#knight x noblewoman

[gothy-froggy]

Won’t you Join me?

Tarhos Kovács x noble!Fem!reader

I see there is yet another drought for Tarhos. Fear not my beloveds! I am here to save you for the time being.

Warnings: fluff, reader is a sweetheart, Tarhos being confused and awkward, historically inaccurate for the sake of a cute fic, not proofread, short one shot

Summary: There is a small ball once again and Tarhos witnesses another. Bored and irritated by most noble snobs, he stands outside. A noblewoman talks to him to his surprise. Is this maybe a possible future blooming between the two?

——————————-

“Toscano! I am pleased to see that you could come.” The older woman greeted Vittorio as he and personal knight walked inside. It was always the same. Many men and woman in fancy big outfits. Most likely costing a fortune for each clothing piece.

“And you have brought..a friend.” The older noblewoman said, her judgmental tone seeping through her words. Toscano introduced Tarhos for him.

“Welcome, Sir knight.” A younger noblewoman greeted him with a small curtsy. Tarhos stared at her with no reply. How odd. She actually decided to notice him? The older woman gave the noblewoman a disappointing look before guiding Vittorio around for a tour.

Tarhos knew it was his time to leave and stand outside. Or at least under his rules. Too many people stare and raise a hand to another’s ear to gossip and judge. He walked out, standing outside. He hated how privileged these people were. He stared at the view in front of him. He wondered what the piece of freedom that nobles had really feels like. He desired it. No, he deserves it, not these foolish, ungrateful, slimy-

“Are you all right?”

Tarhos’ internal ramble came to an end. He sharply turned to see the same noblewoman who greeted him. He just stared intensely at her through his helmet. Her hand slipped away from the building to the side of her formal dress as she walked up to him.

“You shouldn’t wait out here.” Her voice was in a softer than how it was inside. More quieter, fitting for a conversation between two people. She lightly tilted her head with a small smile on her face.

“Do you often wait outside for him?”

“I prefer it.” He grumbled out loud enough for her to hear.

“Why?” She questioned the armored man, inching closer. Tarhos kept his gaze ahead.

“They judge with the privilege they possess.” He hesitated to answer. She was a noble herself. She lightly sighed through her nose.

“I never understood that. I apologize, on behalf of them-”

“Don’t.”

Tarhos cut her off. He looked down at her, his hair slightly spilling out.

“You aren’t like the others.”

A smile crept onto her face as she glanced down, a small portion of shyness kicking in from his words.

“Tarhos, was it? How did you manage to work under Toscano?” She stood next to him and raised her hand. Tarhos quickly caught on, holding his arm out and letting her hands rest on his forearm. They began walking around the building, following the torches.

—————————-

She lightly laughed, telling her own stories to Tarhos. Tarhos smiled ever so lightly under his helmet. His head tilted to the side to show that he’s listening to her stories and words.

“I have to say, I have been enjoying your presence, Kovács.” She lightly giggled after her words. Her silly story still having an affect on her. Tarhos eventually gave his full attention to her as she slowed down from walking. She stared up at him.

“May I be selfish and ask to see your face?” She whispered. Tarhos couldn’t understand why, but she had allured him. Possible bewitched him. Tarhos slowly took his helmet off, keeping it under his arm. She raised her hands up as Tarhos bent down more towards her level. Her hands brushing over his jawline, sending a shiver down Tarhos’ spine. Her finger tracing over his scars.

“I think…” She started, pausing while observing all the facial features again.

“You’re beautiful.” She finished her abandoned sentence. Tarhos let out a shaky breath as he closed his eyes. A warm woman’s touch could weaken anyone. Apparently even Tarhos. She kept her hands on both sides of his face, her thumbs lightly running across his skin. She a bright smile.

“Won’t you join me?”

Tarhos opened his eyes and stared into hers. He didn’t answer her. She stepped a bit closer.

“Come, let’s have a dance.” She tried to convince the knight. He glanced back at the building, hearing the faint music.

“It is best that I do not.” He declined.

“Please?” She begged. Tarhos looked at her for a few seconds. He took a step back, placing his helmet back on. His heart ached seeing the joy leave her expression.

“Another time, my lady.” He rejected, his tone softening letting her down this time.

“If you change your mind, I will be inside, Kovács.” She lightly lifted her dress as she began walking back.

“Tarhos.” 

She stopped, turning back around to look at him.

“Goodnight, Tarhos.” She gave him another small curtsy before heading back inside.

Tarhos watched her leave. He was conflicted. Originally, he thought that all nobles were maggots, but she has proved him wrong. She made him feel something different. Something he had never felt before.

Time flew by as he was in his thoughts.

“Tarhos.” A familiar voice called out. Vittorio stood a few feet away from him with the stern face he always carried. His cool tone making it.

“We’re leaving.” Tarhos walked over to Vittorio, heading back into the carriage. The ride back home, Tarhos was lost in his own little world. Once he has his money and he buys his three friends’ freedom, he is coming back to that noblewoman.

She was so different. She treated him like he was someone. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed her company, just her alone. And he wanted more. He now swore to come back and marry the kind woman. As she is too soft to be alone in this cruel world. She was going to be his, as his heart is already hers.

—————————-

*bonus*

The screams from others run around to desperately escape filled the air between the walls. The noblewoman was dragged away by a maiden.

“This way my lady!” She whispered yelled, pulling her by the hand while sneaking down the steps. The maid screamed, getting pulled away by a man with a red scarf.

“Let me go!” The noblewoman screeched as a manic laugh met her ears.

“We can’t do that now, can we? Sir wants you, my lady.” The man cackled, saying his words in a mocking tone. The man carried the woman outside, pushing her against something hard. It was like armor. She looked up, seeing a familiar armored man with hair spilling out the helmet.

“…Tarhos?”

[lanabuckybarnes]

| Lady Blue |

Falling in love with your best friend wasn't something you ever anticipated, you had a role to fulfil and your hand was sold. Yet your heart longed for him.

✧Pairing✧ Knight!Steve Rogers x Princess!Reader (Fem)

✧Warnings✧ Fluff, A Little Angst, Talks of Arranged marriage, John Walker (ew), Name Calling, like the teeniest bit of violence, Hurt, Brief mention of injury, Sweet ending

✧Word Count✧ 2.1k

✧Author Note ✧ I WROTE SOMETHING THAT ISNT SMUT!! — happy birthday Stevie Rogers 🥳

You don’t know when it happened, when that little crush became something more, when the hugs became intimate and the kisses were on the lips rather than on the cheeks.

Steve Rogers, your best friend. You’d been born beds apart, your mother a queen and her best friend a noblewoman. You weren’t sure if they planned it or it was fate but they both ended up with child and gave birth almost exactly on the same day.

Steve was headstrong, and a leader. He always made sure you were safe and protected, it was cute how doting he was because ‘he was older’. You were quick to comment how it was only by a few hours.

You were inseparable as kids, spending most of your time in the fields of blue flowers that decorated the walk to the large castle. It’s how you earned the name, Lady Blue - a flower crown of blue atop your head always.

Your infatuation grew for him as you aged into a teen, you weren’t around each other as much because of duties taking up most of your time but you remembered something about absence making the heart grow fonder and you could attest to that.

Steve was away most of the time on the other end of the city, training in the ring to become a knight, his dream. You were stuck in the palace, studying history and languages to be a great queen although you spent much of your time staring out of the window and imagining you and Steve doing the same things you did as kids. Living.

You lied.

You remember exactly when it happened.

Steve's graduation, he finally wore his purple cloak and had his royal etched sword around his hip. Drinks flowed left and right, the night filled with laughter and singing, all muffled behind the thick glass doors leading out to the courtyard where you and Steve sat watching the birds bathe in the fountain.

“How was it?” You asked, both hands soothing over his larger, calloused one, running over each scar and healing wound he donned.

He breathed out slowly, as though you were one of the small birds that he had to tiptoe around so he didn’t scare them off. He knew that you would never be scared of him but he couldn’t shake that feeling, you were so dainty beside him. To think that once upon a time you were a head taller than him.

“It was fine, made some friends” he nodded off to a pair of iron-clad men clinging to each other singing an old folk tune. “Sam and Bucky, they’re wild but they are good guys.”

The air around you thickened if it were possible, something going unsaid between you two, a rope pulled taut that threatened to snap. Steve’s eyes studied you, thoroughly enjoying the sight of you by his side. You looked beautiful, eyes twinkling in the moonlight as your eyes returned to the fountain, your hair shining. You had grown up and become such a beautiful soul that he knew you were.

“I missed you.”

“Hm?” You looked up at him, confusion and curiosity carved onto your features.

“I thought of you all the time being out there, when it got tough and I needed some of those princess bear hugs you gave me” You giggled at his words, bringing about his chuckle. Your knees knocked as you leaned closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I missed you too Stevie.”

“Princess” he murmured after a moment, taking a few deep breaths to quieten his pounding heart, although when he looked down at you it skipped beat after beat anyway.

“Ser Rogers” you teased with a cheeky smirk, the sparkle in your hues growing as you almost challenged him to speak. I dare you, your eyes cried out to him.

Steve was never one to back down from a dare.

His lips were on yours before you could even think, embracing yours in a way that left you dizzy before shocking you into action and kissing back with the same ferocity.

Snap, that rope between you broke.

After that night you’d both chosen to keep your love a secret, your father was strict and unforgiving, he would not stand for his daughter dating someone lower than a future heir despite it not being your choice. Even years later, both of you adults still sneaked around like you did when you were teens.

Your door shook with heavy knocks, Ser Barnes’ voice booming from the other end.

“My Princess, the King wishes to see you at once.”

You groaned and let your eyes fall shut again until soft kisses trailing up your shoulder and neck brought a smile upon your face.

“Come on Lady Blue, can’t disappoint Father now” he joked, deep voice raspy from sleep, vibrating against your ear.

Even after all these years each moment you spent with him felt like you were falling in love with him for the first time, diving straight off the deep end and into your sheets with him.

You stood, helping him into his gear so he could slink off and allow your handmaidens in to help you dress.

“I love you” he whispered into the top of your head, placing a chaste kiss there before tilting your chin up to slant his lips against your own. Despite the shortness of it, you were left breathless when he parted, turning on his heel professionally and making his exit.

A ball of dread settled in your stomach at the thought of today’s meeting with your father. For months now he’d been adamant that you were to be married by the end of the year and set about finding suitors, each time you rejected them he’d bring up another. But you loved Steve too much.

You knew it wouldn’t last forever, it couldn’t. You were noble, bound to marry a prince and join two kingdoms in matrimony. He was a knight, he swore an oath to protect you from harm, nothing more.

All of that knowledge didn’t help it hurt any less when you stepped into the throne room, your eyes landing on potentially the worst prince your father had brought to you yet.

The king from the neighbouring place and his son, John Walker. A self-proclaimed prophet that was bound to rule all over the land.

“You will marry Prince John Walker” your father announced, the smug sneer on the prince’s face had you wishing you’d had breakfast before coming here so you could have something in your stomach to throw up.

You were bound to marry a pompous, arrogant, narcissistic man and leave the man who’d loved you since day dot.

You wouldn’t stand for it.

“I will not marry John” You challenged, something you’d only done a handful of times in your life. Your father’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenching and eyes wild.

“Excuse me?”

“I will not marry him” You repeated.

“You don’t have a choice young lady” he rose from his throne, stomping down the steps until his face was in yours. Your legs wobbled as you tried to stand your ground against your father's presence.

“You will marry Prince Walker, you will join our kingdoms and you will bear his heirs, I am sick of you rejecting everyone I introduce you to so I made the decision myself.”

“I won’t” you yelled this time, hurt and angry bubbling into rage “because I love another.”

The words slipped out your mouth, your hand slapping around your face far too slow to catch them.

The room fell silent. Pin drop silent. Steve stood at the entrance of the hall, head hung low to hide the reddening of his face, his hands clamping into fists at his side.

“Who?” Your father’s hand clamped onto your chin, your jaw throbbing in pain at the hold.

“Ser Rogers” you hissed, falling into a pile of clothes and pain when your father’s hand let you go.

“You wench!” he spat in disgust.

You tried to argue, tried to plead with your father but he shrugged you off.

“Ser Barnes, take my daughter back to her room, I want some time with Ser Rogers. Alone.”

You didn’t struggle as Ser Barnes picked you up from the floor, hoisting you over his shoulder. You couldn’t even look at Steve when you walked by.

Ser Barnes set you down on your bed softly, patting the top of your head as you stared off into space, tears rolling down your cheeks. He left and came back with a small glass of water and a muffin which you refused to eat.

Once Bucky left you crawled up to the head of your bed, stuffing your face into your pillow and staining it with black from your mascara. Your door was on constant watch in case you got any big ideas. The Blue Daisy’s had bloomed but you couldn’t leave, you weren’t allowed to leave.

As day turned into night you shifted to look out at the setting sun. Your dinner lay untouched on your table, your focus set firmly on the world outside, families rushing to pack up their markets before the evening rain.

“Lady Blue” you recognised the voice.

“Bucky?”

