#medievalness intensifies

[aiweirdness]

AI-generated advent calendars

When people post the outputs of text-to-image generators, they tend to gravitate toward the kinds of things the AI seems to be doing well. One of my hobbies is collecting failure cases.

Here's DALL-E2 attempting "A Christmas advent calendar with numbered doors". When it gets to numbers higher than 10 it seems to *mumble mumble*

And here's midjourney (--v 4 for those curious) attempting "A Christmas advent calendar with numbered doors". This model is particularly tuned to fit the aesthetic tastes of people who like fantasy art. And apparently the number 2.

But what if we ask it to open some of the doors?

Dall-E2: "Product photo of a Christmas advent calendar with numbered doors and some open doors showing the scenes inside" (mumbling becomes more cursed)

Midjourney: "Product photo of a Christmas advent calendar with numbered doors and some open doors showing the scenes inside"

Also I made an interactive advent calendar at aiweirdness.com with correctly numbered doors that work!

[augustinewrites]

as you’ve grown older, you’ve discovered that coming home to an empty apartment in the middle of the day is the adult equivalent of waking up on christmas morning. it’s an especially rare occurrence, especially for a saturday, but you’d just dropped megumi at the library, tsumiki at a friends, and gojo was still bothering principal yaga at the school. 

sighing, you can’t help the grin that breaks out on your face as you set your bag down. you have the apartment to yourself. it’s clean and quiet and you have almost two whole hours to do whatever you want. 

the first thing you do is make yourself a cup of tea, humming to yourself as you carry the steaming mug into the living room. then you curl up into the corner of the sectional, enjoying the cool breeze of the open window and the warm summer sun. 

then, after glancing around and ensuring that you’re truly alone, you reach under the couch and pull out your novel. 

shoko had loaned it to you months ago, claiming that it would help ‘grease the wheels’ during satoru’s frequent absences. 

you hadn’t really understood what she meant until you’d gotten to the sixth chapter– a chapter so steamy you’d felt yourself get a little hot under the collar while reading it.

which is why you keep it hidden and only bring it out when you’re alone. 

it’s been weeks since you’d last picked it up, opening the novel up to the bookmarked page with excitement buzzing in your veins at the prospect of finally finishing it. you only had one chapter left!

‘the warm buzz of desire in her limbs intensifies as he kisses every exposed inch of her throat. she pulls him closer, feeling his hands searching for the seam of her dress for a zipper, a button, anything to undo so he can feel her skin on his. his lips find the spot behind her ear that makes her shudder, sucking lightly and eliciting a soft moan from her lips–’

“what are you reading?”

you flinch, snapping the book shut as satoru leans over your shoulder. you hadn’t even noticed he’d come home, a mixture of fear and embarrassment swimming in your gut as he plucks the book from your grasp.

he peers at the cover, obviously amused when he says,

“were you…romanceturbating?” 

“i was not,” you argue, but your entire face is hot and your heart is beating so fast that you fear it may bust through your ribcage.

“you totally were!” he laughs, holding it above his head so you can’t grab it. “does it take place in a shire?”

“no–”

“is there a lot of sexy bodice ripping and armour shucking?”

you cross your arms over your chest with a huff. “do all of your fantasies take place in medieval england?”

“we’re not talking about me,” he waves off. “we’re talking about you, and what you’re doing reading this trash when you have the real deal right in front of you. i can be a much better sexy–” he points at the cover, “–uh, construction worker?”

“he’s a handyman, and i doubt that,” you scoff, snatching your book back. 

so much for your quiet afternoon.

_____

that weekend, you awaken to very loud, very annoying banging coming from the kitchen. satoru’s no longer in bed, so you assume that he’s attempting to make breakfast and head out before he can burn the entire apartment complex down.

“you’re lucky the kids are at sleepovers right now,” you say loudly as you step out of the bedroom and head towards the kitchen. “or you’d be getting screamed at–”

your breath catches when your boyfriend sits up, using the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow and allowing you a peek at his toned abdomen.

“morning, baby.” 

“morning,” you reply, clearing your throat as you step over his legs to grab some tea. suddenly, you can’t recall what you’d intended to reprimand him for.

“actually, can you hold this up for me?” he asks suddenly, catching your wrist and pressing a flashlight into your palm. “i need a little light.”

you take it obediently, kneeling down to shine the light into the space under the sink. you try your hardest to keep your gaze focused on the pipes, and not the way his biceps flex with every movement. or the way the thin sheen of sweat makes his skin shine.

“i didn’t even know you owned tools,” you mutter.

“i borrowed them from nanami,” he tells you.

“oh.” 

you have no idea what the hell he’s doing - you didn’t even know the sink was broken - but you can’t really find it in yourself to care at the moment. not with the way your squeeze your legs together with his every grunt of effort.

“that should do it,” he hums, sitting up so he’s now face to face with you, playful blue eyes meeting yours as he smiles. “thanks for–”

he doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, not when you grab the collar of his stupid tank top, pulling him in to press your lips over his. 

not when he wraps an arm around your waist, flipping you both over so your back is on the floor, his body caged over yours as he deepens the kiss. 

this is much better than shoko’s stupid novel.

“i think–” he pants between kisses, letting you work his shirt off. 

“shut up,” you mumble, feeling him toy with the hem of your shorts.

“but we need to call a plumber,” he says, lips brushing that spot behind your ear. “because i definitely broke the sink…”

[achromatophoric]

Wenclairtober 2024, Day 8 - Cuddling

Enid: You were doing WHAT?! And with XAVIER!?!

The werewolf is red-faced, blue eyes bright with emotion as she yells at her obviously confused girlfriend.

Wednesday: Mi lobita, I—

Enid: Don’t you lobita me! This loba es muy furiosa!

Wednesday: Está.

Enid: *blinks* What?

Wednsday: You meant to say ‘está muy furio—’

Enid: OHMYGOD! Now is NOT the time!!

Wednesday: Ah. Right.

Enid: So what do you have to say for yourself?

Wednesday: I did not think I required permission.

Enid: Permission!? Why would you even think about doing it with someone in the first place?

Wednesday: It seemed like a reasonable idea. I was surprised that Thorpe accepted my suggestion, so I took the opportunity to oblige him.

Wednesday: *thoughtfully* It was… fun.

Enid: *shocked outrage* Reasonable? FUN?!

Wednesday: *simply nods*

Enid: *angry tears* You can’t just— grrr— I know it’s not something we’ve like talked about, but you should have at least asked me.

Wednesday: I did not think you would be interested. You usually aren’t.

Enid: *jaw drops* Not interested? In the fact that MY girlfriend wanted intimate physical contact with that human dumpster fire? And what do you mean by usually?!

Wednesday: *hesitates* I… confess that Thorpe was not the only one that I have cud—

Enid: *shrieks* WHAT?!?

Wednesday: *flinches* Please allow me to explain. While I certainly find the act intimate and enjoyable, I am well aware that you do not share the sentiment. And I would never want to press you into something you do not enjoy.

Enid: *gawks*

Enid: *confused* Don’t enjoy— Wednesday, I LOVE it! You know this! I’m basically a slut for it! I’d do it with you all day every day if I flipping could!

Wednesday: *equally confused* You… would?

Enid: *exasperrated* Of course! What the heck makes you think I wouldn’t?

Wednesday: *considers* The hematomas, for one.

Enid: Wha—

Wednesday: And the sound of breaking bones.

Enid: *confusion intensifies*

Wednesday: I admit I may have assumed you wouldn’t like the tool, but perhaps if I procured one in pink…?

Enid: *stares*

Enid: Wednesday.

Wednesday: Yes, my beloved?

Enid: What are we talking about here?

Wednesday: My lamentable oversight in not including you in one of my hobbies.

Enid: *squints*

Wednesday: Ah— that I foolishly shared with Thorpe without regard for your feelings on the matter?

Enid: *chews lip*

Enid: Could you, like, repeat what you said before this whole argument started?

Wednesday: Of course. I said ‘I spent the afternoon cudgeling Thorpe in his shack.’

Enid: …

Enid: That word. What you were doing to Xavier. One more time, but like, slower.

Wednesday: Cud-gel-ing.

Enid: Not cuddling?

Wednesday: *disgusted* Absolutely not!

Enid: *embarrassed blush*

Enid: Uh— *clears throat* Babe, what the flip is cudgeling?

Wednesday: It is the gerund of the verb form of ‘cudgel,’ which is the act of beating with a cudgel.

Enid: And a cudgel is?

The seer produces a short medieval club. Strands of stringy hair and dried blood decorate the head.

Wednesday: This is my cudgel. I apologize for the condition. I have not had the chance to clean the Thorpe off.

Enid: *pales* Oh…

The seer draws a (wrong) conclusion from her girlfriend’s reaction and makes a decision.

Wednesday: *sharp nod* I shall procure you one in pink, so that we may cudgel together.

Enid: *eyes widen* Oh. Oh no, I couldn’t—

Wednesday: Mi corazón, please. It is the least I can do to make up for my transgressions. To think that I caused you such distress with my baseless assumptions—

Enid: H-Hey babe, it’s okay! I forgive you!

Wednesday: *intensity uh— intensifies* I do not forgive myself.

Enid: B-But mmph!

The werewolf’s protests are silenced by a searing kiss. When Wednesday breaks their embrace, her expression is one of adamant resolve.

Wednesday: Do not worry, mi sol. Yours will be the most exquisitely brutal of cudgels. I look forward to witnessing it in action upon my return.

Wednesday: *storms off*

Enid: 😦

Enid: Well crap.

[decagondice]

༓ Foul & Fair ༓

༓ 'The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.' [Macbeth, William Shakespeare]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Wife!Reader

༓ Synopsis. In a kingdom ruled by the feared and ruthless King, his reserved queen harbours a deadly secret. Devoted to her husband and his reign, she begins to punish those who defy him in the shadows, her hands stained with blood he never commanded her to spill. As guilt consumes her, she spirals deeper into madness, terrified of what Sukuna will do if he discovers the truth. But Sukuna, the King of Curses, knows far more than she realises. In a chilling confrontation, she must face the dark question: Does Sukuna's love run as deep as her sins, or is there something far more dangerous waiting in the shadows?

༓ Content. Inspired by Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' (Very loosely), sfw, Dark romance, Medieval Era, F!Reader, King/Trueform!Sukuna, Angst w/ comfort, Anxious & spiralling reader, Reader could be classed as a yandere (?), Protective Sukuna (?), Possessive Sukuna (?), Yandere (?) Sukuna, Emotional distress, Slight fear of abandonment, Spiralling, Mentions of death, Talks of violence, Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Mentions of Blood, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 3.5k

༓ A.N. I thought I should contribute to the spooky season, though exclude spooky and scary and replace them with anguish and spiralling madness. I had another random thought, drawing inspiration from Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth scene at the sink where here reader is secretly taking down those who reject Sukuna (and his rule) whilst spiralling into chaos but he finds out. [As, you already tell I am horrendous at tagging and disclosing content, let me know if I have missed anything out :)]

[Artwork by Gustave Moreau - 'Study for Lady Macbeth', 1851]

The night was thick with the weight of silence, suffocating and tense, pressing against the castle walls as if burdened by secrets of its own. The grand, cold castle loomed over the kingdom like an ever-watchful beast, its towering spires stretching into the night sky as shadows pooled beneath its battlements. Pale moonlight cast silver streaks across the stone floors, spilling through the halls and filling them with a ghostly light that seemed to intensify the gloom. The oppressive darkness was alive, seething in the corners of vast chambers and dreary corridors, pressing into every crevice like a silent judgement.

At the heart of this silence reigned the feared King of Curses, a sovereign whose iron and stone throne stood as a testament to his ruthless rule. His dominion was absolute—unyielding in cruelty, yet disturbingly effective. The people despised him, their whispers venomous, though none could deny that under his iron fist, the kingdom flourished. The harvests were plentiful, the borders secure, and enemies scattered like ash in the wind. But for all its prosperity, the kingdom lived under a cloak of shadows, a foreboding silence settling over its people and their ruler.

In the dim chambers of your own quarters, the same darkness felt suffocating, wrapping itself around you like a shroud. The air was heavy with the sharp, resinous scent of burning pine, mingling with the faint, metallic tang that clung to your skin as if it knew what lay on your conscience. You move through the pale light, haunted by the shadows of your deeds, the stone floors beneath your feet feeling cold and implacable, much like the guilt gnawing at your insides.

Enveloped in an otherworldly pallor, the room stretched vast and hollow, its walls draped in tapestries that told of battles long past, of victories soaked in blood. The heavy curtains, embroidered with dark emblems of power, hung motionless, like sentinels guarding the space. Their once grand opulence seemed stripped bare, eclipsed by the sins you carried, like spirits bound to your very soul. Every step you took echoed with the voices of those who had spoken against Sukuna—voices you had silenced and condemned in his name, though he had never commanded it. The room spun, your vision blurring as fragmented memories of punishment and blood swirled in your mind, sharp and piercing like shards of broken glass.

Outside, the wind’s mournful wail, weaving through the stone halls like a restless spirit, moaning for the damned as it rattled the iron-framed windows. And beneath that same iron sky, Sukuna—the man both feared and beloved—remained vigilant, a dark watchful presence in a kingdom thriving and suffering under his reign.

Yet, even the most powerful rulers had their shadows.

You were his wife, the queen who moved with silent grace through the corridors of his court, always by his side, always poised, always watching. While others feared his wrath and kept their distance, you remained the only one to whom he showed an unspoken tenderness. It was an odd love, one not built on affection but on something far deeper—an understanding of the cruelty of the world and the weight of power. He never uttered words of devotion, but his eyes lingered on you longer than they did on anyone else. And in that silence, you found a bond that could not be broken.

But bonds can fester, too, like wounds left unattended.

You stood at the ornate sink, water spilling over your trembling hands, though it did nothing to wash away the sins embedded in your skin. The marble basin beneath felt cold, unforgiving—a stark contrast to the marks you bore. The faucet, carved like a serpent’s maw, hissed ferociously, its flow indifferent to how furiously you scrubbed, how raw your hands had become. The blood was gone, dried long ago, but its crimson stain lingered vividly, as though it had seeped into your very soul. Each drop of water that fell seemed as though it should run red—a silent stream of accusation pooling at the bottom of the basin.

The mirror before you reflected a woman you no longer recognised. Your eyes were vacant, dulled by sleepless nights and the weight of your actions. Gaunt, pale, like the ghost of someone you once were. You wanted to scream and tear the image apart, to erase what you had become. Your chest tightened with the growing sense of dread. You could barely meet your own gaze, knowing full well what you had done, fearing that the reflection might whisper your wrongdoings back to you. And the fear—always, always—the gnawing dread of what he might say when he finds out. What would Sukuna, your husband and king, think of you now—his dutiful wife—tainted by the very blood you sought to cleanse? What if he cast you aside, repulsed by your actions, leaving you to languish in the darkness of your own guilt?

The truth was, you weren’t sure if you feared his anger more, or his indifference.

The misdeeds you had carried out—the punishments you had dealt out in the dark corners of the kingdom—had begun to claw at your mind. Those who rejected Sukuna, who cursed his name in the streets, had found themselves at your mercy. You had killed for him, with a coldness that even now frightened you. You did it not for the kingdom, not for the crown, but for the man behind the title. The man who held your heart in his calloused, monstrous hands—hands stained with bloodshed far beyond your own.

The footsteps came as they always did, slow, methodical, echoing through the cold stone halls long before he arrived. You stiffened, your ragged breath catching in your throat. Sukuna’s presence was like the weight of the kingdom itself—a force of nature, dark and indescribable, and you, standing there with blood on your hands—both literal and imagined—felt like a creature awaiting judgement. His judgement.

The door creaked open, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop as his towering frame filled the space. Even without seeing him, you could feel the sheer power he radiated, a terrifying, inescapable darkness that made him the ruler he was. He was feared, hated, worshipped, and he wielded it all with a ruthless hand. You loved him, too, though that love came with its own shadow, twisted and warped in the way only power could corrupt.

He didn’t speak at first, letting his slow and deliberate gaze sweep over you, the tension in the air thickening with each passing moment. You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, taking in every trembling movement, every faltering breath as you bore the burden of your sins, and it was clear that none of it had escaped his notice. His crimson eyes, sharp and unreadable, lingered on your hands, red from the water and from your desperate attempts to rid yourself of the evidence that existed only in your mind. The faintest twitch of his brow was the only sign of his reaction. 

“Why do you trouble yourself, wife?” His voice, low and gravelly, cut through the silence like a blade, but not without an unexpected softness that hung in words. He stepped forward now looming over you, and you felt the pull of him, the dark magnetism that had drawn you into his orbit long ago. “What is it you hope to wash away?”

You froze, your heart thundering in your chest. He was too close now, his reflection joining yours in the mirror. His gaze was unflinching, cold yet calculated, as if he already knew the answer. Of course, he knew. Sukuna always knew, far more than he ever let on. He was not a man to be easily deceived, and yet you had tried—foolishly, pathetically—to keep your deeds hidden, believing that the blood on your hands would go unnoticed by a man who had waded through rivers of it. You had not yet answered him, but in the oppressive stillness of this chamber, he would draw the truth from your lips as certainly as the sun would rise. 

The question hung between you like a blade suspended in midair. A thousand excuses raced to the tip of your tongue but none seemed sufficient. What could you say to him now? How could you confess the blood you had spilled without admitting the fear that drove you to it? That you thought you could act without his knowledge? That you could shield him, or worse, act in his stead? 

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, the lie burning your throat as it left your lips, trying to force the words out as calmly as you could. “I’ve been restless, that’s all.”

He said nothing at first, his eyes—a deep, glowing crimson that burned through the dim light— narrowing with a terrifying patience, as though waiting for you to trip over your own words. His silence felt more damning than accusation, and you couldn’t help but shift under the weight of his gaze. Still, you dared not meet his eyes in the mirror, fearing what you might see there—disappointment, perhaps, or worse, apathy. 

“Restless?” He repeated, his voice curling around the word like a snake tightening its coils. There, behind you, his presence was solid and immovable, much like the great stone walls of the castle itself. His hand had moved to your shoulder, heavy and possessive, his fingers cold against your skin. Deceptively gentle, his touch held an unmistakable strength, an authority that demanded answers.“You lie to me.” His voice was dark velvet, smoothing over the jagged edges of your panic, but each word sliced through the air, leaving you feeling bare, exposed. 

With a gentle motion, he turned you to face him, his gaze capturing yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. His hand, large and rough from countless battles, brushed against your cheek, pushing aside a strand of your hair dampened with sweat. The gesture was too tender, too human for a man like him—a man who slaughtered thousands without a second thought, whose name was a curse on the lips of his enemies. And yet here he was, gentle with you, the only one in his kingdom to receive such mercy.

You leaned into his touch, a broken sigh escaping your lips as your knees threatened to buckle. Your body, fragile and trembling, was held up only by his presence. His hand, firm yet careful, traced the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing against your pulse that fluttered like a trapped bird.

“Look at you,” Sukuna’s voice rumbled low, carrying an edge of something you haven’t heard before. Could it be…concern? “You’ve grown so pale.”

Your breath faltered, and you felt the sting of your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The lie had been pitiful, and now the truth hovered on the edge of your lips threatening to unravel everything. He knew already, didn’t he? Sukuna was no fool, and here you were tangled in your own web of fear and love, too afraid to admit what you had done. But now, standing in his shadow there was no escape.

“What have you done?”His voice was quieter now, but there was a dangerous sharpness to it, like a blade glinting in the dark..

His gaze shifted to your hands again, and the faintest frown tugged at the corners of his lips. He took your hands in his, lifting them from the water, the cold droplets running down your wrists like tears. He studied them, turning them over, his fingers tracing the raw skin where you had scrubbed at invisible bloodstains. The touch was almost reverent, as though he understood, in some unspoken way, the burden you carried.

"You've stained them for me." It wasn’t a question, but a statement. His voice was rough but slow, as if he were working through something. He could see the turmoil in your eyes, the haunted look that came from guilt and fear—fear of him. 

How could you not fear him? He, who had bathed in the blood of his enemies and found joy in their screams? He had no right to judge you, to be angry or disappointed. He had slaughtered far more than you ever could, his hands forever soaked in the blood of the innocent and the damned alike.

“I…” you started, your voice shaking, “I only wanted to protect you.” The words came out too quickly, too desperate, and the moment you spoke them you regretted them.

His fingers traced a path up your neck, curling under your chin, forcing your face upward with his scarlet eyes boring into yours. “Protect me?” he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr, the barest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. “You think I need protection?”

“No,” you whispered, trembling now, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “Not you…but those who sought to challenge you.” You swallowed hard, the confession falling from your lips before you could stop it. “The ones who spoke against you. They…they cursed your name. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t let them defy you. Not with their worthless lives and their petty defiance.”

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, low and humourless, vibrating through the air between you. His hand slipped from your chin to your shoulder, his grip tightening slightly, enough to make you feel the control he had over you, the power he held. “And so, you thought it was your place to end them?”

The pain came suddenly, like a hot blade piercing through your skull, leaving you gasping for breath. You pressed a trembling hand to your temple, your vision blurring as the world around you wavered. The familiar, nauseating throb of the headache began to claw at your mind, the weight of your guilt manifesting in sharp, crippling waves. 

And then the memories came—hazy, fractured, like fragments of glass slicing through your consciousness. You saw flashes of faces twisted in agony, the sound of desperate pleas that had fallen on deaf ears. The crack of the whip as it tore through flesh, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Their eyes—wide, terrified, as they realised their fate. The words they had uttered against Sukuna, the defiance that had sealed their doom. You had watched, cold and distant, as their lives bled out before you, justifying it all in the name of loyalty.

