himself had begun to lose his patience, his usual lighthearted demeanor soured by Nia’s apparent indecision. At first, he had been amused, endlessly entertained by her sharp remarks and feigned indifference, but now? Now, he looked downright peeved, his frustration barely hidden behind his diplomatic smile. And who could blame him? Every evening, after she had watched you perform with rapt attention, eyes never once straying from your figure, she would turn around and complain.

"Too mediocre," she would scoff, her tone almost lazy, as if she were barely interested enough to insult you. "Too predictable. Your spins are weak. Your routines are uninspired. Surely, Finley, you wouldn’t gift me something so… unimpressive?"

Unimpressive. You almost laughed at that. You had yet to repeat a single routine in front of her. Every act, every trick, every well-timed joke had been crafted specifically to suit the audience, tailored for her amusement. And yet, she criticized you relentlessly, her words as sharp as the glint of her golden rings when she waved her hand dismissively. You knew, deep down, that none of her critiques were genuine. They were unfounded, completely and utterly false.

You didn’t care. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You almost hoped she hated you��hoped she would find you insufferable enough to finally dismiss you, send you back to where you truly belonged. It was an odd thing to wish for, but the longer you spent in Xelera, the more you realized that no matter how extravagant or cheerful you were, this country would smother you.

This was a place that demanded structure, precision, and unwavering seriousness, a land of cold efficiency and lifeless perfection. You thrived on laughter, on spontaneity, on chaos wrapped in ribbons of joy, but here? Here, you felt yourself suffocating beneath the weight of their expectations.

Xelera was known to be the most technologically advanced nation in the world, revered for its sharp-minded rulers and their near-flawless governance. But with that brilliance came an unsettling truth—one that gnawed at the edges of your mind the longer you remained here. The royals rarely smiled, their faces carved into expressions of practiced neutrality. Even among themselves, they seemed almost mechanical in their interactions, their words measured, their emotions buried so deep they might as well not exist at all.

The palace staff were even worse. It wasn’t just that they refrained from showing emotion in public; it was as if they had been forbidden from feeling altogether. Even in private, even when the walls themselves should have provided some sanctuary, they remained as rigid as ever. You had seen it firsthand—your every performance, every joke, every exaggerated fall meant to pull even the most reluctant chuckle was met with the same cold, glassy-eyed indifference.

You had even singled out Queen Nia’s personal assistant once, determined to break through that icy exterior. Just one laugh, one twitch of the lips—that’s all you wanted. But of course, you had failed miserably, the assistant's expression remaining as impassive as ever. You had played it off with a grand, theatrical bow, pretending it was all part of the act, but the failure had left a bitter taste in your mouth.

This land was strange. Unnerving. The palace itself, though undeniably beautiful, unsettled you in ways you couldn’t fully explain. The halls stretched endlessly, lined with massive, painstakingly detailed paintings of past rulers and historic battles. Yet, unlike the warm, vibrant portraits that adorned the halls of Luminia’s palace—where kings and queens smiled proudly, where landscapes were painted in hues of gold and emerald, full of life and movement—these paintings felt sterile. Every face was expressionless, every brushstroke too perfect, too meticulous. The city beyond the palace walls was no different, gleaming and modern, with breathtaking architecture and flawless streets that should have been inviting but instead felt cold, lifeless.

It was all too perfect. A kind of perfection that didn’t feel real.

And that terrified you.

Because if you stayed here—if you were forced to make this place your home—you feared you would lose yourself entirely. You would become like them. A hollow shell in brightly polished clothes, another statue among the endless rows of solemn faces. And that thought alone was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You snapped out of your thoughts just as your routine came to a close, arms outstretched in a dramatic flourish, the vibrant energy of your performance still lingering in the air. The echoes of your movements, the effortless spins, the well-timed acrobatics, and the sharp wit woven into your every gesture left a certain charge in the room—one that even Queen Nia, with all her stoic pride, could not fully ignore. You cast a final glance over the assembled nobles, each one still processing the spectacle you had put on, before delivering your last joke with a devilish smirk.

“I asked one of the palace attendants how their day was. Do you know what they said? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, if I had listened closely, I might’ve heard their very soul sigh in resignation!”

A beat of silence—then laughter, some genuine, some reluctant, rippling through the court like an unexpected gust of wind. Even those too proud to acknowledge your talent couldn’t help but let a breath of amusement escape them, their carefully measured expressions betraying their enjoyment for just a fraction of a second. You reveled in it, the way humor could disarm even the most rigid of aristocrats, the way your words danced through the air like an uninvited guest they could neither dismiss nor fully welcome. It was a delicate balance—teasing enough to entertain, but never enough to offend. At least, not too much.