“Can I come in?” He asked. You hummed your confirmation and the huge brunette slipped in.

“Steve—he’s being shipped off. Tonight.” He explained his stormy eyes on you, watching you process the information.

“So what? It’s not like I can stop it” You answered bitterly, a shell of the woman you usually were. There was no hint of cheer or teasing in your tone like there once was, it had all been left in that throne room.

You took note of his heavy sigh before he inched further into the room, Only then did you gaze up at him. In his hands was a set of clothes, the kind commoners wore along with a large black cloak and a purple velvet pouch.

“Do you love him?” He asked, eyes searching yours.

“More than anything” you replied without hesitation.

“Then we better move.”

“W-what do you mean?” You stood, head tilted and brows furrowed. You just barely caught the clothes that Bucky threw at you.

“His ship leaves in an hour, if you don’t hurry and get changed we’ll miss it”.

You could’ve kissed Bucky.

The shipyards reeked of fish and shit, but you couldn’t care about that. Not now. Hopping off of Bucky’s white steed you pat its neck before looking up at him.

“Thank you, Buck, I don’t know how I can repay you.”

He smiled, taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles.

“You can get on that ship and live your life Lady Blue. I’ll see you soon” he flashed you one of his pearly white smiles and turned the horse, setting off the way he’d come.

You darted onto the ship, eyes scanning the faces of workers and guests until they fell on the man that you were doing all of this for. Any doubt that boiled in your stomach melted away leaving only one thing remaining, that deep love that Steve gave you. He didn’t turn until you were standing in front of him.

“Princess?” his shocked voice sounded as he looked up at you. He looked tired, his skin pale and a nasty bruise was forming over his cheekbone. No doubt thanks to your father.

“I’m here” you squeaked as he pulled you down into his arms, his warm body and vanilla scent putting you at ease instantly despite the incessant rocking of the ship.

“You're here” he replied, words vibrating against your hairline before he tilted your chin up and stole your lips in a kiss. Just like he had stolen your heart.

“So you do that…yep and then you twist the stalk around…that’s it!!” You cheered as your son finally wrapped the flower correctly, his big blue eyes almost disappearing behind his lids as he squealed in excitement.

“What’s all the yelling about huh?” Steve emerged, tanned skin glowing, covered in a layer of sweat and dirt, an axe resting over his shoulder.

“Daddy look” your son preened, raising the bundle of blue flowers high in the air so the blonde could see.

“Ahhh is Mama teaching you her old tricks huh?” He smiled, kneeling to place a soft kiss on his forehead before doing the same to you.

“Mhmm gotta make sure he can help me every year, isn’t that right baby?” You plopped your finished flower crown onto Steve’s head before ruffling your son's curly locks.

Despite the running, the fighting and the endless struggle to get to where you were now, you could say you’d do it all again to be sat between your handsome husband and his doppelgänger son—in a field of blue daisies. You would do it all again to be home.

I DO NOT give permission to have my work copied, translated or reposted. If you see my work anywhere else except on this page I have not given consent for it to be used.

Comments, Reblogs, Likes & Asks are always appreciated, although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience. They let me know that you are enjoying what you read and give me motivation to write more.

Thanks for reading~

[strawberrystepmom]

yami x f!noble reader. post coitus walk down a strange memory lane. suggestive, sex happened. | divider by @cafekitsune, wc 1.3k

“Why do you have that?”

Yami looks up at you from the end of the bed, his arm dangling over the side while he finishes pulling it all the way up. 

“This?” 

He holds up the small linen square he was working on unfolding into a larger square and you nod. 

Furrowing his brows, he shrugs. “Because you gave it to me…?”

The hesitation in his voice brings a small, soft smile to your face. You reach for the handkerchief and he hands it over without so much as a grumble, placing it gently in the center of your palm just as you did for him the day it became his. There would never be any denying this once belonged to you considering your initials and hand embroidery are slightly unraveled yet still stitched in the corner of the fabric. 

More than five years ago, a fresh faced newly minted noblewoman boldly pressed her favor into his hand. He was merely a Magic Knight back then, not yet designated with the honor of Captain. There’s no telling, then or now, what you were attempting to achieve with the move other than to get under his skin but it worked well enough that he has kept the reminder of you in his pocket ever since. 

For a moment, Yami debates asking for it back, simply to keep a piece of something that belongs to him and only him. A secret token of affection he should have parted with but has never quite found himself able to. It has been on battlefields with him. It has traveled deep in his pocket to neighboring countries and towns, up a lava filled mountain and back down. 

There’s history stored in the tidy stitches, even if you weren’t there to see it happen. And there is no longer any way to effectively hide what the insinuation meant to him. 

“Are you satisfied that it’s the genuine article now, your highness?” 

You glance up from the fabric in your hands and toward him, the pinched skin between his brows deepening with every passing second. The incorrect title is enough to indicate that you’ve managed to strike a nerve and the look on his face only solidifies it. Giggling, you lean in and press it into his hand just as you did years ago. 

“Passes my inspection although I wish I could go back and tell the younger me that her stitching needs work.” 

Your thumb lingers against the center of his palm. Yami sighs, aware that a barrage of questions is coming judging solely from the look on your face - those twinkling eyes and that deceptively innocent smirk.

“You’re under no obligation to answer me of course, but if I may, how have you managed to keep something so delicate intact for so long? I didn’t exactly put my best effort into making it a piece to be kept forever.”

Chuckling, he leans back down across the bed on his side. His bare chest rises and falls with each breath he takes, dark strands falling over his face messily. You reach out and push the hair away, exposing gray eyes and sharpened features, the same ones you first found yourself drawn to all those years ago, only slightly different. The breath in his chest stills for a moment when you glance down at him, cheek pressed against your knees which are quilt covered and pulled against your chest.

“Everything alright down there, Captain?”

When the two of you first started sleeping together he confidently assumed he could keep the whole ‘I remember you very fondly from every conversation we’ve ever had, no matter how brief’ situation under wraps. You’ve spent years passing by one another, two ships off to other destinations but sharing the water for enough time to get used to the weather. Only the fortuitous hand of fate can explain how the two of you ended up in the same tavern, on the same night, sending you both on a trail that has led here. 

Shaking his head, he smiles up at you, propping his head up with his fist. “Yup.” Popping the ‘p’ sound, he exhales a heavy sigh. 

What can he say that won’t make him sound either creepy or foolish? It’s not like he has spent years pining over you, he’s too busy for something as nonsensical as that, but he’d be lying if he were to insinuate it has been sitting forgotten in his pocket. There’s a blood stain on the upper left corner from when he wiped his nose with it after a fierce competitor got the best of him up close. It’s slightly discolored, off-white from years of rubbing against the dark leather of his pants. 

“I’ve never seen any reason to get rid of a gift someone else has given me, why would this be any different? Besides, sometimes a man just wants something that reminds him of home when he’s on the road.” 

Smirking, you gradually slide your legs beneath the covers and join him in lying down. Shifting to your side, you keep your hand extended to finger comb his hair back from his face.

“So you’re saying I make you think of home?”

Sukehiro is no stranger to women or their wiles and charms but you have always been somewhat unique compared to your peers. Bolder than most women he’s ever met, the perfect mixture of sharp tongued and soft hearted. Memorable and not just for the admirable beauty that has won you suitors and friends, allies and enemies alike. 

He harrumphs. You giggle in the way that makes the bridge of your nose scrunch, irresistible to a man that hasn’t been able to find a place to store all of that fondness outside of his pants pocket. Reaching toward you, he squeezes your nose gently which makes you laugh and distracts you long enough he doesn’t have to dignify your question with a response. 

Feelings are tricky, after all. It’s why he stays away from them.

“Are you gonna let me clean you up or not?” He asks, remembering why he pulled the kerchief from his pocket to start with. You shimmy closer to him, leaning to press the tip of your nose against his. “I don’t know. Are you going to answer my question or not?”

He peels the quilt back from your body with a smirk, ignoring you completely. You make no moves to actually prevent him from doing so, even staying still and patient when he gently pulls your thighs apart. The handkerchief makes its way between your legs, carefully and tenderly sopping up the mess of your release and his that has left your folds glossy and sticky. 

“Yeah, you do remind me of home. That there’s something worth protecting around here, at the very least.” 

The honesty pierces you and the comfortable quiet in one well aimed shot. An unexpected and slightly awkward laugh leaves you, mouth hanging open and shutting as quickly as possible, visibly taken aback. The corners of your lips twitch and your mind races, struggling to find the right thing to say which is almost unheard of for you. 

“All done.” 

Yami holds out the damp and sticky cloth for your review. Giggling, you scrunch your nose again. He laughs while tossing it on the floor with his clothes, making a mental note to wash it so he doesn’t pull it out of his pocket still crusty. Not that it would be the first time.

He rolls over onto his back, lying down by your side once again. Your hand easily finds its natural home in the strands of hair in front of his face, petting them backward.

“I’m relieved you kept it.” You finally admit, now that you can look into his eyes and say it. “I always wondered what you thought of me doing it in the first place.”

Sighing, he turns his head fully to look at you.

“I’ve never been one to turn down a free gift from a pretty girl. My manners aren’t that bad.”

Tugging on the strands of his hair between your fingers, you laugh and shake your head.

“Go to bed, Yami.” 

He leans in and smiles against your mouth, kissing you.

“After you.”

[ariwritessometimes]

The Chronicles of Narnia Masterlist

Caspian

The Faded Portrait of a Bygone Era series

Summary: Five Royals ruled over Narnia, crowned by Aslan himself. Their story is legend throughout all the land. A great detail of note is that these Kings and Queens are from another world. The fifth is even more odd - for she came from the same world as the others, but from an entirely different century.

When this small family is separated by time, it seems unlikely that they will ever meet again. But Aslan’s will is a tricky thing. Will the five be able to cope in this new Narnia, when everything they knew has gone, and a Telmarine Prince makes a bid for the throne?

Series Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Magic, Major Character Death

Read on Ao3 (x Reader)

Read on Quotev (x OC)

Complete

Additional Content:

I made a playlist

Another playlist courtesy of @thefairywanderer !

Edmund Pevensie

Captain of the Guard one shot

Summary: A mysterious knight shows up and challenges the King to a duel. This stranger turns out to be connected to the royals' past.

Peter Pevensie

Some Things Are Meant to Be one shot

Summary: Peter is in love with you, but he thinks you love Edmund.

The Lady of Calormen one shot

Summary: The High King of Narnia is betrothed to a Calormen noblewoman. The entire kingdom is on edge, waiting to see what she will be like. After meeting her, however, Peter finds something stirring inside.

A Lovely Night one shot

Summary: Overwhelmed by royal duties, Peter starts to notice that he's slowly losing the one that means the most. What can be done to win her back?

Peter Pevensie comforting you after a nightmare (Golden Age) imagine

[catscidr]

HIIII CAN I GET DOTTORE(WEBTOON VER) X READER (fluff if u want) PLS..... where ur his assistant (besides krupp, like reader and krupp are both his assistant) and he so clearly has favoritism towards reader, bro is SMITTEN. have a good day... :D

this is sorta taking place right when the manga starts, right before dottore and the gang have a meeting about fatui stuff n all. also spoilers for the manga kinda if u haven't read it already?? i threw krupp under the bus a lot but its to make up for the fact that he’s alive in this lmaoa sry to any krupp lovers out there (′ʘ⌄ʘ‵) also there’s a lot of buildup n world building kinda im sorry i got in the zone HAHA ALSO MB THIS TOOK A WHILE TO WRITE i was drowning in leftover dessert from the holidays and was in a food coma for a couple o days. forgive me nonnie but u can get ur food now ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: reader is overwhelmed, not proofread i just went ham. not too much dialogue it's mostly unspoken bc webttore is an "actions > words" kinda man includes: fem reader, webttore, krupp, diluc mentionned wc: 1,7k

The mission was a complete and utter disaster. 

All three of you were supposed to attend the Ragnvindr ball with a simple goal; blend in as much as possible, gather intel on the Knights of Favonius and leave without a hitch. Of course, that wasn’t an easy task considering Dottore’s eccentric and unpredictable personality and Krupp being a thorn in your side at best. 

Things started going downhill before you had even left your private quarters. While you were getting ready, carefully blinking as you brushed your mascara into your lashes to blend them in with your fake ones, you were startled by a loud, quick series of knocks on your door, making you smudge the dark pigment on your eyelid. Seeing the look on your face, Krupp had apologized (halfheartedly) before leaving you to your devices, seemingly forgetting why he had even interrupted you in the first place. You tried to convince yourself that it was fine, it was an easy fix anyways- but you couldn’t help but get irritated by your coworker’s behaviour at the very least. 

The next accident happened when the three of you had stepped out of the carriage in front of the Ragnvindr mansion. Masquerading as Dottore’s concubine, he held your hand to help you out of the caravan. That in it of itself was fine; the texture of his velvet glove was nice, the warmth emanating from his hand was even nicer and you swore you saw his face soften at the sight of you carefully stepping down the singular stair, leg jutting out as you balanced yourself on the cobblestone path on your heels. But Krupp just had to step on the back of your dress, a brown footprint now adorning the periwinkle frilly trail of your gown. The only good thing that came out of it was Dottore moving his hand to your waist and swiveling you to his side, fixing his assistant with a hard glare that could kill. 