Blood. So much blood. It stained your hands, dripping from your fingers, soaking into the earth. You tried to wash it away earlier, scrubbing frantically, but it clung to you, thick and accusing. The cries of the condemned echoed in your ears, haunting and relentless, as if they would never leave you. You saw the moment their eyes dimmed, the light of life snuffed out, and the weight of their deaths settled on your soul like an iron chain.

You blinked, the vision dissolving into the present, the pain still pounding behind your eyes. Your breaths came in shallow gasps, your body trembling as the memories faded, leaving you hollow. The room spun around you, and for a moment, you thought you might collapse under the weight of it all—the guilt, the shame, the horror of what you had done. Even now, even with his touch grounding you, the wrongs you had committed refused to let you go.

As you fought to regain your breath, your back pressed firmly against the cold stone, and your fingers dug into the edge of the sink, your knuckles white. “I thought… I thought you would be pleased,” you admitted, the words brittle and frail. “I did it for you.”

His gaze flickered, and for the briefest moment, something passed through his eyes—something that might have been understanding or amusement. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar coldness. “You think I would have been pleased with your disobedience?” His voice was calm, yet it dripped with dark promise, a reminder of the power he wielded over you and the consequences that could follow.

“I would have thought,” he continued, “that you would come to me. Yet here you were, washing away the evidence of your transgressions as though I wouldn’t have known.”

You flinched at his words, the accusation clear, your heart hammering against your ribs. He was a king of slaughter, a creature born in blood. How could you have thought to deceive him?

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “I thought I was doing what you would have done.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “You misunderstand, wife.” His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers weaving through your hair with a possessive grip. “I kill because it is necessary. You kill out of fear.”

Your pulse quickened, panic rising in your chest, but his hand tightened just enough to keep you grounded, his voice softening as he spoke. “Do you think I wouldn’t have known what you have done? That I would let it pass unnoticed?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the side of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “I know everything, even when you think you hide from me.”

Tears stung your eyes, and your lips parted, but no words came. He had known all along. He had watched you unravel, had let you dig yourself deeper into this darkness, even expecting you to come to him on your own. But you hadn’t. Instead, you had fallen deeper, spiralling into this madness, desperate to protect him, to prove your loyalty to a man who needed no protector.

He raised his other hand to your face, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, almost tender in the way they brushed aside the tears that spilled down. “You should not have feared me,” he said quietly, the darkness in his voice replaced by something softer, something that felt almost like affection. “I have bathed in blood far worse than this.”

He understood what you feared, even if you couldn’t say it aloud. You thought he would cast you aside for this—for acting in his name without his consent. But you had no reason to worry. Your actions, though misguided, came from a place he knew all too well—love, twisted and warped by power. And for that, he could not fault you.

His thumb grazed your trembling lips, silencing the sob that threatened to break free. And then, slowly, his hand moved upward, covering your eyes with his fingers pressing lightly against your eyelids, casting you into a sudden, terrifying darkness. You stiffened, but his touch remained gentle, his palm resting delicately against your skin as if to protect you from the weight of your own actions. You felt a moment of peace, of quiet—a reprieve from the torment that had consumed you.

“You worry for nothing,” he whispered against your ear, his voice low and intimate. “It is not judgement you should fear. Not from me.” 

His words settled over you like a balm, easing the weight on your chest. He would not leave you. He had never intended to. Even in your spiral, in your darkest moments, he would not cast you aside. He, the king of slaughter, had already known what it meant to live with blood on his hands.

And then, you felt his lips brush against the corner of your mouth, a touch so soft, so delicate. You shuddered under the weight of that moment, the fear that had consumed you slowly dissipating like mist in the light of dawn. It was not a kiss of anger, nor of passion, but a dark promise, a reminder that you were his, bound to him by blood and love, no matter what you had done. You would always be his.

His hand slipped away from your eyes, and when you opened them again, you were left feeling exposed, raw under his gaze. Yet, there was no signs of disgust in him, no fury. He had known all along, had let you descend into this unravelling, but he had not abandoned you. Sukuna, the King of Curses, the tyrant feared by all, had always been waiting, knowing that no matter how far you strayed, you would always return to him.

“Come,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble, commanding but not unkind. “Leave the water behind. It cannot wash away what we are.”

He took your hand in his, pulling you gently away from the sink, the water long silenced behind you. The shadows whispered, but their hold on you had weakened. Sukuna had pulled you from the darkness you had created, and as he led you from the room, his grip firm but reassuring, you knew that whatever sins lay on your hands, you would not bear them alone.

A.N. I don't know how to feel about this piece, whether I hate it or like it. I also felt like I was descending into madness trying to bring this idea into fruition. Anyways, Happy Halloween :)

[koiiiji]

pov ; you are giving the birth to a baby

starring ; Hyungseok, Jonggunn, Jungoo, Gitae + honorable mention

Hyungseok : the hero we never thought of but needed. as you go into labor, he go step by step with you through it. he is holding your hand and belly when you are already in hospital. in the delivery room, he holds your hand tightly, his thumb gently rubbing your palm and just silently being patient with everything, because doctor said that you need to focus on her commands and pushing the baby, not on his voice. yet, Hyungseok is incredibly empathetic. when the pain becomes intense, he mirrors your breathing, encouraging you to breathe through the contractions. all in all 11/10, proud father and husband. crying when everything is over and you and the kid are alright.

Jonggun : he thought he would be a hero, because come on what’s so scary about giving a birth? Jonggun, convinced that childbirth is just another challenge he can handle. he really thinks his experience in life has prepared him for anything. but as the contractions start to intensify, he watches you in pain and he have no idea what to do, where to put his hands and how to help you. and when nurse helped him, telling him to hold your hand during another contraction, you grip his palm so tightly that you almost broke it. excuses himself and left the room, to smoke half of the cigarets rethinking his life. he came back when you already give a birth to his son, but doctors said that the child took all your energy, so now you’re under doctors control and care for a while. so at first Jonggun would be a little distant to the child. but all in all so proud of you and the baby. 7/10

Jungoo : another self named hero he thought he would be. he is little better than Jonggun, because he attended prenatal classes with you, and generally he is better in empathy. so he believes he has a solid understanding of what to expect and how to support you through labor. Jungoo helps you with breathing exercises, encourages you to roll on the birthing ball, and checks in constantly, making sure you’re comfortable and at ease. and everything was fine until labor room. he was holding your hands, all supportive and stuff, but then medical staff brought in the epidural needle. his composure shatters as he sees the size of the needle. “BABY, THERE IS A HUGE NEEDLE! WHY ARE THEY PUTTING IT IN YOUR SPINE?! BABY WHATS GOIN-” his voice is filled with panic, and he starts to hyperventilate. Jungoo faints right in the delivery room, causing a little chaos. annoyed lady doctor rolls her eyes and instructs the nurses to *citation* ���remove the man” from the labor room. Jungoo came to feelings when you already give a birth to twins and now resting, while nurses got your babies. ah! Jungoo is super excited about his new role as a father, so he gonna TERRORIZE nurses and doctors with questions.

Gitae : no. just no. not gonna happen. he will pay for anything you want, any little whine and cry and wish, but you not gonna convince him to go to the hospital with you. he will pay for best doctors and hospital but his foot not gonna step inside. he remembered once his mother told him how she gives birth to him and he is genuinely… tensed scared. of women. and labors. like ta hell you mean you will push a HUMAN out of your body? so nuh uh. but he will came to take you home, in all glory, flowers, gifts, whatever you wanted for giving him strong, healthy boy. all in all 5/10 for leaving you, but maybe +1 point for expensive gifts and house full of flowers.

honorable mention ;

Gimyong : a hero. we knew about him. we needed him. and he was there. best boy. but kinda freaks out too because he doesn’t know what to do. should he hold your hand? but you already holding the bed frame. should he whisper something to you? but you screaming in pain. help he don’t know what to do!!!

Taesoo : scared as hell!! didn’t care at first about the child, you’ve been his #1 priority. it’s kinda gives medieval vibes but he is gonna gift you a fur from his haunt or fur coat.

[sweetpascal]

— 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝

pairing: knight!marcus acacius x princess!reader

pinterest board inspo

summary: an arranged marriage in the works. one on one jousting for your honor. celebratory feasts and extravagant dances. it all seemed exciting. however, as a princess with your mind on becoming a Dame, along with your father's main knight making sure you are always on your best behavior, some dreams are just meant to be crushed.

warnings: MINORS DNI, big age gap [reader is 19 and marcus is 54], slowwww burn, medieval times au, possible historical inaccuracies [maybe ??], reader has hair long enough to braid, father-daughter relationship issues, first kiss, forbidden love, non-sexual touching, flirtatious banter, allusions to sex, sword fighting, TW: major character death, TW: blood and gore, angst angst angst

wc: 21.6k (i maayyyyy have gone a bit overboard with this one)

notes: this is my submission for @almostfoxglove 's angst writing challenge (beautiful moodboard created by her). i'm not gonna lie, this is gonna be ANGSTYYYYYYY. so please, grab your tissues and hold on for dear life. sword divider by the wonderful @saradika-graphics ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

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follow @sweetpascal-notifs for future fic updates.

Wiping the sweat from your brow, you exerted yourself once more. Swinging the heavy sword almost the same length as your body and slamming the blade repeatedly onto the side of the wooden post right by the outskirts of the woods. Blisters had begun to form on your palms from the improper protection needed, but the care you had for gloves was thrown to the back of your mind. Little grunts heavily exhaled from your throat each time you swung the sword down and around, further adding slice and slice into the mangled wood post. Feeling the burning sensation in your chest intensify, you had decided now would be a good time to rest.

You placed yourself on the nearest rock and laid the sword across your lap. Gently stroking your blistered thumb over the engraved markings of your older deceased brother's name towards the handle. He lost his life like a true knight in battle. His death was so long ago but it felt like yesterday. You remembered the morning he left. He had hoisted you up into his arms with the promise that he would return. When Marcus Acacius, your father's knight, returned back to the castle with your brother's bloodied sword in his hands, you knew. Almost a decade long feud with no success or improvement. With your brother's sword now in your possession, even though your father doesn't approve of a princess having such a manly hobby, it was your goal to finish what he started. Whether your father, the king, liked it or not, you would rather die fighting than be married off.

"Why am I not surprised that I would find you here, princess?"

Turning at the sound of the distinct voice that is of Knight Acacius, you observe the way his lips quirk into a tired grin. One of his arms lays limp at his side while the other rests on the handle of his sword attached to his hip. He wears only his chest plate with the yellow markings of your father's castle, as well as an engraved crow. It was the same as the flags that hung around the interior and exterior.

"Why am I not surprised that you would follow me out here, Marcus?" You retort, nose scrunching at the sound of his deep laughter from your sassy question.

He comes closer now, eyeing the wood post that has been abused from your sharp sword. Marcus has been your father's knight since before you were born. He had started as an esquire when he was just a teen boy. Your grandfather had been king at that point. When the title was passed down to your father, he deemed Marcus as worthy of getting a ranking higher. He earned the title, of course. Knight Acacius was a hardworking man. He did what needed to be done in a timely manner. He kept you and your father safe. He did everything to keep the king happen, and you could see that it was paying off.

"Your father sent me to get you. It's time for you to get ready for the tournament," he tells you quietly, already knowing your opinions on the matter.

When you let out a scoff at his words, Marcus nods to himself as if to say 'Yep, there it is.' There's a long beat of silence as he waits for you to gather your thoughts and express them through words. Unlike your father, Marcus has always been a patient man, which works perfectly with his title. There have been long nights after hours where you've poured your heart out to him; your unhappiness, your fears, your worries, your dreams. He always lent you an ear and shoulder to cry into you.

"Tournament," the word was bitter on your tongue. With an eye roll that made Marcus hold back a chuckle, you stood up and made your way back to the post. "You mean the sad excuse of a competition where men compare whose cock is the biggest for me to suck?"

Marcus choked on his spit at the vulgarity of your words. When you looked over your shoulder and gave him a teasing smile that expressed your youth, he took a half step back with widened eyes. He shook his head at himself and cleared his throat to make it feel less constricted. Why is his heart beating so fast? Why is he sweating? Why are his hands trembling? All of which had happened after you shot him that teasing little smile if yours. Oh, this was bad.

Wincing once again as one of the maidservants snagged your hair accidentally, you couldn't help but to grow annoyed. Not at the older woman, but at the idea that princesses are supposed to always be prim, proper, and innocent. She apologized softly with a guilty smile at you in the mirror. Like Marcus, Celeste had been in your family for a long time. You saw her almost as a mother figure. Closer to your father's age, Celeste had stepped up in helping your father raise you and your brother after the death of your mother. She had succumbed to her injuries during your birth, and you always felt like your father harbored a deep animosity towards you.

"I know you're not fond of these braids, princess," she tells you quietly, her wrinkly eyes glancing at you briefly before looking down at her fingers in your hair. "But it's just for today."

Letting out a small, soulless laugh, you tell her, "Father always has a trick or two up his sleeve, Celeste. You know that. Marcus knows that. The whole castle knows that. He may say one thing and mean another. That's just how he is, I guess." The little shrug you give her makes her tut.

"I do know," she says quietly, reaching over your shoulder to grab a few flower stems to slide them into your braids, almost creating a delicate flower crown. "And I also know that this is not the life you see for yourself."

You look at her in shock through the mirror. She gives you barely a nod and cascades the rest of your hair behind your back to comb through the wavy strands. There are a few beats of silence as you sit and wonder. Has Marcus gone behind your back and told her your secrets? Has she overheard one of the nights where you and the knight sat in seclusion? Has she read your diary? All of these questions are rushing through your mind before you could stop them. What if she tells your father? What if he isolates you permanently?

"I know what you're thinking and it's not true," she speaks up when she sees your eyes darting back and forth frantically. She feels your shoulder deflate with relief. She stops brushing your hair and rests her chin atop your head. You both look at each other in the mirror. "Your mother was a very intimidating woman. That's what drew your father in and made him fall in love with her. He sees so much of her in you, and that's why he's trying to hold onto you as tight as he can for the time being."

Feeling a tickle in your nostrils and a lump forming in your throat, your eyes shut before you could let tears spill over the bottom lid.

"I... I can't go on like this, Celeste," you whisper brokenly, finally turning in your seat to look up at her. Your breathing becomes shuddering as the emotions begin to overwhelm you. "I wasn't born to become a wife." You started to become angrier the more you spoke. "I'm not a child anymore! No man shall tell me what to do! Not my father, not Marcus, not any other king or prince! I was put on this earth to fight like William!" Uttering your brother's name from your trembling lips finally let the dam break.

Celeste was quick to bring you into her arms, hushing you softly and tenderly holding your head against her chest. Your shoulders shook with each sob that wracked through your body. You were exhausted and honestly, scared. Maybe this was really it. Maybe your dreams will always be dreams. You're going to die as a wife and not as a warrior.

"Oh, dear child," Celeste whispers and pulls your head from her chest to gently hold your cheeks, her thumbs swiping away the tear tracks so as to not ruin your light makeup. "You are going to do great things. And you are going to be a great woman. It will take time, but you will see it happen. Now, give me a smile."

Hearing her encouragement and reassurance, feeling the safety in her arms, you were finally able to calm down and steady your breathing. As she swipes a knuckle under your eye to wipe away a lonesome tear, you give her a little smile and laugh to yourself at your outburst.

"There she is," she smiles as well, her wrinkles much more prominent. She fixes your makeup and turns you back around to face the mirror. Your hair falls over your shoulders on either side, the ends curled elegantly. You really do look like a true princess. In another world, you would've been happy. But you didn't look, nor did you feel like yourself. However, the proud look on Celeste's face silenced those thoughts. "You look just like your mother when she was your age."

There was a gentle rapt at the door. Celeste called out for them to enter, and it was Marcus. He gives the older woman a nod before he sets his eyes on you. When you make eye contact with him through the mirror, it feels like time has slowed down. It feels like all the air had gotten knocked out of him, and he has half a mind to grab his chest as his heart nearly beats out of the flesh. Your cheeks warmed at his obvious attention to you. It was rare for him to see you looking like this. You never wore makeup, your hair was almost never done prettily, you loathed dresses. But sitting here right now looking like a princess, having his eyes on you made you feel beautiful for once. He didn't leer. Matter of fact, he never leered at you as though you were a piece of meat. Some of the feasts that your father has thrown in the past made you uncomfortable with the amount of unwanted attention you would get from men that were desperate to court you.

But it never felt like that with Marcus. He respected you. He respected how you perceived yourself, he understood your ambitions and what you can see yourself doing down the line. You were an inspiration to him. Princesses at your age are already married and having their second child by now. Never would a princess touch a sword. But you handle one like an expert on the battlegrounds. Marcus would never admit it aloud, but he would love to see you fight. With your years of training, he knows for a fact that you would put up one hell of a fight. He only wishes your father was more accepting of that matter.

When you stand from your seat in front of the mirror, Marcus swallows down his gasp of awe. You wore a soft pink, floor length gown with white gold trimming that accentuated your curves. The neckline was low and tasteful, but nothing too extreme that would be considered inappropriate as a princess. The candlelight makes you glow like an angel. The flowers in your hair as well as the soft makeup adds to the delicacy. Celeste stands behind you to clip on a pearl necklace and some dangly earrings that match.

"Please, don't make fun of me," you give Marcus a small, embarrassed laugh as he still hasn't said anything upon seeing you. "You can make all the jokes you want after the feast, yes?"

Celeste tuts and lightly swats at your arm. The knight hasn't looked away from you. Even as you cross the other side of the room to grab your soft pink slippers with sewn beads that match the colors of your gown. You preferred your calf-high leather boots.

"Do you need a glass of water, Marcus? You look like you've seen a ghost," Celeste says behind your back as you bend down to slide on the surprisingly comfortable slippers.

He clears his throat when you look at him once again with a bashful smile. He takes a step forward to you. Without even realizing it, his hand reaches up to your hair to fix a flower stem that was out of place. It was until Celeste obnoxiously cleared her throat that he realized what he was doing. You both broke eye contact, both feeling like you were caught doing unspeakable acts. She stares at you with squinted eyes, then at Marcus. He shifts uncomfortably under her scrutinizing gaze. He clears his throat again.

"The king, uh, requests your presence, my princess," he briefly stutters when you make eye contact again, but he looks away before it could reach two seconds.

My princess. He always called you 'princess,' or occasionally your name. But he never included 'my.' It caught you off guard, and you feel like Celeste noticed because she nods at Marcus and shoos him away. He gives her a brief nod and leaves the room. Now, it was just you and the older maidservant. As she gives you one last touch up, she looks at the door and then at you.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't."

And with that, she ushers you out the door.

Your cheeks were hurting from the number of fake smiles you were giving all the guests. Your arm was aching from shaking all the hands of other kings, queens, princes, princesses, and all the like. In the corner of the dining hall was a small band playing music. They each looked at peace playing their music. They looked in their element, doing what they enjoy. Envy clawed at your chest. Looking away with a scowl, you focused on your chalice filled with the finest wine brought specially from one of the kingdoms visiting for the feast. You can hear your father's boisterous laughter across the hall as he sits with one of the king's. His face was flushed, and you knew he's had more than a few cups of wine.

You sit on your designated throne and observe the party before you. One of the jester's stops in front of you. He does a little dance, the bells on his shoes and hat jingling. It brings a smile to your lips, and then you start laughing. Jesters were one of your favorite people to witness during these times. They offered a temporary distraction and left you feeling lighthearted. Upon hearing your laughter, the jester stops dancing goofily and reaches a hand up to you. Your hand enters his and he gently kisses the top before dancing away to entertain the other guests.

"Looks like you have an admirer," you hear from above your seated position.

You look up and see Marcus leaning against the top of your throne, his arm stretched across it with his thumb tapping at the carvings. He rests his other hand on the handle of his sword. You've noticed that it was a habit of his, even when there was no danger around. Grinning up at him, you shake your head.

"Well, it's better than having a spineless prince as an admirer," you tell him half-jokingly, taking a small sip of your wine and looking back to the crowd.

Marcus also observes the crowd silently. The king was talking to one of the queen's and her son, the older man motioning behind him in your direction. When the prince looks at you, Marcus can see you recoil. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Having been in the family for decades, he's grown fond of you. Being able to witness you grow into the beautiful young woman you are today was a blessing. Your personality shines even brighter. Your quick wit and sharp tongue often deemed him speechless. It was a breath of fresh air compared to the other princesses he has met in his lifetime. You weren't like the others.

"Well," he clears his throat to capture your attention once more. "At least you get to see these spineless princes joust for your honor and courtship. The one in the blue tunic looks like a starved lamb."

The insult causes you to choke on your wine, some of it spitting out and landing on your dress as you break into a bubbly fit of laughter. Marcus muffles his own laughter by biting down on his bottom lip. Your father claps his hands loudly and makes a motion for the band to ease their music completely.

"Attention, guests! As you all know, my dear daughter, the princess, is up for courtship. It is my duty as her father, the king, to ensure that she has a safe and fulfilling marriage. Which is why we are holding this tournament!" There was a round of applause, and you find it so hard to not roll your eyes. "For the one prince to earn the honor of courting my daughter, you must fight valiantly, live honorably, and go forth courageously!" There was another round of applause, some even whistling. "Now, please make your way out to the field and get comfortable while the princes get ready to joust!"