With a flourish, you shuffled backward, settling beside a guard with exaggerated stiffness, throwing a salute as if you were a soldier awaiting orders. “At your service, my dear court!” The jest, combined with your overly formal stance, earned another smattering of chuckles, though some had already turned back to their hushed conversations, retreating into their political labyrinth of alliances and whispers.

That was the end of your performance, but you were not dismissed. You never were. Instead, you remained, drifting between gestures and silent antics, a shadow of merriment amidst the looming seriousness of the court. It had always been this way—your presence tolerated, encouraged even, so long as it did not interfere. You were a fixture in the grand machinery of politics, a decorative piece to lighten the mood when needed and ignored when not.

Not that you cared. You weren’t supposed to care. You were paid to remain blissfully ignorant, to exist as nothing more than a whirlwind of laughter and mischief, a distraction from the weight of diplomacy and governance. It didn’t matter if war was on the horizon, if treaties were crumbling, if betrayals were being whispered between sips of wine. Even if the entire world were on the brink of collapse, your role remained the same—to dance, to joke, to ensure that no matter how dire things became, there would always be one voice in the room that never carried the weight of worry.

And yet, despite their expectations—despite their dismissals—you heard everything.

It was impossible not to.

You were always in the room, always on the edge of things, always listening. Nobles, so quick to disregard you as an entertaining fool, never bothered to lower their voices in your presence, never spared a second thought about the knowledge you could amass simply by existing within these walls. To them, jesters were simple-minded creatures, incapable of grasping the intricacies of ruling a nation, of war and power, of politics and deception.

Oh, how wrong they were.

You had learned long ago to let their assumptions work in your favor, to mask your understanding beneath a veil of theatrics, to bury your knowledge beneath layers of laughter. You knew the game well—better, perhaps, than some of the very nobles who played it. And so, as the court resumed its discussions, as voices dropped into hushed deliberations, you remained where you were, a silent observer wrapped in the guise of a fool, every smile, every twirl, every exaggerated gesture ensuring that no one would ever suspect just how much you truly knew.

And so the performance continued.

Yet as you gleefully sang and danced by yourself, laughter bubbling in your chest as you twirled and shuffled across the polished marble floors, your ears couldn’t help but catch the shift in conversation between your king and Queen Nia. Their voices, though tempered with royal decorum, carried just enough weight to draw your attention.

“Well, Your Highness,” King Finley spoke, his tone warm and filled with the smooth charm of an experienced ruler, “I must say our stay here in your glorious Xelera has been nothing short of magnificent. Truly, there is no nation quite like yours, Queen Nia.”

No nation as lifeless as this one, you thought with an amused snicker, continuing to prance about with exaggerated motions, your body a constant blur of movement as you mimed an unseen partner, the embodiment of whimsy itself.

But then—her voice, sharp and poised, cut through the air like a blade. “Yes, yes, of course. Speaking of your visit… is your jester leaving along with you?” She barely gave King Finley time to react before continuing in that same measured tone. “I must admit, though I despised the very notion of court jesters, I found them… quite entertaining.”

Your feet nearly missed a step. The words, so casually spoken, sent a creeping chill through your spine.

You dared to glance toward the table, watching as your king, ever gracious, beamed at the unexpected praise, but something was off. His smile, though bright, lacked its usual warmth—his eyes, the ones that always carried an air of mirth and playfulness, seemed dimmer somehow. And there it was: a tiny, almost imperceptible furrow of his brows, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Sadness.

It was subtle, but you knew him too well not to notice. The great King Finley, the man who had taken you in without hesitation, the man who laughed at your ridiculous antics and defended you even when others sneered, was heartbroken.

And you understood why.

You were a jester, a clown, a performer meant only to amuse. To most, you were nothing more than a fleeting moment of joy, a silly little thing to be passed around at royal leisure. But to him, you had been more. His court had been your home. His people, your audience. And though he had never said it outright, you had come to know the truth—he had seen you as more than a simple fool. You were family, even amongst his army of biological and adopted children, he will still see you as if you were one of his own.

He hadn’t expected it to sting, hadn’t thought it would matter so much until the moment was upon him, and now he was doing what all rulers were trained to do—concealing it behind a well-practiced smile.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair. You didn’t belong here, didn’t belong in this rigid, joyless kingdom where laughter was a foreign concept and faces remained carved from stone. You belonged back home, where people actually smiled, where your antics were met with warmth and not stiff indifference.

And yet, as Queen Nia studied you with those calculating red eyes, the weight of her words settled upon you like chains locking into place. You weren’t going home.