Then, after you had gotten most of the dirt out of your dress (with the help of a kind butler), your trio stepped into the venue, splitting into two groups. Krupp would blend in with a group of nobles whereas you and Dottore, arms linked together, would speak to people in the Knights directly. Eyeing your coworker in the crowd, you saw him courteously kiss the back of a noblewoman’s hand; despite the slight look of disgust crossing your face, he seemed to be doing well with the mission. 

However, it seemed that whatever Archon was watching over you then didn’t appreciate the lack of drama. As Dottore introduced the both of you to a platinum-haired man, he had gotten his shoulder shoved by what had appeared to be a new hire from the manor (at least, you assumed so considering the way he had immediately gotten yelled at by a lady older than him). 

You yelped when the Harbinger spilled his drink all over the front of your dress, some champagne sliding down your chest leaving an uncomfortable, sticky feeling on your skin. Cheeks reddening from embarrassment and frustration, you brush away his frantic apology as you storm out, grabbing a handful of napkins on a nearby table while making your way to the closest bathroom. 

Thankfully it wasn’t hard to find, not with a maid offering to help you (she had gotten turned down but kindly pointed you in the right direction at the very least). Patting your skin dry, you burst into the surprisingly empty bathroom and assessed the damage. 

That’s where you are currently. 

Staring at the state of your previously pristine appearance you can’t help but tear up. Sure, this was just for a mission, and you could just wipe away the booze as much as you could and go back to do your job. But the one time you get to dress nice, the one time you can rid yourself of that ugly, stuffy uniform and feel pretty... had to be ruined by men. While it wasn’t exactly Dottore’s fault that he spilled his drink all over your dress, you still felt mad at Krupp for stepping on it when you all had first arrived. Was it petty to still be upset about it? Yes. Were your feelings justified? Also yes. 

Being the Doctor’s assistant was a chore. A challenge, sometimes. He was demanding, strict and you often had to walk on eggshells around him to avoid setting him off. Whenever it happened, he’d start ranting and raving about how incompetent everyone in the fatui was- although, he’d never point a finger at you, usually Krupp was on the receiving end of his bite (even if he wasn’t even included in the conversation). 

Knowing him well enough to understand his moods and personality had its perks. Unfortunately, it also had its drawbacks- those being how, naturally, your boss would also know how to read your mood surprisingly well. Dottore was known to be mean and ruthless to anyone he crossed path with, however, he’s always had a soft spot for you. 

Sometimes it was obvious that he did, but sometimes it was like he saw your coworker’s face instead of your own- scowling at your mistakes and scolding you harshly for mixing in the wrong powder in a flask. Whenever that happened, you could almost forget how he was able to hold you so gently, as if you were a glass sculpture ready to break if even the slightest breeze hit you. But if he were to be described with one word, you’d never call him dense- as entitled as he could be, the Harbinger was still (maybe surprisingly) quite well-versed in human emotions. 

You barely hear your name being called in the distance, muffled by the sound of the angelic piano and violin in the main area. Too caught up in your thoughts, you continue seething and aggressively rubbing away the sticky residue on your chest, muttering some choice words about your coworker and your boss. 

The door to the women’s bathroom flies open, revealing a frustrated but concerned Dottore, his curly hair a mess from how often he must have run his hand through it while he ran to find you. Uncaring of how he was intruding on your moment and how he was in the women’s restroom, he stomps over to you, gloved hands coming down to your shoulders as he closes the distance between you so he can look at the damage properly. 

He doesn’t speak for what felt like minutes, leaving your heart to pound in a mix of shock (who wouldn’t get scared at the sight of a Harbinger slamming a door open?) and nervousness. One of his hands come down to move your own that still held onto the (now damp) napkins as he stared at the front of your dress. 

The sweetheart cut of your dress was soaked, the edge and thin lace sticking to your skin, light indigo dye appearing darker because of the stain. Snapping out of your frozen stupor, you push his hand away and bring your hands back up to cover your chest, flustered from how hard he was staring with those blank, crimson eyes. 

“...You’re in the wrong bathroom,” you murmur, unsure of how to get him to leave you alone without possibly setting him off. Dottore���s eyes flicker up to your side profile, his expression still freakishly unreadable. 

You suddenly feel both of his hands on your cheeks as he manhandles you to look at him, your heart skipping a beat. Unable to bring yourself to stay mad, tears prick at your eyes, and you look down. Holding his gaze was impossible, not when you’ve been feeling humiliated since the start of the evening. He doesn’t comment on your sorrow, keeping on staring at you intently. 

“I can always buy you a new, nicer dress if that’s what you want,” you hear him say, voice uncharacteristically quiet, and maybe even... unsure? 

You shake your head softly, sniffling. 

“No? Why are you upset, then?” 

Hearing him so utterly confused, puzzled, perplexed made you even more frustrated. Furious, even. With your emotions all over the place and a newfound fury blazing in your limbs you snatch his hands off from your face and stomp out of the bathroom, shouting I’m waiting in the carriage! before stepping out into the chilly Mondstadtian evening breeze. 

Dottore stood there, brows furrowed and mouth agape in confusion as he blinked at your retreating figure. He didn’t have the chance to go after you because, as if on cue, Krupp interrupted the show. 

“I gathered some juicy intel, boss! Those Knights are incredibly foolish for being so loose lipped,” the mustached man declares proudly, acutely unaware of the stuffy atmosphere. Maybe not completely unaware, but he’s for sure ignoring it if he noticed it. Instead of hearing him out though, Dottore scoffs and walks into him, shoving him to the side with a scowl. 

“Don’t waste my time with your useless boasting. We’re leaving,” the Harbinger all but groaned, running a hand through his hair, stress emanating from him in waves. His assistant catches up to him, stuttering out a Of course sir! as he opens the door for him, his shoes digging into the cobblestone path. 

Dottore immediately looks at your sat figure, chin in your palm, looking out of the window. The sight would make him melt if it weren’t for his other assistant’s presence a mere meter away from him. He says your name quietly, softly enough that no one other than you can hear and Krupp steps into the carriage, shouting directions to the driver. 

“Can I stay in the lab next time?” you grumble, refusing to turn around and look at your boss and coworker. Krupp opens his mouth to scold you, but Dottore beats him to it, shooting him a sharp glare, lips curling down in a frown. 

“You can,” he answers you while still looking at his employee. “In fact, it’ll give me an opportunity to properly teach my other assistant some manners,” he adds, practically growling the sentence. Krupp swallows thickly and pretends to not be involved in the conversation, looking away nervously. On the opposite side of the plush seat, you hide the smile creeping its way onto your features.

Ignoring the way your heart swelled, you inwardly celebrate your small victory. Dottore could be brash and cruel, but you’ll always cherish the moments when he shows you some lenience. Especially when it’s at the cost of your coworker’s imprudence. 

[sanyu-thewitch05]

I need more messed up female reader inserts. More ambitious, manipulative, unapologetically cut throat characters. So for this next idea I have a Male Yandere General X Female Reader Noblewoman.

General premise…reader Darling is a noblewoman whose family took in a slave mother and son during young childhood because they looked more unique compared to other slaves on the market. (I have no idea what type of era this is set in, but maybe this is more fantasy based?) Darling is a prodigy and sees the slave son (whose the yandere) natural gifts at combat/weaponry, so convinces her father to make the boy into a soldier for their family to use to win favor of the royal family. Darling manipulates the boy for years, knowing full well his romantic feelings for her. She promises to marry him  and give him his freedom, as long as he keeps climbing the military ranks, winning battles/wars, and contributing to their noble family name. Darling knows that doing this will ensure an easy bargaining chip with the royal family and the general people that her family deserves to be “rewarded” for their contributions to the kingdom. In other words, Darling wants to be future Queen, always has, and she’s seen poor yandere as nothing but a pawn. After yandere comes back from latest brutal war, he hears the news of Darling’s engagement to the crown Prince. Heartbroken and betrayed, he snaps and launches a coup (which is quite easy because the kingdom loves yandere more than the royal family), granting Darling’s wish of becoming future Queen…just not the way she imagined…And Darling will always be the apple of his eye, but maybe she should “earn” and “fight” her way up to Queen from slave, just as he had to fight from hell and back all his life from slave to king. Couple goals, am I right?

A/N: Finally finished this ask! I hope you like the twist and many hints within this. BTW, this is more tame and doesn't have smut. It does have a happy ending though. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this!

TW: Mentions of drugging

You were always meant for greater things. Luckily, you have a plan as to how to get it. First, you must work your way up the nobility ladder until you reach the prince. Then, seduce the prince and bear him children to secure your throne. But that takes time, and time is limited when you're a human. So you took a shortcut and used the latest Elve slaves to help you. The son, Rhys, around your age (14), possesses great potential, not only in magic but in swordsmanship. So, you convinced your father to put him in knight school. Behind the scenes, you make false promises of freedom and marriage to him.

The one condition he has to follow is to keep climbing the military ranks and contributing to the family name. He believed it like a fool, and soon enough, he became your personal knight. A knight in shining armor or a white knight in a way. Rhys was always around you. Which led to him witnessing your most vulnerable moments.

"Milady, wake up. My lady!" Rhys whispers, secretly using his magic to float up to your levitating body.

"Hm?" You moan, waking up and realizing your body is floating several inches into the air.

"You were doing it again."

"Sorry, Rhy."

You think of a feather slowly falling, and you're on the mattress again. Rhys climbs onto the bed and sits next to you. He lets you climb into the safety of his arms for sleep.

"Please don't tell anyone, Rhys," You say, resting your head on Rhys's chest.

"I won't, milady," Rhys says, rubbing your head until you go to sleep.

The next morning, your mother took you to a cottage in the wilderness near the Elves's kingdom for your 16th birthday.

Then, one brutally hot summer day in your delicate 21st year of age, war broke out with the Elf kingdom. King Faenelis of the Elves used magic to fight the war. This created a problem for your kingdom, and so Rhys, other elves, or mages were sent to war. Admittedly, you missed his presence around the manor. You missed him teaching you things about his culture. You missed the gifts from the forest he would give you. But, good news came, and your dream came true. The prince of your kingdom, Prince Calion Veranda, proposed to you at a ball you attended after a night of drinking, dancing, and mock swordfights.

You immediately moved out of the manor and began your life at the castle. You were so happy with the prince that you forgot about the war until it arrived at your doorstep.

"Kill the prince, but spare the girl!" A familiar voice screams, the sound of footsteps coming towards you.

"Go into the tunnels and keep running. I'll find you!" Calion whispers, pushing you away.

You run into the tunnels, and your brain rings from the sound of water dropping and hearing your own footsteps. The tunnels seem never-ending. Suddenly, as if you're losing your mind, whispers start to echo through the stone walls.

"My love, come back."

"I'm here for you."

"I can hear you."

"I feel you."

"I know you."

"Did you really think you could run away?"

"Ooh! Would you shut up?!" You scream, making everything go silent.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Dri-

"Found you!" Rhys says, his milk-white hand pulling into the walls.

You open your eyes and see a more rugged Rhys standing in front of you. His muscles are bulging through the silk white, and green royal clothing.

"Hi, my queen," Rhys says, grabbing you by the chin.

"Rhys, what are you doing? You're going to ruin our family name," You ask, looking him in the eyes.

Those silver eyes mock you.

"I came back and launched a coup with the support of the people. Don't worry, your family is safe. But this kingdom is going to be ruled by me and renamed into Faeranda. It's all your fault. You know, I heard about your engagement and came for you," Rhys monologues, pointing his sword at the crystal wild violet necklace around your neck. "You still wear this necklace? I thought your parents-no! Your father told you not to wear that. What did they say, "Don't wear anything that woman gives you." 'sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

"Don't bring grandma into this!" You yell, pushing his sword away from your neck.

"A crystal wild violet for a girl born on the first of May," You and Rhys repeat, making you shocked at what you said.

"Now I see why your little prince was so eager to marry you despite your dirty family secret. You asked your grandma for advice. And advice she gave in the form of a pink bottle. Like mother like daughter."

"That's impossible, she's dead."

"Dead? Ha, don't make me laugh! You forget your parents made your personal knight. I've read your diary. I managed to break the spell you put on it. I know that three times a week and on certain holidays, you would go to a cottage in the woods housing your grandmother. All covered for by your dear half-witch mom."

"..."

"You learned magic. You know spells, curses, and hexes passed down through generations of your maternal line. You have a grimoire, a personal and family one. You wanted me out of the way so you could get the prince you never had a chance with. But guess what? Your prince is dead, and I'm the new king. You're going to be my queen."

"Rhys, you're crazy."

"You wouldn't want to break dear grandma's heart, would you? While organizing for the coup, King Faenelis, my father, found your grandma, and she told him her deepest wish was for her granddaughter and daughter to have a safe place to live and practice magic. With me as king, I'll bring a new age of magic to this kingdom. Your grandma can live with you again. You can see the cousins and family you never saw in public. You can feel no shame when your magic slips up. You could ride your broomstick whenever you want."