The crowd cheered one last time before some of your father's knights led them out to the roped-off enclosure outside of the castle. Marcus held a hand to you, gently grasping and pulling you up from your seat. The distance between your bodies was short. He can smell your sweet perfume and see the shimmering of your eyeshadow. He prays to the gods above that you couldn't hear how fast his heart was beating. If only he knew that you were feeling the same way. From how close he stood in front of you, the gray in his beard was much more prominent and his thick hair looked curlier than usual. He smelled like a mix of leather, musk, and a woodsy, scented oil he must've purchased from one the markets along the outskirts of the castle. It was overwhelming, having him so close to you. Your lips parted, and you caught the way his eyes darted down to look at them.

"My daughter," you hear your father's footsteps coming closer, and you step away from Marcus who quickly broke eye contact to greet your father. "You have stained your gown!"

You looked down and noticed the dark wine droplets. Giving your father a sheepish smile, you offer him a kiss on the cheek as an apology. He claps a hand on Marcus' shoulder, both men now falling into a conversation about the tournament for your hand in marriage. Celeste ushers you down from your throne, her left hand holding your right as her right arm is around your back.

"Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at Knight Acacius," she tells you in a hushed voice. You look at her in shock, your lips parted to disagree. But when you see her pointed look, you decide to keep your mouth shut. Sighing quietly as you both round the corner of the stone halls, you speak up.

"It's not like that, Celeste," you tell her. "Marcus just... He knows how I feel about... all of this. It's all so overwhelming. There's nothing I can do to change my father's mind, so I might as well play the part as the obedient princess."

When you both reach outside, you can hear the faintness of Marcus' voice a few feet away from you with your father's voice in tow. You and Celeste stand beside each other in silence as you scan the crowd sitting in their seats around the dirt pit specifically for when the knights are training.

"You know," Celeste began. "Your mother never wanted this life for you either." You look at her with interest. She nods at the curiosity in your eyes.

Giving you her typical wink, she motions for you to climb the steps to sit in your throne. You were high up now, the pit directly in the middle of your view with the crowd on either side. Your father sits beside you with a huffed groan and affectionately pats your knee.

"We have quite the rally, don't we?" He sloppily drinks from his jeweled chalice. You cringe and look away. Marcus stands to your father's left with his arms crossed in position, his back straight and broad with authority. He feels eyes on him, and he turns to face you, dropping his right eye in a wink before looking straight ahead again. You look out into the crowd with warm cheeks as you bite down on your bottom lip to keep your smile from spreading.

Two of the esquires blew the fellow buisines to start the tournament. The crowd silenced as well as your father. Two princes on two horses came out of the small tunnel and stood on either side of a horizontal wooden post, both on opposite sides of each other, facing one another. Both men were dressed head to toe in armor with the feathered colors of their kingdom on top of their helmets. In their hands were wooden lances. There was a tense silence in the air as the princes readied themselves. When the buisines blew once more, both men charged at each other on their horses with the lances pointing at once another chest level.

There was a booming clang of wood against metal as the lance from the prince on the right slammed into the chest of the prince on the left. Some of the wood splintered and nearly exploded from the force. The crowd gasped and proclaimed with shock. The left prince fell off his horse and landed hard on the ground. The crowd clapped for him as the right prince galloped around the pit in a celebratory manner. His arrogant gloating was a turn-off. It worsened when he lifted his helmet and looked at you up above, blowing a kiss in your direction with his hand. You let out a scoff of disgust. Marcus hides his laugh by coughing into his fist.

There was another hour of this jousting. Then, there were the top two princes – the Prince of Ehnkhart and the Prince of Ivanard. Both princes were unappealing to look at and had the personalities of a wet rag. You'd rather marry one of the jesters.

When the Prince of Ivanard was deemed the winner, you almost had to fight back a gag as the bile grew at the back of your throat. You certainly were not going to marry that yellow-toothed, spineless bastard. Your father bellowed in his seat happily as the crowd roared with delight when the prince threw his fist into the air and pointed at you. Glancing at Marcus with an expression he could only describe as horror, his face morphed into something grim. He bit his tongue to stay silent. He couldn't say anything, even if he wanted to. That was not his duty as a knight. And one of the main priorities was to never go against the king under any circumstances.

"My dearest daughter," your father lets out a full bellied laugh as he takes both of your hands in his. "You are now going to be an Ivanard!"

When the buisines blew in a celebratory manner, the crowd cheered louder as your father clapped. Everything was booming and overwhelming. You can feel it all closing in on you. Your ears began ringing and your breathing became shallow and unsteady. Sweat dotted along your hairline. Your eyes frantically scanned the crowd for Celeste, needing her kind eyes to lay upon your frightful ones and her motherly touch. The vibrations of the crowd stomping their feet could be felt underneath your own.

"My daughter, come and meet your husband! He is most excited to see you!" Your father yanked you up roughly before you had time to register what was happening.

"Your daughter is even more beautiful up close, your majesty," the Prince of Ivanard tells your father as he snatches your hand and kisses your knuckles with his dry lips. The feel of his thick ginger beard had you snatching your hand away. He looks at you with surprise and offense.

Your father laughs awkwardly and roughly pats your shoulder. "She's just a bit shy. Aren't you, my dear?"

The prince laughs awkwardly as well, shifting on his feet and accidentally bumping into Marcus. The knight stares down at him sternly with hidden disdain. The prince grips your shoulder and tries to lead you away as he says, "Well, princess, why don't we get to know each other one on one before we further our courtship, yes?"

Upon hearing that, you've had enough. You yanked your shoulder away from his grimy grip and backed away from the men crowding in on you. Your father's white eyebrows furrow and you can practically feel his temper rising. Marcus steps a foot closer to him in case he would need to intervene.

"No," you spoke through clenched teeth. Your fists tightened at your sides as your breathing grew heavy and fast with each passing second.

Your father looks at you, then at the prince, then at Marcus, then back at you. "No?" He mocks your answer. As he takes a step towards you, you take another step back.

"You heard me, father," you shakily spoke as your voice wavered and grew weaker. "You will not marry me off to a swine." You spit the word at the prince who scoffs in offense. "You will not force your values onto me as though I am a lesser woman to you. I will not live an unhappy life and ignore my capabilities."

The crowd's cheering gets quieter and quieter until they stop completely upon noticing the tense atmosphere around you and your father. Marcus feels pride and fear bubbling in his chest. He knew just how much you were holding in when it came to your father. He never expected now would be the time for it to spill out all at once. You harbored a different kind of courage that he admired. Any other princess would have kept their mouths shut and gone through an unhappy marriage. Ever since you were a child, you were always independent and following your eldest brother's footsteps, wanting to be just like him when you reached adulthood. Being a woman in this life wasn't easy, that's for sure.

"Capabilities," your father scoffed and waved you off with a hand as though you were a fly. He half turned away and glared at you. "And what capabilities might you speak of, my dear daughter?" The way he speaks to you was demeaning and you've never felt so belittled in your entire life.

When you glanced at Marcus over your father's shoulder, he subtly shook his head disapprovingly. That was his way of silently telling you to not poke the bear and make the situation worse by adding more coal to the fire. To be honest, he was terrified of the outcome. Your father was not a violent man, but he was a scary man when he was rage filled. Looking back at your father, he raised his eyebrows at you.

"I want to be a fighter," you tell him quietly, like a little mouse. "I want to continue William's legacy and ride into battle with his sword and finish what was started."

There was light, gossiping chatter that was faintly heard between the guests who observed everything. You had almost forgotten that you stopped the courtship celebration. Your father stood frozen in his place. His jaw ticked and his hands trembled. Marcus stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, about to speak into his ear but your father held a hand up, further silencing his knight.

"You listen to me, girl," your father spoke lowly as he stepped closer to your frozen frame. "You will never be like my son." Hearing those words had you choking on a heartbroken gasp. "You will never have the strength of a man to become a powerful fighter like my son." He steps closer and closer. "You will never be nothing more than a dutiful wife that will bear children to continue your husband's legacy."

Smelling the wine on his breath had you recoiling. Each cruel word spewing from his lips adds a crack to your heart. These were the words you were afraid to hear. Having them told to your face in front of the public added to the crushing embarrassment. You couldn't break down. Not now, especially not in front of your father and Marcus, who stands behind with a somber look on his face.

Staring into your father's wild eyes, you brokenly whispered, "He may have been your son, but he was my brother and my greatest friend, and I will continue his legacy whether you like it or not."

He swallowed thickly and realized you weren't going to back down obediently like he thought.

"Marcus!" He barked, causing the shoulders of his knight to jump. "Take her to her chambers and lock the door. She will stay there until I believe that she is ready to come out."

"Absolutely not!" You shouted in his face, the fire in the pit of your stomach growing heavier as you hear those words. "You will not imprison me!"

"And you will not disrespect me in front of our guests, child!" He all but bellowed in your face, some spittle landing on your cheeks and nose. You flinched your head away but didn't move a step back as he got into your space. "You will follow your orders as a princess and do as I say!"

Marcus finally creates space between you and your father. Celeste had run up the wooden steps of the viewing post to step in front of your father to place her hands on his chest. The Prince of Ivanard stood silently as he didn't want to get in between a family feud, especially since the angry king was his soon-to-be father-in-law.

"Let's go, princess," Marcus speaks softly in your ear, his large hand tenderly holding your arm to usher you away from drama.

As he finally, and successfully, pulled you away, you passed by your father and shouted over your shoulder to let your final words hurt him. "God damn you!"

There was a collective gasp amongst the crowd, and you were finally ushered away in the hands of Marcus.

It had been almost three weeks since the argument between you and your father. He had followed through with his promise of locking you in your chambers. You thought it was to scare you, but once you heard the lock click and you attempted to open your door, you stepped away in shock. Marcus tried to get your father to change his mind, to change his ways, but it was no use. Your father was a stubborn, stubborn man. Celeste even tried to talk your father out of this harsh treatment, but she too was waved off. The only time you were allowed out was for dinners in the dining hall which only consisted of you and your father sitting at opposite ends of the long table. Dinners were awkward and tense. Neither of you opted to speak to one another. Stubbornness runs in the family.

When it reached day twenty-six of isolation, you were growing more frantic over the prospect of never feeling freedom. All you had were your books and your diary. Celeste and Marcus were both instructed to not interact with you. If they were to go against the king's wishes, there would be severe consequences. You knew it was all talk considering the maidservant and the knight were the only two people your father cared about deeply. You thought he cared about you too, but you were wrong.

Tonight wasn't any different than the others. Sitting on the balcony that overlooks the garden, you had a quill in one hand with your diary resting on the smooth stone parapet of the balcony. It was Celeste that had taught you how to write in elegant cursive. She was your teacher for, essentially, everything.

Looking up at the stars and all the beautiful constellations, you couldn't help but to think of what life would be like if you weren't a princess; what life would be like if your mother was still alive, if William was still alive. You had a feeling that your brother would've secretly trained you after hours whilst your father slept. The thought pulled a smile on your lips, and you made sure to write it in your diary.

"Princess," you heard a hushed voice from down below. Your hand froze and you strained your ears, assuming you were only hearing things from being isolated for so long. But then you heard it again. "Psst! Princess! Down here!" You leaned over the edge of the parapet and glanced down, your eyes widening when you see Marcus standing atop one of the stone benches.

"Marcus!" You hissed quietly before you scanned the perimeter. There was a full moon tonight, which meant that everyone in the castle was dead asleep, aside from you and Marcus, obviously. "What on earth are you doing down there?"

He holds a finger to his lips. Suddenly, he throws a bundle of rope up to you and it plops down beside your feet. Completely and utterly confused, you leaned over the edge again.

"Tie the end around one of the pillars! I'm going to hoist myself up to you!"

The idea was absurd. The more you stood up there staring down at him, the more antsy he became.

"Princess, please!"

Without saying another word, you did as he asked. Tying one end of the rope around one of the pillars into a double looped knot, you tossed down the rest of the rope. You watched curiously as Marcus grabbed the rope with both hands and began hoisting himself up. He lets out a hoarse grunt with each pull up, no doubt struggling under his body weight. His arms were exposed from the tunic he wore, his biceps bulging from exertion. When he finally reached the top, he panted heavily and swung his long legs over the edge and hopped down onto the balcony. He was now face to face with you.

"Why couldn't you unlock my door instead?" You asked him with arms crossed and a tilted head that made his heart flutter.

Marcus shrugged. "I didn't want to possibly disturb your father's slumber by the obnoxious creaking of your door."

Squinting at him for not providing any further explanation, you offered him the other empty chair on the other side of the balcony. As he takes a seat, you take the time to really observe him in the moonlight coupled with the candles lit around your room. The tunic he wore showcased his broadness. Without his armor or casual chest plate and arm wear, as well as his sword always attached to his hip, seeing him in all his normalcy was definitely a change. A good change, if that. He looked comfortable and relaxed. No longer was he standing as straight as a rod. When you caught him curiously peering at the open pages of your diary, you were quick to push his head away with your pointer finger before shutting the book.

"That is for my eyes and my eyes only, Knight Acacius," you tell him in a teasing tone, a gentle smile on your lips that had him smiling as well.

"I'm no longer Marcus to you, huh?"

"Well, that depends on if you're going to be on my good side tonight. I really don't want to add you to the list."

He scratches at his scruffy jaw and chuckles quietly at your sassy answer. You briefly retreat inside your room to safely tuck your diary under your pillow. When you go back outside onto the balcony, Marcus sees the small wooden bowl of green and purple grapes in your hands that Celeste had left outside your door. He nods at you in thanks when you motion the bowl over to him. He plucks a few grapes from the stem and watches as you lean back in your seat with the bowl on your lap. The nightgown covering your body made him feel like you looked like a goddess under the moonlight. The delicate skin of your shoulders, collarbones, and arms were exposed. He noticed a distinct scar just above your left breast.

"How did you get that scar?"

You looked shocked at his question. Of course, you forgot just how exposed you were to the older knight. But you didn't feel uncomfortable under his inquisitive gaze. Looking down at the scar as best as you could, you touched the tip of your fingers onto the mark.

"Uh, it's a funny story," you let out a small laugh and looked at Marcus with crinkled eyes that caused a dimple to form on your cheek. "I was only a small child when it happened. I believe I was nine years old, and William was nineteen. He was outside in the pit practicing. I was curious as to what he was doing, you know? I stepped too close just as swung his sword back and the tip of the blade sliced right through my dress." Bursting into a fit of giggles, you remembered the horrified expression on your brother's face and the number of apologies spewing from his lips. "If I was just a few inches shorter, he would've gotten my throat."

Marcus shuts his eyes and shakes his head at the thought. When he opens them, he notices the melancholy, faraway look in your eyes at the mention of William. He quietly cleared his throat, causing your eyes to shoot up at his own. There was a moment of silence. He licked his lips and tried to form the correct words without ruining the mood.

"He would've been a good king," he tells you softly. He rolls a grape between his fingers. "He would tell me all of the ideas he had for the kingdom." Marcus laughed at a particular incident where he had stumped the young man. "He also would've been a good jester."

That was what made you cackle. You slapped your mouth with both hands and Marcus covered his own with his fist to keep from laughing. The two of you shook your heads and eased the laughter until a comfortable lull washed over. As he looked down at the grape in his hands, he mulled over the 'what if' questions that continuously ran through his head. Suddenly, he felt a thump on his forehead. A purple grape landed on his lap. As he went to lift his head to look at you, another grape hit him on the head and bounced off, landing a few feet away on the ground. You giggled behind your palm at his perplexed face.

"You are a child," he tells you in a joking manner.

"If I'm old enough to be married off to a prince, then I'm old enough to play games with my favorite knight," you tell him with that teasing smile again, the same one that always gets his heart beating fast.

"I'm your favorite knight, huh?" He throws a grape in your direction, the small fruit bouncing off your chest and landing between his feet.

"Not anymore if you keep antagonizing me," you joke as you go to throw another grape at him, but Marcus was quick enough to react and moved his head back to catch it in his mouth.

You throw him a thumbs up and he winks. The action was so charming. It was weird that it came from him. Again, not a bad weird. It was a good type of weird. It made you feel warm and fuzzy, and tingly. Although Marcus was much older and much more experienced, you can't ignore the undeniable attraction you have towards the man. A delusional part of you hoped that the feeling was mutual.

As the silence grew longer, Marcus took it upon himself to break it. "Well, since you gave me a confession that I am indeed your favorite knight, then I guess you deserve my confession that you are my favorite princess." His tone held something you couldn't add up. It was a mix of adoration and something possibly stronger. It had your cheeks and neck warming. The butterflies in your stomach went wild at his boyish grin.

"I'm your favorite princess?" You asked him quietly, too shy to look at him as you fiddled with the bowl of grapes. You couldn't embarrass yourself, not now, not like this. Maybe it was the loneliness and the possibility of never falling in love with the right man. But all fingers keep pointing to Knight Marcus Acacius.

"You are my favorite princess," he repeated more slowly and gently, bending his head to try and catch your eye. "And it's only ever going to be you, my princess."

It had been a full two months since the falling out between you and your father. Your dinners have now been delivered to your door rather than your father having Celeste escort you down to the dining hall. There was no complaint though. If anything, you preferred it that way. You've grown comfortable with being alone. Well, not entirely alone. After midnight, you and Marcus had fallen into a routine of him sneaking up onto the balcony and the two of you sharing stories of your past lives. Sometimes, he would bring a gift or two to surprise you.

A few days ago, you had mentioned that you wished you had red ink to go with your quills. That same night, Marcus had instructed you to hold out your hand and to shut your eyes. You were skeptical at first, assuming that he was going to play a joke on you.

"Do you trust me, my princess?" He had asked you softly, tipping your head up with his forefinger curled under your chin. You meet his eyes and almost feel hypnotized by the emotions swirling in them.

You nodded. "I trust you... with my life, Marcus Acacius."

Then, he laid a small item in the palm of your hand. You looked down and read the label, looking back up at him with a wide smile that made your eyes crinkle that your eyes disappeared. He was stunned when your body collided against his in a hug that felt like home. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around your body, one hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you pressed against him.

"Oh, Marcus," you had sighed softly and sniffled the tears away from the overwhelming feeling of finally being seen.

Tonight was a different adventure. Rather than Marcus climbing up, he instructed you to climb down. The idea was absurd, and you verbally expressed that when you stared down at his awaiting arms. It was at least a fifteen-foot drop without the rope. You couldn't risk breaking a bone because how else would you explain it to your father?

"Do you trust me, dove?" He hushed, staring up at you with those deep brown eyes of his that make it hard to say no.

You sighed to yourself and looked over your shoulder at the locked door of your bedroom. When you looked back down at him from over the balcony, you couldn't help but to smile at his eagerness.

"I trust you with my life, Marcus Acacius," you tell him earnestly. He smiles at that, his dimple deepening the wider his smile gets.

As you swing yourself over the edge, you make sure to fix your sleeping gown so as to not give him a sneak peek. Marcus never tried any advances on you. Although you wished he would at least touch your thigh or something, he always kept his hands to himself and was a respectful gentleman. The both of you would share intimate hugs and held hands on occasion, but that was it. There was an unspoken tension between the two of you. Whether the fear was your reputation as a princess, the arranged marriage, or the age gap between you and the knight. You were unsure of how to go about this. Whatever it was, you didn't want to ruin it. As of this moment, this routine, it was just two people spending time together and forming an intimate bond.

"There we go, darling girl," he tells you softly, his arms stretched up high to catch you if you fall. "Now, hold onto the rope with both hands and slowly lower yourself down." When you let out a small whimper, Marcus hushes you softly by saying, "I got you, darling. I got you."

Lowering yourself down to the ground was surprisingly easy work. It was harder for Marcus, most likely because he was twice your weight. Either way, you didn't embarrass yourself by falling on your backside and making a complete fool out of yourself in front of the man you have questionable feelings for. The two of you greet each other quietly and share a long hug. He had been unable to visit you for a few days, so this was your reunion back in each other's arms.

"I have a surprise for you, princess," he speaks quietly in your ear, the both of you swaying gently in each other's arms. "Are you up for adventure with your favorite knight?"

Pulling away from his chest, you rest your hands on his broad shoulders and look up at him. He spots the skepticism in your eyes, and he rolls his own jokingly.

"It's nothing extreme, I promise," he makes an X across his heart. "If it's something you are not interested in, then you say the word and I shall bring you back to your chambers safe and sound."

Marcus sounds sincere, and almost nervous. Curiosity got the best of you as you were eager to see what he had planned. When you give him a nod, he gives you one of his boyish grins and takes a hold of your hand and holds onto the lantern he had set aside to pull you into his arms. You follow him silently through the gardens, casting your balcony one last look before it disappears from view. It was another few minutes of walking until you realized what direction you two were heading in.

"Are we... going out to the lake?" You finally asked him, looking at the back of his head before peering around his shoulder. When the lake comes into view, you see a blanket laid out on the ground with another lantern resting atop it.

As you got closer, Marcus ushers you in front of him so you can get a better look of the layout. On the blanket was a plate of dried meats, cheeses, pieces of bread, and fruit; two chalices and a bottle of wine; and a single flower. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words were able to come out. Marcus had deemed you speechless, for the first time ever. It was usually always the other way around.

"Now," he gently pushed you closer with a hand on your hip. "I know how imprisoned you've felt in your chambers. And I know things have been hard for you for the past few months. I figured, maybe, you'd want a relaxing time away from your chambers. Now, this is, uh, not something of courtship, I promise you that." The sentence had you laughing quietly. "Think of this as, um, a friend helping out another... friend?" He sounded unsure, mentally kicking at himself for using those choice of words.

"Well... friend," you purposely drew out the word in a teasing manner to make him squirm. "This was definitely a surprise, and it's a beautiful surprise. Thank you, Marcus." He can hear your voice waver with emotion. "I cannot believe you went out of your way to do this for me."