Just as you were about to step forward, ready to crack a joke or two—perhaps even do something absurdly over-the-top just to shake your king out of whatever had dimmed his usual exuberance—Nia spoke. And what she said made your stomach twist so violently you nearly gagged.

“I think I’d like to take them in,” she mused, her voice smooth yet utterly devoid of warmth, as if she were discussing an acquisition rather than a living, breathing person. “Yes, I will accept your gracious gift and send you something in return upon your departure. You are most thoughtful, King Finley.” She tilted her head slightly, those sharp crimson eyes settling on you with the slow satisfaction of a cat toying with its prey. “I must say, they have brightened my days more than I’d like to admit.”

Then, she chuckled.

A sound so light it should have been pleasant, yet it carried an unnatural hollowness, a cruel undertone that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. There was no real joy in it, no true amusement—only something cold and condescending, like the sound a noblewoman might make while watching a street performer flounder in the mud. It was laughter for laughter’s sake, yet you could tell she wasn’t truly entertained, wasn’t truly moved by anything you had done. It was an acknowledgement, yes, but not the kind you wanted. It felt like a hunter deciding to keep a particularly amusing animal as a pet rather than finishing the kill.

And for the first time in your career—hell, perhaps your entire life—you tripped.

Not the deliberate kind of trip meant to make others laugh, not the exaggerated stumbles you so often performed with a flourish to elicit chuckles from your audience. No, this was real. Your foot caught on nothing, and before you could even process it, you landed flat on your ass with an unceremonious thud. The impact jolted through your spine, momentarily rattling your senses, and for a fraction of a second, you felt truly, utterly ridiculous.

A beat of silence.

Then, the inevitable reaction. Hushed murmurs rippled through the court, the faint rustling of fabric as nobles turned to witness your humiliation, their expressions ranging from mild amusement to disinterest. The guards remained statuesque, unreadable, their gazes fixed ahead as if they hadn’t just seen the Queen’s newest possession fall flat before her. And at the center of it all was Queen Nia herself, her expression one of sheer, unrepentant delight. The smile that curled her lips was neither cruel nor particularly kind—it was something far worse. It was satisfaction, quiet and knowing, as if she had expected this outcome from the very beginning.

“I see this was… unexpected for you, jester,” she remarked, her voice laced with mock sympathy, as if she hadn’t just upended your entire life with a single, offhanded decision. “But worry not. I shall treat you as your King has. Perhaps, if you keep your good behavior, I’ll allow you to visit Luminia once more.” And she smiles down at you, you almost wanted to cry and cause a tantrum, but you had only laughed, cracked another damn joke, and went back to whatever it was you were doing earlier, but now you had a lot more on your mind.

And that was what solidified your position as the new and only court jester of the Xelera Courts. There had been no grand announcement, no elaborate ceremony marking your change in station—just a simple exchange of words, an idle agreement between two monarchs, and suddenly, you were no longer a jester of Luminia but of Xelera. Your purpose had not changed, nor had your craft diminished in skill, and yet everything felt… different. Alien. The moment King Finley left, you would no longer be a performer among familiar faces, no longer the bright spark in the courts of a king who had always treated you with kindness. No, here, you were simply another piece of the queen’s collection, another fixture of her pristine and soulless court, meant to entertain and obey.

And despite how well you performed, despite how your presence alone seemed to please Queen Nia in some way you could not yet comprehend, something within you felt—wrong. As if you had been hollowed out and left behind as nothing more than an echo of who you once were. You laughed, you danced, you spun tales and played the fool, yet there was an emptiness to it all, a gnawing absence that no amount of applause or polite chuckles could ever fill. Your heart, once so full of warmth and joy, now felt like an aching void without the presence of those you loved.

Saying goodbye to King Finley had been the hardest. You had performed your duties well, cracking jokes, twirling in exaggerated flourishes, pretending as though nothing had changed, even as every fiber of your being screamed to run after him, to beg him to take you home. Instead, you bid him farewell with a grin stretched too wide, your fingers curling into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped imprints in your skin, the only thing keeping you from breaking down in the middle of the court.

But the King—he had held nothing back.

You had never seen him cry before, not once in all your years at his side. Yet there he was, standing before you, a man in his fifties, weeping openly as he prepared to leave you behind. It was almost cruel, as if he had only just realized the weight of his decision, as if his grief could somehow undo the fact that he had been the one to hand you over in the first place. And still, you could not find it in yourself to hate him. This was a political move, a means of strengthening relations between Luminia and Xelera, an arrangement that would ensure Luminia’s access to Xelera’s superior technology. You understood that. And yet, understanding did nothing to soothe the ache in your chest as you watched him depart.