Rhys made a tempting offer. Sure, he killed the prince you drugged to get, but Rhys being king had many benefits for you. You knew what he wanted in exchange, and you had to grant it.

"I, Y/N L/N, break the physical and magical chains placed upon you and your family. You are free," You say, using magic in front of Rhys.

Silver chains appear around Rhys's body and dissolve into dust. You feel the suppressed magic of Rhys and back away. He summons a ring with a bloomed rose design for the green amethyst. Rhys puts it on your finger, and the elf magic flows through your body. A chain appears around your wrist, and a handle in Rhys's palm.

"What have you done to me?" You ask, feeling weak.

"I made you my slave. You're going to have to work your way up from slave to queen. You have to earn my trust. Don't worry, it's temporary. You'll be free after your true self," Rhys replies, pulling the chain so you crash into his chest. "I love you. We're going to have a great wedding with an even bigger after-party."

You hide your face in his chiseled chest. Both of your feet slowly levitate until you're hugging him midair. Being with him always made your magic act out. Then again, it was for the best. You were so tired and wanted to let it go wild. With him, you could do that. You could always do that with Rhys. It was one of your dirty secrets.

[shalomniscient]

Hello!! Another classic angst idea here (i love classic). What do you think about forbidden love between knight!rahu and princess/noblewoman!reader? Especially if rahu was previously a slave that reader once saved, AND reader were to be wed off to another royal/noble. The angst potential here is delicious 😋

"If only i were born a noble..."

"If only i were born a commoner..."

"Perhaps it would not be a sin for me to love you."

WAIT ANON idk if u know this manhwa but it's called 'getting to know grace' and it's a GL and it goes fucking INSANE but it's so good and is very similar to this concept and would fit a rahu x reader so well? especially since it lets rahu keep the anger/rage we see her carry in rain burst and flora unfurl.

but if we go the more classic route it's STILL banger. especially if like, neither of these fucking idiots ever SAY anything about it and it's just pining to hell and back shdlsjdhslfglfgdlhf rahu holds her tongue because how could she even begin to gain the audacity to admit such a thing? how can a mere human reach for the stars? meanwhile you keep your feelings to yourself because you think rahu doesn't feel the same, and why should she? all you have been all your life is a burden to her, a duty. nothing more, nothing less. HSLDJHSLDHSJD I LOVE WRITING PINING IDIOTS (as an ex pining idiot it is very easy for me u see LMAO)

ANYWAY this can end one of two ways, i feel: one in which both of them have a dramatic confession to each other with tears and a cliche but still good first kiss moment before running off into the sunset OR one in which neither of them say anything in the end and rahu has to watch reader get married to a man she doesn't love and forever live with the fact that reader will always be so close yet so far................................ hsdkjfhskldjf mmmmm angst baby !! i can never be normal about this woman fr

[loving-august]

๑𓈒 ' . 𑇛 I'D STILL CHOOSE YOU.

PAIRINGS. diluc ragnvindr x fem! reader

SYNOPSIS. in which diluc notices your worries about the people around you.

GENRE. angst to fluff hurt/comfort

WC. 1.05k!!

WARNINGS. none, slight profanity, insecurity, gossips, bodyshaming

NOTES. hello! this fic will be new expansion to my fandoms hehe I hope you guys will like it just as much I enjoyed writing this fic. blame diluc bc of him I made a decision to create for genshin characters smh /j + reblogs are highly appreciated!

LINKS. navigaion | genshin impact masterlist | taglist form

๑𓈒 ' . 𑇛 REBLOGS ARE HIGHLY APPRECIATED!

Being the richest bachelor in mondstat, Diluc is expected to do what nobles do. The way he greets, acts, and accomplishes every job perfectly. He received a vision at the age of 10 and became the youngest captain in the knights of favonius at the age of 14. Of course, he is now just a mere businessman taking care of the winery in the morning or protecting the entire mondstat at night time. His past is yet to be told.

Rich parents of noble women across nations often visit him in hopes to have their daughter as the groom. Yet, he refuses to tell them as he tells them that he has no sole interest in having a relationship with any women. Or so he thought.

You happened to see him in his dark knight duties one fateful evening. You were ambushed by hillichurls while you were on your way to the outskirts of mondstat, your home. You came out from work a bit too late than usual.

You accidentally punched him as you thought it was some treasure hoarder coming at you. You apologised so sincerely that it wasn't some bad guy.

"Master diluc?" You asked.

Shit. He cursed himself.

"Than-"

"Don't say a word about this." He sternly said. And you did.

You scratched your neck awkwardly, "I will. Thank you again!" You walked away from him. To be honest he was scary earlier, barbatos how could this happen to me?

Little did you both know, a certain bard was witnessing the scene. A playful smirk grew into his face. "Huh, may the wind guide each other." He whispered. It's a rare scene to see Diluc in this kind of situation. Maybe the dear archon barbatos, also known as venti would be part of playing cupid.

A time has passed since your first encounter with Diluc, Venti's cupid duties came into reality. He was very happy for you and Diluc and he even played a small tune for the two of you. As much as Diluc appreciated the gesture, he would not change the way he treats venti in his tavern due to his wine addiction. As well as Kaeya, the wonder duo never fails to give Diluc a headache.

Soon enough, you opened your eyes to the noble world. There is a lot of catching up to do. All the stereotypes were shown on to you, the mannerisms on talking, acting, and greetings to fellow nobles. It was hard. As someone like you had no experience on such acts.

You found yourself in your shared rooms with your lover. With your eyes all puffy and red due to crying. You couldn't take it anymore.

"How can Master Diluc find someone so…common.."

"I expected him to choose a noblewoman from liyue."

The voices of other people in mondstat broke your heart. To hear such a thing about Diluc, you felt responsible. Instead of making him happy by his side, you could only be giving him a bad name by just existing beside him.

It felt so wrong.

What you didn’t was that you fell asleep on the vanity where you cried yourself with dried tears on your cheeks.

Diluc just recently returned home from his darknight duties. You were completely aware of his schedule as if its the back of your palm. Why would you know all about it? Of course diluc would tell you things about him, he’s that devoted to you. Adeline, the head maid of the manor, greeted the master of the manor. “Good evening Master Diluc.”

“Good evening to you too,” Diluc greeted back.

He went straight to your shared rooms, not giving any mind of eating for tonight. He was busy eliminating abyss mages around mondstat. When he opened the door, first he saw you sleeping uncomfortably on the vanity table. He immediately removed his coat and placed it on some chair and carried you carefully. Making sure that you were not awake. How long have you been asleep? Your neck is probably sore because of the restricted sleeping position you were in.

He sighed as he saw you still in your morning clothes. He can’t imagine wearing all the heavy clothing from daylight to night time. That's why you've woken up? "Did I wake you up darling?" He asked.

you got up and he followed. "No, you didn't. I just felt my position changed." You groggily replied while rubbing your eyes.

Diluc was observing you. He noticed that you were secretly wiping off the direct tears on your face while pretending to rub your eyes after you had just woken up from a long slumber.

He was worried. Maybe he has been busy lately since he has a wine business to attend to. Not only the wine business but also his secret duties at night time at mondstat. The abyss order has been showing up lately.

"y/n, can I ask you a question?" He started. You looked at your hands, not looking at his worried eyes laid upon you. "uh, sure. What are you trying to ask?" You replied.

Something is not sitting right. The way you said it was as if you changed your sentence and the way you speak. this is not the y/n he used to talk to. A hint of guilt punched at diluc. He HAS been busy. He should reschedule his time for you after this. He felt accountable for your well-being, since he was the one who asked you to live with him and as his lover, it is his duty to take care of you.

"Is something bothering you lately?" He asked. There, he asked for it. Although he expects you to lie to him. You can't lie to him after all.

"No, nothing's wrong dearest, I'm just tired..that's all," you answered and gave him a small smile.

Diluc uses his thumb to wipe off rye excess tears from your face, "No you're not. It breaks my heart whenever you lie to me. Tell me the truth my love, whatever you say is valid, after all it made you feel this way," He slowly opened his arms for you to be able to rest on his chest while wrapping his arms around you, "if you feel like I'm slipping away from you, don't worry."

"I'd still choose you."

© 2022 loving-august. All Rights Reserved. Do not repost. Do not plagiarize. Do not share on other platforms. Will get slapped if u do.

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-One

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: This will be a heavy one, besties. We're getting into the story's darker and potentially triggering side, so I've given more detail than I usually do about warnings. Also, the song Ptolemaea by Ethel Cain heavily inspired this chapter, and I really, really recommend listening to it to connect with the reader. Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter Warnings: graphic depictions of dissociation, seizures, sexual assault, misogyny, incontinence, attempted rape, power imbalances, and murder. You have been warned.

Red Butterflies Meanings: courage, passion, the life-death cycle, fire, and survival.

"Even the iron still fears the rot

Hiding from something I cannot stop

Walking on shadows, I can't lead him back, 

Buckled on the floor when night comes along..."

- Ptolemaea, Ethel Cain

Arryk's head spun when he finally reached White Sword Tower, his armor bearing the weight of his emotions as he yanked the knots that held them together, discarding it haphazardly across his chamber. The more he thought of what he witnessed, the more his head pounded, the pain building inside until he could no longer stand it, and vomit spewed into his chamber pot.

He was an imbecile, a fool, no better than the court jester who embarrassed themselves for others' entertainment.

Arryk knew that you and Prince Aegon were close. You spent most of your days with him or Helaena as any kin would, but he should have learned, paid closer attention, and protected you from the Prince's ensnarement.

Sometimes, the knight would notice the Prince too close, a hand resting in an unusual spot or a stare lingering far longer than what was proper, but he thought nothing of it. You were a capable woman. You were far better at standing your ground than any other noblewoman regarding a male's advances. He saw for himself with the Lord Reaper of Pyke.

Perhaps that was a lie. Maybe you were not the strong woman he believed. Maybe you rejected advances because your sights were set on someone else, your heart on someone else, not because you held your honor to a high degree. You made your own choices–made your bed. You could save your own against the vices of the opposite sex yet make the choices of a hoydenish woman, and that was what Arryk sinkingly realized.

It was your choice.

***

Your chest felt hollow as you stared out a paned window in Aegon's chambers as he laced the back of your dress. The hours after Arryk's intrusion were spent inside the Prince's rooms listening to his apologies. His pleas and snivels were disregarded as you stared at the vast expanse of King's Landing.

"I'm so sorry," he cried, rubbing his tear-stained cheeks into the crook of your neck. "I am a fool. I should never have done such a thing. I-I should have protected your honor," he stuttered, swallowing the excess saliva in his mouth. "Please, speak to me. Yell at me, strike me, please just anything."

Your emotions had switched off like the flicker of a candle flame, tears long dried and left to crack on your skin. "What is there to say that you have not?"

Aegon sobbed further into you in admission, the weight of his actions lowering him to the floor as he crumbled at your feet, shoving his face into your thick skirts. He reminded you of his son who screamed and wailed if you ignored him, the same soft, wavy blonde hair below you, begging to be touched.

You did not feel anger towards the Prince. It would have been better if you did, but you could not force it in spite of your best efforts. It felt like nothing. No simmering rage threatened to boil, no sadness or embarrassment pulling at your gut. No emotion. Simply and utterly nothing, and it felt wrong. You needed to show something to sense anything.

Imagining all the hardships you faced, Ma's abandonment and the death of Lyra and Sara proved fruitless. Only when Aegon became too grabby and pinched the flesh of your thighs then did you feel something.

Pain.

It was the sensation that guided the victories of some and the downfalls of others. It brought you back to reality, feeling Aegon's rapid breathing on your wrist and realizing you had not been inside your body despite your mind moving.

"All will be forgiven with time," you decided, hand moving to stroke the fine strands on your fair-haired boy's head, "but you must swear to me you shall never do such a thing again. You will work on yourself to find what causes you to commit such atrocities. I cannot mend what has been broken if you do not know what needs to be."

You sensed Aegon's gaze on you before he spoke, nodding profusely. "I will, I will! I will do anything for you, my love!" he simpered, rubbing the tears and mucus from his lips.

"No, Aegon," you said firmly, his eyes snapping to his bleary ones. You must do this for yourself. Not for me."

He knew better than to speak again, for the only words he would utter would debase himself further, so he bobbed his head and pulled your legs closer in a mock embrace. He loved you so... so much.

"I must confront Ser Arryk about this," you began, your voice one of practice. "You will need to be the unmoving rock that the waves crash against for me. Arryk is furious and I fear he will say things that might hurt me far worse than any blow."

"I shall kill him if he tries to," Aegon declared with a fierce glint in his eyes.

While it pleases you to no end, the depth of his affections is unnecessary.

"No," you stated firmly, bending at the waist to pull your lover up to his full height, "you will do no such thing. I need your support, not your wrath."