"It's the least I can do for a princess like you," he spoke in a hushed tone, watching you closely as you bend down to lift the stem of the flower and sniff the petals.

Sliding off your slippers, you wiggled your feet in the plush grass, giggling to yourself at the texture between your toes. It had been so long since you felt grass under your bare feet. It was slightly moist from the fog that very slowly made its way across the hills and just barely kissed the lake. Standing at the edge of the lake, there was a moment of spontaneity that washed over you. Maybe it was a bold move or an act of rebellion. The more you stared out into the lake, the more desperate you were to feel the water on your naked skin. As you slid the straps of your nightgown down your shoulders, Marcus was quick to stop you from undressing any further.

"What... uh... What are you, um, doing?"

Why couldn't he form a coherent question? He sees the princess' bare shoulders and he suddenly feels like a virgin boy again. He forces himself to turn away with his hands on his hips when he hears the faint splash of you swimming further into the lake. When he hears your contented sighs, he finds himself turning without realizing. His arms dropped to his sides and his shoulders sagged from the forceful breath he exhaled due to the sight before him. You stood in the lake with the water just below your collarbones. Your hair was wet and slicked back when you dipped underneath to get used to the cold. With the droplets on your skin and the two lanterns creating more than enough light, Marcus would be convinced if you told him you were actually a nymph. Whatever it is that you would tell him, he would hang on to every word as though it would be the last time he would hear them.

"Come on, Knight Acacius!" You swim deeper into the lake, dipping back underneath and popping back up, blinking away the water and swiping a hand down your face to look at him with a sweet smile. "Don't leave me swimming all alone."

He knows it's a bad idea. This was definitely crossing an unspoken boundary of your whatever-your-relationship-was. Once that line was crossed, there was no going back. Marcus knew that. You knew that. Maybe you wanted for him to get in the water as an invitation. He didn't know. The two of you danced around the obvious for three months. Touches got longer and lingered the more time spent together. Goodbyes got harder after spending hours whispering secrets to one another in your bed – nothing ever got past innocent cuddling. But looking at you now, swimming about in your carefree spirit that he feels he lost so long ago, he can no longer ignore his attraction to you. Glancing off to the side in the direction you two came from, Marcus looked at you again and he can see the reassuring smile on your face, silently telling him that it's okay, it's just the two of you.

You watch as he reaches a hand behind his neck to pull off his tunic. Seeing his bare chest for the first time made you look away with a gasp. The lanterns made his skin look so golden and warm to the touch. There was more movement in your peripheral. Your brain screamed at you to not look, but your heart screamed even louder at you to take a little peek. So, you did. Lips parted on their own accord as Marcus slid off his bloomers. From the position with the way he bent over, you weren't able to see his lower half. But as he pulled his bloomers free from his legs and stood back up, you turned just in time to avoid seeing his exposed, private area. You wanted to give him the same respect he had given you when you had undressed in front of him. Whether he took a peek or not, you knew he was respectful about it.

With your back facing the field, you stared further down at the lake. With the moonlight bouncing off the gentle ripples of the water, it really did look like it was sparkling. It had you smiling in awe as your hands gently carded through the water. There was a distant splash from behind you, and then silence. You almost held your breath when you felt Marcus' presence getting closer and closer. It was nerve-wracking, and also almost exciting and taboo. Then, you felt it.

Two large hands gently grip your hips from behind. Your stomach muscles tightened at the feeling before your entire body relaxed. Slowly turning in his grip, a smile pulled at your lips. You and Marcus stood at least a foot from one another. The two of you stood with the water just below your collarbones. His hair was damp and slicked back, the ends looking a lot longer from the added wetness to them, but they still curled no matter how many times he ran a hand through them. Your hands started at his wrists, Then, they slowly slid up his forearms where you felt his arm hair. The coil in the pit of your stomach tightens as you've come to a realization that this was all happening, and it wasn't a dream. As your hands slide further up his strong, thick biceps and rest onto his broad shoulders, you couldn't mistake the sigh of content spilling from your lips for something else. You hoped it was quiet enough for Marcus to not hear, but the little grin on his face says otherwise.

Your hands slide up his neck, briefly brushing over his vein, and your thumbs can feel the hammering of his pulse. When they finally settled on his scruffy jaw, you were at a loss for words. Marcus can see your eyes on his lips. Experimentally, he licked at his bottom lip with barely a poke of his tongue before pulling it back between his teeth. Almost in a trance-like state, you do the same with your own bottom lip. Upon hearing his laugh, you broke out of the hypnotization he had you under and released your bottom lip from between your teeth.

"You are a foul man," you giggle at him, lightly pushing him away and splashing water in his direction. "In all seriousness, Marcus, it's nice seeing you like this."

"Wet, naked, and vulnerable?"

"No!" You laughed a little hard at his annoying answer, rolling your eyes and shaking your head at him as his smile grew wider. The two of you start swimming in slow, calm circles. "I mean, it's nice seeing you not so serious all the time. I like seeing you happy and... relaxed, to say the least."

"Are you sure it's not because I'm wet, naked, and vulnerable?" He teasingly asks, reaching underwater to poke at your stomach. You rolled your eyes at him again and leaned back to use your foot to nudge him away. "I know what you mean, dove. There are rare moments where I can unwind, but you've helped me in the process of doing so."

His answer piqued your interest. You stopped swimming in slow circles and looked over at him as he slowly bobbed up and down in the water. There's a ghost of a smile on Marcus' lips when you look at him with those wide, curious eyes. He clears his throat and looks away, hoping that pointing his attention on something else would help the words come out smoothly.

"The time I've spent with you, my princess, has been the most serene I have ever felt in my entire life of being your knight," he tells you in a low voice, afraid to speak any louder to where the moment is ruined by his gruffness. "With you, I am able to not worry about... anything. You make it quite easy to forget about my worries. I could be having the most troublesome day, but the second I look into those eyes of yours, it all disappears and I'm able to be Marcus with you and not Knight Acacius."

You carefully swim closer to where he stands. The emotion is heavy on his face, from the way his eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are darting back and forth as he tries to use the best words that he could think of in order to convey what he's feeling as to not confess too much too soon. Marcus shakes his head and laughs at himself.

"I'm making a fool out of myself, aren't I?"

Hushing him softly, you lean in close and tenderly wrap your arms around his shoulders to further pull him into your chest. Marcus' hooked nose lovingly caresses your jaw and then lowers down to your neck where he inhales deeply, your sweet scent filling his nostrils, further easing the anxiety that was threatening to burst. You card a hand at the back of his head, fingers gently tugging at his damp curls. He was polite enough to keep his hips a distance away from your own as his arms find a home around your waist.

"You are no more a fool than I, Marcus Acacius," you tell him so quietly, your voice cracking when you say his name. He lifts his head from its place in the crook of your neck. Eyes meet eyes, then forehead meets forehead. Noses brush against one another and his hands find your cheeks. You tenderly hold onto his wrists and shut your eyes, wishing there was a way to capture this moment.

Then, Marcus tells you in a tone that borders between heartache and awe, "I guess we are both foolish beings, my princess." And just like that, a lonesome tear rolls down your cheek, one that he lightly kisses away. His lips on your cheek left a warmth that you wished you could feel all over. But at this moment, right here with him, you will take all that he could give you.

"Princess." There was a knock on your door, followed by the latch unlocking. The door opens quietly, the unmistakable creak causing you to wince and bury your face deeper into your pillow with a groan. "The king requests your presence in his chambers." The blanket was yanked off your warm body, the cold, crisp air of your room causing you to shiver and groan even louder in your pillow. "Come on, princess. You know your father is an impatient man."

Celeste busies herself by picking out your morning gown and laying it on your bed by your curled legs. She does a once over at your body and then does a double take. When you hear nothing but silence, you remove the pillow from your face and look over your shoulder. She stands over you with a peculiar look on her face. Her wrinkled fingers gently pinch at the hem of the dark maroon tunic covering your body. It was a men's tunic, one that fell just above your knees.

"Oh, dear child," she tuts quietly, looking up at your eyes and shaking her head disapprovingly. "Please, do not tell me this belongs to you-know-who."

There was a moment of panic on your face. You leapt out of bed and made a mad dash to your bedroom door to slam it shut. Celeste still stands as stiff as a tree with her hands on her hips. Never has she ever looked so disappointed at you. It makes you want the ground to swallow you whole. Timidly striding across the room, you let out a tired sigh and sit on the edge of your bed, your fingers playing with the ends of the tunic.

"Nothing serious happened, Celeste," you speak under your breath.

She rests a hand on her head in distress, her eyes wide and worrisome. "Knight Marcus?!" She hissed. "Do you not know what would happen if your father ever found out about you two?"

"Celeste, there is nothing to even find out about," you pleaded with her, tears already brimming along your waterline. "We... We're just two people that formed a companionship after hours. That is all. Nothing more, nothing less." The words burned your tongue the second they left your mouth. "You need to believe me when I say this, Celeste. Please, I beg of you. Do not tell my father of this, please."

The older maidservant looks at you with pity, her pursed lips in a frown at the sound of your helplessness and fear of what could possibly happen if word were to spread throughout the castle. With another sigh, she takes a seat next to you on the bed. Her left hand grabs a hold of your right one, and you immediately rest your head upon her shoulder. She rests her chin on the crown of your head, sighing once more. The two of you sit in silence, listening to the faint laughter and commotion happening within the garden through the ajar windows in your room.

"Do you love him?"

The question caught your attention. Celeste's tone sounded melancholy, but you couldn't place a finger on it. You didn’t want her to take your silence as a definite answer. Truth be told, you don’t understand what it is that you feel. Were they platonic feelings? Romantic? Sexual? You do know that Marcus is three times your senior. He has a reputation to uphold as your father’s main knight. He has led the other knights into battle between the other kingdoms and always came back unscathed. Marcus Acacius was a frightening man to some and a dangerous man to others. But you never viewed him as either. He’s a passionate man with many ideals that he would hope to spread. Marcus has a sensitivity to him not a lot of men have, which is why he kept himself guarded as best as he could, only showing you the vulnerable parts of him knowing there will be no judgment. 

“This is a dangerous game you are playing, dear child,” Celeste tells you in a somber tone. “You do not know what you are asking for, nor do you understand what it’s like to love someone like that.” 

Pulling your head up from her shoulder, you rip your hand away from her gentle grip. With a fire in your eyes, you stand up before her, glaring down at the old maidservant with betrayal.

“Of all the people, Celeste, I thought you would be the one to understand me the most,” your voice breaks. "I may not be wise beyond my years, but I know what it is like to love someone. Now, I don't know what it is that I'm feeling. Maybe it's love. Maybe it's not. All I know is that I treat Marcus exactly like how he wants to be perceived. If that's wrong of me as his friend and as the king's daughter, then... damn you all!"

Shockingly enough, Celeste laughs. Not a small, polite chuckle she would give to a guest or to your father. But a full-bellied laugh that had her doubling over. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Don't... Don't laugh at me! How dare you make a mockery of me!"

She only laughs harder, frantically waving her hands as she tries to catch her breath. Her face is flushed as she dabs her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the tears. Still standing in front of her, confused and offended, you cross your arms and look away from her with a shake of your head. Much to your surprise, you let out a small oof when she hugs you tightly. You stood frozen in her embrace. Arms still crossed between your bodies; you eyed the side of her head. But then, you heard it. Celeste was crying on your shoulder, tenderly stroking the back of your head. You hesitantly wrapped your arms around her waist, pressing yourself closer into her front. The woman held onto you tighter, one hand still stroking the back of your hair as her other arm crossed over your shoulder blades.

"Gods, you remind me so much of your mother," she lets out a watery laugh. "She was a spitfire, that one."

Stepping away from Celeste when her arms dropped down, she was quick to cup your cheeks in her cold hands. Her thumbs stroked the apples of your cheeks, smiling weakly when you won't meet her eye.

"Before your mother passed, she made me promise that I would take care of you and your brother," she tells you quietly, gently tipping your head up to look into her cloudy eyes. "I may not be your mother, but I will always love you like my own. Do you understand, princess?" You give her a jerky nod. "It is my duty as your caregiver to ensure that your happiness will never wander. And it is my duty as your mother's oldest friend to keep my promise." You open your mouth to question her, but she hushes you softly. "Whatever it is that you may feel for him, do not let it go, understood?" She gives you a pointed look that tells you to not disagree with her. As she sees the tiniest smile forming on your lips, she gives you a wink and informs you to get dressed in your gown.

There was a gentle knocking at the door.

"Celeste? Princess?"

The door creaks open and reveals just who you were talking about. Knight Marcus trudges inside, his lids heavy from exertion but they brighten the second they're laid on you. Celeste doesn't miss the way his shoulders sag and the soft smile that takes over his face. She also doesn't miss the way your own smile turns into one of affection, the confusion and anger on your face now washed away. She hums under her breath, quiet enough so only she could hear it. Marcus clears his throat and gives the older woman a polite nod. She squints.

"The king requests the princess' presence urgently," he tells you both. His eyes sweep up and down your appearance, silently wishing you two were alone so he could take you into his arms and obsess over your beauty and to feel your cheeks warming under his lips. There are a lot of things he wishes he could do with you without facing any consequences. He wishes the life you two share wasn't one of secrecy. His only hope is that you also think the same of him.

Celeste fussed with your hair and did a simple style with a small braid tied behind the rest of your hair that lays against your back. When she's about to pass Marcus, she eyes the both of you once more before leaving the room, most likely to give you two some privacy.

"Do you know what it is that my father wants to talk about?" The question comes out weak, the jitters never once settling as the dreadful questions and 'what if's' are never-ending.

Marcus shakes his head as his hand tights on the handle of his sword. "I'm not sure, princess. But I wouldn't worry much about it. He didn't seem... on edge." Giving him a nod at his answer, he could still tell that it didn't ease your nerves. It's been a while since you last faced your father. He steps forwards, just a hair away. "Dove, you have nothing to worry about, okay?"

The two of you walked in tandem to your father's chambers. As you turn down the long, stoned hallway, Marcus' hand barely brushes along the shape of your hip when you step in front of him. Glancing at him over your shoulder with a barely-there smile, his silent reassurance was something you didn't know you needed, and now you crave it more than ever. As you knocked on the door and entered upon hearing your father's voice, Marcus' hand laid on the handle of the door to pull it shut to leave you and your father alone.

"Uh, Marcus," the king raises a hand to stop the knight from shutting the door. "It is better for you to be here as well to hear what I have to say."

The moment was filled with panic for both you and the knight. With your father's back turned, you glanced over your shoulder at Marcus, your eyes wide and lips parted as your breathing grew frantic. He raised a hand just above his waist, subtly shaking his head, silently pleading with you not to panic. Had your father discovered what you and Marcus had been doing after hours? With Marcus defying your father's orders, you dreaded the punishment that might await you both. Despite never going beyond hugging and handholding, you and the knight continued to dance around the topic of your relationship, fearing that reality would ruin it.

The tension in the room is palpable. Marcus stands by the door, his silence a testament to his understanding of the king's authority. Your father, with his hands clasped behind his back, gazes out the window, the sunlight catching the glint of his rings. You follow him closely, waiting for his words, and cast another glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment.

The weight of his words hung in the air, filled with sorrow and regret. "Ever since your mother passed, I've felt like I've failed you, both as your father and as king. You remind me so much of her. She truly was an extraordinary woman," he said, his voice tinged with a sad, melancholic laugh.

It was unusual to see him in such a vulnerable state. Often, it was hard to understand his thoughts or emotions. He usually maintained a facade for the villagers around the kingdom. The only mask you had seen him wear was the one he donned after your mother's death. Listening to him talk about her felt almost therapeutic. Unsure of where the conversation was headed, you remained silent and let him continue.

The atmosphere was incredibly tense as he spoke, his words cutting through the air like a knife. "I understand that you believe yourself capable of being more than just a wife, perhaps even a queen. But it is quite selfish of you to ignore what this kingdom needs in terms of allies and protection," he said, turning to face you fully. Shocked, you couldn't help but scoff, the sound escaping your lips before you could stop it.

"Selfish?" you echoed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and determination. "Explain to me how pursuing my own happiness is selfish, father. How is my desire to ride with the knights and fight for our people selfish? Go on, explain!" Your breath came in rapid, shallow bursts, but you no longer cared about the repercussions of your defiance. "Were you ever going to tell me that this isn't the life mother envisioned for me?"

The shock on his face was laughable.

"I beg your pardon!" His cheeks flushed with rage. "You don't know what you are talking about, child. You have no idea what your mother wanted for you, and you should not ponder it while you are in my care."

The laughter that bubbled out of your chest was uncontrollable. Marcus, standing by the door, watched the tense scene unfold. He knew better than to intervene or place himself between you and the king. However, as the king's expression grew increasingly stony, Marcus began to worry for your well-being, sensing that you were on the verge of crossing a line from which there would be no return.

Gazing at your father, any sympathy for his struggles vanished, as he remained tethered to his past. Marcus and Celeste offered no assistance, and now, neither could you. The king received no pity. If William were still here, he would undoubtedly strive to alter your father's views on your life choices. Sadly, in this moment, it felt like you were alone against the world. As stubborn as your father was, you now wished you weren't cut from the same cloth.

Now seething and unable to hide it, you stood closer until you were damn near toe-to-toe with your father. "In your care?" The question was spat in his face. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't Celeste been my caregiver since I was born? Hm? Wasn't it my mother that granted her full guardianship because she knew of the ideals you would bestow upon me, and she didn't agree?" Hearing about Celeste had your father shutting up instantly, and he looks away in shame. "Don't you dare try to act like a caring father, after all these years! When it comes to me being married off to a prince with no values, that is when you decided to step up." Lowering your head to try and catch his eye, he only turns away to point his back at you.

The weight of his words hung in the air as he gazed out the window, his voice barely above a whisper. "You do not know what this marriage could do for us, for the kingdom, and for our people," he said. "You are a princess, and I expected you to act as such."

Marcus lowers his head, his heart aching at the sound of your soft sniffles. He wishes he could cross the room, pull you into his arms, and take you far away from all this pain. He would do anything for you, if only you would ask.

"I know I am not like the other princess', father," you cried softly and hesitantly stepped over to the same window he looked out of, silently begging for him to look at you. But his jaw clenches and ticks, a telltale sign of agitation. You want to lay a hand on his forearm, but you'd rather not poke the bear. "I know I don't have the same ideals a woman such as myself may have, but what about me?"

When you don't get a response, you continue.

"What about what I want for the kingdom? Have you ever, for one second, thought about my own happiness instead of your own?"

The silence stretched on, heavy and unbroken. Neither of you uttered a word, except for your quiet sniffles as you struggled to hold back your tears. Marcus despised the look of desperation on your face. The anguish was unmistakable. It only worsened when you reached out to your father, and he stepped away as if a peasant had stepped on his shoes. When he looked at you, you could hardly recognize the man you once knew as your loving father. Now, he was in his kingly mindset and looked at you as though you were a problem.

The king continues to look down at you as if you were nothing more. "You do not want to marry a prince? That is perfectly fine with me," his voice was void of any emotion, making it impossible to decipher what lay hidden beneath. "There will be a carriage waiting for you tomorrow morning at sunrise. I am sending you to a convent where you will live the rest of your life as a nun. If you wish to rebel against me and ignore your duties as a princess, so be it. I will not be made a fool from your disobedience and disrespect."

"What?" Both you and Marcus exclaim, the shock of the situation melting into terror. Your heart races, and you can feel the panic rising within you. Marcus notices your distress from a distance and quickly comes to your side, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. His presence is a small comfort, a reminder that you're not alone in this moment of fear.

The knight looks at the king. "Your majesty-"

"Enough, Marcus." The king gives him a pointed stare, raising his bushy, white eyebrows, silently telling the knight to not cross the line and make matters worse. "You will make sure she is gone by the time I have woken."

The tension in the air was discernible. You struggled to find the right words, but they seemed to vanish before you could speak of them. Beside you, Marcus was seething with anger, his frustration almost tangible. Among all the scenarios he had considered, the princess being sent away to a convent was the last thing you expected.

"You are making a grave mistake," Marcus tells him, his voice no longer quiet, but more authoritarian. "Sending her away is going to make matters worse for the kingdom. Please, think about what you are doing. You are going against Maryann's wishes. Think of the heartbreak you are going to bestow on Celeste."

The mention of Maryann, your mother, brought a flood of emotions you could no longer contain. You turned and buried your face in Marcus' chest, clutching the short sleeves of his tunic as you sobbed. It felt like you were submerged underwater, unable to hear the knight and the king's conversation. All you could perceive was Marcus' faint laugh echoing in your mind, Celeste's nurturing smile, and the warmth of Marcus' hands tracing the contours of your body. Those cherished moments are now lost, and you can no longer fulfill your mother's wishes as she had hoped before she passed.

Marcus whispers your father's name. They lock eyes, the silence only broken by your heart-wrenching sobs. Marcus feels a lump forming in his throat, his nostrils tingling and eyes stinging. He repeats your father's name, his voice trembling and barely audible.

"Please," he pleads for you. His arms tighten around your body, wishing you could crawl inside his ribcage and rest upon his beating heart that you have unknowingly called home. Each whimper you released was like a stab to his chest with a poisoned dagger.

The king's frown deepens as he witnesses you trembling like a leaf in the arms of his favored knight. He swallows thickly and turns away once more, unable to face the damage that has already been done.

"My decision is final, Knight Marcus. Now, escort the princess back to her chambers."