Letters became your only solace, the thin thread that kept you tethered to the world you once knew. Messages flowed back and forth between you and those in Luminia, some filled with lighthearted tales, others heavy with grief that could not be spoken aloud in the queen’s court. But more than anyone, it was Nyla you wrote to the most.

Every letter to her was a plea, disguised beneath poetic musings and bittersweet recollections—memories of stolen kisses in hidden corridors, whispered promises beneath the glow of lantern light, the quiet comfort of simply being near her. You wrote to her as if the words alone could bridge the unbearable distance, as if they could somehow bring her closer despite the walls that now separated you.

And Nia read every single one. In secret of course. You had no clue, lest you explode and run away, or at least Nia thinks you might do that, but she didn’t know you enough to say what exactly you would do. Nonetheless, none of your letters were permitted to exit the palace unless they were first read by the queen.

She paid little mind to the correspondence between you and others, but the letters addressed to Nyla? Those, she scrutinized. Every word, every line, every carefully veiled emotion—she absorbed them all, her expression unreadable as she pored over the evidence of your love for another. Yet she never mentioned them aloud, never confronted you, never questioned the depth of your affections.

At first, Nia had convinced herself that her fascination with you was purely practical. You were new to her court, an unfamiliar presence in a kingdom where information was everything. It was only natural for her to ensure that nothing dangerous was slipping through the cracks, that none of your correspondence contained anything that could be used against her, against Xelera. That was the only reason she read your letters.

Definitely not because she found herself drawn to you, intrigued by the way you poured yourself into ink and parchment, desperate to know more than what your performances allowed her to see.

Because she wasn’t desperate.

Not in the way it felt when she read the way you wrote to Nyla, when she traced the longing in your words with her eyes, as if by reading them enough times, she could uncover some secret that would lessen the gnawing irritation that came with knowing that your heart so clearly belonged elsewhere.

She told herself it was simply curiosity. That it was only natural to want to know more about you—after all, she had spent years surrounded by people who spoke only when necessary, who withheld emotion with the same precision they wielded their swords. And then you arrived, as bright and lively as a flame in a sea of cold, unfeeling shadows. It was unnatural for someone to be so open, to be so liked. And yet, your letters revealed the truth of it.

You had no shortage of friends. Those you wrote to spoke of missing you, of shared jokes and memories, of moments that made them wish you were still in Luminia. Your family adored you just as much—siblings, cousins, distant relatives who all seemed to share in the warmth you so effortlessly spread. And it baffled her. You were the complete opposite of what she had assumed—a person who performed joy in public but was dull and embittered in private. But no, you were genuinely happy. You enjoyed life in ways that felt almost foreign to her, and the more she read, the more she realized how wrong she had been about you.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Back then, before she accepted you within her court, she didn’t know what to make of you, whether you would be useful or not, and yet, as the days passed, and the deadline for her decision loomed ever closer, she found herself hesitating. She should have made up her mind by now. Should have either confirmed your place in her court or dismissed you outright. But something about you still felt unresolved, as if she had yet to truly see you.

Then, on the second-to-last night, she finally did.

Standing at her bedroom window, draped in the cool hush of midnight, she saw the lone figure outside in the palace gardens. A familiar silhouette, wrapped in sleep attire, moving softly amidst the carefully manicured hedges and moonlit paths.

You.

For the first time, stripped of performance, stripped of duty. And Nia, watching unseen from above, felt something shift within her. Something that had been quiet before, something that now stirred with unspoken interest.

At first, Nia’s intention was simple—just a quiet command from her window. She had heard your soft steps in the garden below, seen the fleeting silhouette of someone in night attire, and figured that you, like the rest of the palace staff, needed to be reminded of the need for rest. Nia was expected to maintain some level of authority, to uphold order, to be the steady hand of command that guided the palace in even the smallest moments. She would have called out to you, chiding you in her usual manner, bidding you return to your chambers for the night, reminding you of your duties as a guest in her court.

But as she approached the window, ready to utter those very words, something halted her. A sound. A voice, so unexpectedly beautiful that it seemed to pause time itself.

You were singing, softly at first, but with such clarity that it was impossible not to be drawn in. The melody floated across the garden, floating on the breeze, caressing the moonlit night. She froze, her fingers brushing against the windowsill as the soft rustling of the garden’s leaves was overtaken by the purity of your voice. The song was a strange lullaby to her ears, words in a language she could barely remember. Lumin, of course. It was a language she had never really mastered, dismissing it as something she didn’t need to know. But now, standing there, watching you as your feet dipped into the cool water of the garden’s lake, she wished she could understand every syllable, every note.