He stared at you sternly as if ready to take up arms and defend your honor, and it warmed your heart, finally feeling something other than empty. You smiled delicately, the tug barely there as you kissed the wrinkles between Aegon's pale brows, smoothing his unruly hair.

"I love you," the words were like an oath as if this was the first time you had uttered them, "more than I could ever explain. I want you to remember that. Always."

Aegon was speechless, taken aback by the sudden gravity of your confession that he had already heard many times before. He knew he could only show his appreciation in one way when words were useless. Kissing your lips with a breathless intensity that nearly knocked you off your feet, he slowly kneeled before you.

The Prince wrote his apologies with his tongue on your cunt, drank the sweet nectar from between your legs gratefully, and once you peaked, digits twisting and pulling his silver hair, he thanked you and begged to allow him to do it once more. 

***

It was nearly impossible to track Ser Arryk after he left; even asking his twin brother led you to no answer. There was one place he could be, but you could not set foot in White Sword Tower. The mere thought of it stole the air from your lungs. Instead, you found it less vexing to wait until his inevitable appearance. After all, he swore an oath to you, and those who broke them received punishments worse than death.

Searching for your sworn shield, you ran into some welcoming faces and some not. Young Dyana was the first for you to greet along with another nursemaid now carrying the nearly fluent Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Your littlest cousins were ecstatic to see you, almost knocking you to your knees as they squealed in delight, telling you of their day. Prince Jaehaerys declared with such vehemence that he would be as skilled as a swordsman as you, and when you brought up his Uncle Aemond, who was just formidable, he shook his head.

"There are a lot of Uncle Aemonds," he said, "there are no yous."

No matter the circumstances, the twins always make you smile. And just the same, Larys Strong's appearance asking you to share a bottle of wine regarding the previous subject he discussed always makes you scowl.

It was the hour of ghosts before the guard change, forcing you to stay awake with needlework in your hands. You applauded him for choosing such a late time, but he underestimated your will, as men often find themselves victims of.

And that was where you found yourself, staring into the once kind, soft blue eyes, now cold, impenetrable, and filled with venom.

Ser Cargyll's reaction confused you. He was your protector, not your father, but even then, you were optimistic that Daemon would be proud of what you had done. Was it because he only knew of the Aegon spoken of in rumors? The one who ate, drank, whored, and gambled in gluttonous amounts. Did he think you needed protecting from the contents of courtly gossip?

"I understand your apprehension about Aegon," you began, taking a deep breath and readying yourself for a monologue, "but I can assure you I can handle a spoiled prince."

"I have no doubt in that," Ser Arryk huffed, crossing his arms with a sneer. You were physically taken aback, your head shaking as if he struck you in the face. "Seeing as you took his cock like a common Flea Bottom whore."

Mouth gaping like a fish, you gasped, surprised at the gull of your sworn shield. The man who had comforted you after the abuse you received from Septa Mariam was insulting you and, in a way, he knew would hurt you deeper.

"I beg your pardon?" you questioned aghast, eyes wide as the conversation between friends turned to one of enemies.

"What? Did he fuck you deaf too?"

You sighed heavily, mouth in a deep frown as you glanced away, attempting to comprehend how to proceed. Anger was slowly rising within you, like the tide of Blackwater Bay, but you refused to let it control you. "I see," you answered dejectedly, "you believe like the rest of them... the rumors." It hurt to finally confront someone who thought of Aegon so lowly, having been woefully unprepared for the sheer hostility. "But you must put your trust in my judgment not to love someone who is so wretched."

"I loved you. I swore my life to you, my blood to you, and yet..." he paused, clenching his chestnut-beard jaw before cracking, "You desire a monster."

Arryk's statements befuddled you, causing you to let out an ugly guffaw. "You speak of oaths, yet your words are empty. Did you not promise to stay by my side no matter the cost? To spill your blood and offer guidance when needed and when not?" He gave you no response, his stare filled with all the hatred of the Seven Hells. "You are sworn to me!" You shouted in desperation, arms gesturing with each passionate phrase he refused to answer with only disgust.

"I am sworn to the King," he answered like a blade cracking through your ribs.

"You are an oath breaker, Ser Arryk Cargyll. Men have been punished more for less," you declared with ire, your voice husky from your previous statements.

Arryk understood what you meant by those words—the unspoken outcome of death to those who returned to their promises.

"You would never punish me," he flatly stated as if he had just said a mundane fact about the weather.

You nodded in acquiescence, sucking your cheek as if you tasted something vile. "You are correct. I am not the vile bastard people claim me to be. I do not betray and break promises I have sworn before the Old Gods and the New! Do not go back on your words simply because of your own emotions."

"I love you! I care about you morning and night, not him! I've been the one to weather the storms of your life! I have protected your honor from those who thought to use it because I believed you were kind and good!" he yelled, blue veins popping from his pale neck. "I thought of breaking my vow to the King for you! Creating a life for us where you would be free of judgment and duties, from the whispers and gossip of nobles, but you-"

"You speak as if it is my fault for your fantasies, that I gave you love letters and kisses and sang ballads." You refused to accept any blame for this. "You are a man and responsible for your own emotions, not me. Take your leave and return when you have come to your senses," you declared with finality.

He acted like a petulant child- far worse than you had ever seen Aegon. The man seemed entitled to your emotions as if you owed him for not reciprocating his feelings.

Arryk could not stand this. How could you be so selfish and uncaring? He loved you. He loved you! Why didn't you love him back?

"You are your blood," he spat, raising a gloved finger in ridicule, "a harlot and a monster."

It felt as if you got a blow to the chest, arms wrapping securely around yourself. You loved your Father and your Mother; they were good people. So why did it hurt?

Ser Arryk left without another word, large oak doors slamming shut behind him. He entered without hesitance when he reached another set of intricately carved wood, fitting that of only those who lived in Maegor's Holdfast.

The Queen sat within her solar, a cup of evening tea resting on a saucer in her lap. She wore her dressing gown, staring idly into the warmth of the fire as Ser Arryk's presence caused a start. Ser Criston stood not too far from Alicent, the hand on the pommel of his sword as he began to scold the knight.

"Ser Cargyll, what is the meaning of this?" Criston questioned, irritation laced in his words. Arryk had not realized he was out of breath until he attempted to speak, words becoming difficult to create. "I must speak with her grace. Tis a matter of great urgency."

Ser Criston bristled, scowling as he stood tall in the face of the disheveled knight. "You may speak to her highness on the morrow. It is too late for audiences and hardly proper."

Arryk sucked in a breath as he readied to protest but was stopped short by the rise of the Queen's hand. Her protector stared at her in confusion, telling with his eyes that he was not pleased with her allowance of this.

"Please, ser," Alicent spoke with her smooth alto, gesturing to the area before her.

Ser Arryk took a few calming inhales, wanting to speak as eloquently before the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, giving her a brief bow. He was unsure of how to word it. He knew if he spoke with the scorn he felt within, Alicent might not perceive the honesty of his confession and take it as an upset man with bruised pride.

"I have served as a steadfast member of the Kingsguard. I have not shied away from any challenge nor dishonored him," he began, the rise and fall of his chest steady. "I did not cower when your father, the Lord Hand, tasked me with protecting the King's granddaughter. However, lately, there have been revelations that have caused me to question where my loyalties lie. I seek your guidance, my Queen, regarding the Princess." The Queen stared at him with concern, brows wrinkled, and plump lips pursed. 

"I happened upon your son, Prince Aegon, and the Princess within his bed chambers."

Ser Criston could not hide his shock, glancing at Queen Alicent to see her unphased reaction. "I initially believed the situation to be non-consensual, but her grace explained that it was not, that they are in love. It worries me that if word should travel and Prince Daemon discovers the relationship, I should be punished for not protecting her honor."

He purposefully hid the valid reason for his appearance, knowing he could be punished if he revealed it.

Alicent inhaled, silently relieved that someone else shared her concerns regarding you and her son. She placed her tea on the foot table before her, gently wiping the corners of her lips and clearing her throat.

"I understand your concern, Ser Arryk. Who all knows of this?" she inquired with a frown.

"Just my brother, Erryk, and I. He has known for some time but protects the Prince's secrets."

"I see," she responded, voice resigned. "I thank you most graciously for coming to me. You have done your duty well, ser. You needn't shoulder this burden any longer. I shall take care of the matter. You may take your leave."

The knight bowed his head, the weight on his chest still there, but not for political affairs, as he swiftly exited, thanking the Queen for her time.

Criston studied Alicent once the knight left, eyes scanning over her form. He could tell from the years of servitude when she was hiding something, her fingers begging to pick at her digits, but being the ever-dutiful protector, he remained silent.

The Queen stewed in the quiet, her teeth gnawing on her plush lip. Endless outcomes ran wild through her mind, all of them creating a ball of anxiety. Finally, when she was too far lost in her thoughts, she grabbed her tea and took a calming sip.

"Ser Criston," she spoke, startling her sworn shield, "please summon Lord Larys. I wish to speak with him."

***

You found yourself within the Godswood as you always did in times of strife, gazing up into the golden leaves of a Cottonwood, the soft rustle of branches reminding you of inaudible whispers. They were hard to make within the darkness, only able to see the outlines with the dusting of stars, but they gave you comfort. The Old Gods watched you with their unseen eyes as your fingertips traced the rough bark, grass crunching beneath your boots.

You recalled your first time within the Godswood since arriving in King's Landing, trying to seek peace yet being disturbed by a drunk and blubbering Aegon. The memory pulled a smile onto your cold cheeks, a nostalgic feeling coming over you as you thought of your time under the Heart Tree together. It felt like an age ago now. Such foolishness you did then...

You hadn't returned to Aegon yet, needing time within yourself to fully comprehend such a betrayal from your knight. It was still raw, the wound gaping and pooling with blood as it seeped into the sod below. Arryk hurt you far more than you ever thought him capable.

Your relationship with the knight began purely logistically. You needed to gather as many allies as possible, and you had succeeded by having your maids, Madam's web of spies in the Keep, and a Prince and Princess. The now missing piece was a protector. Some of you desired to march to the Commander of The Kingsguard, Ser Harrold, and tell him how Arryk had betrayed his oath in more ways than one, but you could not. 

You had unknowingly shattered Ser Arryk's heart, and some part of you that had grown fond of the knight was pained because of it. You were confident that he would return once he fully understood you did not mean to do so and would forgive him.

Suddenly, a quiet cracking noise came from the far corner of the Godswood. Your head snapped, and your hand instinctively went to your dagger. Instead of a foe, the metal and glass shack of Helaena's butterfly hut stood, the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk becoming louder as you trekked across the yard.

You observed in awe as a newly hatched butterfly, a mix of red, black, and tan, white dots that looked like eyes, flapped its inexperienced wings, repeatedly flying into the glass wall. Your heart broke for the insect, glancing at the door. If you unlatched the shack, you could free the singular insect for a time of freedom beyond its transparent cage but doom the rest of the cocoons to the frost. Or you could leave it to be the only one that dies, continuing the life cycle for the dozen other insects evolving into their destined form.

You stared at the lone creature for a moment, your teeth tugging at your lip before making your way to the inside of the Red Keep.

***

When you entered your hall, seeing no guard at the door was surprising. Usually, you expect to catch a member of the Gold Cloaks fast asleep outside your door, especially if Ser Arryk was not posted. You did not think the knight was so careless as to leave a member of the royal family unguarded, but people acted out of character in anger, so you did not hold it against him.

Upon entering your chambers, you found the cause of the missing protector. Lord Larys Strong sat at your dining table, the flagon of wine he promised glinting in the candlelight.

"I see now why there is no guard at my chambers," you began, eyes scanning the Lord for any potential threat. "Did you pay him or offer a girl indebted to you?"

Larys grinned, mirth in his stare, and bowed his head as his palms rested on the firefly of his cane. Would it be so terrible if you broke the thing?

"Princess, you speak so lowly of me. Words like that wound a man's heart." He brought his hand to his chest, emphasizing the mock pain. "I have come to have that drink with you."

You stared at him skeptically, your eyelids slit as you placed your fur coat across the back of an empty chair at the table. "I do not recall agree to such an invitation," you spoke, taking your seat and peering into the red liquid inside the glass.

Larys took his drink, lifting his cup in a slight toast. You followed his actions, sipping the cup demurely as only an action of politeness. It stunned you momentarily that the Lord had chosen your favorite Essosi wine, flashing him a tight-lipped smile as he watched expectantly. "I do hope your only reason for being here is not regarding our previous conversation. My mind has not changed."

"I understand it has not, Princess, but I want you to understand that I have yet to fail the Queen and do not intend to do so now," he responded with a stern furrow of his brow.

Rolling your eyes, you groaned, taking another sip of your wine before speaking. "I am not leaving King's Landing, and that is final. Queen Alicent knows now that I shall not, and neither of you has the power to do so." You stood from your chair, fists on your hips as you leaned against the oak table, looking down at the crooked man. "I am here in my Mother's stead. You recall the Lords trying to remove me from the Small Council and how it faired?"