The tears had long since dried up, leaving you as a mere shell of your former self, numb and devoid of feeling. The future seemed bleak, both for you and the kingdom. The king's rash decision to send you away to a convent was perilous and reckless. Consumed by his own fury, he had likely set the stage for the kingdom's downfall. The thought of Celeste and Marcus being put in harm's way filled you with dread, as if claws were tearing at your heart. You couldn't bear to think about the consequences of your banishment, knowing it would shatter you all over again.

The sense of helplessness is overwhelming. Celeste's anguished cries in your father's chambers still echo in your mind, a stark reminder of the pain she's enduring. She always saw you as the daughter she never had, and now, with your banishment, her heart must be breaking. Your father's silence in the face of her fury was telling. He deserved every bit of her wrath after all these years of loyalty and care she has shown your family.

And Marcus, Oh, goodness. With a slow, unsteady hand, you grabbed at your chest as the pain in your heart intensified. Being able to grow close to each other the way you've been doing the past few months has felt like a fairytale straight from the stories Celeste would make up when you were just a child. In another world, he was your prince, and you were his princess. Meeting in secrecy wasn't ideal, but it was perfect. Getting to see him become his most vulnerable was one of the greatest accomplishments you've endured. The lingering touches and longing glances given to one another around company always made you ache. The burning heat in your lower half never once weakened around him. He had grown confident in his touches and the occasional kisses that would start at your jaw and trail down to your neck where he would feel the hammering of your pulse under his lips. Knight Marcus Acacius was a man. And now, he will be a man that you would never have.

Enough was enough. There would be no more wallowing, no more pondering over what could have been, and no more drowning in tears. You needed to act, and you needed to act fast. A brief moment of panic struck as you leapt out of bed and hurried around your room. Think, think, think. Cursing to yourself, you finally got to work. Grabbing one of your gowns, you turned it into a makeshift sack by cutting and tying the ends with the small dagger Marcus had given you long ago when you were becoming a young woman.

"A princess is never really a princess without her dagger," he had told you, carefully unsheathing it and showing you the sharp blade with your initials engraved right by the handle. "This was given to me when I was your age, and now I want you to have it. Under any situation where you feel the need to use it, think about me and I will be right there with you."

Oh, Marcus. Not a minute goes by where you're not thinking about the older knight. There would be no more flirtatious banter, no more whispered secrets, no more tender touches. It was now, at this moment, that you've come to a realization your feelings for him are too intense to ignore. Maybe it's because of the desperation you feel or the terrors you're going to face after sunrise. Either way, you can't shake the unmistakable feeling away.

The reflection in the mirror is unrecognizable. The once bright eyes are now dim, and the skin is dull and dry from countless tears. This woman feels like a stranger, and the thought of living as her is unbearable. The idea of being someone you're not, confined by false worship and seclusion, is suffocating. But then, a spark of realization ignites. Not all is lost. A plan forms: escape before sunrise and head north. Whether you go alone or not is up to you, but finding solace elsewhere is better than being imprisoned by faith.

Just as you were getting a head start, a small clack sound came from the balcony. When you turned around to face the wide-open doors leading outside, you saw no one. As you were about to shut them, an object on the ground that hadn't been there before caught your eye.

It was a stone, almost the size of your palm. As you inched closer, you saw a paper wrapped around the stone, securely tied with wool string. Curiosity got the best of you, and you leaned over the edge of the parapet, but saw no one. You had assumed it was Marcus, but when he wasn't standing on the stone bench, looking up at you with that charming smile of his, your worry began to grow.

You bent down to pick up the stone, carefully retreating back into your room as you gave another glance towards the outdoor darkness surrounding your balcony. Untying the string and finally unfolding the paper, a smile slowly formed on your lips. In messy penmanship, it read: Meet me at our spot.

The rope that has been used during your secret little adventures has been kept hidden underneath your bed. After tying one end of the rope around one of the pillars, you hoist yourself down exactly as you've done the many times you snuck away with Marcus' hands held tightly in your own. There was a rush of excitement and nostalgia upon remembering those times. It felt like yesterday you two were on your balcony alone for the first time, tossing grapes at his head and essentially calling him your favorite person and vice versa.

When you reached the ground and adjusted your gown, you noticed a small lantern sitting beside the bench. It was the typical gentleman thing for Marcus to do, not wanting you to travel in the dark. It was very telling of his character and who he is as a man and as a companion. With the lantern held at arm's length from your chest, you never realized just how terrifying it is traveling alone in the dark. If you were going to leave before sunrise, you would have to get over that fear and think like a Dame, not a princess. An owl hooted in the distance, causing your head to sharply turn towards the noise.

Upon reaching the lake, you gently swung the lantern around to cast a glow around the area. There was no blanket on the ground. There was no other lantern in sight. There was no Marcus. In a hushed voice, you called out to him. Crickets chirped in the bushes as another howl hooted close by. In another hushed voice, more frantic than the last, you called out to your knight. When you reach the looming tree, an arm reaches around and yanks your body back until it collides against a sturdy chest.

With a shriek, you drop the lantern and struggle against the arm around your waist and the hand covering your mouth. You kick at the man's shin and jab your elbow into his stomach, eliciting a grunt from him.

"It's me! Princess, it's me!" The man hisses.

"Marcus?!" You whisper-shouted, allowing him to press you against the tree and observing the wince on his face as he sits up the lantern - thankfully the fire hasn't dimmed from your frantic motions. "You are a foolish, foolish man!" Although you did hurt him, accidentally, that still didn't lessen the smile on the knight's face. Rolling your eyes, you swatted at his shoulder and leaned more comfortably against the tree.

With the low lighting of the lantern on the ground and the full moon glowing behind his head, Marcus looked like a dream come true - your dream come true. His thick curls almost form a halo atop his head, making him look more angelic and heavenly than the rugged fighter he claims to be. You weren't a religious woman, by all means. But if heaven looked like this, you wouldn't mind getting down on your knees and praying to the gods above, begging to be put in a heaven where Marcus will look like this for eternity. It almost brings a tear to your eye.

He looks down at you with an unreadable expression. Both of your smiles disappear and transform into something softer and more intimate. Your eyes take in his features carefully, heartbroken at the fact that tonight will be the last night you will be with him again. No man's brown eyes could compare to your Marcus'. No man's hooked nose could compare to your Marcus'. No man's smooth, timbered voice could compare to your Marcus'. At the realization that no man will ever be the same as your knight's, and that he has ruined everyone else for you, you let out a shuddering breath as the tears fall.

"Oh, Marcus," you wept quietly, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to lower his upper body down to your height to make it more comfortable. His eyes shut as his own emotions take over. His own arms find their home around your waist. He clings onto you desperately, scared that if he were to let go, you'd suddenly fade away like mist right through his fingers. "This... This is all too much."

He hushes you softly, caressing a hand through your long hair, burning the feeling in the back of his mind of how soft and thick your hair was. His nose curves around the shape of your neck, smelling your sweet scent one last time and feeling your pulse against the tip. When you whimper from him pulling away, he eases your sorrows by using his curled forefinger to tip your head up in order to wipe away your tears of heartache. Neither of you speak, only gazing into each other's eyes lovingly.

"You are the most... beautiful woman I've ever known," he tells you quietly, silently begging for his voice to remain steady. "Your heart, mind, and soul are mesmerizing and addicting." Your lips parted at his words, your arms sliding down his shoulders to gently hold onto either side of your neck. He continues, "When I spend my time with you, it feels as though I'm floating through the clouds, and nothing can pull me back down to earth."

The intensity of the moment made you feel dizzy and lightheaded. Marcus' hands gently cradled your cheeks, and his warmth and masculine scent made your mouth water. You could see his lips moving, but the words were lost to you. Gazing back into his eyes, you pulled him closer. Marcus paused, his eyes flicking down to your parted lips before meeting your sorrowful gaze again.

There was palpable tension in the air as you whispered his name, your heart heavy with unspoken words. "Marcus… I…" you breathed out softly, your voice trembling. "I never told you… how… how much I…" The words caught in your throat, refusing to come out. You shook your head, the confession lingering on the tip of your tongue, frozen and waiting.

He takes that final step, your chests now pressed together, hearts pounding in unison. When Marcus lifts his hand to gently brush away some stray hairs from your face, you notice a slight tremble. You can't help but wonder if he's as nervous as you are, if his mind is racing with the same thoughts.

"Oh, my sweet darling," his voice trembling with emotion. His jaw tightens and relaxes, betraying the storm of feelings within him. The intensity of his gaze leaves no room for doubt—he understands your thoughts, your emotions, and the unspoken words hanging between you. He knows exactly what to do, even without uttering the forbidden words.

A surge of electricity shot through your entire body when Marcus' lips touched yours for the first time. You breathed in deeply through your nose and squeezed your eyes shut, your hands clinging desperately to his shoulders as he kept a steady grip on your face. The scruff of his beard scraped your upper lip and chin deliciously. This was what you had been waiting for, what you had been dreaming about for months, and now you finally had it, even if only for a short while until sunrise.

The two of you kissed like famished beasts. There was no holding back when it came to the knight. He kissed you as if your tongue was wine and he wanted to drink up the last few gulps. He kissed you as if he was drunk off of your taste and needed more, more, more. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to, now that he tasted you for the first time. His addiction to you worsened when your lips parted more to take his tongue into your awaiting mouth. The groan he releases had your entire body buzzing with heat.

With one hand gripping his curls at the nape of his neck and your other hand braced between his broad shoulder blades, you pulled away to take in big gulps of air as you forgot to remember to breathe. Marcus chased your lips immediately, his hands tightening on your face as he lips landed on yours again, and again, and again, until they were raw and swollen with passion. The whimper you elicit against him, the vibrations tingling on his mouth, drove him crazy.

This time, it was Marcus who pulled away.

He licks at his bottom lip, not wanting to waste any of your taste lingering on his eager tongue. Your breathing is heavy and desperate. Your lips tingle and buzz. The heat between you two intensified, no longer able to ignore as you two officially crossed that line that you cannot return from. He kisses you again, seemingly unable to go seconds without the feel of your lips on his and tongues intertwined.

The first kiss was everything you imagined it to be. You had expected it to be frantic, desperate, and consuming, and it was. It wasn't tender or gentle. He didn't kiss you like you were going to break apart. He kissed you like you were the oxygen he needed in order to breathe. Marcus was a trained fighter and killer. There has been blood drenched on his hands as others on the opposing side have died on the end of his sword.

After a few more minutes of nearly swallowing each other's tongue--maybe even an hour--Marcus pulled away for a moment to allow you a minute to regain composure and recollect yourself. The fogginess in your eyes fades away and you feel less like you're underwater. You can hear the faintness of crickets chirping again. There was a moment of embarrassment of losing yourself in the kiss, but you didn't care because Marcus also lost himself. He brushes away a small sheen of saliva at the corner of your lips with a sheepish, almost shy smile.

The moment slowly transformed when you held onto his forearm to keep his hand against your cheek. With eyes closed and lashes resting prettily on your cheeks, you kiss his palm so gently that he could barely feel it--just a tickle. Neither of you spoke. You didn't know what to say, and he didn't either, but that's okay. Everything that you wanted to say was expressed through your touches.

"Marcus," you whispered his name as your heart was about to leap out of your throat and land in the palm of his hand. He looks down at you with his beautiful, half-lidded, kiss-drunk eyes. You could no longer hold in your secret. "I'm leaving before sunrise."

His brows furrowed before they straightened. "I know you're leaving, sweet girl. Don't you mean at sunrise?"

Gently shaking your head, you release your embrace and lean back against the tree, gazing out over the lake. Marcus notices the struggle you're trying so hard to conceal on your face.

"No, my love," you tell him in a tearful voice. "I mean, I'm leaving before sunrise, getting through those gates, and heading north. I'm going to take myself far, far away from here and settle by the mountains."

Marcus can't hide the shock on his face. He takes a half step back, swipes a hand down his mouth, and distractedly rubs the back of his neck. Emotions swirl rapidly across his face. He doesn't know what to think or feel. An uncomfortable knot forms in the pit of his stomach, the kind he usually gets when something bad is about to happen.

"Absolutely not," the words come out of his mouth without holding back. He realizes his mistake when you jerk your head back and look at him with surprise.

"I beg your pardon, Knight Marcus?" Using his rank as his name was a way to distance yourself from him, to not let your emotions bubble over the surface in a way you'll regret. He sees right through your facade.

"Don't give me that 'Knight Marcus' shit like I'm going to buy it," he sternly tells you, making sure to point a finger down at the ground rather than disrespect you by pointing it in your face. Tensions were currently high, and he doesn't want to make matters worse by accidentally offending you. "You heard what I said, and I'll say it again, slowly. Absolutely. Not."

The silence between you felt almost tangible. You had seen him address the other knights in this manner when they faltered in their training or when a guest made a disrespectful comment about the kingdom. He had a knack for putting people in their place, but you never imagined it would be you on the receiving end.

Marcus took your silence as an opportunity to express his anxious thoughts. He hesitantly cupped your cheeks in his large hands, which easily dwarfed your face. Your eyes fluttered shut at the calloused warmth. He gently tipped your head up with both thumbs placed under your jaw. "Look at me. Please, open your eyes and look at me." He breathed out a sigh of relief when you did just that.

The wavering in his voice was unmistakable as he warned, "Do you know what would happen if the king ever found out that you went off north? Hm? He would find a way to get you back, or worse--kill you." The last part is spoken with such strain, as if uttering it might make it a reality. The horrifying image of your public execution flashes in your mind: your delicate body hanging from a rope, wrists bound behind your back, or your head placed on a wooden block, awaiting the fatal blow of an axe.

You knew there was a possibility of that happening. Your father was an ignorant man, but he was a dangerously intelligent one. Ignorance, the root and stem of all evil.

Your hands slowly slide up his forearms until you're holding onto his wrists, your thumbs tracing the dark hair and veins. Despite his firm grip, you try to shake your head, but he tuts softly, mirroring your motion. As he begins to speak, urging you to stop ignoring the possibilities, you gently place your fingers over his mouth, silencing him with a tender smile and a soft stroke of his jaw.

"My love," whispering to him and doing your best to remember his facial features. "I would rather die by the hands of my father than live a life that I do not want." Marcus' eyes shut tight, and he knocks his forehead on yours, sniffling quietly to keep his tears at bay. "Oh, my dear knight. I wish for a life where I wake up beside you in the mornings and fall asleep beside you at night. I wish for a life where you can kiss me in front of guests and twirl me around in my extravagant gowns." Marcus lets out a watery chuckle and allows his tears to fall onto your cheeks. "I wish for a life where I can fight alongside you to keep our kingdom safe from the enemies that lurk outside these walls. Whatever it is that I wish for, although they may never come true, I need you to know that you will always be a part of them, for you are the greatest wish of them all."

His trembling lips meet yours once more. His breathing is unsteady, punctuated by sniffling. The warmth of his thick tears mingles with your own on your cheeks. Fates of two, entwined. The two of you pull away, snapping the thin string of saliva that stays on your kiss-bitten lips. When your eyes open, you find yourself peering into his own. The confession was stuck on your tongue. You couldn't tell how you really felt. Leaving him with such a goodbye and further breaking his heart would do you both no good, so you thought.

"I, um... I should head back to my chambers, Knight Acacius," you softly tell him, hoping he can hear the teasing lilt in your voice as you speak his title. The barely-there grin on his lips showed that he did catch on to your teasing--just like old times.

"Foolish girl," he whispers, the smile never once fading as his eyes take in the rest of your features, permanently engraving your beauty in his mind to come back to.

"Foolish man," you whisper back, using one hand to brush his curls from his forehead, slowly sliding your hand down the back of his head, down to his neck, and finally curling your fingers through the curls that rest there.

Hand in hand, Marcus leads you both back to your balcony. The rope hangs limp, still tied around the pillar. You stand there for a few seconds, just looking up at your balcony and remembering all of the private conversations and shy touches you and your knight have shared. Turning in your spot, never once letting go of his hand, you kiss his frown away. His other hand cups your cheek again, your jaw now familiar against his palm. Pulling away one last time, you wipe at the stray tear on his cheek.

"Goodbye, Marcus Acacius," you whisper brokenly.

The moment is heavy with unspoken words as he whispers a goodbye, his hand lingering in yours until the distance pulls you apart. You watch his broad form retreat, his hand lifting to his face, likely to wipe away tears. As he disappears around the castle, a sense of finality settles in. Glancing up at the balcony, you do what you've done for the past few months. Climbing up the rope for one last time and steadying yourself onto the parapet, it was bittersweet.

As you stand in the room you grew up in, thinking of all the memories shared in here, there was a small set of knocks on the door. You pause, heart racing, as the knock echoes through the room once more. Who could it be at this hour? You quickly glance around, ensuring everything is in place. The makeshift sack is secure, the rope is still tied and ready for your departure, and your mind races with possibilities. Taking a deep breath, you move towards the door, each step filled with anticipation. As you reach for the handle, you can't help but wonder if this unexpected visitor will alter the course of your journey.

With your hand on the handle, you do an experimental tug. Surprisingly enough, it was unlocked. It wasn't unlocked before you snuck out to meet with Marcus. You pull the door open wider and wider, wincing at the obnoxious creaking and hoping it doesn't wake your father. As you finally pull it open, your mouth drops, and your eyes widen at the man that stands before you.

"What..." You had no time to finish your sentence before Marcus is charging inside, his large hands grabbing your face and kissing you as ferociously as the first time. He kicks the door shut with his boot and shoves his body deeper into the room, your feet desperately trying to keep up with his long strides.

Marcus forces himself to pull away from your lips. There's a metaphorically magnetic force that keeps pulling him back. He stands before you, skin flushed and hair wild. His breathing was fast and heavy. "I just..." He tries to explain himself. "I just... I needed to see you one last time. I needed to... to say goodbye... just one last time, my princess."

The intensity of the moment is blinding. Desperation and longing fill the air as you lock eyes with him, unable to resist the magnetic pull. His gaze, filled with an unfamiliar hunger, grows more intense with each passing second. The tension is almost tangible, and you've made your decision. With a firm grip on his neck, you draw him closer for another passionate kiss.

One kiss turns into two. Two turns into five. Five turns into hands grabbing at clothes and sneaking underneath to grasp at naked flesh. What happens afterwards is a memorable blur. You only wished you could have yourself a private artist to paint yours and Marcus' naked bodies in acts of pleasure. You would've hung it up proudly in the dining hall above your designated throne.

The haziness of sleep enveloped you as you shifted, feeling the comforting weight around your waist and the solid presence of a broad body behind you. His strong chest pressed gently against your back. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you snuggled closer to Marcus, seeking the warmth radiating from his naked body. He was like a furnace, a quality you found endearing. Glancing over your shoulder, you noticed the sky had turned a deep blue—your favorite "blue hour." It wasn't sunrise yet, so you still had time to savor this peaceful moment.

Marcus shifts behind you with a hoarse groan. His arm tightens around your waist, a gentle reminder that he wants you close. As you roll over to face him, the tranquility of the moment envelops you both. The room is peaceful and quiet, with Marcus' half-lidded, puffy eyes reflecting the intensity of the night before. You can only imagine that you look just as marked by the shared experience.

"You look so beautiful," his voice low enough to almost sound like a hum. It slowly brings a smile to your kissed lips. Laying almost nose to nose, you let out a small sigh as the heartache returns after the momentary distraction. "I know, my darling."

His thumb brushes across the apple of your cheek before gently gripping your chin to place a lazy kiss on your lips. Marcus Acacius was intoxicating. After just a taste, you found yourself craving more, longing to quench your thirst for him. The breeze gently blowing through the sheer curtains had you shivering. Marcus glides a hand up and down your arm, further warming you with his natural body heat.

"Wherever you may end up, my darling, be sure to write to me every once in a while, yeah? And let me know where you stay so that I can visit you whenever I can," Marcus' words, spoken softly, carried a promise of connection despite the distance. His eagerness to stay in touch after your secret departure sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. The thought of your relationship possibly growing in the future filled you with excitement and hope.

The confession was pursed on your lips, words ready to be spoken. Marcus could see it on your face, the light in your eyes brightening along with your smile.

A boisterous horn suddenly blew from the outer walls of the castle, followed by another, and another. Marcus sat up with lightning speed, the sheets pooling around his waist. Faint shouting echoed from the halls and outside the castle. Both of you jumped out of bed, sheets wrapped around your bodies, and ran to the balcony to see what was happening. Behind you, Marcus hurriedly dressed, his hair a mess and his clothes wrinkled.

"Marcus, what is going on?" Worriedly asking him and rushing over with furrowed brows. You redress into your gown, watching with wide eyes as the knight makes a mad dash to the balcony once again, cursing under his breath as he sees smoke rising from beyond the trees by the main gate.

The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. "The castle has been infiltrated. We need to go. Now!" he barked, though you knew he didn't mean to be harsh. The blaring horns and escalating shouts only fueled your rising panic, making it harder to stay calm.

As Marcus led you through the chaos, the clamor of the knights' armor and the echo of their hurried footsteps filled the halls, creating a symphony of urgency. You clung to Marcus, feeling the strength and determination in his grip. His protective stance gave you a sense of safety amidst the turmoil, as you both navigated the perilous path ahead.

One of the novice knights spotted you both and hurried over, his close helm lifted slightly above his head to speak clearly. His skin was flushed and sweaty.

The urgency in the young knight's voice was evident. "Knight Acacius! Princess!" he called out, his breath quick and eyes wide with alarm. "The Prince of Ivanard and his army have breached the walls! We must act swiftly!"

Marcus's panicked expression morphs into something far more sinister. His jaw clenches, and a vein in his neck bulges noticeably. He gives the young knight a stern nod before dragging you up the stone spiral steps to the chambers where the other knights sleep. The shouting outside grows louder, and your head darts back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse through the stone windows. Marcus pulls your arm harder, nearly wrenching it from its socket as he slams his shoulder into the door of his chambers.