Nia had spent years learning the languages of her allies, the foreign tongues that served her political agenda. She had been taught the intricacies of Xelera’s closest neighbors, the customs and courtly norms of each land. She could speak every language but her own heart, but now, as she watched you sing, she realized how much she had neglected to learn the language of Lumin—the language of the people who had raised you, of the world you had come from. And it unsettled her. What was the song about? What stories did you weave with your voice in the dead of night, alone in the garden under the cool gaze of the stars?

The truth was, she was mesmerized. Nia hadn’t expected you, the lighthearted and seemingly carefree jester, to have such depth, to carry such hidden corners in your soul. To her, you had been little more than a jest, a puppet in her court to entertain her and the nobles, a thing to laugh at when the weight of the palace’s endless duties became too much to bear. But as she listened to your voice, her perception began to shift. You weren’t just a jester. You were a person, with dreams, with pain, with a history far beyond the simple jokes you told and the performances you gave. Your spirit was more complex than she ever gave you credit for.

And something else flickered within her—curiosity. Why were you so happy all the time? You had no reason to be, not really. The court saw you as a tool for their amusement, and yet, you danced through it all with a smile, cracking jokes even when you must’ve been suffering inside. Nia wondered what had broken you, what had molded you into someone so genuinely joyful despite the weight of the world you carried. She thought, for a brief moment, that perhaps you had been taken advantage of—used—and yet you still remained steadfastly cheerful, a testament to a resilience she couldn’t fathom.

Nia felt her chest tighten. Was it pity? Was it fascination? Perhaps both. But there was one thing that was clear: she wanted to know you. The real you. Not the jester the court saw, not the entertainer who wore their joy like a mask, but the person beneath it all. The one who could pour so much of their heart into something as simple as a song.

And from that night forward, her gaze followed you differently. Every smile you gave, every joke, every little flicker of light that danced behind your eyes, it all began to be scrutinized with a deeper, more intentional interest. You were no longer just the jester in her court. You had become an enigma, something she could not quite understand, yet something she desperately wanted to.

What was it about you, she wondered, that made you so happy all the time? What had shaped you into this person who found solace in the quiet of the night, who could sing in solitude with no fear of judgment? Why did you seem so content despite being a mere pawn in the grand schemes of the court?

And then it struck her—you were too expressive for your own good. In her own heart, Nia knew what it was to hide behind a mask. She had built her entire life on control, on carefully crafted facades. But you? You wore your emotions like a second skin, unafraid to reveal yourself. It was both beautiful and tragic, and Nia couldn’t help but feel a protective urge stir within her, something she hadn’t felt for anyone in a long time.

From that night, she had a new understanding of you, of your brightness, of your warmth. And despite the distance she had always kept from her court, despite her cold, calculated demeanor as queen, Nia found herself drawn to you in a way she couldn’t quite explain. You had touched something within her, something buried deep under layers of control and distance. And Nia, in her quiet, calculating way, made a decision: she would protect you.

Nyla hadn’t written in months, not a single word. Not even a small token of affection. It was a silence that gnawed at you in ways you couldn’t put into words, a hollow, gnawing ache in the pit of your stomach that seemed to grow with each passing day. The court murmured that she was doing fine, that nothing had changed, that life in Luminia went on just as it always had.

But you, deep down, couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal gnawing at you. Was it possible that she had moved on, that she had found someone new to fill the space you once occupied? Could your fiancé, that woman who once promised you everything, now simply be waiting for you to fade from her life? The more you asked your friends in the palace about her well-being, the more their answers rang hollow in your ears, like a lullaby with no melody. Yes, she’s fine, they’d say, but it felt empty, like a practiced line to ease your anxieties.

Had she truly forgotten you? Was this part of her plan all along, to rid herself of the jester she once adored so she could open space for someone else? Maybe there was another jester now, someone who filled the void left by you, someone who could offer her more than you ever could. Your heart twisted with each thought, each possibility more unbearable than the last. You shook your head, trying to force the thoughts away. Dwelling on such things would only lead you to your demise. It would be your undoing if you let the worry fester, growing until it consumed you completely. You couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not when you had other things to focus on.

You had a role to play.

The rope was high above the court, its taut line a reminder of the dangerous stunts that you had become known for. It was here, suspended in mid-air, that you could forget everything—forget the ache of being abandoned, forget the sting of unanswered letters and silent promises.

This, this was where you belonged. You had trained for years for moments like this, when your life was suspended in a delicate balance of skill and courage, where the thrill of the crowd’s reaction was all the affirmation you needed. You didn’t need answers from Nyla. Not when you had the roar of the crowd, their collective breath held in anticipation.