The Master of Whispers nodded in recollection, crossing his ankles as he gazed above at you, his mousy brown hair falling behind his ears. "I remember that, indeed. It was quite a sight," he chortled, "you inspired enough courage in the King to leave his sick bed, and not even the namedays of his children could do that."

You giggled at his words, but it quickly became a cough, your mouth dry as you took a swig of the Essosi wine to coat your throat. "Yes, and you remember his words? That I'm to be retreated as an extension of Princess Rhaenyra. You would not remove the heir to the Iron Trone from her rightful seat?"

The Strong Lord hummed through his nose, taking a drink in silence, his beady stare on you. Something was always hidden with his gaze as if he knew the very thoughts inside your head. You grew uncomfortable as your mind wandered, fidgeting with the golden rings on your fingers. The betrayal of the Red Keep was profound, which you understood from a very young age and was the whole purpose of your prolonged stay here, but it still amazed you when you met it head-on.

The only reason for the questions around your Mother's legitimacy as heir was the fact that she had a cunt instead of a cock. The ruling lords feared what change Rhaenyra would cause with her rule. It threatened the centuries of tradition they had created, a tradition that served to their advantage. If a woman ruled the Seven Kingdoms, what would that mean for them? What would it mean for all the eldest daughters tossed aside in favor of a younger son?

It would mean women would no longer be the property of their fathers and husbands. They could not barter and sell for their advantage. It would tell women they weren't the lesser sex; they were not subservient but equal, and that threatened men's power.

"My Mother will create a new order for the realm, Lord Larys," you declared flippantly, your palms becoming sticky. "She will not be the exception but the rule, and you will either bend the knee for her when the time comes or lose your life." You raised a brow as if to invite challenge, daring the Lord to say the treasonous words that were written across the lines of his face.

Larys smirked as always, sighing as he twirled his cane between his digits. "We shall see," he stated wistfully, eyes trained on the object in his hands.

You moved yourself off the table to protest but nearly fell, an abrupt burning sensation radiating within your gut, catching you unaware. Groaning, you cradled your stomach and rested on the wood for support. You felt your body begin to weaken with every minute of discomfort, a sudden onset of symptoms that reminded you of when you ate tainted food. Grunting, you glanced at Larys, the man now observing you with an expecting look in his blue eyes.

"I apologize, my Lord. I believe I may have eaten something foul today," you gritted out, sweat beginning to seep from every pore in your body. "Please, excuse me and we shall reconvene at another time."

"No, Princess. I intend to stay. As I have said, I have yet to leave my Queen's wishes unfulfilled, and you are no different."

You stared at him perplexed, vision going blurry momentarily as a stabbing pain scorched your insides, and suddenly it all made sense.

Your gaze quickly flickered over to the half-drank cup of wine, the absence of a guard, and Larys' calm demeanor. You could see it in his eyes, the same cold, icy gaze as he watched your knees buckle beneath you. Pushing yourself off the table, you made your way for the exit. You would not sit idly and allow this man to escape with whatever he had done. You would fight until your heart finally ceased to beat.

The Lord stuck out his cane before you gained enough distance, causing your knees to crash against the stone floor, pain radiating throughout your body.

You whimpered pitifully, the sound causing shame to rise as you attempted to push yourself up, but your arms gave out, collapsing again. Larys stood from his chair, his dragging gait and rhythmic tapping of wood creeping up behind you as you turned to face him, back pressed to the cold floor.

"Tell me," you rasped, the mere act of speaking creating a combination of exhaustion and nausea, "what have you done?"

He peered down at you through the end of his nose, the tip of his cane pressing into your chest as you pushed your body away. You couldn't catch your breath, a buzzing within your ears sounding as Larys began to speak.

"I saw you, the morning of Ser Lorgan's death, in the lower quarters of White Sword Tower. I followed you in." He lowered himself to the ground next to you, your limbs unable to move as a helpless terror rose within your heart. "I saw what you did, Princess. You murdered an innocent man, severing his head from his body, and when finished, sat at the table, you broke your fast."

Tears cloud your vision, leaking from your eyes with abandon as you struggled to breathe, the once thoughtless task becoming laborious. He knew all this time that you were the killer the scullery maids feared at night, yet he said nothing. He could have easily used that knowledge to blackmail you from Kings Landing. So why... why did Larys Strong choose death? What could he possibly gain from your murder?

Larys' hands made their way to your skirts, sliding the thick fabric you once held pride in up your legs. You could not feel the sensation, nor your lower limbs, horror tearing at your mind as his fingers went to your stockings next.

"Stop," you inaudibly muttered, mouth full of lead. "Make it stop."

You were praying to anything, anyone who would listen to your cries– any god, Old or New, the Seven, Valyrian, Pentosi, the Drowned, anyone who would help save you from this fate. It was not enough that Larys had incapacitated you; he had to defile you, too.

"I was confused, at first, why you would seemingly murder someone at random. It took time, but eventually, a connection was made. Ser Edder and Lorgan were the ones that punished the two women who attempted to help you flee all those years ago." Larys removed your boots and stockings, baring your unmoving limbs for his eyes to feast upon. "Lyra and Sara I believe. A whore and a maid."

He stroked his thumb over the arch of your foot, admiring the concave flesh as he brought it to his lips. You gagged, abdomen lurching as you turned your head to the side, a mixture of blood and digested food spewing from your mouth and onto the floor beside you. The vile man proceeded to cherish the soles of your feet as one would a jewel, nuzzling his face into them as he licked a stripe from your heel to toe.

"Make it stop. Please, I've had enough," you cried, the words only a murmur.

There was fear within you, but what overshadowed it was sadness. You had finally found the happiness you craved, the missing piece within your life that would ultimately make you whole, and now it would be taken away. You did not mourn for the loss of life. You wept for Aegon, Luke, Jace, Joffery, Helaena, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, your Mother and Father for the years you would miss, for the events you would never see. 

You would never see the twins grow into adults, little Aegon and Viserys speak their first words, or the babe growing within Helaena's belly. You would not see Aegon become the man he was meant to be, to watch him blossom into the loving father and husband he was always capable of being. You feared what would become of him without the one he depended on. Would all your planning and sacrifices be for naught?

Larys glanced back up at you, noticing the pile of gore beside your head, stained lips and tears, smiling as he gingerly placed your foot down, proceeding his assault onto the next.

You were relieved to some degree that you had lost all sensation in the lower half of your body, a welcomed gift from whatever poison he chose.

"You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb, there's nothing you can do. It's already been done," he cooed, leaning above you to brush a strand of loose ebony hair sticking to your forehead. "The poison will kill you soon, and you shall not remember a thing," he declared, kneeling as he shoved himself between your legs, undoing the laces of his breeches.

"Poison Hemlock is often mistaken for carrots by young children in the Riverlands. 'Tis a volatile thing. Sometimes, it starts with vomiting, tremors, and uncontrollable movements of the muscles, but one thing is for certain: you will die tonight, Princess, alone and at the mercy of a man who you think yourself above."

Your heart began to race impossibly faster as Larys shifted your skirts, pulling the knot of your small clothes and dragging them down your legs. He brought the sweat-soaked fabric to his nose, burying his face as he inhaled your natural scent. It sent another wave of disgust, coughing up excess saliva and leftover blood as you choked.

Suddenly, you felt as if a wave rolled through your head, an intense pressure pounding inside your skull as you lost all the breath within your lungs. Larys looked up at the noise, seeing your horror-stricken gaze as your body went rigid, your eyes involuntarily rolling back until he saw nothing but the whites of them. Your body began to convulse uncontrollably, your mind losing consciousness and control.

Larys sneered in distaste at the abrupt cut off to his fun, adjusting himself more comfortably between your legs. He had hoped there would be more time before the hemlock took full effect, but this would have to do. At least he would no longer hear your pathetic mewls of protest.

He waited patiently until the tremors subsided, leaning back on his haunches as he observed the pink bubbly froth seep from your mouth, tearing his aching cock from his trousers as he began to stroke himself to total hardness.

Larys felt the warmth of liquid on his knees before he saw it, a puddle of urine soaking through the material of his breeches as he moved your legs over to the side. He was disgusted with his now urine-soaked clothes, insulted that you would do such a thing as if you had control over it, standing with the help of his firefly cane. He peered down at your still convulsing form, intrigued by your body's lack of control despite your unconsciousness.

It was disappointing that he could not derive some pleasure from his actions. It left him woefully unfulfilled, but he was satisfied enough to have kept his promise to the Queen, to reduce someone who thought so highly of themselves to a pissing, vomiting mess. Larys left your chambers with a smile on his mousy face, as silent as the rats within the walls of the Keep. 

Masterlist of Series

So what do y'all think? I warned that it would get darker here, but it's ASOIAF. What did you expect? I wanted to express the reader's fear and the sense of violation she felt during the poisoning scene, so I hope I did a good job with that. I also really wanted to not just do the type of poisoning scene where people cough up some blood and then be done with it. I'm probably on the FBI's watch list for my search history because I did so much research on the effects of Poison Hemlock and different types of seizures. XD

Also, when I was little, I gave my mom a bouquet of poison hemlock. To be fair, the white flower is pretty, and I was like 8.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thank you so much for reading!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @ynbutbetter, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @prettywhenicry4, @daenerysqueenofhearts, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @pastelorangeskies, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @merovingianprincess, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @heavenly1927, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney, @aurorathi, @marihoneywk, @xitsemm

[ophanim-vesper]

Hello world, have my BOTW/TOTK OC

Her name is Ciara (pronounced Kiara). She has quite the lore so strap in.

CW[?]: oc x canon, headcanons that not everyone might agree with, angst, tragic character death. Ciara was Zelda's lady-in-waiting, back before the Calamity struck. Ciara's mother was a wealthy noblewoman. Her father was a villager from a now extinct tribe within Hyrule.

[btw if you want to know more about that, here's a google doc on the Hylian tribe I made up for my OCs: doc]

Overtime, Ciara and Zelda grew close, to the point they were inseparable. At first, King Rhoam viewed this as a normal friendship; but as the two grew, their affections for one another became increasingly obvious.

In an attempt to separate the two, Rhoam makes Zelda visit the Sacred Springs to awaken her powers. Of course, he assigns Link as her appointed knight, as he views him as a prime suitor for her in the future. However, Zelda manages to sneak Ciara out of the castle and has her secretly accompany her.

Ciara was taught the culture of her tribe from her father, but due to her royal duties, was never able to practice them. Ciara rediscovers herself in the wilds of Hyrule, even befriending a Satori as her steed, despite her fear of horses. Sadly, Zelda was not having as much luck, as she struggled to unlock her latent abilities. Out of envy and frustration, she lashes out at Ciara, who returns her anger, and the two fight for the first time. When Calamity Ganon awakes, he attacks Zelda, but Ciara sacrifices herself to save her instead. Now reincarnated into a centaur-like spirit, Ciara roams the kingdom of Hyrule as an enigmatic entity. Her presence and power scares away Ganon's servants, to the point that they become paralyzed from fear. She is soon known as 'The Centauri', often associated with the Satori, and is known to protect those threatened by monsters. However, she carries a deep regret for not reconciling with her princess before her death. She wishes she could meet her again, even in this new, strange form. She watches the sky for the light dragon when it passes by, the sight of which sparks an eerie familiarity within the Centauri.

[morri-draws]

Gwaine x Reader - 'The Threads That Bind Us' - Chapter 8

Story Summary:

You, a humble dressmaker from Camelot’s lower town, are commissioned to make a new gown for Queen Guinevere. Impressed by your skills, she offers you the position of Royal Clothier. During your time in the castle, you catch the eye of one of the knights of King Arthur’s inner circle, Sir Gwaine. What starts as a sweet courtship is turned upside down when misfortune strikes and you must deal with the aftermath, as well as an unwelcome visit from Gwaine’s unpleasant sister.

Rating: Mature

Tags: Female Reader/Gwaine, set between seasons 4 and 5, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 2,253

Read Chapter 1 | Read Chapter 2 | Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4 | Read Chapter 5 | Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read on Ao3

You head to the market that morning, after preparation of a pitiful breakfast made you aware of your severe lack of ingredients.

You go to the baker’s first, purchasing a loaf of bread, before wandering down market street to see what fruit and vegetables are on offer. Stopping at a fruit merchant’s stand, you inspect the produce on display when you overhear a familiar voice.

“I believe I’ve seen him head toward her chambers a couple of times lately, but that’s all,” Erika says as she walks leisurely down the market street, arm-in-arm with a noblewoman. “He probably thinks she will be more inclined to lift her skirts in the state she’s in. You know, he was a dreadful flirt back home. The townsfolk hid their daughters from him,”

You do not hear Erika’s companion’s response as you turn your attention back to the merchant’s stand, realising the peach you’re holding is leaking juice through your fingers, which are clamped around the helpless fruit.

“My apologies,” You look up at the merchant standing behind the stall. “I will pay for it,”

You thoughtlessly select a few more peaches and finish your transaction quickly, before moving on to other stands to purchase the rest of your groceries, trying to control your emotions so you might get through this task without embarrassing yourself. Once all the ingredients are purchased and loaded into your basket, you walk back to the castle with a long and fast stride.