"You said you wanted to become a Dame ever since you were a child, yes?" He hurriedly asks you as he slides on his armor with urgency. He's throwing a number of clothing items over his shoulder, metal clanging against metal and glass breaking onto the ground. He shoots you an impatient look as he hurries over to his closet.

"Yes, ever since I was a child," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady despite the chaos around you. He nods, his eyes filled with determination as he continues to prepare. "Then let's make sure you get that chance," he says, his tone resolute.

He slides out a rather large chest. It creaks open, revealing a set of armor that mirrors his own, but in a size that fits you perfectly. As he hands it to you, your heart races with a mix of surprise and anticipation. This armor, crafted with care, is meant for you.

"Marcus," you shakily began to speak but the words died on your tongue, fingers sliding over the piece of metal. Attached inside the body armor was a byrnie, with interlocking iron rings. The small-looped chains drooped to cover any open areas. The intricate detailing of the metal molding had you staring in awe for a split second before you remembered the probable battle happening around you.

Looking back up at him, Marcus gives you a singular nod and reaches an arm out to you. Glancing down at what was being held in his hand, tears pricked at your eyes upon seeing it was William's sword. Your father had taken it from you prior to locking you in your room. His focus remains unwavering as he watches you slide on the armor over your gown. You must've looked like a fool, but Marcus looked at you with a proud glint in his eye, though his face doesn't show it. It was difficult to snap back from Knight Acacius to your Marcus during a time like this.

Holding the sword firmly, you feel its weight settle in your palm. You glance at Marcus with a look that speaks volumes. He recognizes that look—the same one you had before the blaring horns interrupted you both. He knows you want to express your gratitude for everything he's done for you and your family, even though you've always considered him part of the family.

There was an intensity that was hard to ignore as he steps closer, his gloved hand gently caressing your cheek before pulling you into a passionate kiss. The kiss conveys all the emotions he has been holding back. As you both pull away, breathless, Marcus places a tender kiss on your forehead and whispers, "You can tell me after we have won the battle."

With that whispered promise, you give him a determined nod and slide on your dirtied boots, which he also snagged from your father. As you both rush out, darting down the steps, turning corners, and navigating the exhaustingly long hallways, you think about Celeste for a split second. As if she could read your mind, she turns the corner and nearly crashes into you.

"Oh, my dear child!" She cried out helplessly, looking back and forth between you and Marcus, her hair disheveled and tear tracks staining her cheeks. You see her face change as she notices the armor adorning your body and William's sword in your hand with your other hand tightly clasped in Marcus'.

The silent understanding was evident in the way her lips parted and her eyes subtly widened. She cupped your cheek with a wrinkled, shaky hand, then looked at Marcus, giving him a nod before doing the same to you.

"You come back to me; do you understand?" The tremor in her voice was unmistakable. Celeste had always been a strong woman. She never once allowed anyone to see her break down. At a time like this, seeing you, the closest thing she has to a daughter, fully dressed in the armor you dreamt of wearing when you were a child at knee-height, made her feel like the proudest mother ever.

Holding onto her forearm, you give her a hasty kiss on the cheek before being hurried away by Marcus. You hadn't thought to ask Celeste about the whereabouts of your father. Considering she was all alone and running around like a chicken with its head chopped off, you assumed your father was hiding like the coward that he was.

"Once we step outside, you follow my lead. Is that understood?" Marcus's command echoes in your ears. With a firm grip on your sword, you mirror his readiness. His reassuring glance and the gentle release of your hand signal the gravity of the moment. Stepping onto the castle grounds, you exchange a final, resolute nod. Together, you advance towards the main gates, where Marcus' knights stand vigilant, their swords and shields at the ready.

The Prince of Ivanard stood opposite your kingdom's knights, exuding arrogance. His smug expression was infuriating. You gripped your sword tighter, remaining steadfast beside Marcus, who straightened his back and took his place in front of his own knights. There was a tense stare down between the two men.

"You have no business here," Marcus declared sternly, his voice resonating loudly and clearly to ensure that everyone nearby and at a distance could hear. "Do not begin what you cannot end, Prince of Ivanard."

The prince's expression contorted as his title was uttered with disdain. The urge to laugh bubbled within you, but you suppressed it, rising to stand tall, fixing a steely gaze on the man destined to be your spouse. Noticing your stance beside Marcus, the prince approached, flanked by his knights, his fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt of his sword.

"Oh, but my business is here, Knight Acacius," he sneered, uttering Marcus' title with the same disdain he had shown him, yet Marcus barely reacted. "I have journeyed far for the princess to become my wife, and I shall not depart without her. Although, it seems like I am looking at a little girl playing dress-up instead."

Stepping forward, you positioned yourself before Marcus. He made a slight move to halt you but restrained himself, remaining behind. This moment was yours, the one you had been anticipating. You faced the prince without a trace of fear.

"As the princess and heiress of this kingdom, it is my duty to announce that you are not welcome here, Prince of Ivanard," you spoke loudly and clearly, silently applauding yourself for keeping your voice steady and stern. "Like Knight Acacius has previously stated, do not start something you cannot finish."

The atmosphere was charged with tension. Neither of you spoke. You and the prince exchanged silent stares, his body practically radiating anger. Despite the thick swallow you forced down your throat, your eyes remained fixed on him. A movement caught your attention from the corner of your eye. The familiar scent told you it was Marcus. In a moment like this, his presence was everything you needed.

"Come with me now, and I won't take any drastic measures. Or continue this little charade and face the consequences," the prince says with a nonchalant shrug. "I advise you to make a wise decision, princess," he adds, elongating the title in a way that causes you to frown.

Taking a steady breath, you turn to look at Marcus and find him already watching you. He has been observing you the whole time. He sees the turmoil in your eyes and the hesitation in your gaze. In a hushed tone, he reminds you, "Remember your promise."

That was enough to light a match under you. Giving him one last determined nod, you faced the arrogant prince once more. "Prince of Ivanard," you announced loudly. "You are nothing more than a fat-kidneyed, crooked-nosed fool." Some of the knights on your side chuckled underneath their breaths, and even Marcus did too. The prince's facial expression grew red with fury. "Now, I advise you to put up a good fight rather than pretend your cock is bigger than most."

A prolonged silence ensues. The prince lets out a chuckle, devoid of any real mirth, as he nods to himself. His grip on his sword's handle tightens before he draws it from its scabbard. Lifting a hand into the air, he locks eyes with you, his gaze piercing through you rather than merely meeting your eyes. Abruptly, the unmistakable sound of metal-on-metal rings out as all the knights, both allies and adversaries, draw their swords in unison.

The prince offers an emotionless smile. "May God rest your soul," he declares. Then, with a swift motion of his hand, he signals the commencement of the battle.

Battle cries echo from both sides, including you and Marcus. As allies and enemies clash, Marcus disappears into the throng. You raise your sword overhead and bring it down forcefully across the chest of an adversary knight. He emits a guttural squelch and collapses into a bloody heap on the ground. It feels as if everything around you is moving in slow motion. The only sound you can hear is the heavy, rapid thumping of your heart resonating in your ears. Your limbs ache from the effort as you push through the throng of people.

Swords clash against each other, against armor, and against flesh and bone. The battlefield echoes with the roars of men and the cries of agony as lives are lost. Marcus is known as a formidable warrior; his reputation as Knight Marcus precedes him. There is no doubt in your mind that he will emerge victorious.

Battling through the opposing knights, you weave and dodge until at last, you spot him: the Prince of Ivanard. With a swift motion, he cleaves through the abdomen of one of your knights, then kicks the fallen warrior away to free his sword. The knight's blood stains the sharpened blade, darkening under the glint of the rising sun.

He gazes down at the mangled body, a grin spreading across his face. Sensing a presence, he looks up to find you there, breaths coming heavy and wild, the sword in your hand trembling from the strain of fatigue. As your eyes lock, an unspoken understanding passes between you; you both know what must happen next.

With a battle cry, you charge at each other, swords clashing. Emitting a grunt like a wild beast, you push him back forcefully and swing your sword to the left—he parries. A swift slash from left to right catches him by surprise, and for a moment, as the blade arcs toward his face, he's off guard. He jerks his head back just in time, but not before the blade grazes his cheek.

"You are no more a man than I am," you say to him, your voice quivering with adrenaline and sheer fury. "You are a fool, and I would be an even greater fool to marry someone like you."

With a roar of anger, the prince raises his sword and charges towards you. You swiftly dodge to the side, rising to your feet with your sword gripped firmly in both hands. A glance at William's initials engraved on the blade fills you with a wave of determination to honor his legacy and become the warrior he believed you could be.

The battle with the prince is fierce and draining. Your muscles scream for relief, and sweat stings your eyes as it drips down your forehead. Thoughts of Knight Acacius, your Marcus, flash through your mind. In the distance, you can just make out his voice, yelling commands and fighting with unparalleled vigor, knowing his strength comes partly because you are in the fray as well.

Suddenly, as your attention falters for a mere half-second, your sword is knocked from your grasp. You gasp, watching in a trance-like slow motion as it arcs through the air and lands yards away on the blood-soaked, dirt-strewn ground. Turning back to face the prince, a searing pain blazes across your abdomen, eliciting a piercing scream of agony.

With wide, unfocused eyes and an open mouth, your hands clutched the prince's shoulders. Your bloodied fingers slid down the metal, soon grasping his forearms, tense as he thrust the sword deeper into your abdomen, undoubtedly driving the end through you. Emitting another agonizing wail, you glanced down at the gruesome sight.

Your blood, dark and viscous, spills forth, tainting the prince's hands and your soiled dress. The agony is beyond comprehension, leading you to ponder if William experienced this torment before his demise. As you attempt to utter a word, the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth. The prince shows no remorse; instead, his expression reveals a disturbing satisfaction in your suffering. With each turn of the handle, a grotesque sound escapes, and you find yourself beyond the point of vocalizing your anguish.

He leans in close, his breath acrid, almost making you gag—if not for the blood trickling down the corners of your mouth. "You were fated to be my wife," he hisses. "And now, you will meet the same fate as your dear brother, at the hands of my father."

With a feeble, blood-stained smile and your body gradually succumbing to unconsciousness, you teeter on the brink of collapse. As you draw near to the prince, the sword lodged in your abdomen sends waves of searing pain through you. Each cough is a wet, gurgling effort, spattering clumps of blood onto the prince's chest plate.

Gazing into his eyes, your weak smile vanished as you told him in a faint voice, “You’re a coward… and history will forget you.”

The look of contentment on his face shifted to a grim shadow. His forehead creased, and the smile he wore flattened into a grim line. Emitting a guttural growl, he thrusts you back, wrenching his blade, now smeared with your blood, from your midsection. You collapse, the sensation of pain fading into a distant echo. Numbness overtakes you, your senses dulling as your heartbeat echoes, slower and slower.

"Tell William my father sends his greetings," the prince commands, hoisting his sword aloft as blood trickles onto his armor. Through half-closed eyes, you glimpse the blade's gleam, your own heartbeat resounding in your ears. Thoughts of Celeste, William, Marcus, and your mother flicker through your mind in mere seconds. With closed eyes, you resign yourself to your destiny.

Suddenly, a sound like the crunching of bone filled the air. Breathing shallowly, you clear the fog from your vision and look up. The prince hadn't brought his sword down on you as he intended. Instead, a sight unfolded that you wished to etch into memory forever. A sword had been thrust through the prince's chest from behind, piercing his armor with such force that it passed clean through. His eyes were wide in disbelief, and his throat worked spasmodically, spewing thick gouts of blood that darkened his ginger beard to a deep crimson.

A deep, wild scream erupted from behind the prince. Suddenly, his body was hoisted into the air, the sword still impaled through him. His body rose higher and higher until the figure on the sword's other end came into view. The armor was unmistakable. Marcus' arms, now exposed without the protection of his armor, swelled and trembled from exertion and adrenaline. He unleashed another roar, a battle cry of pure fury. His expression was unrecognizable; he was no longer the Marcus you knew. This was Knight Acacius, the fearsome warrior known for his savage prowess in battle and his unwavering leadership in protecting his people. The prince's twisted, lifeless form was now suspended above Marcus' head as he continued to scream, his body almost quivering with the rush of adrenaline.

"Deliver a message to William," he snarls, his voice thick with fury, "Knight Acacius sends his regards." With a forceful motion, he casts the prince's body aside, the sword remaining impaled within.

A sudden rush of emotions swept over Marcus' face. It was evident in the way he gazed down, shaking off his persona as Knight Acacius. His lips moved frantically, yet their words were nearly lost beneath the pounding of your heart. Collapsing to his knees, his hands trembled violently as he placed a gentle hand upon your abdomen. Though he knew no aid could be rendered, the helplessness he offered supplanted the anger with profound heartache.

"No, no, no, no," he wailed, his face contorting as he failed to hold back his cries of despair. He shakily cradled your cheek, now ice-cold against the warmth of his blood-flecked palm. "Oh, my sweet princess. No, no, no."

"Mar…" you struggled to speak, the blood in your throat surfacing repeatedly despite your efforts to swallow it. Breathing became increasingly difficult; each inhale exacerbated the bleeding, soaking Marcus's hand further. "I… I'm…"

He silences you softly, stifling his tears as your breaths become shallower and your limbs grow feeble. He observes your hand dragging across the ground towards him. With a sorrowful heart, he reveals your injury, averting his gaze as he tenderly takes your hand and presses it against his cheek. Your lips quiver into a faint smile. The ongoing battle fades into obscurity; in this moment, there is only you and Marcus.

A lonesome tear trails down your temple. Marcus tenderly wipes it away, maintaining eye contact with your half-closed eyes. He recognizes your effort to stay awake for him. With one hand still cradling your limp hand to his cheek and his other cupping your own cheek, he exhales a shaky breath, the ache in his heart intensifying with each torturous second.

As he gazes down, observing your eyes roam over his features as they always did, he reflects on every shared moment from the past few months. He realized he loved you from the start. Yet, he never found the right moment to declare it. Now, Marcus is burdened with the regret of his silence, only breaking it as you lie before him, on the brink of your end.

"I…" His voice falters as he begins to speak. "I am a foolish man, my princess. I should have told you… how much… how deeply I…" Tears hinder his words, the floodgates of his emotions opening as he watches the light of life dim in your eyes.

The realization that you will no longer be together brings more tears to your eyes. You long to cry out to him, but the fear that your wails would force blood from your mouth, leaving a haunting image for him, holds you back. You do not wish for that to be the last memory Marcus has of you before your agonizing death.

"Come," you whisper hoarsely through the gurgling of your blood. You must tell him before the darkness engulfs you forever. You must tell him before he is left to roam the earth aimlessly without you.

Marcus gently lowers his head and turns until your lips graze his ear. The rattling sound of your breath causes him to close his eyes, his lips pressing a kiss to your wrist against his jaw. He listens intently, deciphering your hushed whispers, understanding at last what you're attempting to convey.

"Love…" you whispered in agony, your lips quivering against his ear as you coughed, inadvertently staining his golden skin with your blood—a skin you would no longer caress with your fingertips or savor with your tongue.

Marcus feels his heart almost cease to beat when he hears the single word that escapes your lips. Your last word, a confession of your feelings for him, irrevocably breaks his heart. He realizes he will never whisper those words against your skin as you both lie beneath the moon's glow, lost in bliss. Nor will he utter them against your lips in a kiss, as if you were the finest wine ever tasted. And he could never whisper them to another, for no one could ever evoke the emotions you stirred in him.

Marcus looks down at you, his expression shattered, knowing it's the last thing you'll see before darkness engulfs you in its icy hold. He kisses you, the blood from your lips staining his. He kisses you one final time, aware that the moment he pulls away, you'll slip into the void.

Finally, he forces himself to break away from your lips. With one last gaze into your eyes, he whispers tenderly, "Now I must remember you for longer than I have known you." Upon hearing his final confession, your vision blurs, speckled with black dots. The roughness of his scruff under your palm fades away. You no longer feel the wound or the blood seeping out, soaking the earth beneath you.

And as your eyes close for the final time, Marcus' anguished scream is the last sound you hear before slipping deeper into the embrace of death.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗣𝗔𝗦𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗦 max verstappen x fem! reader (fluff) “. . . time goes by. days come and go. but your love will always be there.”

☆★ ty guys for all the support <3 inspired by the movie: kimi no na wa // also but like . . . medieval Max Verstappen *bite lip* ━━━━

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( tag list | requests )

"I love her with my soul, in case my mind forgets or my heart stops."

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

1456

"Do you believe we could ever find a way, Y/N?" Max inquired, his eyes filled with longing and uncertainty. In the grand estate of Duke Verstappen, your heart was entangled in a forbidden love with his son, Max Verstappen. As the sun set upon the lavish gardens, you found solace in the shadows, seeking stolen moments with Max.

You sighed softly, your fingers lightly touching his hand. "I cannot foresee the future, my lord. But as long as we remain devoted, we shall face it together."

Your love blossomed in fleeting glances shared during formal gatherings. One evening, during a summer ball, Max managed to escape the crowd and found you alone, tending to the garden. "May I have the honour of a dance?" he asked with a charming smile.

Your cheeks flushed, cautious of prying eyes. "But, my lord, we mustn't risk exposure."

Max drew you close, whispering gently, "Let them speculate, I care not for the judgment of others. My heart belongs to you, and I shall not allow convention to dictate my feelings."

As the seasons changed, rumours swirled, and the Duke's suspicions grew. One fateful night, you were summoned to the Duke's study, where he stood sternly before you. "What is the nature of your relationship with my son?" he demanded.

Your heart raced, knowing you could not deceive the Duke. "We love each other deeply, Your Grace. But our hearts know the divide of social standing." The Duke's eyes glinted with anger. "You dare defy the order of this household?" "I beg your pardon, Your Grace," you whispered, tears welling in your eyes.

The Duke's judgment was swift and unyielding. "You are dismissed from this estate. Leave at once, and never return."

As you departed, Max arrived, desperate to reach you, but it was too late. He fell to his knees, heartbroken and lost. "Y/N, forgive me," he cried out into the cold night.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

1915

"I'll come back to you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice filled with determination. "I promise, we'll be together again, no matter what."

You stood on the bustling platform of the train station, the soft rumble of the approaching train making your heart race. Your hands trembled as you clutched the letter Max had written to you, his words etched in ink and love.

Max, your beloved, was about to board the train to join the battlefront. His duty to his country weighed heavily on his shoulders, and though he tried to remain stoic, you could see the flicker of fear in his eyes. He held you close, his strong arms enveloping you in a warm embrace.

Your heart ached, the uncertainty of war gnawing at your soul. "Please, Max, be safe," you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper.

He cupped your face gently, wiping away the tears that spilled from your eyes. "I'll carry you in my heart every step of the way," he said, his voice unwavering. "Just know that I love you, and nothing can change that."

As the train's whistle sounded, signalling its impending departure, Max leaned in and kissed you. The world around you blurred as tears streamed down your cheeks. "I love you, Y/N," he said softly before boarding the train.

You watched helplessly as the train pulled away, carrying your heart and soul with it. The ache in your chest intensified, and you knew that from this moment on, every day would be a battle of its own – a battle against distance, fear, and the uncertainty of war.

"Max!" You called running after the train. "Ik houd van je!" [i love you] You called reaching your hand to him. The blond held your hand tightly, leaning out and giving you one last kiss. "Ik houd van je." [i love you] You repeated, feeling his hands slip from yours as you watched him disappear.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

2023

"Did you see? Max's on pole again!" You heard distant chatter as you leaned against the moving trains window, dragging your pencil to create shapes in your sketch book. Looking out the window you sighed you saw another train on a parallel track go the opposite way.

As you continued to sketch the view in front of you, your eyes caught a certain blew ones. Holding deep eye contact, you felt familiar tug in your heart. Leaning your hand on the glass with furrowed eye brows, the man copied your actions, a hint of desperation on his face.

When you got the chance, you were bolting, running in your uncomfortable shoes to where the train the certain stranger would arrive at. Pulling yourself up the stairs, you looked around deck uncertain.

Why were you running? Why did your body move on it's own? Who was he? What is this feeling?

Your hopes died down once you realized the train had left before you arrived. A deep sigh emitting from your mouth as you felt your chest empty and ache. The loud noise of the opposite side train muffled your ears as you pulled out your sketch book, flipping to the page of where you'd seen the man before and etched the dream into your book.

"Back to the real world." You mumbled to yourself watching as the other train leave. What you did not expected was to see the ma you were searching for standing on the other side. Your breath stuck in your throat you looked at him, taking a step forward.

"What's your name?" You could hear him ask.

[fablefan]

What the Heck is the Golden Guard Actually Wearing: A Speculative Guide

So a long while ago, I was talking in a Discord server with a few others about what Hunter's GG uniform might actually be composed of, since apparently a lot of the fandom seems to interpret it as a kind of tunic. With the finale of the show sending us all into tears, I thought I'd take a break from the heartache and explain my theories.

(This might be long, so I'll put pictures in when I can)

So to start with, let's actually begin not with his uniform, but what's underneath it, as seen above.

(So scary, truly)

Now, while some people headcanoned this as a binder (and I'm not one to bash on people's ideas), I think it's actually a kind of brigandine!

(Note the length, the buckles going down the front, and the leather straps going over the shoulders)

This was a kind of armor that knights or soldiers wore, composed of strips of metal fastened between two pieces of heavy cloth or leather to make a vest. It was handy to have because it was fairly durable and lightweight, and offered decent protection without needing all the fancy welding required for full-plate armor.