With a grin, you stepped out onto the tightrope, your balancing stick absent as you juggled instead, the colorful balls arcing gracefully through the air, reflecting the light of the lanterns below. The sense of weightlessness filled you, and for a moment, it was as if the world and its troubles had disappeared entirely. There was only you, the rope, and the laughter that bubbled from your chest as you effortlessly tossed and caught the balls, delighting in the dramatic gasps and exclamations from the nobles below.

You weren’t nervous. You never were. The tightrope, the high fall, it was all just part of the show. The danger wasn’t real—it was simply a part of the act, a performance designed to tease, to push boundaries. And the reactions? The sweet sound of gasps, the collective holding of breath, was as delicious to you as any applause. It made you feel alive, in control, even when everything around you was unraveling.

But there was always that small part of you that loved to tease the crowd, to push their limits and make them think, Just maybe. And so, as you juggled, you let one of the balls slip from your grasp, watching it tumble through the air with calculated precision. You let it fall just a little too far.

The nobles below sucked in a breath, a few screams echoed through the hall, and you could almost taste their fear. The sweet, delicious tension that hung in the air as they imagined your fall—your inevitable doom—was almost too much to bear. But you weren’t worried. No. You could feel the rope beneath your feet, steady, unwavering. You would not fall. You never would.

With a flourish, you darted forward, catching the ball in your hand with effortless grace. The crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, the tension that had built suddenly breaking like a dam bursting. You laughed, your voice light and teasing, but underneath it was the familiar feeling of power, of command. “My court!” you called out, a grin spreading across your face. “Please, I am humbled by your concern. But fear not! I have this under control. You shall never see this jester fall from this rope, I promise you!” You could see the nobles exchange nervous glances, some still clutching their hearts as if your fall had truly been a possibility.

They always reacted this way, the same every time. They never knew what to expect from you, and that was part of the charm. You were a performer, a jester, and nothing could rattle you. You’d always known how to balance risk and reward, to dance along the edge of danger without ever truly falling.

The court loved it, feeding off your confidence, their fear melting away in the face of your bravado. And yet, the emptiness inside you, the loneliness that gnawed at your heart, refused to be silenced by any applause or laughter. It lingered there, persistent, as you finished your performance. The crowds cheered, as they always did. But inside, something was slowly withering away.

Soon enough, the performance came to an end, and with it, the court was adjourned. The nobles filed out, their faces still flush from the excitement of your act, leaving behind the lingering hum of admiration that you were all too accustomed to. The raucous applause echoed in your ears for just a moment before the silence of the palace settled in. As customary, you were given the rest of the day to spend however you wished—at least that was what Nia allowed. Sometimes she granted you the freedom to roam the city or take the day for yourself within the vast walls of the palace. Other times, like today, she called upon you for private entertainment, her work as queen keeping her preoccupied with responsibilities behind closed doors.

You didn’t mind, of course. The queen had her duties, and you, as her jester, had your role. But there was something unsettling about the way she had come to treat you. Unlike King Finley, who had always addressed you with the title of jester in a casual, almost detached way, Nia’s words seemed to carry more weight. There was a strange intimacy in the way she spoke to you, a personal connection that you couldn’t shake, even if you tried. At first, you didn’t think much of it, chalking it up to the difference in their leadership styles. King Finley was kind, personal, and fun, while Nia was sharp, calculating, and far more direct. But over time, you began to sense something more beneath the surface.

She paid you generously—more than King Finley ever had—and when you had pointed out the disparity, asking if she truly meant to pay you so much, she simply smiled and waved it off with a casual shrug. “I’m just making sure you won’t ever miss Luminia. Xelera is better for you, trust me, my jester.” Her words were too soft, too deliberate. Too… personal. There was something in the way she addressed you that made your stomach twist with uncertainty.

It wasn’t just the money, though. It was the way she saw you, the way she claimed you. You were her jester, and that wasn’t something you could easily ignore. King Finley had always referred to you in that way, but it was a title he gave to anyone in his court, a general endearment, a sign of the loyalty he expected from his people. But Nia? No, she reserved the title for you alone. “My jester,” she would say, as though you were something far more precious than the rest. Something she could hold close.

The way she looked at you sometimes made your skin crawl. It wasn’t the warmth of a queen who simply cherished her entertainers, no. It was the gaze of someone who was keeping you under lock and key, someone who saw your talents as an extension of their own control, someone who needed you more than they ever let on. Her touch, her words, all seemed calculated, as if she were subtly weaving you into her own intricate web of power.