You cross the courtyard and head down the first corridor when you feel a hand on your shoulder, causing you to jump and spin around in alarm.

“Sorry,” Gwaine steps back, hands held out defensively. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ve been trying to catch you lately, but I seem to keep missing you when I’ve come by your chambers,” His gaze falls to the basket in your hands. “Do you want me to carry that?”

He reaches forward to grab the handle, but you pull it behind you, out of his reach.

“No, thank you. I must be off. I have much to do today,”

You turn around and continue on your way, leaving the knight behind.

Back at your chambers, you place the basket down and sit at the table, chin resting on your fist.

Gwaine had been a smooth-talker from the beginning. While you did think him a flirt upon your first acquaintance, over time, you came to believe that there was more to the man. But looking back, the way he spoke with you was overly familiar. If you were a lady of higher standing, his familiarity would have been inappropriate. But you’ve never been one to put on airs or think yourself of higher station than you really are, so you accepted it, even flirted back. Were you a complete fool to be so taken in? During the picnic with just the two of you, perhaps he was hoping for something more to happen. Was it his first attempt to seduce you, and you were too naïve to see it? You let yourself think that he actually cared for you. Why would he? You’re no one special, just a nobody who got lucky enough to get a position in the palace, and he’s a knight of Camelot, of the king’s inner circle.

You move to rake your hands through your hair in anguish, but find fabric there instead, covering your cropped hair: your daily reminder of that horrible man, of his thick arms holding you as he used you as a human shield, as he took a part of you, just to make some coin. Holding your head in your hands, hot tears fall down your cheeks as you curse the day you were taken by those bandits, you curse the day you met Gwaine and you curse yourself for falling for him.

Your moment of despair is interrupted by a rap at the door. You raise your head and stare at the door as the visitor knocks again. You stay where you are, waiting to hear retreating footsteps, but instead, the latch lifts and the door swings open. You quickly stand, hastily wiping your face on your sleeve as Merlin steps inside. He scans the room briefly before his eyes fall to you.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“It is customary to wait for someone to answer the door,” Anger flares at this intrusion during your moment of weakness.

“I’m sorry,” He replies. “It’s just… I saw you heading to your chambers so I knew you were in here,”

“So that makes it alright to enter without an invitation?” Your voice rises.

“I thought something might be wrong,” Merlin replies defensively.

“It isn’t your business whether something is wrong or not, if you have not been invited inside!”

Merlin stares guiltily, eyes wide, clearly choosing his next words wisely.

“Why have you come?” You ask before he has the chance to speak again. You wish for this encounter to be over.

“Arthur wanted to see you about clothes for the harvest festival,”

“Clothes? Does he want something made?”

“I believe so,”

“Very well, tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,”

Merlin nods and leaves your chambers, hastily closing the door on his way out.

~

Merlin turns at the end of the passage, where he almost collides with Gwaine.

“Have you just been to see (Y/N)?” The knight asks as he turns and falls into step beside Merlin.

“Yes,” Merlin replies.

“Did she answer the door for you?”

“Well… not exactly,” Merlin shrugs.

“What do you mean?” Gwaine’s brow creases in confusion.

“I let myself in,”

“Merlin,” Gwaine says sternly.

“She was really angry,” Merlin grimaces.

“Of course she was, even I know you never enter a lady’s chambers without being invited,” Gwaine shakes his head. “Anyway, how was she?”

“Apart from looking like she wanted to throw something at my head?”

“Yeah, apart from that,”

Merlin stops walking and faces his friend.

“When I walked in, it looked as if she’d been crying,” He says in a low tone.

“Crying?” Gwaine’s eyes widen. “I have to see her,”

 He moves to head back the way he came.

“Wait,” Merlin grabs Gwaine’s arm to stop him. “You can’t go now, she’s about to see Arthur. Speaking of which, that’s where I need to be too,”

“Alright,” Gwaine sighs. “Thanks Merlin,”

~

You arrive at the royal chambers and knock upon the door.

“Enter,” The king calls out from within.

You open the door and step inside to find the king standing beside the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantlepiece, and Merlin, sitting at the table, mending a sock. He glances up at you and you look back at him, a tension between you from your recent encounter.

“You wished to see me sire?” You say as you step across the threshold, tearing your gaze away from the manservant.

“Yes,” The king straightens. “I thought it might be nice if Guinevere and I had matching attire for the harvest feast. Perhaps I could wear a doublet in matching colours?”

“Very good, sire. I will draw up some designs. I could return tomorrow for you to choose one, if that suits?”

“No need,” The king replies. “Guinevere is very pleased with your work, and I trust her judgment. I know you’ll come up with something good,” He smiles.

“Thank you, sire, I will get to work right away,” You turn to leave.

“One more thing,” The king says.

You turn your gaze back toward him.

“I want it to be a surprise, so don’t tell Guinevere,”

You nod and leave the royal chambers.

~

You wake to a chilly morning, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders before heading down to get a fire started. Once it’s burning steadily, you move to the kitchen bench and slice some bread and cheese, before starting to chop some fruit when there’s a knock at your chamber door. You instantly stop what you’re doing, placing the knife down gently before glancing at the door to make sure it’s bolted. If it’s Merlin, he won’t be able to let himself in again, although you were sure you had bolted it yesterday as well…

There’s another knock, slightly more forceful this time.

“I know you’re in there, (Y/N), I can hear you,”

The voice belongs to Gwaine. You can practically feel the colour drain from your face as you realise there’s nothing for you to do now other than answer him. Pulling your shawl tighter around your shoulders, you reluctantly make your way to the door and open it only a few inches. Gwaine looks at you through the gap, his brow creased.

“I know you’ve been ignoring anyone who comes to your door. Please, tell me what’s wrong,”

You swallow, embarrassed that you’ve been found out.

“Nothing’s wrong,” You say, voice unusually high. “I’ve just been busy,”

You cringe inwardly at the feeble excuse.

“I don’t doubt your work ethic, but I know the king and queen don’t overload you with work. So, unless you’ve another customer we don’t know about?”

You look down. “I don’t know what you want me to say,”

“The truth,” Gwaine says firmly, but not unkindly. “Why do you refuse to see anyone? Why do you treat me like a stranger now?”

The last sentence is spoken in barely more than a whisper. Your eyes prick, threatening to betray you.

“I know,” You force the dreaded words from your mouth. “That you do not care for me as I once thought. Especially now,”

“Don’t care for you? Especially now? what are you talking about? Why do you think I’ve been trying to see you? I want to make sure you’re alright. We spoke once since you got back and then… nothing. Then when I’ve run into you, you’ve been… cold. What’s going on?”

A single tear spills over and you wipe it hastily, wishing to retreat inside as soon as possible. You steel yourself to say what you need to say.

“I know that you do not act in a gentlemanly manner toward… women you are interested in,”

“What?” His voice flares with anger. “Where did you hear this?”

You keep your eyes down, but you can feel his gaze boring into you.

“Ah,” He sniffs. “I believe I know exactly who is behind this… information,”

You hazard a glance at him to see his jaw has hardened and his brows have knitted together in anger.

“I will leave you be, if that’s what you want,” Gwaine says. “But before I do, you must hear this: you can’t trust a word that comes out of my sister’s mouth. She’s a spiteful snake who can’t bear it when I find a shred of happiness. I’d pity her wretched existence if she hadn’t ruined so many things for me,”

His voice is filled with venom, speaking in a way unlike any you’ve heard from him before. Your heart thumps as you sense rage radiating from him, and his words run through your mind, their meaning falling into place, one by one.

“I’ll leave you now,” He says. “But please, consider what I have said,”

He turns on his heel and strides away, disappearing around the corner at the end of the passage.

You close the door and rest your forehead against the wood, thoughts whirring through your mind so fast that a sense of numbness washes over you. You don’t know how long you stand there like that, the spell only broken when a pang of hunger shoots through your stomach and you return to your abandoned breakfast.

~

You awaken the next morning feeling sluggish, and as much as you want to stay in bed, you force yourself to rise and make breakfast before starting on Arthur’s doublet. Having spent the time after Gwaine’s visit yesterday sitting around your chambers in a dejected daze, you are determined to use your time more productively today.

After cutting out the doublet pieces from the same green silk as Gwen’s gown, you begin stitching the panels together. Stitching in a line doesn’t require much concentration from you, so your thoughts inevitably drift from your task.

If what Gwaine said is true, then you have been very foolish and incredibly cruel. You picture the situation reversed, imagining if he suddenly refused to see you and tried to get away as fast as he could if he ran into you. Your heart aches at the pain you must have caused him.

You’ve known since that first overheard conversation between Gwaine and Erika that they have different ways of thinking. You’d assumed that was the reason they didn’t get on. While it was hurtful to hear Erika tell Gwaine that he should be setting his sights higher than someone like you, it isn’t exactly an unusual sentiment among noble families. In fact, it’d be fair to say that it’s the norm, so you didn’t really think of Erika as a nasty person, just a typical noblewoman. But if Gwaine spoke true about her… you remember how troubled he was at the picnic after that encounter, how defeated he sounded when he said that he didn’t understand why she’d come to Camelot… he must have been afraid of the damage she would cause.

How can you ever apologise to him for being so taken in, and behaving so terribly? You want more than anything to heal the breach between you, but what could you possibly say to make this right?

[houseofhyde]

Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs  the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches. 

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder. 

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between. 

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

[gojocp]

Hi! If your requests are open, can we get some courting hcs of Duke ergi x reader with a reader who’s hella oblivious to his attempts and that just makes him fall harder 👀

a letter to my love

cw: fluff, courting, reader is navier's lady in waiting and a noblewoman, reader wears a dress featuring: duke ergi

a/n: hello!! it's been a while, omg. schools has been soo annoying, but i'm back! lmk how this is, and i hope you enjoy!

"Your Highness, are you sure you'll be alright?" One of the other ladies in waiting asks. "Of course, I have Lady (y/n) with me after all." She responds with a polite smile, gesturing to you. "She's competent," She adds.

"Oh, you're too kind, Your Highness," You say softly, feeling your cheeks warm up. "It's true," One of the other ladies-in-waiting chimes in, "She does more work than any of us. It's no wonder Her Majesty is bringing Lady (y/n) along." She continues, gushing while describing her fellow noblewoman.

"Oh, please. That's not true." You deflect, smiling politely. "Haha, as helpful as she is, I believe it's time for us to head to the Eastern Kingdom." Empress Navier chips in, stopping the other girls from continuing the conversation further.

A knight helps the Empress into a carriage, helping you in shortly after. The Emperor seemed too busy with paperwork regarding the empire's financial affairs and would head off at a later time.

.・。.・゜✭・.

As you arrive at the Eastern Kingdom, several guards ━along with the King himself, and Duke Ergi━ come to greet you at the entrance of the palace.

"Welcome! Esteemed guests, I hope your trip wasn't too draining?" The King asks, shaking both your and the Empress' hands. "I don't believe you've met Duke Ergi yet? He's a close friend of mine." The King continues, introducing the Duke.

"Ah, Hello, Your Majesty," He says, directing his greeting towards the Empress. "And you are?" He asks towards you, a soft smile gracing his features.

"Lady (y/n), Her Majesty's lady-in-waiting." You introduce yourself, politely. "Well, it's very nice to meet you, Lady (y/n)." He takes your hand in his and places a soft kiss on your knuckles, smiling mischievously at you as he pulls away.

Sharing a knowing look with the Empress, the King starts, "We could have had Lady Krista's ladies-in-waiting tend to you during your stay."

"No, no. It's quite alright, Lady (y/n) is one of my best." She compliments. "Well, in that case, it should be fine. Let's head in then." The King continues.

.・。.・゜✭・.

As one of the servants shows you and the Empress to your designated rooms, you allow Her Majesty to enter her chamber and rest first, helping her wash up and settling her in.

As you are about to head back to your own room, you are stopped by none other than Duke Ergi. "Care for a stroll, Lady (y/n)? The palace gardens are beautiful at this time."

"Ah, are you sure?" You ask. "Of course." He responds, a devilish smile presenting itself on his lips. "Well, if it's alright with you." You continue, dismissing his suggestion as a friendly gesture; to get to know you better.

.・。.・゜✭・.

Following the Duke's lead, you head towards the garden, a blissful silence presenting itself in the air. He leads you both towards under different hedges and to a fountain, surrounded by different kinds of flowers. The water glistens in the moonlight and the flowers provide a beautiful array of color, surrounding the greys of the fountain and stones.

"Oh my, they're-" You start, astound by the beauty of it all, "They're stunning."

"They are, aren't they?" The Duke smiles at you, guiding you to the fountain and sitting on the ledge, gesturing you to sit next to him.

He plucks a flower near it and hands it to you. "It's lovely.." You smile, holding it between your fingers, and smiling gleefully.

"Oh, actually, I believe we should head back now. It's getting late." You stand up and dust off your dress, following the Duke as he guides you back to your sleeping quarters.

"I had fun, if you have time, I'd like to bring you to a place with even better scenery." He kisses your knuckles and lets go of your hand, as you enter the room.