It was worn on top of a tunic (like he does in the photo), and was usually sleeveless, though it sometimes could come with arm and shoulder protection.

Now, I confess, a brigandine wouldn't normally be worn under armor (too many layers and padding), but that leads us to Hunter's actual uniform!

(Angry cat / big brother energy intensifies)

So while the cloak and pin are common enough that even most civilians in medieval times wore them, this isn't one solid tunic piece -- it's plate mail!

Now, to get the basics out of the way, that little shoulder guard he's wearing is called a pauldron, and was used to keep your opposing, non-dominant side safe when jousting. Knights would normally only wear one, as two would be cumbersome, and holding your lance under one was uncomfortable and impractical.

(It also makes an adequate perch for little bird palismen)

That duller yellow color Hunter wears is the undershirt knights would wear under their armor (for extra padding against chafing and some extra protection). While this historically would be a gamberson (or aketon, depends on who you ask), a thick, quilted fabric shirt, it'd be too bulky for the plate mail he's wearing, amidst other things.

Instead, he might be wearing an arming shirt!

Also referred to as an arming doublet (again, depends on who you ask), these were made later as a thin kind of form-fitting shirt that was more flexible and allowed for ease of motion when wearing armor. Sometimes chain mail was sewn into more vulnerable areas for coverage, like between the legs and the armpits (like you can kinda see in the first pic).

(Also, take notice of the higher sides of the collar, which you can also see under Hunter's cape)

The brighter gold armor he wears is, from what I can tell, not full plate mail, but a kind of cuirass!

These were chest plates that covered both the front and back of a knight without needing all the extras of armor, and could be worn with an arming shirt or chainmail.

They also usually came with hip guards -- those little strips by his pelvis -- and were special attachments called faulds, useful for keeping those areas safe without making things too bulky.

And there you have it! Hope this helps with your art and writing, and thus concluding

✨Weird History With Fable✨

[acourtofthought]

The book Sarah had displayed "The Once and Future Sex" just triggered something for me after looking over the synopsis:

Enshrined medieval thinkers, almost always male, subscribed to a blend of classical Greek and Roman philosophy and Christian theology for their concepts of the sexes. For the height of female attractiveness, they chose the mythical Helen of Troy, whose imagined pear shape, small breasts, and golden hair served as beauty’s epitome. Casting Eve’s shadow over medieval women, they derided them as oversexed sinners, inherently lustful, insatiable, and weak. And, unless a nun, a woman was to be the embodiment of perfect motherhood.

I always thought it was a bit strange how Sarah continually reminded us of Elain's small breasts but seeing the above makes me wonder if it's because she took inspiration from the likeness of Helen of Troy as a pear shaped, small breasted figure which was the ideal of attractiveness during that time period.

It makes a bit of sense as Helen of Troy's face was one that launched a thousand ships with Elain's being a face that could bring kings to their knees.

The Trojan War began because Paris took Helen from her husband, Menelaus and in SF we have Rhys warning Az that his actions, his lack of concern for her mating bond with Lucien, could lead to a battle to the death and ruin the peace of their lands.

On the one hand, the Paris of Homer's Iliad is depicted as a handsome and charming young man motivated by his love for Helen and his belief that she is destined to be his.

It's debatable whether Paris truly loved Helen or whether he believed he did because her love was promised to him:

Still, Paris could not decide, as all three were ideally beautiful, so the goddesses attempted to bribe him to choose among them. Hera offered ownership of all of Europe and Asia. Athena offered skill in battle, wisdom and the abilities of the greatest warriors. Aphrodite offered the love of the most beautiful woman on Earth: Helen of Sparta. Paris chose Helen and thereby Aphrodite.

"His belief that she is destined to be his." sounds a lot like Az feeling he should have been given Elain because his brothers are with her sisters.

"Some stories say that Aphrodite put a spell on Helen to make her fall in love with Paris, while others say she loved him without the goddess’ help."

Helen regrets her decision to be with Paris, and her resentment of him intensifies as the war progresses. She is disgusted by Paris's cowardly behavior when he fights Menelaus.

If Sarah went with the first story, she could have played into that with Elain's interest in Az where she felt influenced by what she thought her sisters wanted of her (which Rhys all but acknowledges in the Feyre bonus, about her being worried that she'd disappoint them if she acted out of character for what they expected of her). It's clear that Feyre initially had animosity towards Lucien in ACOWAR and it was very evident that Nesta only started coming around to him later in her book so it's not a stretch to believe Elain thought that since her sisters were interested in Rhys and Cassian, she as the third sister should also try to be happy with the third brother so as not to make waves.

Also, Elain is bothered by cruelty and though the circumstances would be different (since I don't imagine Sarah would write Lucien and Az battling it out to the death), I do think that had Elain actually hooked up with Az she would have later regretted it. I think she would have been bothered by Azriel's threats of Lucien, his indifference to killing him and causing issues between courts.

In Homers account, Helen is eventually reunited with her husband Menelaus.

I also think it's interesting how in what is clearly a negative way of thinking, the above book mentions men who considered woman to be the embodiment of "perfect motherhood" and Sarah chose to write Az thinking of how innocent and pure Elain is in his bonus chapter, how he will taint her.

[sebastianstansqueen]

Yellow Masterlist

Summary:In the quiet town of Valencia, Bucky's life is marked by routine until a mysterious cloaked woman, later revealed as Princess Y/n, disrupts his ordinary existence. During a chance meeting at the tavern, Y/n's enigmatic presence intrigues Bucky, leading him to follow her into the forest where she confides in him about her imminent, unwanted marriage to King John of Eldoria. As they navigate the dark woods, Y/n reveals the suffocating constraints of her royal life, and Bucky empathizes with her plight, feeling the stark contrast between his simple life and her gilded cage.  Bucky learns of the growing unease in town about the potential union with Eldoria, a kingdom known for its harsh laws. Y/n faces the grim reality of her impending marriage amid public scrutiny and the oppressive presence of King John. As she struggles with her fears and the restrictive future ahead, Bucky's concern for her deepens, leading him to offer solace and a brief escape from her troubles. Their connection intensifies as Bucky becomes more determined to support her, even as he grapples with the limitations of his own role in her turbulent world.

A/n: Guess who's back.... Hey guy I've missed you, I've also had a chance to go back and read one of my old fan fictions and cringe myself to almost death that I said lets jump back in and do it again, Love y'all and missed you hope you are excited as I am for this come back. Might remodel the page soon as well, we will see! The Tagglist is opened, for this officially as I post this. Feed back is always appreciated!

(Commoner/Farmer!Bucky x Princess!Reader medieval Au! Also Homelander is King John Your welcome for whatever warnings that comes with in the future, he is the bad guy so no empathy here)

Tagglist // Masterlist 

🎶Playlist🎶

{ Part One }

{ Part Two }

{ Part Three }

{ Part Four }

{ Part Five }

More to come...

[demonicbaby666]

Sharp Edged Pleasure

One shot | Once Upon a Time Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Once Upon a Time

Pairing: Dark!Swan x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst and Smut

Words: 4.3k+

Warnings: G!p Emma (conjured), top!DarkSwan, bottom!reader, knife play (don’t talk to me about this), swearing, degradation, light bondage (rope), edging, spanking, asphyxiation (a tiny smidge maybe...), I don't know what the warning is for getting banged with a foreign object but that too.

Summary: You and Emma had been seeing each other for a little before the events in Camelot took place. Seeing her as the dark one was a shock but what came next was even more unexpected.

A/n: You know ‘We don’t talk about Bruno’? Same rules apply here.

Electrical lines sparked by the open door of Granny’s, shocking you back into your body. Everyone’s eyes, including your own, darted in the direction of the crackling’s origin. Moving to the side, unable to see past the few bodies present in the room, you had a clearer view of the doorway and your eyes fell on her. Emma. 

But this was not the Emma you knew. 

“Mom?” Henry called out from somewhere behind you, “What happened to you?”

Something had happened. Something other than just a change in aesthetic. Long gone were the Charming genes that shone a cheeky glimmer in jade irises, lying in their wake were two stony, unreeling, unforgiving eyes; eyes that were piercing right into you. Her moonlight hair was pinned back into a tight bun, cheekbones protruding outwards, sharper than when you had last seen them, and you wondered, for a moment, what it would feel like to run your fingers along the sculpted curvatures.

It felt both like an eternity and only a day since you had last felt Emma’s touch, you missed her, the real her. Not whoever stood before you. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” she began, walking forwards and lightly brushing her slender fingers along Snow’s cheek. The pixie-haired brunette shivered in response. Her hands seemed rougher and colder, “You went to Camelot to get the darkness out of me. And you failed.” her voice echoed the same change. 

Her tone was uninterested. She spoke as though everyone in the room was beneath her, undeserving of her time and energy. It had the hairs of your arm standing on edge. The switch from the gentle saviour you once knew to the dark creature in front of you was downright petrifying. 

Fright merged with a new foreign feeling, something resembling lust, but different - by comparison - to past events. Events that led to nights filled with cries of gratitude, and endless ecstasy, ending in tangled limbs, and gentle caresses. A concoction of past and present longing, mixed with spurring images, submerged you fully, anchoring you down into the depth of hidden sexual fantasies. Drunk on memories, fuelled only by desire, you noticed there was something enticing about the new air of authority Emma held, her presence was intoxicating, drawing you in for the kill. 

However, it was Sneezy who bore the brunt of her wrath, smashed to smithereens. He was nothing to her. Nobody was. And that alone should have sent you running scared, instead, it had the opposite effect. The growing desire intensified, bubbling far too close to the surface. If everyone’s attention wasn’t glued to the scene unfolding in front of them, and they gandered a look your way, they would have noticed the slight change in your stance. 

Bare thighs squeezed together under your medieval gown, the wet material of your underwear pushed directly onto your wet centre, forcing you to feel just how worked up Emma had gotten you, even if it was by doing nothing other than omitting her dark presence in a room full of hopeful souls. 

The air around her reeked of the very evil she once sought to vanquish as she stood tall in tight black leather, clutching at her dagger, haphazardly showing the crowd the name etched onto it. Emma Swan. 

“Nobody’s going to touch this dagger but me.” The object in question fogging over on both sides, wedged between Emma and Regina, “Now for what you all did to me, you’re about to be punished.” 

‘Punished’, oh how that word touched a special nerve, that you didn’t know existed, in your body. It wasn't supposed to, you knew that as you tried to fight against every filthy thought occupying your mind. 

Distractions needed to be set aside. This wasn’t Emma, your focus needed to be on getting her back. You had to say something, anything. 

“Emma, why are you doing this?” It didn’t come out in the way you wanted it to, it was small and timid, nevertheless, she heard. You knew she had as she strode over to you, face barely an inch away. There was no hiding from the heavy atmosphere in the room, gravity worked against you to the point you felt your knees giving out under Emma’s menacing animalistic stare. 

“Because I’m the dark one.”

You could only stare at this new version of the saviour as she vanished into a haze of black fog that was once white, filled only with pure light magic, now poisoned. 

When the smoke disappeared, you expected to be greeted with the shocked faces of friends and family. Instead, Emma stood right before you once again. Only now she looked taller, stronger, and more powerful. A sinful smile - that was all Dark one - adorned her blood-red lips, lips you were desperate to feel against you. Her hair was loose, free from the restraints of a hair tie, the ashy white waves flowed over her shoulders, down past her scapulae, stopping just above her slender leather-clad waist. 

A makeshift trap in the form of her stare stopped you from noticing exactly where you were. But as your eyes raked down Emma’s body the end of the bed made an appearance just above her knees. The realization jerked you into an upright position. Discovering your hands bound in rope - wrapped around your wrists almost tight enough to stop blood flow - you could only cower away, shifting your hips back until you were pressed against the headboard, knees brought up to your chest. 

Bare and bound. This was how the Dark One wanted you. 

Emma didn’t move, her hands were laced behind her back as she smirked down at your naked form on the bed. Her bed. The sight of you completely at her mercy ate away at her inner desires, or better yet her inner demons. All the darkness that was once kept at bay roared to life and there was only one person she had any intentions of exercising her fantasies with. 

Bringing her dagger around from behind her back, she inspected the blade, holding it in one hand and running a nimble finger over the sharp edges with the other, “I said you were about to be punished, didn’t I?” 

How could this have happened? Why couldn’t you remember Camelot? Questions had to be answered. There was so much to be discussed but already you were capitulating to this cat-and-mouse game she had you playing. It was captivating, refusing any logical thoughts the space to blossom into something more than mere notions of acquiring the truth. 

A scarlet hue ran over the tip of Emma’s finger, catching your eye. The small droplet grew in size, goading your pulse to quicken at what seemed to be a tactical display of one of the blade’s many uses. 

“Emma, please. I don’t remember anything. What did we do?” 

Unamused by the topic of choice, the smirk that adorned her ruby lips faded and was replaced with a scowl and eyes shooting daggers that felt sharper than the one in her hand. She waved it over her injured finger and instantly the cut was clean and healed like it had never happened at all. Of course, it did. Emma had just obtained the power to remedy any mishap with the wave of her hand, and you couldn't help but think what ‘mishaps’ would occur in her company. 

She looked back up, meeting your gaze with a blank stare, “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” she asked sternly with a raised brow. 

A shake of your head was all you could manage. Plaguing your mind was a myriad of worrying thoughts. Emma was still inside, she wouldn’t - no - she couldn’t truly hurt you, you knew that, but as the fear grew within you; the shaking started, your skin burned rosier than moments before, Emma’s smirk reappeared, and you no longer knew where she stopped and the Dark One began. 

“I’m going to fuck you.” If the look in her eyes - determination, sureness, and resolve - was anything to go by, circumstances be damned, what she wanted would come to pass. An odd trickle of relief washed over your body. It wasn’t exactly what you wanted; it also wasn’t not what you wanted. You searched her eyes, looking for the woman you knew; the kind, caring, funny woman you fell in love with. Would she be the one to touch you, hold you? It was too good to be true, there was always a twist, “Not like before, this time I’m not going to stop, not until I hear you sobbing, then I’m going to stuff that pretty mouth of yours and fuck you senseless.” 

Dirty talk wasn’t Emma’s go-to, the few times you’d been together, she leaned more toward praise than belittling. Not that you minded. Who doesn’t enjoy being complimented amidst the thralls of passion? Hearing her speak in such a way, the vulgarity coming from her should have sent you into fight or flight, have you begging for mercy. Except, the words echoed in your ears, bounced around your body, stopping your breath in your throat, burning a path to the pit of your stomach until you couldn’t ignore the pang of wanting to come from between your legs at the very thought of Emma, no - not Emma - the Dark One, using you in any, and every, way she wanted. 

The game had begun. Your body had said yes, whether the words came from your own mouth didn’t matter, she had sensed it too, eyes darting to the darkened patch on her bed sheets beneath you. Oh the shame you felt at your body betraying you, giving her exactly what she wanted. The tinted darkness in her jade eyes morphed into a look of pure lust and desire, the orbs darkened black as she climbed onto the bed, dagger in hand. 

“Put your legs down,” she coolly demanded. 

Everything was happening too fast, there was little time to process the command before Emma yanked your legs back down, hard, pulling you until you lay flat on the bed again. 

“Emma, please. What happened in Camelot?” you urged, desperate for more information, to know something, anything, of what had happened. 

There was a flicker of what looked, almost, like humanity in Emma’s green eyes, a breakthrough, finally. 

“Stop asking questions.” her voice was harsh, the flicker gone.

Her knees, on either side of your body, padded forward on the mattress, stopping when her pelvis rested above your own. The close contact, feeling her heat pulse in beat with your own, caused the ache between your thighs to intensify, your heart to pound harder against your chest. If it weren’t for the rope around your wrists, you’d be pulling her down, ripping her clothes away, and running your hands all over her. But even so, you were not in charge here, that much was becoming abundantly clear. 

The sharp point of her dagger drew close to your chest, both you and Emma watching it move nearer and nearer skin. Darting your eyes from the dagger and back to Emma, there was no ‘in’ to her hardened exterior, no visible doors leading to a hopeful ending where you’d be able to pry the truth from her and spend the remainder of the night wrapped in her arms. 

“Are you going to behave?” she asked, the warning of what would happen if you didn’t behave outwardly mocking you, dagger now ghosting over the valley of your breasts, dangerously close to skin. 

“Yes.” You shakily breathed, fighting off the urge to wriggle away from the threatening blade. 

The cold metal pressed against the cove of your chest, sending shivers down your spine, “Yes what?” 

Breaking skin on its downward trajectory, the dagger slid downwards, leaving behind a bright scarlet line painted with forming droplets of blood, “Yes, I’m going to behave.” You choked out through gritted teeth. 

“Good girl.” 

The space between your legs was filled with her free hand, two fingers brushing through the pool of moisture that had gathered within the last few minutes, minutes that felt like they were stretching out for an eternity. The need for more quickly mounted; without meaning to, seeking out more than Emma was giving, you began to grind against her fingers. 

Her laugh echoed through the room, “You’re pathetic.” She snarled, pulling her fingers away, “Did I say you could do that?” 

The blade continued to drift along your abdomen, etching another crimson line along the surface of your skin. You could almost taste the blood on your tongue, metallic and sharp. Not wanting to make a sound you held onto the tortured flesh between your teeth - realizing only later, it was your bottom lip that was delivering, what you thought to be, the phantom taste of blood - relying on it to silence all the agonizing screams that were surfacing and being held within your throat. Another wave of pain coursed through your veins, the whole of your upper body stung, crisp air nibbling away at gashes. “No, you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” She turned the dagger, the flat of it resting low on your stomach. Bringing it up, a quiet groan rumbled in your throat when she slapped it back down against a fresh cut. Red now danced in the engraving, sinking deeper and deeper into the ridges of her name. “For that, you don’t get this.” 

Your vision went black, a blindfold appearing over your eyes. All other senses suddenly heightened. Hints of oak, vanilla, and - oh god, of course - cinnamon. You could hear the squeak of her jacket sleeves, the bed sheets rustling under her slight movements, the feel of the bed dip by the side of your legs as Emma padded backward on the mattress. 

The sound of crinkling broke through the eerie silence, and you could have screamed in frustration not being able to see what was happening. Of course, you still felt her presence, only it was further away, knees seemingly on either side of your shins, leaving little room to ponder on what all the fidgeting was leading up to. Her finger wrapped around the back of your knees, hoisting them up till the soles of your feet were pressed onto the bed, and your legs were spread open. 

“Emma, what are you-” Something hard and cold slipped into you, forcing you to take a sharp breath in, though it did nothing to relieve you, “Oh fuck.”

There was no time to think between the dagger handle entering you and the start of what could only be described as brutal pumping - hard, quick, and bordering on painful. It was embarrassing how close you already were, the build-up to this moment seemed to have you tittering on the edge before it had even started. 

You knew it was wrong. You wished you wanted it to stop. But you didn’t. It was sickening how good it felt and you would have fallen into a shame spiral had it not been for the undulating sound of blood pulsing through your ears, the quickening of your breathing, and the constant stimulation coming from being rapidly fucked into a state of mind-numbing bliss. 

Emma’s hand came to rest on your stomach, pushing you down, stopping your hips from buckling off the mattress. Pain licked every nerve ending in your body, her hand resting on mutilated flesh, delivering you that final push. Just a few more thrusts and you’d unravel. 

Thrusts that never came. 

Emma kept a trained eye on you, watching your chest rise and fall faster and faster, admiring your swollen wrists grapple harder and harder against the rope, and just when she saw you barrelling into what would have been a powerful orgasm, she stopped. 

“You really thought I’d let you cum?” She snickered, pulling out with painstaking slowness. “We’ve only just begun.”

A small whimper left your parted lips feeling how raw the ridged makeshift toy had left you. The logical part of your brain was screaming out, telling you to put an end to this - as if you had the option - beg her to untie you, heal you, and explain how things had gone so wrong. Logic, however, had no place making demands, not when rough fingers wrapped around your neck, squeezing until you were too light-headed to produce even one intelligible thought. 

“I asked you a question.” 

A switch flipped within you, whether it was from the lack of oxygen, the need for more, or the love you had for Emma, wanting to keep her close for as long as possible, you didn’t care. All you cared about was pleasing her, being her good little girl. 

“Yes, I thought you’d let me.” she dug her fingernails into your neck, airways so restricted you were fighting to speak, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have expected anything. God Emma, I just, I want you. I need you.”  

Vision taken away from you, you couldn’t see the reaction on her face, yet somehow, you felt it. Her grip on you loosened, allowing air to flow back into your lungs, the dagger was dropped somewhere on the floor, metal clanking against polished hardwood until it finally settled. A quiet fell over the room and you embraced it with open arms. Happy to just feel Emma’s body lean over your own. 

The familiar sound of magic drifted to your ears. A warm tingling homed in on your stomach. The cuts: they were becoming less painful. 

“Emma, wait.” She paused, the injured portion of your skin only half healed, “I want to keep them, even if it’s just one scar.”

Nerve wracked you’d overstepped and disobeyed her in some way, you opened your mouth to apologise, but the words never made it out before Emma’s lips came crashing down on yours. For the first time that evening, you truly lost yourself, not in the thralls of passion, or chasing a high, but in the familiarity of Emma’s lips. They were soft, gentle, she poured so much emotion into one single kiss that if there had been a curse, you were certain it would have broken it. 

She pulled the blindfold off, moving back so her face rested just an inch from your own. Gaze fixed on Emma you saw the pain guttered in her eyes, the anguish coming from everything she was fighting to bury. There was an internal war taking place, so much conflict swirled around in her mind, the voices of all the previous Dark Ones screaming so loud they were practically audible to you too. 