As you stood at the door of her private office now, ready to entertain her once again, your mind raced with these thoughts. You had spent so much time in the queen’s presence, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that she was slowly shifting the lines between jester and something else entirely. Something… darker. A pedestal, yes, but also a cage. And it seemed you were being slowly encased in it, one delicate string at a time.

You didn’t mind it, spending a few hours with your queen, even if she was a bit touchy at times she never took it too far, yet you still had to hype yourself just a bit, a few quick steps, a few playful twirls, and you stood outside the door to her office. You adjusted your colorful tunic, pulled the jester’s bells that hung from your hat with a tug of your fingers, and then, in true form, threw the door open with an exaggerated flourish. You had to make an entrance, after all—it was your job.

“Ta-da!” you called, throwing both arms wide in dramatic flair as you practically leaped across the threshold. “The most entertaining jester in the land, ready to bring laughter to your royal ears!” You spun around, just barely managing to avoid the door slamming behind you as you dropped into a low bow, the bells on your hat jingling like a melody. “At your service, your majesty,” you added with a grin, keeping your posture exaggerated, your back arched dramatically.

Your entrance was met with a soft chuckle from Queen Nia, her eyes never leaving the pile of documents she had been inspecting. She was the picture of composure, but you had begun to know her well enough to see the tiniest flicker of amusement beneath her practiced calm. You could always tell when you hit the right note. But today… today felt different. There was something almost calculating about the way her gaze lingered on you.

You straightened up, straightening the wrinkles in your costume as you made your way toward her desk. A cartwheel, a swift turn of your body, and you positioned yourself in front of her, ready to perform your usual tricks and routines. You juggled the balls you had kept tucked into your sleeves, tossing them high into the air, each catch punctuated by the slight jingle of your bells. “Shall we make this meeting more entertaining, my queen?” you asked, keeping your tone light and playful, trying your best to disguise the lingering discomfort you felt about your growing suspicions.

Nia finally looked up at you, her eyes flickering with that same calmness you’d become accustomed to, but it was different now. There was something else there—something more personal, more possessive than you remembered. Still, her smile remained poised, though the glint of something more dangerous flashed for a moment in her gaze. “I see the jester has arrived in full form,” she said, her voice smooth but sharp, a glimmer of something else—something perhaps more intimate—sneaking into her tone.

You nodded, grinning like you always did, though the smile felt a little more strained than usual. “And always ready to serve,” you responded with the same practiced cheerfulness, though internally, you couldn’t ignore the nagging sensation that there was more to this than just playful entertainment.

You blinked in surprise, momentarily thrown off balance—not by a tightrope this time, but by the sharpness of Nia’s words. She leaned back in her ornate chair, fingers steepled in front of her lips as she fixed you with a gaze that was anything but playful. Her eyes, usually filled with mischievous glints or veiled amusement, were now darker, more serious. The playful edge that usually laced her voice was entirely absent, replaced with a quiet command that resonated deep within your chest, a pressure that weighed you down with its intensity.

“Your act today…” she said, pausing, each word deliberate as she drew out the silence between you. “Don’t do it again. I did not enjoy seeing half the court almost get sent to the hospital from heart attacks, and much more, I did not enjoy seeing you balance your life on that thin rope.” Her tone was sharp, cutting through the air with a cold precision that felt foreign coming from her. Nia, who usually allowed you your little bits of ridiculousness, your foolish stunts to bring a smile or laughter, was now a queen entirely different. Her voice, though quiet, held a weight behind it that pressed down on you, forcing you to listen, to heed her words with the gravity she intended.

You blinked again, the shock of the sudden shift in her behavior making your usual quick-wittedness falter. But you couldn’t let that stop you, couldn’t let her see you shaken, not when you had always been the one to keep things light, to bring joy into the room with your antics. So you swallowed down the knot of discomfort that had formed in your stomach and grinned, forcing your usual playful energy back into your movements.

You straightened, a dramatic flourish in your bow as you responded with as much charm as you could muster. “Of course, Your Majesty,” you said, your voice carrying a mock-serious tone that only barely masked the unease bubbling beneath. “I shall never again entertain your court with such a dangerous feat, for fear of giving them all the thrill of their lives.” You finished with a bright grin, hoping to diffuse the tension, to return to the atmosphere of lighthearted chuckles and dismissal.

Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes narrowing just a fraction more as if she were sizing you up, measuring something unseen. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have, stretching out between you as if she were waiting for something—an admission, perhaps, or maybe just your obedience. The air in the room grew thick, and you found yourself shifting under the weight of her scrutiny, though you kept your expression bright, your grin unwavering.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke again. “Come here,” she said, her voice softer now, but no less commanding. It wasn’t a request, nor was it laced with the usual teasing drawl she sometimes used when addressing you. No, this was something different—something heavier, more deliberate. You hesitated for only a moment before obeying, stepping forward with an exaggerated bounce in your step, arms spread wide as if to show you held no tricks up your sleeves. “As you wish, my queen!” you declared with dramatic flair, twirling once as you moved toward her, letting the bells on your attire chime merrily, a stark contrast to the underlying tension in the room.