"Better than that? Then, I'll have to take you up on the offer." You smile, closing the door behind you. Walking towards your bedside table, filling a vase with water, and placing the flower in it.

Walking back to his sleeping quarters, Duke Ergi smiles as he thinks to himself, 'She kept the flower..'

.・。.・゜✭・.

"It seems the Duke has taken a liking to you, (y/n)." The Empress states, glancing at you in the mirror as you fix her hair. "Oh, is that so? He seems like a kind person."

"Well, whatever the situation. Please let me know if he steps out of line." She responds. "Of course, though I would be the first to put him in his place." You giggle, tying her hair off with a bow.

.・。.・゜✭・.

Over your stay, you and the Duke grow closer. Sneaking out at night, watching plays, and looking at art exhibitions. All in the name of friendship, of course. There's no way the Duke feels the same way, you think.

On your final day, the Duke hands you a basket of peonies, with a letter attached to it.

"Peonies? They're lovely." You smile, feeling your cheeks grow warm.

"Yes, they mean-"

"Prosperity, wealth, and good fortune." You cut him off with a giggle.

'And love and affection..' The Duke thinks to himself, slightly dejected that you didn't pick up his hidden message. Well, hopefully, his letter will display his feelings.

"Lady (y/n), time to go." One of the servants informs you, a coy smile on their lips.

"Heading back already? Then, shall I visit the Eastern Empire sometime? You can show me around, there." He places a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles, causing the tips of your ears to burn.

"You should."

"I'll hold you to that."

.・。.・゜✭・.

When you arrive back, you quickly help the Empress, wash up, and sit at a small table in your room. You already placed the flowers in a nearby vase, and all was left to open the letter. You carefully open the envelope and unfold the paper.

My Dearest (Y/N),

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I find myself at a loss for words as I attempt to put into writing the sentiments that have been growing in my heart for some time now.

It is a confession of love that I feel compelled to share with you, not knowing how you may receive it, but hoping that you will understand the depth of my emotions. From the very first moment we crossed paths, you captured my heart with your grace, your kindness, and your gentle spirit.

Your presence in the palace has been a beacon of light and warmth in what can often be a cold and austere place. Your humility and beauty are beyond compare, and your innocence is a precious rarity that has enchanted me like nothing else.

I have admired you from afar, and every stolen moment in your company has left me utterly captivated. Your obliviousness to my attempts to court you has only deepened my affection. Your genuine nature, your compassionate soul, and your radiant smile have become the very essence of my happiness.

I understand if my feelings are unexpected, and I respect your response, whatever it may be. However, I cannot hide the truth any longer.

I love you, with a love that is pure, deep, and unwavering. My only wish is for your happiness, and if that happiness lies elsewhere, I will accept it with grace. There is something I would like to propose, though.

In getting to know you better, I have heard tales of your hometown in the Eastern Empire, and I find myself curious to explore the place that has shaped such an extraordinary person. I extend an invitation to you, my dearest (Y/N), to visit your homeland once more.

It would be my honor to accompany you and learn more about the world that has contributed to the remarkable individual you are today. Please consider my words with an open heart, and know that I hold your happiness above all else.

Whether your response be one of love or friendship, I will cherish your presence in my life and will always be devoted to your well-being.

Yours Sincerely and with the Deepest Affection, Duke Ergi

.・。.・゜✭・.

'Where did he get the chance to write all of this?' You think to yourself, pulling out another piece of paper, and an ink and quill; preparing to write your own letter in response to his.

.・。.・゜✭・.

My Dearest Duke Ergi,

I cannot express the joy and gratitude that fills my heart upon receiving your heartfelt letter. Your words have touched me in ways I never imagined, and I want you to know that my feelings are in perfect alignment with your own.

From the moment we first met, I felt a connection, a warmth that I could not explain. Your kindness, your intelligence, and your unwavering support have meant the world to me. I am not oblivious to your attempts to court me; rather, I have cherished each one, and my heart has responded in kind.

The depth of my affection for you is immeasurable. I love you, Duke Ergi, with a love that is as pure and true as the most precious gem. Your presence in my life has brought me happiness and contentment beyond words, and I look forward to every moment we can share.

Your proposal to visit my homeland in the Eastern Empire fills me with excitement and gratitude. It would be an honor to show you the place that has shaped me and to share the experiences of my past with you, my dearest love.

I cannot wait to explore the world with you by my side. I look forward to a future filled with love, happiness, and shared adventures. My heart is yours, Duke Ergi, and I cherish the promise of our journey together.

With All My Love and Deep Affection, (Y/N)

.・。.・゜✭・.

[seastarblue]

Tender Tuesday

“They… they believe I murdered my own family…” the noblewoman said, lips quivering. She took a breath, voice shaking as she continued, “and I know you think the same. Why else would you be so tense near me…?”

The guard stationed near her gave a short pause, thinking about what to say. “I don’t think you killed them, my lady.” she replied with finality.

“There is no need to lie, Madame.”

“I’m not lying, my lady. There’s no evidence against you, and besides—“ the taller woman gently brushed a stray tear off Evangeline’s cheek, “—the guilty wouldn’t grieve like this. I believe you. You’re innocent.”

“If that is what you truly believe, then… thank you, Madame.”

“It’s the truth, simple as that. And you can call me Mehri, my lady, I don’t mind.”

“…You are quite kind, Ma—Mehri.”

The guard chuckled at this. “Really? I do try to be!”

“You are,” Evangeline replied with a slight smile. “Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome, my lady.”

———

For today’s Tender Tuesday—courtesy of the @creators-club — I’m going to share Evangeline (who I shared yesterday) and Mehri’s dynamic!

as always, let’s begin with the basics: their relationship ends up romantic, but it’s a bit of a slow burn. Mehri is 24, Evie is 23, they’re both lesbians, though Mehri uses she/they and is also ace.

They’re very much the Sunshine x Moonlight trope, and I love them very much <3

Okay so Now…. Time for a

💖Meet Cute!💖

So, Evangeline is currently under house arrest in her estate, under suspicion of killing her family to gain power. This isn’t true, and she’s very upset about a) her family being DEAD and b) being accused of causing their deaths.

Mehri, on the other hand, is living their best life! Until uh. Plot. Which causes them to get thrown into prison. Which leads to Mehri (and a few others) getting plucked out of jail to work off their sentence by… catching the people that did murder the Pierce family.

So, Mehri and Co. are stationed near the Pierce Estate, and they occasionally stand guard there, as Eves struck a deal with the prosecutors: she can come and go as she pleases so long as she has a knight (basically an officer) with her. The others fill in this role, switching every once in a while.

ta daaaa!

The context for this lil snippet is basically: Eves had a bad day, she comes back to her office to a slightly nervous Mehri, she thinks the guard is nervous because of her, she nearly cries right there, Mehri asks what’s wrong, then the snippet.

and yeah! they’re relatively newer characters, and I admit I haven’t thought much about them, but that’s why I’m talking about them here!

hm… what else to add… oh wait! their opinions on each other? in their own words ✌️😙

“Oh, Lady Pierce? She is… well she seems very sad all the time. I’d like to help with that sadness, so I figured I’d better try my best to catch the people that… killed her family.”

“Madame Mehri is… very sweet. I am glad she is here by my side. That is all.” (It is NOT all trust)

———

I think I’ll end it there! Thank you for reading this far if ya have ✨

Picrew is ElenaA’s KissCrew!

[mitsuyaya]

[ parting gift ] hayakawa aki

contains: 700+ words. angsttt!, noblewoman reader x knight aki, reader is referred to as my lady, unedited (as usual)

summary: a price to pay for the heinous crime you commit is your happiness and the life of the man you love the most.

csm masterlist

“What if we run away?”

You wait for Aki to break the silence, to utter a single word, to refuse your offer and change the subject of your conversation. To tell you off and go home. Because the longer you stay, the longer you stare at his miserable state—behind bars, bruised and dirtied—the more difficult it is for you to repress the emotions that want to break free from the inside.

But the other half of you wanted him to say yes, agree and then pretend like your lives aren't at stake. Run away at this moment and forget about everything, forget about what would happen the next day and the day after.

“Would that make you happy, my lady?” it will, definitely, absolutely. But you don't think you can ever be safe if you did run away. The future would be terrifying, would always be filled with constant running and worry, the fear of getting caught and being brutally murdered on the spot will be an everyday thought. It wasn't the best course of action, you know it too well.

“Tell me, if we ever do run away, would we ever have a bright future?” you won't, the answer is too obvious.

“Will we have sons and daughters as we dreamt of? Have an estate even larger than your family owns?” you kept your mouth shut, heart cracking with every truth that comes out of his lips.

“Would someone like me have a perfectly normal life with someone like you?”

“But we'll always be together” he shakes his head, “A murderer doesn't deserve to be happy” the tears you've been trying to hold back since you got here broke free, cascading through your cheeks in steady streams.

“You aren't a murderer Aki!” you shouted, pointing to yourself “It was me! I was the one who kill—” Aki hurriedly covers your mouth, struggling with the chains binding his wrists.

“Don’t say that! What if someone hears you?” The fear on his face reminds you that he's on death's door all because of you, that because of what you did, you'd lose the person you love so much. That by taking your place, he was detained in the highest tower, awaiting his execution the next morning.

And yet, even at this moment, it's still you he's thinking about—it's you he's worrying—not him, not his life, only you.

“It wasn't your fault, don't say that, you could get hurt if anybody hears.” Another wave of tears slipped from your eyes, it hurts so much.

You were the one who murdered the crown prince, fed him poison all because you weren't thinking straight. All because he threatened that he'll kill Aki and your family if you didn't marry him.

But Aki still took the blame, receiving the death, hatred and pain that should've been directed to you, that should've been your future.

“I’m so sorry Aki, you weren't supposed to be here” your chest hurts from guilt, throat flaring from the truth that you'll never get to see him again because of you, because of your foolish actions.

“My lady” he reaches for you, cups your cheeks and wipes your tears with his thumb. “Don’t feel sorry, it is my choice because I wanted to protect you, I'm your knight aren't I? This is my duty” Aki smiled, although there's bitterness and fear beneath his words. None of what he said comforted you, it only made you even guiltier.

“But still—” he shushes you, taking your hands into his, pulling it closer to his lips. “I want you to live longer, find happiness like you've always wanted. I don't regret anything so please don't feel guilty.”

Aki kisses the back of your hand, your knuckles, looking straight at you as a tear falls from his eyes, his figure trembling slightly. He's a liar, pretending to be strong and nonchalant when he's just as terrified as you are. You felt his hand pull away, grabbing something from his pocket.

“Before you go, please accept this gift” you couldn't stop your tears from falling, the noise that you've been trying to repress flows through your mouth and you're sure that the prisoners downstairs could hear your sobs and whimpers now.

When his hands found yours again, he brought out a ring, slipping it on your finger, it was the ring he would always show you, one that belongs to his mother and the generations before that. “I love you forever my lady, please live for me.”

[savingthrcw]

@honorhearted Ben x Stella (going by Sophie/Robin)

While she was known as The Robin whenever Sackett had to address her as one of his informants, everyone involved in her mission knew her as Sophie Knight, the English noblewoman who had charmed General Harmstrong's very soul, and that had given Stella access to all the intel Sackett could possibly need about his troops, including the involvement of some traitors among Washington's midst. She had gotten the message that there'd be a raid soon and so she had prepared, knowing she'd have to act the part until truly safe so she could rely to Sackett himself the names she couldn't give with coded messages, unlike the intel about the dishonorable, illegal side-jobs the General had taken, which would have led him to a hanging no matter which side found out. She was no professional spy, after all, her cons had generally been about becoming richer or avenging some poor souls when justice couldn't be done, but if this job was paid as well as advertised she may consider doing it again; it wasn't hard, making a man long for the simple chance to kiss her, let alone persuade her to stay, even when they wore an uniform. Speaking of whom, Harmstrong was telling her to use her connections to save her life, since she was simply a woman and would not be judged for her man's fault. "But I can fight them! We can still run!" she begged him, making a show of picking up the decorative umbrella near her, "I could-I could..." "No, my darling, don't fight. It is not in your nature," he assured her, lowering her hand, "Go upstairs, and don't worry about me: we shall see each other again." Only in hell you creepy bastard, hopefully, she thought, pressing a kiss to his lips before running upstairs.

Thankfully, or perhaps because Sackett was certain of his loyalty, the man in charge of the group sent to her was Benjamin Tallmadge, someone she knew not to be in Harmstrong's pockets. "Found his lover-" a soldier started saying, and the slap she gave to his chest was so purposefully weak that it earned a look of genuine pity from the man.

"You will not walk into my bedroom uninvited! I'm a lady! You cannot do this!" "We are not going to harm you if... Sir?" he called for Tallmadge, searching for help with the hysterical woman. "You monsters! You will pay for what you are doing! My General will go free and hunt you all down!" she shrieked, allowing another soldier to at least guide her outside of the room, to lower the chances of getting hit over what she was saying, "What has the King ever done to you, why must you fight honest men, what are you getting out of it?"