“I can take it.” This, you decided, was how you would help her. There was no doubt about it, the darkness lying within her had to be set free somehow, and if it was between Emma hurting someone - which she’d never forgive herself for - or this. You’d decide for her. “Use me Emma.”

Her tongue slithered into your mouth, not bothering with any pre-emptive, because you both knew, this was exactly what you wanted and what she needed. 

It was the feel of her skin, soft and smooth - a contrast to her previous attire that was now nowhere to be seen - that brought back an influx of precious memories. 

The night when she’d only just come to know your body, exploring it as though humanity depended on her finding and marking your sweet spots, every single one of them. The morning she’d cooked breakfast, refusing to let you do anything other than, in her words, enjoy the domestic side of Emma. The late-night visit you'd paid her at the Sheriff's station when no one was around to see her remind you of all the ways she knew your body as no one else had ever bothered to learn. 

“Turn around.” She mumbled into the kiss. It was an instruction she carried out herself, hands falling to the curve of your hip bones and flipping you around. The rope fell from the headboard and slipped down the back of the bed. Which left your hands free, finally able - you hoped - to feel the new Emma. Hands braced by the side of your face, you waited for what she had in store. 

And that’s when you felt it. 

She teased your entrance with the tip of her cock, circling the tight hole but never pushing in. At first, it came as a shock. Then slowly the excitement began to build. The tip alone, you could feel, was big. Bigger than anything you had ever taken, though that didn’t stop you from wanting to. Desperate to feel her inside you, every inch of her, you shifted back. Never had you felt power of this magnitude radiate from her. It was ravenous and so were you, she wanted to take, and you wanted to give. It should have worked. But Emma was not one for playing fair. 

Instantly she withdrew, the close contact you ached for snatched away. You wanted to protest, shout, scream. She already had so much power over you, and doing any of those things would be serving yourself up to her. A piercing pain jolted through your whole body, hips jerking away from the hand that had just delivered a harsh slap to your ass. 

“You’re impatient.” Her hand came down once again, the next blow to your tender flash harder, prying a small cry out of you, “What do you say?” 

“I-I’m sorry.” 

“You like this don’t you?” The question seductively slid off her tongue. She answered it herself by bringing two fingers between your legs, running them through your lower lips, “You’re dripping wet. From what? Me being cruel. Tut tut. You are a filthy one, aren’t you?”

It was useless denying it, your body had, for the god knows what time that evening, betrayed you again. 

“Yes.” You whispered into the sheets beneath you. Begging them to grip onto the words, bury the single syllable of shame in their soft fabric and never let them reach Emma; because you didn’t want her to know. You didn’t want anyone to know you were enjoying every waking second of this. 

“Good. It’s going to make this a lot easier.” She smirked. One hand gripped your hip, the other making steady work of getting Emma in place. 

With one forward motion, she pushed in, slow, half as painful as you thought it would be, and suspiciously gentle. That, you knew, would surely not last. Your walls tensed at the intrusion, slowly relaxing around her hardened flesh and allowing it to slide out to the tip again, then push back in with the same slowness. 

She kept up this tortuous rhythm until you felt your head might burst from all the stimulation that seemed like it had no clear end. 

“Emma please.” You whined. Regret instantly followed when she abruptly pulled out. 

With ease, she flipped you back around, snatching your wrists and pushing them into the bed above your head. With no hesitation, she slammed back in - using none of the gentleness she previously graced you with - and was met only with your cried-out whimpers.

Seeing her on top of you, there was so much determination in her eyes, but something else too. Given the circumstances, you couldn’t tell, not when she was filling you repeatedly, leaving barely anytime to breathe let alone think. So, you let yourself believe it was a mirage, a trick of the light, not, in fact, the glimmer of true love. 

The bed shook, scrapping against the floorboards with each full force thrust that were coming fast and hard. All you could hear were your own cries of appreciation mixed with Emma’s heavy breathing and the sounds of her thighs repeatedly slapping against your ass. The ridged veins of her shaft offered the perfect friction, sliding along your g spot and delivering waves of pleasure that had you gasping and writhing beneath her slick body as she continued pistoning in and out of your wet sex.  

“Shit, Emma, I think I’m going to-” 

It felt like the ground beneath you fell in, swallowing you whole until you were nothing but a mere watcher in the expanse of the universe, locked onto witnessing this moment for an eternity. The evil swarmed your two merged bodies, ventricles of black ink daring to penetrate the intimate bubble you’d created. You saw the inner battle, Emma fighting the darkness, protecting you from its insatiable appetite to devour and destroy. 

It was a deep connection you had yet to share with her or anyone. And though you may have once, ironically, wished it would have happened in another way, a perfect way; seeing Emma again, through all the mess, on the precipice of an earth-shattering climax, it felt okay this way too. Held within the orbs of green was Emma again, the real Emma. Fighting to be seen within these solemn seconds where you both became one. You sought comfort in telling yourself that was enough to justify what was happening. 

“Please don’t stop.” You begged, not sure whether you were speaking only about her ministrations, or also, just maybe, about her resurfacing from the clutches of darkness. 

Her grip loosened on your wrists, allowing you to fling your arms around her neck in the same moment she lunged down and pressed her lips to yours - gentler than anything she’d done that evening - tipping you over the finishing line, Emma, following closely behind. You tensed around her cock, your walls clamping so fiercely to it that you felt her pulsate inside you. Ribbons of cum filled you as Emma groaned and slowed her thrusts down to a halt, the last leaving you spent and tender. 

Too stubborn to pull away, you poured everything you had left into the kiss, pulling her harder against you, urging her to continue her excursions on your lips, to stay inside you for a mere few moments longer. 

“Let me stay with you.” You mumbled against her lips. 

When she pulled away, to gaze into your eyes, see you again. You saw a decision had already been made.

“Give me time, it will all make sense soon.” 

Black fog engulfed you. She was gone. 

The bed you now laid in - fully healed and dressed in one of her oversized shirts - was your own. 

Tags: @criminallyobsessedcm @babygirlscout @7thavenger @storiesofsvu | click here to be added to my taglist

[dragoneyes618]

Various theories of antisemitism suggest economic explanations. Jew-hatred in medieval Europe, for example, is said to have been a reaction to the Jews having been usurious moneylenders. Elsewhere Jews evoked Jew-hatred because they collected taxes from poor peasants on behalf of corrupt landowners. The Jews' identification with the emergence of capitalism in Europe is cited as another economic cause of antisemitism. And in the modern period, the Jews' disproportionate wealth and concentration in business and in the professions is said to provoke anti-Jewish hostility.

Undeniably, economic factors can and often do exacerbate antisemitism, and often create crises in which antisemites may flourish. After all, such factors impinge on virtually all aspects of society, and when an economic crisis occurs, the resultant social upheaval may unleash many of the worst aspects of a society, among them Jew-hatred. But economic factors do not cause Jew-hatred; they only provide opportunities for it to be expressed.

For one thing, there is little if any correlation between Jews' wealth and antisemitism. Jews have often suffered the worst antisemitism when they were poor, as was true of the overwhelming majority of Jews in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Poland and Russia, and have encountered the least amount of antisemitism when affluent, as in the United States and Canada today.

As regards attributing medieval antisemitism to the Jews' role as moneylenders, this puts the cart before the horse. Because of Christian European antisemitism during the Middle Ages, Jews were often denied the right to practice professions other than moneylending. Jews were not hated because they lent money; they lent money because they were hated. Obviously, once Jews became moneylenders, Jew-hatred was exacerbated.

Nor was that the only time when the Jews' economic status exacerbated antisemitism. In many societies Jews, because of antisemitism, have played economic roles that sometimes intensified hostility toward them. But Jew-hatred preceded these economic factors and is much deeper than any economic factors. Thus, antisemites have equally hated poor Jews and rich Jews, and they ceased hating rich Jews not when they became poor Jews, but when they became rich members of the antisemites' religion or cause.

Regarding the Marxist notions that antisemitism is caused by capitalism and that socialism will eliminate antisemitism, suffice it to say that both socialistic theory and socialist countries often have fostered terrible Jew-hatred, while capitalist societies have been the least antisemitic societies in history.

In our research we could find no major instance of a society's antisemitism created by economic factors. In each case - pagan, Christian, Muslim, Enlightenment, Nazi, Communist, and contemporary antizionist antisemitism - factors unrelated to economics have been at the root of Jew-hatred. In every instance, two groups would have found absurd the attribution of antisemitism to economics: the antisemites and their Jewish victims.

- Why the Jews? The Reason for Antisemitism, Dennis Prager and Joseph Telushkin, pages 59-60

[marimayscarlett]

Dive into a world of gothic allure as an elderly vampire lord sweeps you off your feet to his New York penthouse. 🧛🦇🥀

Explore the captivating fantasy of being his object of obsession. 😩 The vampire lord, with his smoldering gaze and commanding presence, becomes fixated on you.

With his silver hair and timeless elegance, he will mesmerise you with his refined manners and poetic words. 📜

🌃 As the nights grow longer and the passion intensifies 🔥 , you delve deeper into the secrets of his world, discovering the dark history that binds you together. Will you succumb to the seductive power of the vampire lord, or will you find the strength to resist his alluring embrace? 👀

Ja ok doch wem wollen wir etwas vormachen? Was für ein Widerstand, bitte?! Richard kann mit uns machen, was er will.

(Warning: shamelessly catering to my romantic vampire needs here, self insert scribblings)

Thank you dearest Näd for this and your unwavering and equally obsessed support in our little fantasy crossover here (grüß mir deinen Werwolf-Mann) 🤍🤍🤍

The saga of the charming older vampire lord continues... for more context, here is his potential backstory, an attempt for the lore behind his vampire existence as a part one so to speak.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

How would we meet?

A large exhibition hall in a historic museum, shortly before the museum's closing. The sun has already set on this winter day, and the moonlight illuminates the dust dancing through the air. A young woman, her reddish-brown hair tightly pulled back into a bun, with bangs falling across her face, leans over a desk, the sleeves of her loose shirt rolled up.

She is completely engrossed in her work, transcribing the text from an old book into her notebook, consulting various entries in her dictionary, and carefully turning the centuries-old pages. She barely hears the slow footsteps approaching and only looks up from her work when the person stands before her desk.

Her gaze is caught by gray eyes under striking eyebrows. The man before her is impeccably dressed, his long gray hair gathered in an elegant braid. Her breath catches briefly—why, she's not exactly sure.

"Good evening. You must be Maria, the one in charge of the exhibition on medieval manuscripts.."

"Yes, that's me. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr..."

"Kruspe. But please, just call me Richard. I must say, the way you handle these artifacts with such care and reverence is truly admirable."

"Ah, this name rings a bell. So I guess you're the one who lent this beautiful manuscript to the museum? I just believe each piece has a story to tell, and it's our duty to ensure they're heard."

"Quite poetic, Maria. I couldn't agree more. Your passion for art is evident."

"Well, it's hard not to be passionate when surrounded by such beauty and history."

"Your enthusiasm for this topic seems to be quite strong. It's quite... captivating to see."

"Oh, thank you...That's very kind of you to say."

"It's merely an observation. Anyway, I won't take up any more of your time. I'll leave you to your work."

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Richard. If you have any questions about the exhibition, feel free to ask."

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

How the obsession evolves:

Richard finds himself lingering around the museum more often, drawn to Maria's presence. He battles with his desires, knowing the consequences of succumbing to his vampiric instincts - as it already demanded a loved one of his as a victim over a century ago.

Maria notices Richard's frequent visits and begins to feel a mixture of curiosity and unease. Despite his polite demeanor, there's something unsettling about his gaze.

One restless night, Richard's longing for her reaches a tipping point. He stands outside her home, conflicted yet unable to resist the pull any longer. With a heavy heart and trembling hands, he makes a decision that will change both their lives forever, and takes her while she sleeps with him to his New York penthouse, determined to not let her go.

Maria is faced with the task of coming to terms with her new life situation - her new home, a modern golden cage, with a man who anticipates her every wish, who tries to make her life as comfortable as possible, yet... remains silent. He barely speaks to her, and inside him, the conflict between obsession and guilt simmers. It's as if he's denying himself access to his greatest longing. At night, she hears him restlessly pacing on the rooftop, and even though she tries to initiate a conversation, gently understanding his melancholy, she only meets with a few polite words and sad eyes - as if he's punishing her for his decision.

Richard's wrestles with the fear of repeating past tragedies, haunted by memories of the girl he loved and lost to his own monstrous nature. But one night, he gathers his courage: he reveals his dark nature to her, shares with her his past - and contrary to the expected rejection, he encounters understanding and deep emotions.

[jsmelodies]

WIP Wednesday

Here's how my medieval fantasy nessian au is coming along:)

CW: This snippet is NSFW (smut), so I'm putting it below the continue reading line.

When she returned, Cassian was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching as she made her way over. She kissed him once on the lips before kneeling in front of him.

His eyebrow raised in amusement. “What do you think you’re doing, Nes?”

“I’d think that’s rather obvious,” she replied, leaning down until her lips were right over the head of his cock. 

Her hands ran up the inside of his thighs until her right one gripped his base, giving it a gentle squeeze. She nearly got her tongue on him before his hand was wrapped in her hair at the base of her skull, pulling her head away from him with a simple tug.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, snarling slightly. “Princesses don’t get on their knees.”

Cassian pulled her up to his level, likely assessing what, exactly, he wanted to do with her.

“I should return the favor, shouldn’t I?” she asked, her tone light. “You’re making me think you don’t want my mouth on you.”

His gaze intensified. “I never said that.”

“That’s too bad for you then, isn’t it?” she teased. “Poor Cassian, not getting what he wants–”

He silenced her with another tug to her hair, fingers tightening until the feeling bordered on pain. His hazel eyes glinted as she saw him formulating his plan.

“Such a brat,” he muttered. “Fine, sweetheart. You want to suck my cock so bad? You’ll do it from your throne.”

She was about to ask him what he meant by that until he dragged them both back across the bed. Cassian laid on his back, pulling her thighs over him so they rested on either side of his face. 

“Sit.”

He was using that demanding tone again, the one that sent shivers down her spine, and forced her down so that he could put his mouth on her once more.

Holding her leg steady with one hand, he used the other to push her down so her mouth was right in front of his cock, his instructions clear. 

[eldritch-spouse]

hihi, this is socially awkward anon ( now converted to just regular dry anon because i'm more socially inept than awkward and i hated the label i gave myself ) here again for a question regarding not just one but two people this time !

question numero uno, about Jonesy because I love him very dearly and he's just so neat. You said in a previous ask that besides the slight attraction to dominance, he prefers someone who he can " mold ". Does Jonesy gravitate towards meeker people who've had no romantic relationships? Who would end up confessing first? ( miniscule side question, are the circles on his shoulders muscle, shoulder pads, or one of those medieval puffy sleeves ? The last option's funny to imagine for me, in a good way )

last goofy little question ( and this can even be optional if you want ) if we gave Fasma a big old smooch, would some of his goo rub off on us like slime, or is he juuust " solid " enough to leave no residue on our lips ?

Is the sky blue? Is the grass green? Do birds sing in Spring mornings?

Most angels like having some form of control, especially over humans. It's sort of part of their programming. However, casts like warriors ironically tend to be the most submissive, even more so than workers. This is why Belo is a lot more susceptible to folding towards someone more dominant- Wherein Jonesy, someone in the upper echelon of the angel hierarchy, is not so easily bent. (Though let it be known Belo can also adopt this dynamic.)

He absolutely gravitates towards someone he can inflict his own "correct" views upon. He's very much a "fixer" type of person, the throne will gravitate towards someone who's going through real lows just so he can be the light in their life and make sure they take his every word as gospel. A lack of romantic or sexual interaction is, to Jonesy, just another way he can make you an exemplary lesser- By teaching you how to be intimate without being lecherous- Aka, "do sex acts with me only because I'm holy, therefore it's always correct, trust me".

In this case, there isn't really much of a confession, so much so as Jonesy makes several "obvious" pushes in the way you two interact. It's natural that you should hold his hand, of all people. You can trust the throne with your deepest feelings. In fact, if you have to love anyone, it might as well be the celestial that saved you, isn't that right? It makes sense that he should be the one to teach you intimacy and love. It's only natural that you're his.

It's an unspoken sort of thing. By the time either one of you says "I love you", it no longer comes as a shock, because your actions have spoken ten times louder.

[In regards to the outfit, those are puffy sleeves, yes.]

In normal states, Fasma is made of a pretty consistent ectoplasm. The material would cling to your lips for a second or two before easily molding back into shape. Naturally, the more force you exert, the harder it'll cling, but you'd have to put some effort in it to come out with a piece of him.

However, by the time you decide to smooch him, he's probably more than a bit nervous, so he's going to start melting, in which case you definitely get a gross sort of string connecting you two, like hot runny bubblegum. This is intensified when he's drunk.

[sarahowritesostucky]

The whole worldbuilding you did around younger omegas and older alphas was so interesting! Like imagining how those issues would be handled in society. Why did you change the age of bucky tho? Wasn't he 16 before?

Hey! (I thiiink I know who this is?? 😉) I gotchu girl!

The 16 age is because there is a Tumblr staff member who doesn't understand the ToS and who has capriciously deleted whatever she feels like deleting when it "bothers" her. And she's decided that I bother her. So even though fiction with teenager/18+ character sexual pairings are permitted and are regularly posted by other fan authors, I need to be wary. So that's why Bucky is now magically 18, lol. If you want to read the story in it's original and intended format, you can go to Ao3. They don't censor fictional literary content.

NOW, buckle your seatbelt and come on this worldbuilding journey with me!

In this 'verse, historically, societies worldwide had different systems set up with the primary goals to:

Keep post-pubertal omega youths safe

Meet their sexual needs

Meet their non-sexual intimacy needs

Generally speaking, in a western cultural context, this is the order things would go in if a family took the "proper" steps with their omega child:

Once heats began at about 13-14, the omega youth would be assigned to an omega matriarchal figure for guidance. Sometimes this was a parent, sometimes an extended family member, or often just a well-respected omega in the community. This is the person who would teach them about being omega, their urges, how to handle their heats, etc. This person would also look out for them to make sure nobody was preying on them.

Now, omegas are naturally hypersexual beginning at around age 13-14 when their heats begin. But their urges intensify significantly in the following year or two, becoming much harder to ignore or self-satisfy.

Though religion in the west often asserted the need for chastity by restricting sexual relations to only one partner or certain times of the month, it was still understood that omegas were naturally hypersexual and needed special attention. It was also virtually expected that most omegas would wind up engaging in some degree of superficial sex-play with other omega peers. This wasn't frowned upon at all.

At around age 16, most omegas would transition from their omega matriarch into the care of an alpha mentor - typically someone older and more mature. It wouldn't be uncommon for an alpha in their 30s or even 40s to take on this role. They would fulfill all the roles of the previous matriarch, with the addition of a sexual relationship with the omega. They would help satisfy them through their heats, provide needed close contact, and give them practice for modeling healthy A-o relationship patterns.

There are other setups in other parts of the world, though:

In ancient societies and also in many non-western cultures, there might be one or a handful of community-designated alphas who always took the mentor role as part of their job (i.e. wise man, sexual mystic, healer, shaman, etc.). In such cases as that, the alpha guardian role was purely transitory and only meant to last until the omega reached mating age and went on to find a suitable alpha mate in the community.

In some middle eastern cultures, most omegas would be rounded up and appropriated by only the most wealthy and important alphas, who would be the ones to care for them in their harems.

Medieval Europe also sometimes saw the "rounding up" of omegas to be delivered into the hands of feudal alpha lords.

Polygamy was also fairly common in Europe up until the 1950s. The most common arrangement was an A-A marriage, with an added omega partner brought into the marriage later. Or a single alpha might mate two or three omegas.

In East Asian cultures, omegas often got betrothed at puberty and went to go live in their betrothed's family's compound, wherein they remained in that family's omega-only communal space, and were entrusted to the care of that extended family's alphas.

Back to the alpha-mentor system of western cultures. The alpha was usually either someone that the omega youth's parents knew and reached out to, or else the alpha might themself approach the youth's parents to ask for permission to take on the role.

In these arrangements, the alpha mentor might wind up deciding to mate the omega themselves, but it wasn't expected. It depended on the specific location and time period, as well as on the individuals involved (personality, class, wealth, age difference), as to whether this choice was socially approved of or not.

But for example in the US or England in the 1900-1950 time range, it would've still been very common for an omega youth to choose to mate with their alpha mentor once they reached the age of about 18-20. An age gap of anywhere between 10-30 years was considered normal.

(Due to the cross-cultural norm of large A-o age gaps, virtually all societies have always had strong social support systems set in place for the care of widowed omegas (though alphas do tend to live a decade or more longer than betas and omegas)).

Younger alphas aged 18-24 were usually not considered experienced or mature enough to perform the alpha mentor role.

It was after the feminist ("omega-ist") movement and the sexual revolution of the 60s and 70s that things really changed. Omegas were increasingly expected to be independent, to pursue careers outside the home, delay or forgo mating and children, and to behave the same way as anybody else.

So the omega matriarch/alpha mentor system really fell by the wayside and isn't commonly used in modern society.

Some schools may designate an omega matriarch equivalent in a school counselor, but the en vogue, "modern" attitude is to act like omegas don't have any biological need for alphas, and are in fact no different from betas.

Since the 2010s, there's been a growing backlash to the results of the feminist (omega-ist) movement, with some people returning to more traditional values. That's essentially where Steve and his school falls.

😅

I know I reeeeally went on a tangent on this one. Hope you liked the details and let me know if you have any more questions!