As soon as you were within reach, Nia moved swiftly, her grip firm and unyielding as she caught you by the wrist and pulled you down—straight onto her lap. A gasp caught in your throat, surprise momentarily rendering you speechless as she wrapped her arms around you, holding you in place with an ease that sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel the warmth of her body pressing against you, her embrace far more intimate than any you had ever received before.

Her chin rested against your shoulder, and before you could make some quip about personal space, she nuzzled herself into the crook of your neck, her breath warm against your skin. The gesture was… tender, and yet, there was an underlying intensity to it, something possessive in the way she held you, her arms locked around your waist as if she had no intention of letting go.

Your breath hitched, the words you had been ready to speak dying on your tongue as Nia’s grip tightened ever so slightly. You had spent enough time in her court to know she was not a woman prone to unnecessary affections, nor was she someone who indulged in idle comforts. And yet, here she was, holding you so close, her presence engulfing you like a slow-moving tide, her breath fanning across your neck as if she were memorizing the very shape of you.

“You are reckless,” she murmured, her voice lower now, almost tender, but laced with something deeper, something that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “You treat your life like a game, balancing on ropes, dangling above the court like some—some foolish acrobat.” Her fingers trailed along your side, slow and deliberate, before settling against your hip, possessive in their stillness. “I don’t like it.” Another pause, this one longer, heavier, filled with the weight of unspoken words. And then, softer, barely above a whisper— “I don’t want to lose you.”

It was the closest thing to a confession she had ever given, and yet, something about it felt strange, unsettling in a way you couldn’t quite put into words. You were used to playful flirtations, to charming nobles and teasing kings, to the easy, fleeting affections exchanged in courtly games. But this… this was different. Nia was not asking for your attention—she was demanding it, carving her claim into the very air between you, as if daring the world to take you from her.

And you, foolish jester that you were, had no idea that the letters you had so painstakingly written to Nyla, the ones you had sent in desperation, had never reached their intended recipient. Nor did you know that the replies you had so long awaited had never even been written, their ashes long since scattered by the very woman who now held you close.

Nia’s breath seemed to slow as she nestled further into the crook of your neck, her arms tightening around you in a way that both soothed and unsettled you. It was an odd sensation, the juxtaposition of warmth and restraint, of her closeness being both comforting and stifling. She was not asking for permission, not even waiting for an answer; her actions spoke louder than any words could. She had you in her embrace now, and the more you shifted uncomfortably in her lap, the more determined she seemed to hold you there.

“Why do you struggle?” Her voice was soft, a strange sweetness to it that you hadn’t ever heard before, as though she were speaking to something fragile, something precious she feared would slip away. Her fingers danced lightly along your back, drawing circles against your skin. “You’re mine now, whether you like it or not.” She chuckled softly, her lips brushing against your ear, the warmth of her breath sending a tremor through your body. “I’ve made sure of that, haven’t I? You’re here, with me, and you’re not going anywhere.”

The words, the intensity in her voice, made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. You had never wanted to be this close to her, not in the way she seemed to want. You had always thought of yourself as a simple jester, someone whose duty was to entertain, not to be the object of such possessive affection. But she was your queen, and you had sworn an oath, hadn’t you? To serve her, to follow her commands. You could not, would not, disobey.

But even as those thoughts raced through your mind, you felt her lips brush against your neck once more, soft and lingering, as if she were memorizing the feel of you. She was nuzzling into you now, a sigh escaping her as her arms tightened even further. Her actions were so tender, so needy, and yet… suffocating. You didn’t want this, you didn’t want her to be this close, to possess you in such a way. But as her fingers continued to trace invisible patterns across your skin, you swallowed your reluctance, your desire to pull away. You couldn’t move, couldn’t bring yourself to resist—she was your queen. And queens did not ask for permission. They simply took what they wanted.

“Stay with me,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, the words slipping past her lips like a secret only meant for your ears. “Please… stay.” And despite every instinct in you telling you to break free, you found yourself nodding, ever so slightly, as if the small gesture could make this all feel more bearable. The moment you gave in, you were trapped, and you knew that deep down. But still, you stayed.

#x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #oc x reader #tw yandere #yandere oc #yandere x darling #gn reader #yandere oc x reader #gender neutral #Female yandere #Female yandere x reader #Female x reader

93 notes · View notes